DR NIYAZ FAROOQI
Obesity, once considered a disease of the West or of India’s metropolitan elites, unhealthy weight gain is now firmly taking root in a society that, until recently, was more familiar with scarcity than surplus. The transformation has been so gradual—and so normalised—that many of us still refuse to see it as the public health emergency it truly is.
Walk through the markets of Srinagar, Anantnag or Baramulla in the late evening. The change is visible to anyone willing to look. Fast-food joints, bakeries dripping with cream and sugar, fried snacks at every corner, and sugary drinks sold more cheaply than a plate of fresh vegetables: this is the new Kashmiri foodscape. Our traditional image of the hardworking, physically active Kashmiri—tilling fields, walking long distances, braving harsh winters—has been replaced by a generation that spends its days in front of screens and its evenings in front of overflowing plates.
It would be a mistake, however, to dismiss obesity merely as a matter of personal choice or vanity. This is not just about “looking fat”; it is about living sicker and dying younger. Excess weight is a major risk factor for diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, stroke, and certain cancers. In a valley where health infrastructure is already strained, the slow but steady rise of lifestyle diseases could prove devastating. Hospitals that once battled seasonal outbreaks and injuries now quietly fill their wards with patients suffering from conditions rooted in diet and inactivity.
Particularly worrying is what we see among children and adolescents. Schoolbags are heavy, but bodies are increasingly sedentary. Physical education is often treated as an afterthought, squeezed out by exam pressure and coaching centres. Outdoor play, once the natural rhythm of childhood in the Valley, is steadily losing ground to smartphones, social media, and video games. Parents, understandably anxious about safety and academics, may unknowingly be pushing their children into lifestyles that invite obesity and all its long-term consequences.
Culture, too, plays a complex role. Our cuisine is rich, aromatic, and deeply tied to identity. Wazwan is not merely food; it is celebration, honour, and heritage. Yet when everyday meals begin to resemble festive feasts, and when meat, oil, and refined flour dominate the plate while vegetables and fruits are sidelined, culture becomes a double-edged sword. Respecting tradition must not mean resisting change, especially when our health is at stake. We need a new understanding of what it means to eat “like a Kashmiri”—one that honours flavour and history without sacrificing wellbeing.
The UT and its institutions cannot remain passive observers. Public health policy in Jammu and Kashmir has, for understandable reasons, often focused on communicable diseases, maternal health, and emergency care. But the age of lifestyle diseases is upon us, and it demands a clear, coordinated response. The government must treat obesity as a serious non-communicable disease, not a cosmetic concern. This means stricter regulation of junk food advertising—especially those targeting children—clearer food labelling, and serious investment in preventive health programmes.
Schools should be the frontline of this fight. Making physical education compulsory, ensuring regular sports activities, and regulating the sale of junk food in and around school premises are basic, achievable steps. Curriculum designers must integrate nutrition education so that children grow up understanding what they eat and how it affects their bodies. In a valley where young people carry the burden of both political uncertainty and unemployment, the least we can offer them is a healthier start in life.
Equally important is the role of healthcare providers and religious and community leaders. Doctors often meet patients only when the disease has already taken hold. They must be empowered and encouraged to speak about weight management, diet, and exercise early and often, not as an afterthought. Imams and community elders, who hold immense influence over public behaviour and moral choices, can also help shift attitudes—reminding people that caring for one’s body is not indulgence but responsibility.
Ultimately, though, the mirror must be held up to each of us. It is easy to blame multinational food companies, government apathy, or social media addiction. Harder is the task of looking at our own plates, our own daily routines, our own unwillingness to walk when we could drive, to cook when we could order in, to stretch our bodies when we would rather scroll our screens. The journey from a conflict-scarred society to a healthy one cannot be made by policy alone; it must also be walked—quite literally—by ordinary Kashmiris in their everyday lives.
The Kashmir Valley has survived wars and calamities. It would be tragic if, having endured so much from outside, we succumbed silently to a disease we are actively feeding from within. Obesity in Kashmir is not just a medical statistic; it is a commentary on what we are becoming as a people. The time to act is now—before this hidden epidemic reshapes the valley more profoundly than any headline ever could.
(The Author is a columnist and public speaker)
