The Economy of LOVE

Beyond the noise of political rhetoric lies a quieter truth – that of two regions bound by geography, economics, and a shared destiny

There is a peculiar magic that descends upon Jammu every November. The air grows crisper, the days shorter, and suddenly, the city begins to swell. Markets that were unhurried find new urgency. Hotels that knew vacancy discover occupancy. The streets, already familiar with their own rhythm, learn a new beat – one that arrives from the Valley, carrying with it the aroma of noon chai, the cadence of Kashmiri, and the unmistakable energy of people who have made this annual journey for generations.

This is Jammu in winter – loud, crowded, alive. This is when the city becomes something more than itself. This is when two regions, often spoken of in the language of difference, quietly demonstrate the grammar of togetherness.

When the Durbar moves from Srinagar to Jammu every winter, it carries more than files and bureaucrats. It carries an entire ecosystem. The concept of a winter capital, unique to Jammu and Kashmir, dismissed as an administrative inconvenience for a few years – a relic of the past that costs money and complicates governance. But look closer, and you will find something far more profound.

For six months, Jammu hosts not just the government but an entire population that seeks refuge from the harsh Kashmir winter. Traders set up shop in Hari Market. Families rent apartments. Students fill coaching centres near the university. Doctors, lawyers, businessmen, and daily wage workers – all find their way to the winter capital, creating a seasonal migration that is both economic and social. This is not merely survival. This is symbiosis.

Let us speak plainly about what Kashmir brings to Jammu during winter: demand. In an economy, demand is oxygen. When thousands of families relocate to Jammu for six months, they need homes to rent, food to eat, schools for their children, hospitals for their elderly, and markets for their daily needs. They become consumers in a city that becomes, temporarily, their own.

The real estate market in Jammu owes a reasonable portion of its rental economy to Kashmiri tenants. Landlords in Jammu wait for October like farmers wait for monsoon – it is the season of prosperity. Shops in Raghunath Bazaar, Residency Road, and Parade Ground see their revenues climb as Kashmiri families bring their purchasing power south. The hospitality sector, the food industry, the transport business – all experience the winter boom. But this is not a one-way street.

And then there is tourism. Jammu serves as the gateway to Kashmir for millions of pilgrims and tourists. Every visitor to Vaishno Devi, every tourist heading to Gulmarg, passes through Jammu first. The city’s hotels, its restaurants, its transport network – all benefit from being the entry point to a destination that lies beyond its borders. Kashmir’s tourism is, in many ways, Jammu’s tourism too.

There is an unspoken contract between Jammu and Kashmir that reveals itself every winter. The Kashmiri becomes the visitor; the Dogra becomes the host. This arrangement, repeated over decades, has created something that politics often fails to achieve – familiarity.

The Kashmiri family that has rented the same apartment in Jammu for twenty winters knows their Dogra landlord’s grandchildren by name. The shopkeeper in Jammu who sells to Kashmiri customers every December understands their preferences better than any market survey could reveal. The schoolchildren who share tuition classrooms for half the year or less carry friendships that transcend regional identities.

This is the economy in its purest form – not love as sentimentality, but love as practice. Love as the daily act of coexistence. Love as the recognition that your prosperity is tied to another’s presence.

When critics speak of Jammu and Kashmir as incompatible, as regions that would be better off apart, they ignore this lived reality. They ignore the autorickshaw driver in Jammu whose best months are when Kashmiris are in town. They ignore the Kashmiri whose Jammu clientele keeps his business afloat during the off-season. They ignore the marriages, the friendships, the business partnerships that have emerged from this seasonal intimacy.

The political discourse around Jammu and Kashmir often falls into a trap of binaries. Development is framed as a zero-sum game – what one region gains, the other loses. Attention given to Kashmir is portrayed as neglect of Jammu, and vice versa. This narrative serves politicians well, but it serves the people poorly.

The truth is that Jammu and Kashmir are not rivals. They are partners in an arrangement that, despite its imperfections, makes geographical and economic sense. Kashmir’s Valley, blessed with natural beauty and tourism potential, is landlocked and snowbound for half the year. Jammu, with its connectivity, its access to the plains, its moderate winter climate, provides the balance. One is the mountain; the other is the gateway.

Consider the alternative. A Kashmir without Jammu would be isolated for six months every year, its economy frozen along with its lakes. A Jammu without Kashmir would lose its unique identity as a border region with twin significance – as the land of Mata Vaishno Devi and as the gateway to paradise. Together, they offer what neither could alone: continuity.

The Durbar move, for all its criticisms, institutionalises this partnership. It forces the government to be present in both regions, to understand both realities, to address both sets of concerns. It prevents the concentration of power in one capital and ensures that both Jammu and Srinagar remain relevant to governance.

Jammu in winter is noisy. Anyone who has lived there will tell you. The traffic becomes impossible. The markets become crowded. The queues become longer. It is easy, in this chaos, to see the Kashmiri influx as an intrusion.

But noise is also the sound of life. Empty streets are quiet, but they are also dead. A city that swells with seasonal migration is a city that matters. It is a city that serves a purpose beyond itself. Jammu’s winter noise is the noise of relevance, of being needed, of being chosen.

There is a place beyond politics and hatred. It is not a utopia. It is Jammu in December, with its crowded lanes and mixed accents and shared meals. It is Srinagar in June, with its houseboat owners welcoming guests from the plains and its shikaras carrying tourists from everywhere. It is the highway that connects them – choked, difficult, essential.

This is the economy of love. Not love as the absence of conflict, but love as the presence of need. We need each other – Kashmir and Jammu – in ways that no political resolution can replace and no administrative separation can satisfy. The family from the Valley needs the shopkeeper in Jammu. The landlord in Jammu needs the tenant from Kashmir. The tourist needs both destinations; both destinations need the tourist.

In the end, the question is not whether Jammu and Kashmir are compatible. The question is whether we can recognise what has always been true – that they are, and have been, a single story told in two languages. That their interdependence is not weakness but strength. That their coexistence is not compromise but completion.

The economy of love asks us to see beyond the politics, beyond the hurt, beyond the headlines. It asks us to see the family eating at a Dhaba and the trader selling their goods. It asks us to see the winter capital as an institution of unity.

Jammu and Kashmir belong together. Not because anyone says so, but because everything proves so – every winter, every market, every shared road. This is not politics. This is life.

In the economy of love, there are no losers. Only partners.

Ajaz Rashid is a social and development entrepreneur – he can be reached at info@ajazrashid.org