Indians carry cricket in their bloodstream. From gullies to maidans, rooftops to riverbanks, the game finds a way. Even altitude has never deterred it. Dharamsala, home to India’s highest international cricket stadium, is often cited as the sport’s loftiest address. But far from televised matches and manicured outfields, another pitch is steadily gathering devotion in the mountains of Kashmir. That pitch lies in Dehar Dhok, a high-altitude summer meadow tucked deep inside the Girjan Valley of Poonch district. Here, cricket unfolds under open skies, on a sloping ground shaped by weather, hoofprints, and human persistence.
“What was once a local affair for teams from nearby areas like Chandimarh now features teams from as far as Bihar,” Abdul Hamid likes to say, his eyes lingering on the incline where he played for more than two decades. Reaching Dehar still demands resolve. The journey begins in Poonch, winding past the Bufliaz bridge, changing vehicles until Mahara—the last motorable outpost—comes into view. A tributary of the Tohi river splits Sialan from Mahara. From there, a trek carries players to Chakkan village. Electricity disappears. The valley narrows. And then Dehar Dhok opens up.
Every summer, hundreds of young men make that climb to play cricket in the clouds. They sleep in dhara huts once built for migrating Bakarwal shepherds. One hut has achieved near-mythic status: Salim Uncle ka Hotel. Its owner, Muhammad Salim, leaves behind his security guard job in Mumbai each summer to return home and run a makeshift dhaba-cum-hotel for players. Cricket has threaded itself into Dehar’s summers long enough to become generational memory. Hamid’s nephew, 25-year-old Shadab Hamid, grew up spending school vacations in Mahara. “Those who move to Poonch city can afford better equipment and coaching, while those who remain here learn from the community,” he says.
Life here, however, is stripped bare. “People have to fetch water from two to three kilometres away. There are no washrooms, and animal attacks are frequent,” says 78-year-old Syed Talib Hussain Shah, a retired cop from the Bakarwal community. Yet hospitality endures. Visitors speak of warmth that outweighs discomfort—shared meals, shared stories, shared matches. For Aadil Kachroo, captain of Weekend Warriors—one of Kashmir’s leading local cricket teams—Dehar is an annual ritual. “One might think it is exhausting to play in such a remote place,” he says, “but it is actually a pleasure.”
Beauty, though, coexists with neglect. “The administration has never really done anything to preserve Dehar or its sportsmanship,” Abdul Hamid says quietly. The pitch survives on goodwill—voluntary maintenance, pooled money, and collective care. His hopes are modest: better upkeep, a sturdier surface, basic facilities that could extend the playing season or even allow other sports to take root. In a region burdened by economic hardship, and geopolitical strain, cricket offers structure, purpose, and continuity.