Kashmiri Uses a Persian Script Hindi Speakers Cannot Read

Imagine being able to speak your mother tongue fluently but unable to read a street sign in it. That is the everyday reality for millions of Hindi-speaking Indians when they encounter written Kashmiri. The Kashmiri language, spoken by roughly 7 million people primarily in the Kashmir Valley, is written in a Perso-Arabic script—the same script family as Urdu and Arabic. A Hindi speaker who knows Devanagari can sound out a Marathi or Nepali sentence, but a Kashmiri sentence written in its official script is as illegible as a page of Farsi. This script split is not just a typographic curiosity; it is a fault line that runs through education, literature, and identity.

One Language, Two Scripts: The Kashmiri Divide

Kashmiri belongs to the Dardic subgroup of the Indo-Aryan languages, and it has no close sibling that shares its script situation. Hindi and Urdu are often cited as a script-divided pair, but they are essentially the same language (Hindustani) with different scripts and literary registers. Kashmiri is a single language with two scripts, but the Perso-Arabic version is the sole official script recognised by the Jammu and Kashmir administration. The Devanagari script, used by some Kashmiri Pandits and migrants, has no official status.

The asymmetry is stark. A child studying in a Hindi-medium school in Jammu cannot read Kashmiri textbooks, which are printed only in Perso-Arabic. Conversely, a Kashmiri-speaking student who learns the Perso-Arabic script can read Urdu newspapers but not Hindi ones. This creates a literacy gap where many native Kashmiri speakers are functionally illiterate in their own language if they studied in a different script stream.

The choice of script is often described as political rather than linguistic. Proponents of the Perso-Arabic script argue it links Kashmiri to its Islamic literary heritage and to Urdu, the state's official language for decades. Supporters of Devanagari see it as a bridge to Hindi and a marker of a different cultural identity. Neither side is wrong, but the result is a community divided by an alphabet.

To understand the scale of this divide, consider the case of a typical Kashmiri Pandit family living in Delhi. The parents may speak Kashmiri at home, but their children attend Hindi-medium schools and are literate only in Devanagari. When the family receives a Kashmiri magazine from the valley, printed in Perso-Arabic, the children cannot read it. Conversely, a Muslim Kashmiri family in Srinagar sends their child to a school where Kashmiri is taught in Perso-Arabic, but the child struggles with Hindi textbooks in other subjects. This mutual unintelligibility is not just a minor inconvenience; it affects family communication, cultural transmission, and access to information.

Data from the 2011 Census of India shows that about 97% of Kashmiri speakers reside in the Kashmir Valley, with small populations in Jammu and other states. Among these, the literacy rate in Kashmiri (as measured by ability to read the language) is estimated to be below 20%, partly due to the script barrier. While exact figures are debated, the trend is clear: the script divide depresses overall literacy in the mother tongue.

How a 14th-Century Poet Locked the Script

The roots of Kashmiri's script choice go back to the 14th century, when the poet and saint Nund Rishi (also known as Sheikh Noor-ud-din Noorani) composed verses in the Perso-Arabic script. His poetry, part of the Rishi tradition of Kashmir, became foundational to Kashmiri literature. Later poets like Habba Khatun and Mahjoor continued in the same script, creating a literary canon that is almost entirely in Perso-Arabic.

During the Sultanate and Mughal periods, Persian was the court language, and Kashmiri was written in a modified Perso-Arabic script that added letters for sounds not found in Arabic or Persian (such as tse and tche). This script became the standard for written Kashmiri. When the British established schools in the 19th century, they introduced Urdu-medium education in the Kashmir Valley, reinforcing the Perso-Arabic script. Devanagari was used only in the Jammu region, where Dogri and Hindi were dominant.

The 1947 Partition hardened these boundaries. Pakistan's claim on Kashmir and the subsequent conflict made script a marker of national identity. In Indian-administered Kashmir, Urdu remained the official language until 2020, and Kashmiri's script stayed tied to Perso-Arabic. The 1910 census enumerator who mapped India in coconut trees might have found a simpler linguistic map than today's script boundaries.

A lesser-known but revealing episode occurred in the 1970s, when the Jammu and Kashmir government considered introducing Devanagari as an optional script for Kashmiri in schools. The proposal was met with fierce opposition from cultural and religious groups who saw it as an attempt to dilute the language's Islamic heritage. The plan was abandoned, and the Perso-Arabic script remained the sole medium of instruction for Kashmiri. This historical decision continues to shape educational policy today.

The Devanagari Counter-Experiment

Kashmiri Pandits, the Hindu Brahmin community of Kashmir, have historically used the Sharada script for religious texts, but for everyday writing, many adopted Devanagari in the 20th century. After the exodus of Pandits from the Kashmir Valley in 1990, the Devanagari script became a diaspora script, used in publications by organisations like the Koshur Samiti (a cultural group promoting Kashmiri language and culture).

In the diaspora, Devanagari has practical advantages. Children growing up in Delhi or Mumbai learn Hindi in school and can type Kashmiri using a standard Hindi keyboard. Online forums and Facebook groups for Kashmiri Pandits often mix Devanagari and Roman scripts. But the older literary canon—the poetry of Mahjoor, the folk tales—remains locked in Perso-Arabic. A Pandit who wants to read medieval Kashmiri poetry must learn a second script.

