Long before the rise of radio, television, or social media among the masses, Kashmir had its own way of delivering news: Ladishah, also known as Ladi Shah or Laddi Shah. This ancient folk tradition of satire emerged in 18th-century Jammu & Kashmir and served as a lively record of the Valley’s joys, sorrows, and political landscape, merging entertainment with social commentary.
Traditionally, Ladishah was performed by solitary minstrels who travelled from village to village, blending storytelling with sharp humour. The performer wore a loose pheran, pyjama, and headgear, carrying an iron rod decorated with metal rings that jingled as he sang. Despite the witty and often sharp words that exposed hypocrisy, voiced grievances, and mocked rulers, his face remained stern. Instead of coins, he was paid in paddy or rice, collected in a cloth bag slung over his shoulder.
This was a kind of street theatre with a sting. Ladishah belongs to the wider Baand theatre tradition of Kashmir. Unlike ordinary folk songs, it was topical, fast, and interactive. New events from the first aeroplane over Kashmir to the 1947 rock-salt shortage would instantly find their way into Ladishah couplets:

Aasmaen Jahaaz Aayi Mulk-e-Kashmir /
Yimuv Vuchh Timuv Porr Toba Taqseer
(When the aircraft flew over Kashmir /
Those who saw it cried “God save us!”)
Tul Paluvv Vothh Tchalav Mulke Punjab /Noon Ross Zinda Rozun Chhu Azaab

(Pick up your clothes and rush to Punjab /
To live without salt here is torment.)

Even affordable PDS rice and new city buses drew satirical commentary. Ladishah functioned as Kashmir’s “roaming newspaper," capturing history in rhyme immediately. It also gave ordinary Kashmiri people a feeling of participation in public affairs: laughter emerged as a universal way to critique.
However, this cultural treasure is now endangered. Urbanization, television, and migration have nearly eradicated the Ladishah tradition, once performed door-to-door. Many young Kashmiris have never experienced a live show. Today, what remains are mostly memories, fragmented verses, and a few aging performers. The art form that once moved effortlessly from one hamlet to another is now largely preserved only in academic papers and nostalgic stories.
Yet, Ladishah was never merely entertainment; it served as a form of citizenship, challenging authority, uniting communities, and embodying Kashmir’s collective humour. Losing it would mean losing a vital part of Kashmir’s identity. Reviving Ladishah offers today’s youth a connection to their heritage, especially amid the onslaught of homogenised global culture.
Recently, the Indian Army in Baramulla has embraced an unusual role as a promoter of Kashmiri culture. Events like 'Kaeshur Riwaj,' a festival held in Baramulla, have become platforms for showcasing local folk arts to both youth and visiting dignitaries. In the latest edition, audiences experienced not only Rouf, the traditional women’s group dance, but also a live Ladishah performance, a rare sight even in Srinagar city nowadays.
Other initiatives include Cultural Melas and Talent Hunts, which serve as platforms for school and college students to perform folk songs, drama, and Ladishah pieces. Additionally, support is provided to local artists through travel allowances, stage setups, sound equipment, and modest stipends, enabling folk performers to reach larger audiences. Workshops are organized in schools to introduce Ladishah and Rouf to children who have grown up with Bollywood music but have never experienced their own oral traditions performed live. Furthermore, efforts to preserve folk instruments and costumes are underway, exemplified by exhibitions showcasing items like the iron rod with jingling rings, pherans, and traditional headgear used by Ladishah artists.
These efforts may appear symbolic, yet they foster a connection for younger generations to their heritage, not as static museum exhibits but as vibrant living art. The festival grounds in Baramulla have transformed into inclusive, welcoming environments where civilians, soldiers, and visitors interact amid music and handicraft stalls. For older villagers, it offers an opportunity to see their youth’s cultural symbols celebrated; for teenagers, it provides an authentic, Instagram-worthy experience.
By hosting festivals such as Kaeshur Riwaj and promoting Ladishah, the Indian Army is engaging in what many analysts refer to as “soft power”. Cultural events foster trust, bridge the gap between military personnel and locals, and provide opportunities for dialogue that pure security measures cannot. They emphasize that Kashmir’s traditions are respected and preserved, not marginalized.
In Baramulla, the Army has actively supported women’s self-help groups, handicraft exhibitions, and local sports tournaments, in addition to cultural events. These activities together create a broader picture of community engagement, blending folk arts with vocational training and youth outreach. This approach is particularly vital in a district that has endured decades of conflict and displacement.
Ladishah, Rouf, Wanwun, and other Kashmiri folk arts thrived for centuries without formal backing. Today, they rely on community groups, schools, NGOs, and even the Army to maintain visibility. Festivals like Kaeshur Riwaj in Baramulla offer a modest but meaningful stage for Kashmir’s diminishing cultural traditions.
Ladishah, once a door-to-door singer with a bag of rice, now performs on public stages equipped with microphones and cameras. Its essence stays unchanged: singing, challenging, and making people laugh at authority and themselves. Reviving Ladishah is not about nostalgia but a demonstration of cultural resilience. Kashmir’s wandering news-singers still have important messages, and a new generation is starting to listen.

Email:-----------------------------vadaiekashmir@gmail.com