Kashmir’s agricultural identity has been built around a handful of familiar images: the paddy fields of Pulwama and Anantnag turning gold before harvest, the apple orchards of Shopian, Sopore and Baramulla that anchor the Valley’s cash economy, and the saffron fields of Pampore that lend it a distinct global identity.
Horticulture today makes up a significant share of Jammu and Kashmir’s economic output, and a very large proportion of rural households depend, directly or indirectly, on orchards, paddy and allied farming for their livelihood. This is the Kashmir agriculture that gets discussed in policy circles, covered in newspapers, and celebrated in government schemes.
But beneath this visible economy runs a quieter one grass. It does not appear in horticulture department press releases, it has no mandi, no minimum support price, and no season of celebration. Yet from the alpine meadows of Gulmarg, Sonamarg and Pahalgam to the modest grazing patches along village roads, grass sustains a rural economy that is every bit as real as an apple orchard, just far less visible.
An Economy Hiding in Plain Sight
Call it hidden, because that is exactly what it is. Every village household that keeps a cow tied behind the house, every family that sends a few sheep up to the marg above the settlement each summer, every horse used to ferry tourists across a meadow all of this rests on grass, yet none of it shows up in the way Kashmir’s economy is usually described. Milk, ghee, wool, meat and manure move through informal local markets every day of the year, and the entire chain begins with a resource nobody thinks to count.
The clearest example of this hidden economy is the Gujjar and Bakarwal community, whose way of life is built entirely around the seasonal rhythm of pasture. Each summer, these pastoralist families walk their flocks from the plains of Jammu up into the high meadows of Kashmir a migration that can take over a month on foot, timed to the melting of snow and the opening up of grass at higher altitudes.
Once they reach these high pastures, herds graze on the lush grasses of the Himalayan ridges at altitudes between 3,000 and 4,500 metres, close to the snowline. For a very large tribal population in Jammu and Kashmir, this is not a supplementary activity it is the entire economic base of the household, hidden from view for much of the year in remote dhoks and bahaks that most of the Valley never sees.
And the output is substantial, even if uncounted. Gujjar families rearing cattle sell milk and dairy products such as ghee and cheese as their primary source of income, alongside wool and mutton. Multiply that across thousands of households scattered through forests and meadows across the Valley, and what emerges is a genuine rural industry one that has simply never been mapped, registered or valued the way an apple orchard is.
Why It Stays Hidden
Part of why this economy remains hidden is structural, not accidental. Unlike an orchard or a paddy field, the land grass grows on is rarely owned outright by the people who depend on it. Meadows, forest floor, roadside verges and riverbanks are commons used, but not possessed by any one household. And land that belongs to no one in particular tends to be improved by no one in particular either. Encroachment, unplanned tourism infrastructure, and the slow conversion of grazing land to other uses eat steadily into pasture area, with no single stakeholder positioned to stop it.
There is also a record-keeping problem that keeps this economy hidden even from those meant to plan for it. Land records across Jammu and Kashmir, as in most of India, track cultivated area, orchard area and forest cover not pasture condition or fodder productivity. A decline that never shows up in an official number is very difficult to argue exists at all. So fodder scarcity does not announce itself as a headline statistic; it shows up quietly, as thinner cattle, falling milk yields, and herders selling off animals they can no longer feed.
Climate change is now pulling this hidden crisis into the open, whether policy is ready or not. Pastoralist families have reported that natural resources, their only source of income, appear to be shrinking, with flocks having to make do with less grass each day. Erratic snowfall, early heatwaves and unpredictable rainfall are disrupting the very timing that transhumant pastoralism depends on.
Researchers studying Gujjar and Bakarwal communities note that their climate-dependent lifestyle faces unprecedented challenges from shifting temperature and precipitation patterns, and argue that adaptive strategies are urgently needed to protect this way of life. When the grass fails, there is no crop insurance to fall back on; only a family with fewer animals than it had the year before.
What Staying Hidden Costs
The consequences of this invisibility are not abstract. Herding families across the Valley increasingly report reduced cattle numbers and declining fodder quality, forcing hard trade-offs between feeding animals and meeting other household needs. In some areas, traditional barter arrangements around grazing herders exchanging wool and ghee for access to land have already begun shifting toward cash payments, a sign that even this informal economy is being monetised, often to the disadvantage of those with the least bargaining power.
There is an ecological cost hidden in here too. Healthy alpine meadows are not just fodder banks; they anchor soil on steep Himalayan slopes, regulate the water that eventually irrigates paddy fields downstream, and sustain the biodiversity that draws tourists to Gulmarg, Sonamarg and Pahalgam in the first place. Degrade the grass, and the apple orchards, paddy fields and tourism economy downstream eventually feel it too. Kashmir’s agricultural economy is far more interconnected than the neat line drawn between “farmland” and “grazing land” in official records suggests.
Bringing It into the Light
None of this calls for reinventing the wheel, only for noticing what has been there all along. Protecting common grazing land from encroachment, investing in improved and drought-tolerant fodder grass varieties, developing silvipasture models that combine trees and grass on degraded slopes, and most fundamentally, actually counting pasture area and condition in land-use surveys would go a long way toward bringing this hidden economy into policy view. So would extending to the dairy and wool economy the same institutional attention horticulture already receives: cooperatives, market linkages, veterinary support.
Kashmir’s rural economy has always run on more than what is harvested from a field. The grass on the hillside above a village is not empty land waiting for something else to happen to it; for a great many families, it already is the economy. It has simply been hidden from the story Kashmir tells about itself.
(The author is Assistant Professor, University Centre for Research and Development, Chandigarh University, Mohali, Punjab)
