As QR code based transactions became the new normal, the generation that lived most of its life through cash has stepped back, and the generation raised around mobile phones has stepped forward. The digital revolution did not only change payments, it changed who stands at the frontline of Kashmir’s markets.
For nearly four decades, 67-year-old Ghulam Hassan sold kangris at the entrance of Lal Chowk’s flea market. His blanket-covered basket would sit in front of him as he chatted with customers, cracked jokes, and shared long stories of how winters were harsher in the 1980s. For him, the pavement was not only a workplace but a familiar companion.“But now the market itself is talking a new language,” he said, adjusting his pheran as he sat a few feet behind his spot, his son manning the stall. “Earlier, you counted notes. Now you wait for a beep. My hands don’t know how to do this.
”Hassan owns a basic keypad phone. His fingers tremble slightly due to age, and he finds touchscreen gadgets difficult to handle. When the government and banks began pushing UPI-based systems and QR codes, his son, who worked in a garment shop earlier, stepped into the stall. “My son knows everything about the phone,” Hassan said. “He does the scanning, scanning… what do you call it?” “QR code,” his son reminded him with a smile. “Yes, QR code,” Hassan repeated, laughing at the word as if it were a tongue twister.“But because of this, I lost my place. I come, I sit, but I don’t deal with customers anymore.” Around him, the market buzzed with similar stories.
In the years following demonetization and the nationwide digital push, QR code payments spread at lightning speed. Even the smallest tea stalls in Srinagar now carry laminated barcodes tied to wooden poles or hanging from cloth clips like tiny modern signboards.But what appeared to be a simple technological upgrade masked a silent generational divide.
Most elderly vendors never owned smartphones. Some did but were unable to operate payment apps confidently. Others feared technical mistakes, wrong transfers, or scams. Many could not understand bank SMS alerts or decipher transaction IDs.
The change began gradually. Children began accompanying their ageing parents “just to help” with digital payments. Within months, they became the default cashiers, then the negotiators, and eventually the entire face of the business. The fathers moved behind the scenes still present, still important, but no longer handling the growing stream of tech-savvy customers.
Fifty-eight-year-old Rafiq from Barzulla sells dried vegetables and homemade sun-dried spices. His small stall near Dalgate is usually stacked with dried tomatoes, brinjals, turnips, and heaps of spice mixes passed down through generations. For years, people bought things in small quantities, often paying exact amounts in coins. But recently, tourists and younger buyers began asking, “uncle, QR code hai kya?”“I used to tell them, ‘No, beta, I don’t have,’” Rafiq said, arranging his jars. “Then they would walk away. They wouldn’t bargain, they wouldn’t even touch the goods. They would go to the next stall where someone had the code.
”Initially, his daughter installed a UPI app on his phone, but the responsibility slowly shifted to his son, a college dropout who found the stall more dependable than uncertain jobs.“I felt shy,” Rafiq admitted. “When someone asked for online payment, I called my son. Slowly, he began staying here full day. People now know the stall by his name.” His income remained stable, but his presence became narrower more like a supervisor than a seller.
Economists often describe digital transformation as a “great leveller,” but on the pavement, it created a new form of dependency. For elderly vendors, Touchscreens are intimidating, Bank-linked apps feel risky, English-language prompts create confusion and Fear of losing money is high.
Meanwhile, their sons who grew up with phones, social media, and online classes adapted instantly. They understood app notifications, transaction confirmations, and troubleshooting. As a result, the frontline of commerce shifted naturally towards the younger generation.
In markets like Hazratbal, Batamaloo, Sopore, Anantnag, and even small rural haats, QR codes became symbols of reliability. Customers carrying minimal cash, especially tourists and office-goers, preferred stalls displaying the codes. It was not just about technology, it was about trust and comfort.“For younger customers, digital feels safe,” said Danish, a 26-year-old vendor in Jahangir Chowk. “For them, paying by phone is easier than searching for change.
”But this convenience came with cultural loss.Street vending in Kashmir has always been a craft passed down through generations not just the products but the style of selling. Elder vendors had the gift of conversation: the wit, the humour, the warm greetings, the deep understanding of customers, their tastes, their families. Now, many sit silently behind their sons, no longer the storytellers of the marketplace.
In Srinagar’s Residency Road, 72-year-old Bashir Ahmad sits on a plastic chair behind his shop while his son negotiates with tourists. “There was a time I could convince any customer in five minutes,” Bashir said. “Now the first question people ask is: ‘Do you take online payment?’
”He smiled faintly, then sighed. “If I say no, they leave. If I say yes, I call my son. So who are they really dealing with? Not me.”His son does not see this as displacement but evolution.“Times changed,” he said. “Baba talks to customers, but the final deal, the payment, the calculation, I do it. We have to move with the times.” But for Bashir, the shift feels deeper. “Earlier, the market listened to my voice,” he said softly. “Now it listens to a ringtone.
“While digital transactions were increasing steadily, the COVID-19 years created an unexpected acceleration. People preferred contactless payments. Handling cash felt unsafe. Many small vendors who survived lockdowns did so only thanks to digital payments.
This period cemented QR codes as the main mode of quick transactions.When footfall returned, customers continued using digital methods. The elderly vendors who had kept their businesses alive for decades found themselves struggling to adapt to a market transformed in just two years.
Not every vendor stepped back willingly.Some tried to learn digital payments. A few even succeeded especially those who invested in basic smartphones and attended small bank-run workshops. But a majority felt overwhelmed.
For many, it was not just about learning an app. It was about pride and identity.A 63-year-old vegetable seller at Jawahar Nagar put it bluntly: “I have worked 40 years. People trusted my weighing scale, my hands. Now they trust an app more than me.
”He admitted that asking his son for help with every digital transaction made him feel “less like the owner and more like a helper.”His son disagrees: “No, he is still the boss. I just take payments.” But the shift in roles is unmistakable.
Interestingly, the digital wave brought many young men back to family stalls, men who once preferred office jobs, hotels, or private companies.
Some lost jobs during the pandemic.Others found vending more profitable.Some saw the digital transition as a chance to modernize the business.
The stalls began to change Customers started using online wallets, Sons introduced online ordering through WhatsApp, Younger vendors used Instagram pages to show their products., Some started accepting home-delivery payments.
Srinagar’s floating market on Dal Lake even saw shikara vendors sticking QR codes to their boats.
Young men who had earlier felt embarrassed working in roadside stalls suddenly found the profession aligned with the modern world. But none of this erased the quiet withdrawal of the elderly.
Experts say the change is permanent. Digital culture will only deepen. Customers will stop carrying cash. UPI will integrate with more platforms. Credit-based QR systems may emerge. But this also means the generational partnership in markets will evolve further.
The future of street vending has arrived, and it came in the shape of a QR code.
