Inside Kashmir’s growing youth tattoo movement

It’s a cold January day in Srinagar, the largest city and summer capital of Indian-administered Kashmir. In keeping with the past few years, the region has seen little snowfall, which makes for an unsettling change in a place once blanketed by thick layers of white. But inside a small, dimly lit room in Srinagar’s bustling commercial area Karan Nagar, Ahmed and half a dozen youngsters sit oblivious to the shifting climate outside, owing to the sealing of windows with polythene and thick blankets – a local Kashmiri technique to keep out the biting wind. A single space heater hums steadily as Ahmed leans over a young girl’s arm, carefully inking a tattoo.

The girl, Hinna, sits unfazed, showing no signs of pain as Ahmed etches a delicate portrait of a cat, her pet. “This is just my way of showing how much I love her. I don’t care what people say,” she explains, eyes fixed on the tattoo’s progress.

Four boys wait in the room. One of them is next in line to get inked, while the others are merely there to mock him. They joke at his expense, aware of the social and religious taboos surrounding tattoos in Kashmir. The small studio scene forms a snapshot of Kashmir’s evolving tattoo culture. While many young people embrace body art, others hesitate, torn between personal desires and religious beliefs.

Ahmed’s studio is one of many across Kashmir, where the demand for tattoos has surged in recent years, evident in the visibly booming number of salons, as well as the bared skin on the people openly flaunting them in public.

It wasn’t always like this. Tattoos, long frowned upon, were once hidden from the gazes of people who did not approve of them. Many felt the same way as 29-year-old Syed Saqib, who felt compelled to conceal his tattoos from his family and others, consistently donning long-sleeve shirts regardless of the weather.

Saqib was five years old when he first heard the story of the Battle of Karbala, which took place in 680 AD. It saw the killing of Imam Hussain, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, and his companions, but it was the story of Abbas – a warrior and half-brother of Imam Hussain – that moved him the most.

Every year, Shia Muslims across the globe commemorate Karbala with mourning ceremonies and reciting eulogies, with some even rhythmically beating their chests in grief while reciting the names of those killed, including Abbas. He is a central figure in these commemorations, and is revered by Shia Muslims like Saqib for his bravery. As the story goes, he charged into the enemy ranks, undeterred by spears and arrows, with a promise to bring water to the thirsty children. Even after being struck by arrows in his eyes and losing both arms, he continued riding until he finally fell, face-first, from his horse.

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Each time Saqib heard Abbas’s story, he explains that his heart would wrench. He’d raise his hand and hit his chest in the traditional Shia way, crying out: “Ya Abbas!” Over a decade ago, when he was 18 years old, he decided to mark the story with a tattoo, choosing an image that encapsulated the story’s essence: a blood-dripping spear entwined with barbed wire. “While the event of Karbala breaks everyone’s heart, the story of Abbas is something that pains me the most, which is why I decided to get a tattoo [to pay tribute to] his martyrdom,” Saqib says.

Tattoos have been a source of expression for human beings for millennia now, with scientists and archaeologists tracing the practice to as early as the Neolithic times. While some choose to adorn them for purely aesthetic reasons, others like Saqib get inked to spread a message or give wings to their personality.

The rise of needle art in Indian-administered Kashmir comes against a backdrop of continuous conflict. Since 1947, the region has seen four wars take place between India and Pakistan over territory, while in recent years, clashes have broken out between Indian forces and China in its eastern area of Ladakh.

Kashmir has a population of 8 million, and over 95% are Muslim. Islam typically considers permanent tattoos as haram, which means that they are forbidden. Only certain clerics of Shia Muslims allow them. Despite Kashmir’s conservative roots, tattoo parlours have sprouted with particular regularity in its mountainous southern districts – areas that have historically been heavily contested.

Mubashir Hussain Beigh, who claims to be Kashmir’s first tattoo artist using modern techniques, notes that many young people are getting tattoos as a way to vent or express themselves in a region that has seen violence for decades. “I remember creating a full upper body tattoo for a man who wanted to ink his struggles with depression,” Beigh explains.

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According to reports, the toll that the conflict in Kashmir has taken on the mental health of the populace is unprecedented – one-in-five people suffer from post-traumatic disorder (PTSD), while 45% of the population show symptoms of “significant mental distress”.

