by Mohammad Zubair Ud Din
The challenge calls for visionary thinking. It demands expertise from engineers who have conquered hostile terrains elsewhere.
The potential of the Srinagar-Jammu National Highway is etched into the very geography of Kashmir. It is more than a road. It is a vital artery that binds the valley to the rest of the nation.
On a personal visit, I, along with two colleagues, began our journey from Srinagar on 13 September 2025, buoyed by the optimism that a clear sky and smooth tarmac inspire. After reaching Banihal by train, the first stretch from Banihal to the Nashri Tunnel was swift, a prelude that concealed the ordeal ahead. In two and a half hours, we had covered considerable ground. The ease lulled us into false security until we reached the now notorious 300-metre patch at Tharad, Bani Nala, Udhampur.
Three hundred metres, a distance that one could walk in minutes, stretched into three hours of painful crawl. Our vehicle inched forward; the drive transformed from scenic passage into a test of endurance.
As we moved towards Jammu, the scale of paralysis revealed itself. For miles, in both directions, hundreds of trucks stood in a silent, stationary procession. This was not a traffic jam. It was a stranded economy. These vehicles carry Kashmir’s apples across India and return with fuel, medicines, and food for the valley.
The truck drivers, the true protagonists of this long drama, had built a makeshift world on the roadside. Some tended their machines, others played cards to distract themselves from exhaustion. Small stoves balanced on the ground produced simple meals. Many walked about, their eyes fixed on the treacherous slopes above. Their faces bore both frustration and hope. They waited for a signal, for permission from the mountains themselves, to continue their journeys.
The cause was no mystery. Recent rains had lashed the mountains, loosening slopes that clawed away at the road’s foundations. The highway, despite improvements, remains locked in perpetual conflict with the terrain it traverses. It is better than it was five years ago, yet the progress feels fragile. In wet weather, the threat of landslides hangs like a sword above every vehicle.
This gruelling passage, compounded by rumours that the highway would soon close again for repairs at Tharad, compelled us to seek the historic Mughal route for our return. What followed became part of our history, though not for comfort.
The return was an all-night drive, a marathon through darkness. At dawn, as the first light illuminated Peer Ki Gali, we felt a fleeting triumph. We had bypassed the highway’s chaos. Relief was brief.
Descending towards Dubjan, our hearts sank. What seemed a small hold-up was in truth a monstrous gridlock. A serpent of vehicles stretched nearly twenty kilometres, from Dubjan to Shopian. The same horror we had fled had found us again.
By 7:40 in the morning, with no movement in sight, we left the vehicle behind. Hope shifted from rejoining the car to simply surviving the walk. The sedentary habits of our urban lives betrayed us. Every step was agony. Muscles screamed, cramps tore through our legs, and the psychological strain of being so close yet impossibly far was overwhelming. I longed to cry out, but silence was my only refuge.
We walked past stranded trucks, past weary faces that mirrored our own. After five punishing hours, we reached Shopian. Only then did we see the faintest sign of one-way movement.
This journey was more than private discomfort. It was a glimpse into the fragile ecosystem that sustains Kashmir. The Jammu-Srinagar National Highway is the lifeline of the valley. Its reliability is central to the economy. A week’s closure does not merely delay travel. It rots produce in orchards, causes losses to thousands of families, and threatens shortages of essential goods.
The challenge calls for visionary thinking. It demands expertise from engineers who have conquered hostile terrains elsewhere. At the same time, the Mughal Road must be elevated from a picturesque detour to a dependable second artery. That means widening its carriageway, cutting tunnels to bypass winter closures, and strengthening it to bear the weight of commerce all year round.
The lingering cramps in my legs are reminders of what was endured. They connected me, in some measure, to the truck drivers stranded for days, to the engineers and labourers who battle landslides, and to the farmers whose harvest depends on a single truck’s passage. For us, the ordeal was a single episode. For them, it is unending.
True infrastructure is not merely stone and steel. It is the recognition of their resilience and the securing of a region whose pulse beats along these roads.
(The writer is an Assistant Professor (History) at the Jammu and Kashmir Higher Education Department. Ideas are personal.)
