Law Kumar Mishra
When elections were held in Kashmir, even senior observers sent by the Election Commission from other states hesitated to move around freely.
In 1999, during the Lok Sabha elections across six constituencies of Jammu and Kashmir, top IAS officers from Gujarat, Maharashtra, and Bihar were deployed as election observers. I still remember — one woman observer stayed locked inside her room at the Circuit House the entire time, too scared to step out.
Ranjit Banerjee from Gujarat was posted in Anantnag. On polling day, he visited some of the interior booths and found widespread irregularities — presiding officers were openly biased. After polling ended, he sent a detailed report to the Election Commission recommending that the Anantnag election be countermanded. I got a copy of that report; The Times of India carried it as a lead story the next morning.
Those days, Delhi newspapers would reach Srinagar only by an afternoon flight. By then, the state’s Chief Electoral Officer had already called me, furious, claiming the report was false. But by noon, the Election Commission’s decision came — the entire polling in Anantnag was cancelled.
The then Chief Election Commissioner, M.S. Gill, expressed disappointment. “It’s unfortunate,” he said, “that the returning officers of Srinagar and Anantnag weren’t IAS officers — just a gardener and a storekeeper, holding IAS posts on own pay and grade basis.”
Former Union Minister and three-time Governor Mohammad Shafi Qureshi, who lived in Sant Nagar, Srinagar, once told me that the Anantnag Returning Officer had initially declared him — the Congress candidate — as the winner, and celebrations had already begun. But half an hour later, the officer suddenly reversed the result, declaring the National Conference candidate as elected.
Something similar happened in Amira Kadal — Mohammad Salahuddin had actually won, yet the Returning Officer declared the losing candidate victorious. Salahuddin then crossed over to Pakistan through Baramulla — and became a militant.
On polling day in Chadoora, I saw a Major from the Rashtriya Rifles sitting inside a polling booth. I asked, “Did the Election Commission post you here?” He replied, “My duty is to bring the voters.” I asked again, “On whose order?” I started taking photographs — the Major panicked, ran off, and quickly ordered his men to leave too.
Driving along the Srinagar–Anantnag highway, I noticed a convoy near Pulwama — an army officer leading a group of elderly men. I asked one of them where they were going. He said he had fever but had been forcibly taken from his home by the soldiers.
When I questioned the officer, he admitted quietly, “Polling is very low, that’s why. The Commission hasn’t ordered this… please don’t take photos.” Then he too disappeared.
Election rallies were ghostly affairs. Once, Omar Abdullah — himself a candidate — took me to Budgam. Only 28 people turned up to hear him, outnumbered by security personnel. In Srinagar city, people were too afraid to attend campaign meetings. Near the Palladium cinema, I saw a few men in white kurta-pyjamas pretending to be part of the audience. An official told me quietly, “They’re actually security men — brought in so that Doordarshan cameras can show ‘crowds’ in the news.”
I once travelled to Anantnag to watch Mehbooba Mufti campaign with Mufti Mohammad Sayeed. They moved in a bulletproof Ambassador car. A large crowd of women had gathered to welcome her, singing and dancing — comparing her to Indira Gandhi.
Then came the grim part — a BJP candidate was blown up by militants. His remains were found hanging eighty feet up on a chinar tree.
But now, everything has changed. In the panchayat and assembly elections that followed years later, people voted freely — in large numbers, without fear or coercion.
(The author is a senior journalist based at Patna in Bihar)
