When we talk about Kashmir, our minds instinctively drift to snow-draped mountains, blurred headlines, and the unending hum of conflict. But beneath that familiar narrative lies another Kashmir, one that beats with rhythm, sweat, passion, and an emotion older than insurgency itself.

Football.

The Valley’s bond with the game began in the late 19th century when Cecil Tyndale-Biscoe introduced football to schoolboys who had never seen a leather ball before. Slowly, it became part of Kashmir’s soul. By the 1980s, Kashmir was a thriving hub of local football. Many boys rose to wear the India jersey.

And then the 1990s arrived. Insurgency took over the streets. The game, like so much else, fell silent.

Yet in a Valley where despair sometimes feels permanent, two men dared to believe in impossible things. Their belief would one day become Real Kashmir FC. But long before the club had a name, there were floods, heartbreak, and a purpose bound together by sheer will.

In September 2014, Kashmir was hit by its worst floods in more than a century. Torrential rains pushed the Jhelum nearly four feet above the danger mark, and its discharge tripled in a matter of hours. Within days, more than 2,550 villages were submerged, close to 80,000 people were evacuated, and hundreds of lives were lost. Homes, schools, businesses and entire neighbourhoods disappeared underwater. For many families, life was not only disrupted but completely erased.

Relief teams rescued over 200,000 people. When the water finally receded, however, a quieter crisis began. Houses had collapsed, routines had vanished, and markets remained shut. Livelihoods disappeared overnight. With schools and playgrounds closed indefinitely, young people lost much more than shelter. They lost structure, purpose and hope.

Shamim Meraj, editor of The Kashmir Monitor, documented the destruction every day, although he felt helpless inside. His friend, Sandeep Chattoo, an engineer turned entrepreneur, witnessed similar scenes around his beloved “Hotel CH2,” which stood eerily still among the ruins.

One afternoon, as they walked through a neighbourhood still coated with damp silt, they noticed young boys drifting through the lanes with nothing to do and nowhere to be. Their eyes looked dull, and their energies felt misdirected.

Shamim had once been a passionate footballer. He knew what the sport meant to the Valley, and he knew........

© The Better India