Maj Gen Sanjeev Dogra (Retd)
sanjeev662006@gmail.com
Step into a lane of Old Jammu on a winter morning of the 1970s. A faint mist still hangs in the air, carrying with it the fragrance of woodsmoke from the kitchen chulhas where firewood crackles softly. The narrow lanes twist like living veins between houses with weathered wooden doors, their walls so close that neighbours can lean out and greet each other with a smile. From the distance, the temple bells of Raghunath Mandir float through the air, blending with the cooing of pigeons on tiled rooftops, as if the whole town is waking in step with the divine. Hawkers sing out their wares in long, melodic calls; the rustle of freshly folded newspapers mixes with the hiss of boiling tea in brass kettles; and children in woolen sweaters and freshly combed moist hair hurry off to school, their slates and tiffins clutched tightly as they weave through the bustle of the street.
In those days, Jammu was not just a city. It was a way of life. To step through a heavy wooden deodi was to enter a courtyard that was more than bricks and mortar, it was the stage of everyday living. The angan was where the family gathered, where guests were welcomed, where laughter and arguments both found their place. Rooftops touched each other, and so did lives. You could move across three or four houses without ever touching the street. Voices travelled faster than letters, and news was carried by word of mouth long before newspapers confirmed it.
What made Old Jammu truly alive was not its architecture but its people. Life was intimate, intertwined, and impossibly close-knit. If a birth took place in one home, neighbours celebrated as if it were their own grandchild. At weddings, the whole mohalla transformed into a family. Women gathered to sing folk songs deep into the night, men pitched in with decorations, and utensils were borrowed freely from house to house. Joys were magnified because they were shared; sorrows were softened because they were divided. When a death occurred, there was no need for formal invitations. The entire lane assembled, cooking food, making arrangements, or simply sitting in silence with the grieving family. In Jammu of those days, no one was ever alone in joy or sorrow. The mohalla breathed as one.
The rhythm of life was unhurried yet rich. Men would begin their day at the tea stalls, not in haste, but in deliberate leisure. Newspapers spread across wooden benches, they debated politics, cricket, and temple sermons with the passion of statesmen. These stalls were the true parliaments of the town, where gossip and policy carried equal weight. Women, meanwhile, turned rooftops into their social salons. Sitting with knitting, peeling vegetables, or drying papads in the sun, they called out to each other across parapets. News, recipes, advice, everything moved from one roof to another in a current of easy conversation. Children played marbles in the lanes, their laughter mingling with the crackle of wood and the songs of street vendors.
Jammu was, and still is, called the “City of Temples.” But in those times, the temple was not just a site of ritual. It was the heart of community life. People lingered in temple courtyards long after prayers were over, sharing stories, resting in the shade, or listening to the wandering sadhu who narrated tales from the epics. Every temple had its own flavor. Some were known for their prasad, some for their evening aartis, others for the fairs that brought entire neighbourhood together. It was not the number of temples that mattered, but the devotion and camaraderie they nurtured.
Food was another defining pulse of Jammu’s culture. Nothing captures its identity better than a steaming plate of rajma chawal. The rajma of Jammu was small, soft, and aromatic, its favour unmatched. Cooked slowly for hours, seasoned with hand-ground spices, it was more than food – it was comfort, identity, pride. Alongside came auriya, a tangy potato dish, and the much-loved kalari kulcha, with local cheese roasted on a sigdi until golden, then stuffed into warm bread. Festivals had their own distinctive tastes: patisa wrapped in old newspapers, gulgule served to children, pickles of kasrod and jimikand lined up in clay jars on verandahs. Food was always shared and recipes exchanged freely with neighbours sending across plates of delicacies, every household partaking in each other’s kitchens.
Festivals themselves were lived differently. On Janmashtami, rooftops filled with colorful kites, children running with thread rolls in their hands, laughter echoing across the skyline. Holi meant courtyards overflowing with colour, music, and dance. Diwali saw lanes lit not just with lamps but with open doors and neighbours visiting without hesitation, exchanging sweets and warmth. In those times, festivals were not commercial spectacles but community rituals, lived together rather than observed separately.
Yet, as time moved on, the city transformed. The compact charm of Old Jammu beganto spread into Gandhinagar, Trikuta Nagar, and far beyond. Courtyards gave way to drawing rooms, rooftops to terraces cut off from each other. Mohallas turned into colonies where names were known but lives remained private. Weddings shifted to banquet halls, more lavish, yet often lonelier. Birth announcements now appear on WhatsApp, condolences arrive as digital messages, and neighbours who once poured into each other’s homes now stay politely behind closed doors.
The temples still stand, in fact, their numbers have multiplied, but the rhythm has altered. Where once families spent hours in prayer and discourse, today temple visits are often squeezed between other engagements. The ritual remains, but the lingering has gone. Even festivals have changed. The kites that once filled Janmashtami skies with joy have turned dangerous with the imported manja, a reminder that traditions, when stripped of innocence, can lose their essence.
But it would be unfair to dismiss all change as loss. Modernity has brought education, opportunity, and comforts unimaginable in the past. Roads are broader, homes larger, conveniences plentiful. Yet the question lingers. Are we happier? Fifty years ago, wealth was measured not only in possessions but in relationships. A small house felt large because its walls were porous and neighbours were family. Today, lives may be materially richer but emotionally poorer. The sense of belonging that once defined Jammu has thinned.
This reflection, however, is not meant to trap us in nostalgia. Rather, it should inspire us to carry the best of the past into the future. The lessons of Old Jammu are clear: belonging, sharing, and togetherness are as essential to happiness as progress and growth. We can, and must, preserve what makes us unique.
We can start by protecting and reviving our heritage, restoring old deodis, courtyards, and forgotten temples, not as relics but as living spaces. Temples can once again become centres of community beyond ritual, with music, storytelling, and cultural gatherings. The flavors of Jammu, rajma, kalari, ambal and patisa should be celebrated in food festivals, taught in schools, and passed on proudly to the younger generation. Communities can be encouraged to organise mohalla events, where neighbours come together not just on Diwali or Holi but throughout the year. Urban planners can design modern housing with shared terraces and open spaces, recreating in new form the rooftop intimacy of the past.
Equally important is the role of the people themselves. Every Jammuite can contribute by reviving the spirit of involvement, by showing up at a neighbor’s celebration or grief, by teaching children the songs and games of their grandparents, by walking through Old Jammu’s lanes with respect for its living history. Nostalgia must not only be memory; it must be practice.
If we do this, our city will not just expand in size but grow in soul. Fifty years from now, when today’s children look back, they too should have memories worth cherishing.Not just of traffic and towers, but of warmth, belonging, and shared laughter.
Because to belong to Jammu is more than an address. It is to carry its courtyards within you, wherever life takes you. The past may not return in form, but its spirit can live on in our kitchens, our temples, our festivals, and above all, in the way we care for each other. That is the true heritage of Jammu, and that is what will keep the city alive in both memory and future.
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