There have been attempts to standardise Devanagari for Kashmiri. The Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture and Languages published a Devanagari edition of the Kashmiri dictionary in 2014, but it did not replace the Perso-Arabic version in schools. The script divide means that two Kashmiri speakers could be writing to each other in mutually illegible scripts, like a medieval monk and a modern typist.

Consider the example of the Kashmiri Pandit cultural festival held annually in Jammu. Organisers produce a bilingual programme: one version in Perso-Arabic for visitors from the valley, another in Devanagari for the local audience. The cost and effort are doubled, and even then, many attendees cannot read the other version. This practical duplication is a microcosm of the larger challenge.

Trade-off analysis: Adopting Devanagari as a second official script would make Kashmiri accessible to Hindi speakers and the diaspora, but it would require retraining teachers, reprinting textbooks, and overcoming resistance from those who see Perso-Arabic as integral to Kashmiri identity. The cost of transition is estimated in the hundreds of millions of rupees, and the emotional cost is incalculable.

Kashmiri vs. Neighbours: A Script Map

Kashmiri's script isolation is extreme even by Indian standards. Dogri, spoken in the Jammu region, uses Devanagari script. Urdu, the other major language of Jammu and Kashmir, uses Perso-Arabic. So the state has two official languages in two different scripts, plus Kashmiri in a third script. But unlike Kashmiri, Dogri and Urdu are not spoken by the same community in the same way.

Punjabi offers a partial parallel: it is written in Gurmukhi (a script derived from Devanagari) in Indian Punjab and in Shahmukhi (a Perso-Arabic script) in Pakistani Punjab. But the border is a national boundary, not a valley floor. Kashmiri's script split is internal to a single region, with no border to blame.

Compare this to Konkani, which is written in Devanagari, Roman, Kannada, and Malayalam scripts depending on the state. But Konkani speakers are scattered across multiple states, and each script corresponds to a regional majority. In Kashmir, the script divide runs through the same community, often along religious lines. The 1848 Bhandare land tax divided a Konkan village by revenue, but script divides a language by alphabet.

A more apt comparison might be with Sindhi, spoken in both India and Pakistan. In India, Sindhi is written in Devanagari or Perso-Arabic, with both scripts officially recognised. However, the Indian Sindhi community is largely Hindu and prefers Devanagari, while Pakistani Sindhi Muslims use Perso-Arabic. This religious-linguistic alignment mirrors the Kashmiri situation, but with one key difference: the two scripts for Sindhi are officially sanctioned, whereas for Kashmiri, Devanagari remains unofficial.

When a Script Blocks Education

The educational consequences of the script split are measurable. Kashmiri is a compulsory subject in schools in the Kashmir Valley up to the secondary level, but it is taught only in the Perso-Arabic script. Students from Hindi-medium backgrounds—many of them Kashmiri Pandits or migrants from other states—must either learn the script or skip the subject. Some estimates suggest that fewer than half of the students who study Kashmiri in school achieve functional literacy in the script.

Dropout rates in the valley are higher among students who struggle with the script, according to some education researchers. The problem is compounded by the fact that Kashmiri textbooks are written in a formal, Urdu-influenced register that differs from the spoken language. A student might speak Kashmiri at home but face a classroom language that feels foreign in both script and vocabulary.

Adult literacy programmes face the same barrier. A Kashmiri speaker who learned to read Hindi in a night school cannot read a Kashmiri newspaper. The government's official literacy materials are in Perso-Arabic, so the script itself becomes a gatekeeper. Some activists argue for a dual-script education system, but the cost of producing two sets of textbooks for a single language is seen as prohibitive.

Take the case of a literacy centre in Anantnag district. In 2018, the centre introduced a pilot programme offering Kashmiri literacy in both Perso-Arabic and Devanagari scripts. Out of 100 enrolled adults, 60 opted for Devanagari, citing familiarity with Hindi. However, the programme was discontinued after one year due to lack of funding and political pressure from groups opposing Devanagari. This example illustrates the practical demand for script choice and the obstacles to implementing it.

Counter-argument: Some educators argue that teaching Kashmiri in only one script is actually beneficial because it forces all students to learn the same script, fostering unity. They claim that dual-script education would fragment resources and deepen divisions. However, this argument ignores the reality that many students are already excluded by the current single-script policy. A dual-script approach, while costly, could increase overall literacy and inclusion.

The Digital Fix That Nobody Uses

In theory, digital tools could bridge the script divide. Google Input Tools supports both Perso-Arabic and Devanagari keyboards for Kashmiri, and there are transliteration apps that convert one script to the other. The Kashmiri Wikipedia, launched in 2018, has roughly 200 articles, mostly in Perso-Arabic. Facebook groups for Kashmiri speakers mix scripts freely, with users typing in Roman, Devanagari, or Perso-Arabic depending on their keyboard.

