Humourous story of Kashmir’s top 2% scientists and the Greater Kashmir’s kitchen cook

These days, if you scroll through social media in Kashmir, you may wonder whether our Valley has suddenly turned into the Silicon Valley. Every second post seems to carry a proud declaration: “Honoured to be among the world’s top 2% scientists as per the Stanford list.” The accompanying photograph is often a dignified academic portrait. And with each new announcement, the collective eyebrows of the public rise higher.

Now, there is no denying that science thrives in Kashmir in its own way. But many are beginning to ask: what exactly does this “top 2%” mean? Does it measure patents, inventions, or life-changing innovations? Or is it simply a polite way of saying, “Congratulations, you have been cited enough times in academic journals, even if your biggest achievement is adding footnotes to someone else’s footnotes”?

This reminds me of a gem from the early 2000s, shared by a family elder, when a similar fever had  gripped the Valley. He told us a  certain Lifetime Achievement Society or something had found a novel business model. Against a modest fee, they would bestow a “Lifetime Achievement Award” in Kashmir on anyone who could spell their name correctly on the nomination form. Academics, doctors, engineers, activists, politicians and even hobby gardeners suddenly found themselves elevated to the same pedestal as Nelson Mandela.

At one point, the newsroom of Greater Kashmir was said to be  flooded with press releases and advertisements from these shiny new “achievers.” The editors, already exhausted from the daily grind, I am told, now faced the additional burden of processing reams of pseudo-glory.

Then came the stroke of genius. Somewhere deep inside the Greater Kashmir building was a humble kitchen. The cook there, a cheerful man with no academic degrees but a formidable grip over chai, both sweet and salty noon chai, I am told, became the unwitting hero of what would go down in newsroom folklore.

One editor, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, filled out the LAS nomination form on behalf of the cook. His “achievements” were, of course, entirely fictional: revolutionising the consistency of kehwa, pioneering the art of tea leaves management and mentoring generations of reporters on the right sugar-to-milk ratio. The fee was sent, the paperwork completed and the waiting game began.

Weeks later, the postman arrived carrying a grand-looking certificate. The cook of Greater Kashmir had officially joined the pantheon of “lifetime achievers.” There was laughter, tea spilled in mirth and, perhaps, even a samovar raised in his honour. The paper had carried the news with mock solemnity, careful not to offend but precise enough to make the point.

The effect had been immediate. Suddenly, the LAS certificates stopped flooding in. Many self-styled “achievers” discreetly tucked their framed awards into cupboards or, in extreme cases, consigned them to the bonfire. The bubble had been burst, not with anger or outrage, but with satire and a cup of tea.

Fast forward to today, and the “Stanford top 2%” list seems to be heading in a similar direction. Yes, it is based on citations, and yes, citations matter in academia. But when every other profile picture is suddenly adorned with this badge of honour, the distinction starts to feel less… well, distinguished. Kashmiris, with their sharp wit, are already suggesting a repeat of the Greater Kashmir kitchen experiment.

The point, of course, is not to belittle genuine scientific achievement. Kashmir has brilliant minds who do important research and deserve recognition. But when recognition gets inflated into mass production, humour becomes the sharpest needle to deflate the balloon.

Let us celebrate scientific achievements of our men and women, the real ones, something that makes us genuinely proud. Let us stop belittling our achievements with juvenile self indulgence.

Views expressed in this article are personal, and may not reflect Ziraat Times’ editorial view.