The footsteps of Lal Ded and Shaikh-ul-Alam will continue to echo through the Valley

There are moments in history when the human mind advances so rapidly that the human soul struggles to keep pace. Civilizations erect towers that scrape the heavens, invent machines that shrink continents, and weave invisible networks that bind billions of lives together. Yet beneath this astonishing triumph lies an unsettling silence—the silence of a heart that has forgotten to ask why it exists. 

Suppose, for a moment, that time loosened its grip and allowed two of Kashmir's greatest spiritual luminaries, Lal Ded and Shaikh-ul-Alam (Nund Rishi), to walk once again upon the soil they once sanctified. What would they see? Would they celebrate humanity's progress, or would they mourn the widening distance between knowledge and wisdom? More importantly, what would they tell us?

The mist rises gently over the Jhelum as dawn unfolds across the Valley. The Chinars stand as patient witnesses to centuries gone by. From the folds of eternity emerge two familiar figures. Lal Ded walks barefoot, clothed in the simplicity that once scandalized the orthodox but liberated countless seekers. Beside her walks Shaikh-ul-Alam, calm and contemplative, whose gentle presence carries the fragrance of humility and universal love. Neither arrives to judge; both arrive to understand. Saints do not measure civilizations by their wealth but by the depth of their conscience.

Their first encounter is with the modern city. Vehicles roar past them. Glass towers reflect the morning sun. Screens glow in every hand. The language of algorithms has replaced the language of silence. Lal Ded pauses, watching a crowd whose heads remain bowed—not in prayer, but before their mobile phones. A faint smile crosses her face, tinged with sadness.

"You have learned to hold the whole world in your palm," she whispers, "but have you learned to hold your own mind?"

She sees a generation connected to millions yet estranged from itself. Every face seeks approval. Every achievement seeks applause. Every moment is captured but scarcely lived. She remembers teaching that the greatest pilgrimage is the inward journey. Today, the roads are broader than ever, yet few travellers seem willing to enter the landscape within.

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam observes something different. He watches labourers building magnificent structures they may never inhabit. He notices abundance existing alongside hunger, prosperity beside loneliness. Markets overflow with goods while hearts remain empty of contentment.

"Bread was once shared because hunger united humanity," he reflects. "Now wealth has multiplied, but generosity has diminished."

Both continue walking.

They enter schools where children effortlessly navigate artificial intelligence, quantum science, and digital technologies. Their eyes brighten with admiration. Human intellect has indeed travelled astonishing distances. Yet Lal Ded quietly asks whether education has also taught the courage to confront one's own ego. Knowledge, she believes, becomes wisdom only when it transforms character.

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam smiles at curious young minds but wonders why compassion is seldom listed among academic achievements. Degrees multiply, yet kindness remains unexamined.

Their footsteps eventually carry them to temples, mosques, churches, and shrines. They find them larger than before, architecturally magnificent, crowded with worshippers. Yet outside these sacred spaces they encounter suspicion, intolerance, and anger.

Lal Ded remembers how she dissolved the boundaries between ritual and realization. For her, God never belonged exclusively to temples or scriptures but lived within every awakened heart.

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam lowers his gaze.

"When did devotion become louder than compassion?" he asks.

Both saints understand that religion without humility becomes another form of ego. Faith was meant to unite souls, not armies of identities.

They leave the places of worship and walk toward Kashmir's mountains. Here their silence becomes heavier.

The rivers that once carried songs now carry pollution. Forests have retreated before greed. Springs that nourished generations struggle to survive. The air itself bears the fatigue of human excess.

Lal Ded bends beside a stream whose waters no longer mirror the sky as they once did. Nature, to her, had always been another scripture.

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam recalls his immortal teaching that food comes from forests, and forests are life's guardians. Humanity, however, has begun treating the earth as inheritance rather than trust.

They realize that modern civilization has learned how to extract everything from nature except gratitude.

As they continue their journey, they witness another tragedy—not one visible in landscapes but in human relationships.

Families dine together while speaking to distant strangers through glowing screens. Friends measure affection by digital approval. Conversations have become shorter; misunderstandings longer. Humanity has never communicated more, yet genuine listening has become increasingly rare.

Lal Ded observes that silence once revealed truth; today silence has become uncomfortable because it forces people to confront themselves.

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam gently remarks that hearts cannot be connected by technology alone.

Their walk leads them through the wounds of Kashmir itself—a land they loved beyond measure. They encounter memories of violence, grief carried across generations, mothers who still wait, fathers who still mourn, and children who have inherited stories of conflict instead of dreams of peace.

Neither saint asks who was right.

Instead, they ask why humanity repeatedly allows hatred to outlive those who created it.

They understand that revenge never heals memory. Only compassion possesses that power.

Standing together beneath an ancient Chinar, Lal Ded turns toward Shaikh-ul-Alam.

"Our people still pray," she says softly.

"Yes," he replies, "but prayer must eventually become conduct."

Perhaps that single exchange contains the essence of both their philosophies.

From Kashmir, their vision extends to the wider world. They see nations armed beyond imagination yet unable to secure peace. Artificial intelligence grows wiser while human intelligence often remains captive to prejudice. Scientific discoveries lengthen life, but loneliness shortens the joy of living it. Information expands endlessly while understanding contracts.

Lal Ded marvels at humanity's ability to reach distant planets.

Then she quietly asks,

"Why has reaching one's own soul become the more difficult journey?"

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam sees economies measured in trillions but communities unable to measure compassion.

As evening descends, the two saints return to the banks of the Jhelum. The river continues flowing as it did centuries ago, indifferent to empires, ideologies, and generations. The setting sun paints the water in hues of gold.

Neither saint condemns the modern world.

They recognize its extraordinary achievements. They celebrate medicine that saves lives, education that empowers minds, and technologies that bridge distances. They do not reject progress; they reject the illusion that material advancement alone constitutes civilization.

For both knew a truth that remains unchanged across centuries: a society becomes truly great not when its buildings touch the clouds, but when its humanity touches the suffering of another.

Before disappearing into the twilight from which they came, Lal Ded turns once more toward humanity.

"You have mastered the art of changing the world," she says. "Now learn the greater art of changing yourselves."

Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam adds gently,

"The earth will forgive many mistakes. The human heart forgives fewer. Guard it well."

The mist slowly enfolds them. The Valley grows quiet once again.

Traffic continues. Markets remain crowded. Notifications keep arriving. Life resumes exactly as before.

Yet something has changed.

Not in the world outside, but in the conscience of anyone who has truly heard them.

For Lal Ded and Hazrat Shaikh-ul-Alam never belonged only to the fourteenth century. They belong to every age that mistakes noise for wisdom, possession for fulfilment, ritual for spirituality, and progress for enlightenment.

Perhaps the greatest question they would leave behind is neither political nor philosophical.

It is profoundly human:

"After all that humanity has achieved, have we become gentler, wiser, and more compassionate than those who walked this earth six centuries ago?"

Until that question is answered honestly, the footsteps of Lal Ded and Shaikh-ul-Alam will continue to echo through the Valley—not as memories of the past, but as voices patiently waiting for the future to deserve them.

(The Author is RK Columnist and can be reached at:  sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com)