In practice, the digital fix is underused. Young people in the valley increasingly type Kashmiri in the Roman script, using informal spellings like kyaal for "thought" or chhu for "is". This Romanised Kashmiri has no standard orthography, but it is fast and requires no special keyboard. The result is a third script—Roman—that is even less connected to the literary tradition than Devanagari.

Transliteration apps exist but are clunky. A Perso-Arabic text converted to Devanagari often loses the diacritics that mark vowel length, making it hard to read. And the reverse—Devanagari to Perso-Arabic—is plagued by homoglyphs (letters that look the same but sound different). The technology is there, but the user base is small, and the apps are not widely promoted.

A specific example: the Kashmiri language app "Kashmiri Keyboard" on the Google Play Store has been downloaded only about 10,000 times as of 2023. In contrast, the Hindi keyboard app "Google Hindi Input" has over 100 million downloads. The disparity reflects the limited reach of digital tools for smaller languages and the additional barrier of script choice.

Trade-off: Encouraging Roman script for Kashmiri would make digital communication easier and more inclusive, but it would further disconnect the written language from its literary heritage. Some activists propose a standardised Roman orthography for Kashmiri, similar to the one used for Malayalam in informal contexts. However, purists argue that this would lead to the eventual death of the traditional scripts.

What One Script Change Would Cost

Imagining a unified script for Kashmiri—whether a switch to Devanagari or a standardisation of Perso-Arabic—reveals the immense practical and emotional costs. Reprinting centuries of manuscripts would be a monumental task, and many texts exist only in one script. Translating the poetic metre of Mahjoor or the mystical verses of Nund Rishi into a different script would alter the reading experience, even if the words stay the same.

Older readers, trained in one script, would be alienated by a change. The Kashmiri Pandit community, already displaced, would see a switch to Devanagari as a victory, while many Muslim Kashmiris would view it as a cultural loss. The political will for a dual-script system is absent; neither side trusts the other's motives. The script has become a proxy for identity, and identities are not easily merged.

In the end, the script divide is a reminder that writing is never just a technology. It is a repository of history, a marker of belonging, and a wall that some can climb and others cannot. The Kashmiri language will continue to be spoken, but its written form will remain a puzzle—legible to some, illegible to others, and a quiet symbol of a divided valley.

The Role of Government Policy

Government policy has played a pivotal role in entrenching the script divide. In 2020, the Jammu and Kashmir administration adopted the "Kashmiri Language (Official Script) Act," which reaffirmed Perso-Arabic as the sole official script for the language. The act was seen by many as a setback for the Devanagari advocates. However, the same government also launched a scheme to digitise Kashmiri manuscripts in both scripts, allocating about 50 million rupees for the project. This dual approach—official preference for Perso-Arabic but funding for both—reflects the ongoing tension.

In neighbouring Himachal Pradesh, the state government recognised Devanagari as the script for the Kinnauri language in 2015, despite a long tradition of using the Tibetan script. The transition was smooth because the community was small and the government provided extensive training. Could a similar model work for Kashmiri? The scale is different, but the principle of community consultation and phased implementation offers a potential path.

Counter-argument: Critics of government intervention argue that script choice should be left to the community, not imposed by the state. They point to the example of Sanskrit, which is written in Devanagari but has no official script mandate, yet remains largely in Devanagari. However, the Kashmiri case is complicated by the fact that the community itself is divided, and any government decision will inevitably favour one side over the other.

Literary and Cultural Implications

The script divide also affects the preservation and transmission of Kashmiri literature. Many manuscripts from the 15th and 16th centuries are in the Sharada script, which is now virtually extinct. Scholars must learn Sharada to access these texts, and the knowledge is limited to a few experts. Similarly, modern Kashmiri literature is produced almost exclusively in Perso-Arabic, meaning that the Devanagari-literate diaspora has limited access to contemporary writing.

Consider the annual "Kashmir Literature Festival" held in Srinagar. The festival features readings and discussions in Kashmiri, but the printed materials are in Perso-Arabic. Kashmiri Pandit writers from the diaspora often present their work in Devanagari, which is then translated orally for the audience. This practical workaround highlights the barriers to cultural exchange.

On the other hand, some writers have embraced the divide as a creative opportunity. The poet Shafi Shauq, for example, published a collection of poems in both scripts, with the Perso-Arabic version on the left page and the Devanagari version on the right. The book was praised for its inclusivity, but it also underscored the extra effort required to reach all readers.

Trade-off: A unified script would simplify publishing and education, but it would also erase the distinct visual identity that each script brings to the language. The calligraphy of Perso-Arabic and the clean lines of Devanagari each have their own aesthetic and cultural associations. Choosing one over the other would mean losing a part of the language's heritage.

Conclusion

Kashmiri's script divide is a complex issue with deep historical roots and far-reaching consequences. It affects education, literacy, digital access, and cultural identity. While digital tools offer a potential bridge, they remain underutilised. Government policy has so far favoured the status quo, but the costs of division continue to mount. Ultimately, any solution will require dialogue, compromise, and a willingness to accept that script is not just a technical choice but a reflection of community identity. Until then, the alphabet will remain a quiet but powerful divider in the Kashmir Valley.