By | Kamran Ashraf Bhat
Kupwara – On a bitterly cold and rain-drenched morning of 21 January, a sense of misery hung heavy over the Handwara bus stand, where nearly a hundred hopefuls waited for their driving test. Among them was Musadiq, a young applicant shivering in the relentless downpour. Soaked to the bone, he clung to the belief that the test would proceed, having received assurances from the local Assistant Regional Transport Office (ARTO).
“It will happen,” he said, rubbing his frozen hands together, his breath visible in the frigid air. His confidence was striking, considering the chaos surrounding him. The rain had rendered the ground unusable, washing away the chalk markings meant to guide the drivers. It was evident to anyone with common sense that conducting the test in such conditions was impractical.
“Visibility is terrible,” remarked a local resident. “The mirrors are fogged, and you can’t see a thing. They should have informed us last night that the test would be postponed. Everyone knew it was going to rain today.”
Yet, the ARTO office seemed determined to maintain its reputation for controversy. The department, already infamous for its mismanagement and past scandals—including an alleged midnight attempt to shift the office from Drugmulla that was thwarted by vigilant locals and the District Development Council (DDC)—was now at the center of another debacle.
As the hours ticked by, frustration mounted. At noon, a sleek black Scorpio arrived, immediately attracting a crowd of drenched and weary applicants. Out stepped Bilal Ahmed, the ARTO Kupwara, shielded from the rain by his driver’s umbrella. His arrival, complete with a hurried entourage of officials forming a human barrier around him, resembled the theatrics of a VIP motorcade rather than the presence of a public servant.
While applicants eagerly awaited clarity, what unfolded was a bureaucratic spectacle. The officials, seemingly unconcerned with the crowd’s growing frustration, engaged in jovial discussions and began assessing the soaked ground. “It looked like cricket umpires inspecting the pitch before a match,” said one observer.
The rain paused briefly, and a flicker of hope emerged that the test might proceed. But instead, officials distributed pamphlets on traffic rules and instructed the crowd to stand in a semi-circle for a photo session. Cameras clicked, capturing what appeared to be a staged PR exercise. Within minutes, the ARTO announced through his staff that the tests were canceled, citing the weather, and assured applicants that new dates would be announced soon.
The crowd erupted in anger. Nayeem, an applicant visibly seething, yelled, “Do you people have any self-respect? They used us for their photo session and canceled the test without even apologizing for wasting our time.”
Others joined in, chanting “ARTO Hai Hai” in protest and demanding accountability. The situation escalated when the ARTO abruptly fled the scene, leaving his officials to face the enraged crowd. A minor skirmish ensued when the ARTO’s driver attempted to force his vehicle through the gathering, nearly hitting several people.
For many, this was the final straw. Nayeem, now furious, vented his frustration. “I’ve spent ₹6,000 on vehicle rentals for this test. This is the second cancellation I’ve faced. How much more can we bear? This officer lives off taxpayers’ money but treats us like his subjects. This is not how a civil servant should behave.”
Attempts to contact ARTO Bilal Ahmed for comments proved futile. His official number, listed on the NIC Kupwara website, went unanswered. This story will be updated if ARTO Bilal Ahmed provides a response or clarification regarding the events.
For now, it stands as a stark reminder of the disconnect between bureaucratic arrogance and the daily struggles of the citizens they are meant to serve. What could have been a routine administrative exercise turned into a theater of indifference, leaving the hopefuls of Kupwara drenched in despair and disillusionment.