Beigh says that young people from all walks of life come to get inked, and that the majority of them are men. “I would say 70% are men, and that those who get inked get tattoos related to religion, love, life and other things,” he explains, sitting in his studio in Bemina on the outskirts of the summer capital of Kashmir.

The tattoo artist began his business in 2016, and he also offers laser tattoo removal for people. “Many come here to get their tattoos removed, because they were not aware of Islam not allowing it, or were simply not ready to face the society,” he says.

Khalid Ahmed, who underwent the procedure himself, says he was asked by the mosque authorities to do so. “I was not allowed to enter until I got it removed,” Ahmed explains.

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Yet despite the taboos and religious ban, many are choosing to get inked anyway. Farah Qayoom, a sociologist at the University of Kashmir, says: “Although Islam forbids tattooing, there are many young people in Kashmiri society who are drawn towards modern tattoo art.”

Qayoom explains that as a fashion trend, tattoo art has gained widespread acceptance among the younger generation, who are increasingly drawn to them as forms of self-expression, identity, and even rebellion against traditional norms. “Many see tattoos as a way to showcase their individuality, commemorate personal experiences, or simply embrace an aesthetic that resonates with them,” she says. “With the growing influence of social media and global pop culture, tattoos are no longer seen as taboo, but rather as a mainstream art form embraced by the youth.”

While some find catharsis from conflict with tattoos, or ways to express their identities, others find reasons that are more intertwined with their personal, and familial lives. “Some will inscribe the names of their partners, others will ink love signs,” says Beigh.

Among those tattooed by Beigh is 22-year-old Sanna, who says that she chose to get one after being “betrayed” by someone who claimed to be her love. “It was my way of venting out – I got a snake inked on my arm,” she says, with a smile. “It’s a snake with venom coming out of its mouth – it signifies all the things he said to me, which later turned out to be just poison.” When questioned by others about it, she explains that she simply does not care: “People can say anything, but I am not answerable to all.”

Kashmir’s arm-in-arm tryst with ink can be traced back to the ’50s, just a few years after India gained independence from Britain. A section of the region’s populace, opposed to then-leader Sheikh Abdullah’s decision to accede to India, expressed their dissent by getting tattoos. “Many young men got crescent moon tattoos on their foreheads as a sign of resistance to Abdullah bearing the unbearable pain,” recalls poet and writer Zareef Ahmad Zareef. Even today, a handful of elderly Kashmiris can be seen with those marks on their hands.

Now aged 81, Zareef remembers the movement well. He explains that authorities would detain anyone with these tattoos. “It was the people’s way of showing dissent, but the government cracked down on anyone displaying such symbols,” he says. To avoid persecution, many chose to get their tattoos on their arms or hands, where they could be easily concealed.

By the ’60s and ’70s, tattooing had become a popular cultural practice in Kashmir, before the advent of a more conservative brand of Islam in the late ’80s saw many attempts to remove their tattoos – some by pouring acid over them, others through plastic surgery. “People would get inked at summer fairs. Some inscribed religious names on their hands, others got objects like fish, and some even tattooed the names of their beloved,” Zareef recalls.

One such person was 72-year-old Nazir Ahmed Khan, a resident of downtown Srinagar. He still remembers the sharp pain of the needle as he got his lover’s name tattooed decades ago. “We both had each other’s names inked,” he says, a wistful smile crossing his face. “I asked the artist to place hers on her shoulder so no one would see it.”

But their love story never reached its destined conclusion. “She was married off at a young age. I had responsibilities, and I couldn’t marry her. Besides, she came from a wealthy family, and her parents objected to our union,” Khan says.

Even after fifty years, the tattoo remains. “At first, I told my wife it was my male friend’s name,” he continues. But as his children grew older, they pressed him for the truth. “Eventually, I opened up.”

His son, Waqas Khan, chimes in. “At first, I wanted him to remove it because it’s against Islam. He tried different ways, but nothing worked.”

Despite everything, Khan remains resolute to this day. “Sometimes, I run into her. We exchange greetings. She was with her daughter the last time we met. We wished each other well,” he says, softly. “I have no regrets about this tattoo. I will die with it.”

Saqib Mugloo is a freelance journalist based in Indian-administered Kashmir. Follow him on X.

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