Maj Gen Sanjeev Dogra (Retd)
sanjeev662006@gmail.com
Every city reveals its future in small scenes. In Jammu, one such scene is becoming painfully familiar. Outside busy markets, near dhabas and shopping complexes, at petrol pumps and busy chowks, young men sit astride bikes with delivery bags bearing the logos of Blinkit, Zomato, and Swiggy. They stare at their phones, waiting for the next order, the next ride, the next few rupees. There is nothing dishonorable in this work. Work is work. But when hundreds of educated young men are reduced to waiting for an app notification to determine their day’s earnings, society must pause and ask: is this the future we have imagined for the youth of Jammu and Kashmir?
The worry is not about delivery work. The worry is about the absence of choice. A young man who takes up gig work as a temporary bridge deserves full respect. But a graduate who has no other option, whose parents have invested years of hope and money in his education, and who still finds only a twelve to fifteen thousand Rupee job in Jammu, is not merely underpaid. He is emotionally trapped. He has education, but not employability. He has aspiration, but not opportunity. He holds a degree, but not a skill the market values.
This is the quiet crisis of Jammu’s youth. Less dramatic than militancy, less visible than street unrest, and far too mundane for television debates, it is steadily hollowing out families and fraying the social fabric. Labour data bears this out: urban youth unemployment in J&K for the 21 to 30 age group stands at around 32 per cent, nearly double the national average for that segment.
The pattern in Jammu province is easy to trace. One category of youth leaves for higher studies elsewhere. Another completes graduation and begins a fruitless search for local employment. A third prepares endlessly for government jobs because private sector alternatives are thin. Many eventually reach the same bitter conclusion: if they want a decent salary, they must leave Jammu. So, they move to Delhi, Gurugram, Pune, or Bengaluru. Half their salary vanishes into rent, food, and commuting. They live in cramped rooms, work punishing hours, and slowly lose the comfort of home, culture, and community. Behind every such young man is a family in Jammu there are ageing parents, a quieter house, festivals celebrated over video calls, and a mother who keeps asking, “Beta, ghar kab aaoge?”
Migration for ambition is a sign of vitality. Migration out of desperation is a warning.
The irony sharpens when we look around our own homes. Who fixes our plumbing? Who paints our walls? Who repairs electrical faults, works in our kitchens and construction sites? Very often, these workers come from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, or Jharkhand. They are hardworking, skilled, and enterprising, and they deserve every rupee they earn. But the question for Jammu is uncomfortable: why are our own young men not entering these trades with pride, professionalism, and entrepreneurial ambition?
A competent electrician, carpenter, photographer, fitness trainer, solar panel technician, drone operator, or mobile repair specialist can earn between twenty-five thousand and forty thousand rupees a month, depending on the quality and reputation they build. A graduate in a small office may earn half that. Yet society extends respectful nods to the degree-holder while looking past the skilled worker. This mindset must change. A society that respects only certificates but not capable hands will produce frustration. A society that honours skill will produce confidence and self-respect.
For decades, we told our children: earn your degree, secure a government job. That advice suited another India. Today, artificial intelligence is accelerating the shift away from that world. Routine clerical tasks, basic data entry, and repetitive office functions are being automated. The future will reward those who can think critically, solve real problems, work with tools, create genuine value, and adapt when circumstances demand it. A young person who combines education with a marketable skill will navigate this age with confidence. One who depends on a degree alone may find himself outpaced.
This is where education must be questioned honestly. What is the use of three years of college if the student emerges with neither confidence nor communication skills, neither digital competence nor practical ability? The National Education Policy 2020 rightly recognises the need to integrate vocational and skill-linked learning into mainstream curricula. But policy does not change lives until it reaches actual classrooms, workshops, and local markets.
J&K does have institutional frameworks. The J&K Skill Development Mission and the Directorate of Skill Development speak of preparing technically qualified youth for industry and society. These are worthwhile foundations. But the real test is not the existence of schemes. The real test is whether a young person in Akhnoor, Udhampur, Rajouri, or Doda can access a meaningful course, train under a competent instructor, earn a recognised certificate, and find dignified local work. For that, the government must build district-level skill maps while identifying which trades are in shortage, which services are imported from outside, and where tourism, horticulture, logistics, construction, elder care, and local crafts can generate livelihoods. Skilling cannot remain generic. It must be anchored to the local economy.
Colleges also need a reset. Every degree should carry a compulsory skill component. An arts student can develop expertise in content writing, tourism guiding, or digital communication. A commerce student can master accounting software or small-business management. A science student can build competence in renewable energy maintenance or agricultural technology. A student should not leave college clutching only a marksheet. He should leave with at least one marketable skill, one internship, and one domain in which he feels genuinely confident.
Parents must also reconsider. Many families feel that a son who becomes an electrician or technician will be judged poorly by society and yet the same family will respectfully call a skilled worker from outside and pay him well. We must end this contradiction. The dignity of labour must begin at home. A child should hear: “Become excellent at something. Become reliable. Become skilled. The world will respect you.”
And the youth must take ownership. Waiting indefinitely for a government vacancy cannot be the only plan. A government job is honourable, but the system cannot absorb everyone. Every young person must ask: what can I do with my hands, my mind, my creativity, my discipline? Can I repair something better than anyone else? Can I build something people need? The gig economy, meanwhile, is here to stay and delivery work should be a stepping stone, not a life sentence. Gig workers need safety, insurance, fair conditions, and real pathways to move upward.
Jammu does not lack talent. It lacks pathways. It does not lack aspiration. It lacks opportunity close to home. If we can begin to correct this, the young man waiting today outside Raghunath Bazaar or Gandhi Nagar with a delivery bag can tomorrow run a logistics enterprise. The graduate earning fifteen thousand rupees can become a trained professional earning with dignity. The young person who sees no future here can one day say with conviction: “I do not have to leave my home to live a good life.”
That must be the shared aim of policy, education, and society, not to prevent youth from going out into the world, but to ensure that when they leave Jammu, it is a choice freely made, and not a compulsion silently endured.
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