“Rang-e-Cinema”, the first International Film Festival of Jammu & Kashmir (IFFJK), held from September 7 to 10, 2026, is not only a celebration of films, actors, directors and filmmakers. It is also a symbolic return of Kashmir to a cultural space from which it had virtually disappeared for three and a half decades. The story of cinema in Kashmir, however, does not begin with the IFFJK festival of 2026. Its roots go much deeper.
Kashmir’s relationship with cinema goes back to the early decades of the twentieth century. The Palladium, originally known as Kashmir Talkies, became one of Srinagar’s earliest famous cinema halls. By the 1960s, cinema had become an established part of urban entertainment in Kashmir. Palladium, Regal and Amresh were among the familiar theatres. At its peak during 1970s, Kashmir had around 19 cinema halls, including several in Srinagar and others spread across the Valley in Anantnag, Baramulla, Sopore.
Cinema-going in those days was one of the popular forms of entertainment. A new release meant long queues, packed houses and, more often than not, tickets were sold on the black market. I still remember the narrow, tunnel-like passage at Palladium where people would stand for hours to get a ticket and was no instant at the flick of a finger on a mobile phone nowadays.
Bollywood fell in love with Kashmir’s extraordinary romance. The 1960s transformed Kashmir into the most glamorous outdoor studio in Indian cinema. Junglee (1961), Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon (1963), Kashmir Ki Kali (1964), Jaanwar (1965), Jab Jab Phool Khile (1965), and Aarzoo (1965), and many more turned Dal Lake, shikaras, snow-capped mountains, meadows and Mughal gardens into familiar images in the imagination of millions of Indians.
Kashmir was presented as a land of romance, youth, music and beauty. For a generation of Indians who had never visited the Valley, cinema became their first journey to Kashmir. A houseboat became a symbol of romance. A shikara became an emblem of Kashmir. Gulmarg became a dream and Pahalgam a honeymoon destination. The screen was selling Kashmir to India and India was falling in love with the image. The romance continued through the 1970s and early 1980s. Bobby, Aap Ki Kasam, Kabhi Kabhie, Noorie, Silsila, Betaab, and many embedded Kashmir in India’s cinematic imagination.
Film tourism became an important part of Kashmir’s popular culture and economy. The Valley was not merely a backdrop; it was becoming a brand. Whenever, as teenagers, we heard that a film was being shot around Dal Lake or the Mughal gardens, we would rush, bunking school or college, to catch a glimpse of our favourite heroes and heroines. I vividly remember an occasion with a group of friends, waited for nearly three hours at Nedous Hotel simply to catch a glimpse of Rajesh Khanna and Mumtaz, who were there for ‘Aap Ki Kasam.’ Those memories capture something that statistics cannot. Cinema had become part of Kashmir’s social life.
When the screen went dark
By the end of 1980s, however, Kashmir had entered dramatically into different era. Insurgency and terrorism intensified. Threats were issued against cinema halls. Fear entered everyday life. Theatres were attacked, closed and converted to storehouses, and warehouses. The Palladium was burnt. Attempts to revive cinema in the late 1990s were short-lived, and after renewed attacks the theatres again fell silent. This was about much more than the disappearance of entertainment.
The closure of cinemas became one of the visible symbols of the shrinking of Kashmir’s public cultural space. The 1990s also witnessed the mass displacement of Kashmiri Pandits. Families that had lived in the Valley for generations were forced to leave, carrying with them memories, photographs, books, music, traditions and an entire way of life.
For more than two decades, Kashmir remained largely absent from the mainstream cinematic circuit. Nevertheless, Bollywood continued to use the Valley occasionally, as shooting became difficult and Kashmir’s cinematic image changed from the paradise of romantic songs to a landscape increasingly associated with conflict.
Yet cinema never completely abandoned Kashmir even during peak militancy. Films such as Roja (1992), Mission Kashmir (2000), LOC: Kargil (2003), Fanaa (2006), Sikandar (2009), Haider (2014), Raazi (2018), Shikara (2020), Kashmir files (2022), and Art -370 (2024) portrayed the Valley through insurgency, terrorism, radicalization, espionage and Kashmiri Pandit displacement. While some carried a clear nationalist or counter-terrorism perspective, others explored trauma, loss and human consequences, reflecting Kashmir’s transformation from a romantic backdrop into a terror and political landscape.
The decisive moment came in September 2022, when Srinagar received its first multiplex after roughly three decades without regular public cinema. The INOX multiplex at Shivpora opened with three screens with a capacity of about 520 seats. Laal Singh Caddha was shown to a select group of officials and media members and finally it opened to public in Oct 2022 with screening of Vikram Vedha. For new Kashmiri generation, stepping into a cinema hall was a new experience.
And, now under the theme, Rang-e-Cinema, the International Film Festival of Jammu & Kashmir (IFFJK) received more than 1,100 film submissions. The final programme has 135 films representing 41 countries. India has the largest representation with sixty four films, followed by France with thirteen and Iran with eight.
Among the Indian movies are Sajid Ali’s ‘Laila Majnu’ and Imtiaz Ali’s ‘Main Vaapas Aaunga,’ demonstrating themes of love, migration, memory and belonging. Five films by filmmakers from Jammu & Kashmir selected are: ‘Searching for the Grandpa,’ ‘Arifa,’ ‘Batt Koch,’ ‘Tasrufdaar’, and Naqsh-e-Daur. These explore childhood, memory, displacement, identity, heritage, resilience and the enduring connection to home.
The greatest opportunity before Rang-e-Cinema is therefore, not merely to bring Bollywood back. It is to allow Kashmiris, whosoever, themselves to tell their stories. The Kashmir of tomorrow should not exist only through the eyes of an outsider’s camera. Its filmmakers should tell stories about its villages and cities, about its poets and saints, its Pandits and Muslim brotherhood, its women and youth, its migration and memories, its conflict and resilience, its traditions and aspirations.
If that happens, cinema can become more than a tourism strategy or an instrument of image-building. It can become an archive of memory and a bridge between generations. A film can preserve a house that no longer exists. A song can revive a forgotten street. A documentary can return a face to a generation that never knew it. Cinema can allow communities to encounter one another’s memories.
The question is no longer whether Kashmir can return to cinema. The cardinal question is: What story will Kashmir choose to tell henceforth- one that confronts terrorism, preserves its cultural heritage, and keeps alive the memory and identity of all its communities?