On the chilly streets of Kashmir, where the echoes of conflict have long shaped daily life, a new wave of storytelling is emerging—one that dares to look beyond old binaries and bring nuanced voices to the fore. From the vibrant football grounds of Srinagar to the quietly resilient Sikh enclaves in Baramulla, recent works on streaming platforms and in print are inviting audiences to witness the Valley’s layered realities, its forgotten dreams, and its invisible minorities.
As reported by ThePrint on December 13, 2025, streaming platforms like Amazon Prime Video and SonyLIV are now spotlighting stories that move past the stereotypes of Kashmir as merely a battleground or a tourist haven. Shows such as Real Kashmir Football Club and Songs of Paradise are not just entertainment—they’re acts of cultural reclamation. These narratives, inspired by real-life figures and historic events, paint a portrait of a region where trauma and hope intermingle, and where ordinary people, despite curfews and unrest, continue to chase their aspirations.
“What you see, be it in Songs of Paradise or Real Kashmir Football Club, is that it’s not just conflict. Even within conflict, people have dreams and aspirations, and while life gets affected by curfews, bandhs and other things, they dare to dream,” filmmaker Danish Renzu told ThePrint. Renzu, who directed Songs of Paradise and co-wrote Real Kashmir Football Club, is among several creators determined to resist the urge to flatten Kashmir’s complexity into a single narrative. Instead, their work celebrates the Valley’s hidden stories and the resilience of its people.
Take Real Kashmir Football Club—a show inspired by the real-life club founded by businessman Sandeep Chattoo and journalist Shamim Meraj. The club’s journey began as a community outreach initiative after the devastating floods of 2014, when Chattoo, a hotelier, and Meraj, editor of The Kashmir Monitor, organized football matches to uplift local spirits. What started as a way to heal soon became a professional club, and within two years, they became champions of the I-League 2nd Division, the third tier of men’s football in India.
“It is incredible that I got to watch the two of them build this team. Chattoo used to say, this is my legacy,” said Arshad Shawl, who joined the club in 2020 to help secure its future with new funds and sponsorships. Shawl, a prominent advertising professional, emphasized to ThePrint that “Kashmir has had a legacy of football. At one point, we had 19 international players from the state.”
This legacy, however, was nearly lost during the rise of militancy in the 1980s, when football faded from public life. The club’s revival is not just about sport; it’s about reclaiming a sense of community and normalcy, even as the specter of violence lingers. The show’s characters, like Sohail—a disillusioned journalist—and Shirish—a liquor supplier returning after fleeing violence—navigate personal and collective struggles to keep the game alive. Their stories reflect the everyday resilience of Kashmiris, who refuse to let politics or militarization snuff out their dreams.
But these new narratives aren’t just about men on the field. Women, too, are stepping into the spotlight, both on screen and in real life. Songs of Paradise tells the story of Raj Begum, Kashmir’s first female playback singer, who rose from humble beginnings to become a cultural icon. Born into a poor, conservative family, Begum never attended school and had no formal musical training. Yet her voice, broadcast on Radio Kashmir during the political unrest of the 1970s and 80s, became a symbol of endurance and hope. As Renzu noted, “This is the revival of Kashmiri culture, and music is an important part of it. We are trying to tell stories of Kashmir through music and giving a platform to artists from the state.”
Meanwhile, the women of Real Kashmir Football Club challenge traditional norms by working in schools, running boutiques, and even forming collectives for therapy and empowerment. Characters like Sameena, who refuses to marry after her fiancé’s father objects to her working, shatter the stereotype that Kashmiri women are passive or powerless. “The most important revelation was getting to know of the women in Kashmiri, running business, driving cars with modified wheels for better movement in snow, just being a huge part of socio-cultural and economic spaces,” scriptwriter Simaab Hashmi told ThePrint.
Yet, for all these stories of revival and resistance, some voices have remained in the shadows—until now. On the same day as ThePrint’s feature, Hindustan Times published an interview with Komal JB Singh, author of An Invisible Minority; The History, Society and Politics of Sikhs in Kashmir. Singh, from Baramulla, is the first in her family to enter academia, and her book is a landmark attempt to document the Sikh community’s history in Kashmir—one that has been largely ignored by scholars and the mainstream alike.
“The very title of the book, Invisible Minority, stems from the complete absence of academic and scholarly engagement with the Sikh community in Kashmir,” Singh explained. Her research traces Sikh presence in the Valley from the time of the Gurus to the 1930s, highlighting figures like Sardar Budh Singh Tyagi, who championed the rights of the people of Jammu & Kashmir, and recounting pivotal moments such as the Sikh resistance during the 1947 tribal invasion and the 2000 Chittisinghpora massacre.
Despite making up less than one percent of Kashmir’s population, Sikhs are the largest minority and, as Singh argues, “central to discussions on secularism and the idea of Kashmiriyat, particularly after the communal fabric of the Valley was deeply affected by the Hindu exodus in 1989.” Her interviews with Partition survivors, many of whom had never shared their stories before, reveal a community marked by both trauma and an abiding love for their homeland.
Singh’s work also challenges assumptions about Kashmiri identity, noting that Sikhs, while fluent in Kashmiri, often speak Pahari at home. “Can a Kashmiri be Sikh? Often the answer is assumed to be no. Yet, Kashmiri Sikhs, despite knowing Kashmiri, speak Pahari at home. This also raises the question of how Pahari-speaking communities within the Valley fit into the broader understanding of Kashmiri identity,” she told Hindustan Times.
Why did Sikhs, unlike many Kashmiri Pandits, choose to remain in the Valley during the turmoil of the 1990s? Singh’s research suggests there’s no single answer; rather, it’s a mix of responsibility, resilience, and the Sikh principle of Chardi Kala—remaining in high spirits even in adversity. “Even when facing hardships, they remain optimistic and resilient,” Singh explained, noting that this spirit, while a source of strength, sometimes leads to further marginalization as the community refrains from voicing its struggles.
The trauma of violence, from the 1947 tribal invasion to the Chittisinghpora massacre, has left deep scars and a sense of alienation, compounded by a lack of institutional recognition. Yet, as Singh points out, the community’s traditions of remembrance and oral history keep these memories alive, even as younger generations face new challenges—like migration and diminishing opportunities—that threaten the survival of Kashmiri Sikh identity.
Both the revival of Kashmiri culture through music and football and the urgent documentation of minority histories reveal a region in flux. As new stories surface—on screen, in books, and online—there’s hope that a more inclusive, honest vision of Kashmir will finally take root, one that honors both its pain and its promise.
