Tangri Palace is a modest hotel owned by a man with visions of lost Dogra grandeur.

In October 1947, Hari Singh, the Dogra king who ruled Jammu and Kashmir, signed the instrument of accession that merged his princely state with India. Under Article 370 of the Indian constitution, the state was given autonomy. New Delhi’s powers were limited to the areas of defence, foreign affairs, currency and communications.

While the valley of Kashmir remains roiled over the treaty, with a fierce separatist movement questioning the legitimacy of the merger, the plains of Jammu are not free of resentment either.

"From the day the treaty was signed, Srinagar has ruled us Dogras," said Narendra Tangri, a middle-aged man with a deep voice coming from beyond a handle-bar moustache. The hotel owner, a resident of Kathua, the southernmost district of Jammu region, shares the view common in these parts that power is vested in the valley, which has been pampered by the centre. As a result, Kashmiris get more central funds and state jobs than the people of Jammu. "Kya milta hai Dogron ko? Kuch nahi."

In the Jammu region, Rekha Chowdhary wrote in Seminar in 2008, “a feeling of political neglect has persisted since the early fifties....the politics of regional neglect has often been appropriated by the Hindu Right organisations and thus communalised in the process".

Who was he voting for, I asked Tangri.

"It is important to bring change in the country. But to be honest with you, I am angry with Narendra Modi. He came to Kathua and did not say a word about ending Article 370."

With this, he pushed into my view the morning edition of the Dainik Jagran, which featured him on the front page of its city supplement, looking serious behind dark glasses, seated with a panel of leaders. The accompanying story said, "No party cares for the interests of Jammu...The Shiv Sena will not support anyone in this election."

Tangri, I realised, was the Kathua district president of the Shiv Sena.

He had joined the party in 1990 as a young man impressed with the way Bal Thackeray was "resisting the attempts by Pakistanis to take over Bombay using Dawood Ibrahim". Two decades later, he says he is glad that he did. "We owe it to Hindu organisations that we have managed to stay put in Jammu. Else like the Kashmiri Pandits in the valley, we too would have been thrown out."

It was futile to remind him that Hindus are a majority in Jammu region and face no threat of eviction.

The shadow of Pakistan provides a great impetus for the growth of hardline Hindutva. It was no surprise that one of the few places where Narendra Modi deviated from his development narrative was the town of Hiranagar in Kathua. Addressing a rally in the town in the last week of March, he focused on the theme of terrorism.

Kathua is part of Udhampur constituency. It sprawls across six districts, three of which have a Hindu majority, while the others have a majority of Muslims.

In August last year, communal riots in Kishtwar district left three people dead. A month later, 11 people were killed in a militant attack in Kathua. Two days after Modi's speech in March, unknown assailants shot down three people in the district.

Held in the aftermath of this violence, these elections, local journalists say, have been among the most polarised in recent times.

On polling day, across booths in Kathua, Hindu voters said they were voting for the Bharatiya Janata Party because they believed it could tackle the cross-border terrorism of Pakistan and the alleged privileges of Kashmir. Many did not even known the name of the party’s candidate, Jitendra Singh.

A few like Tangri spread their anger wide, sparing not even the local Gujjars and Bakarwals, the shepherd communities that move between the hills and plains in search of grazing pasture for their sheep and cattle.

Muslim by faith, tribal by ethnicity, their culture and language sets them apart from both the dominant communities of the state – Dogri-speaking Hindus and Kashmiri-speaking Muslims.

But in recent years, with the sharpening of the communal lines in the state, their shifting landscapes have come under strain.

Last year, after the riots in Kishtwar, tensions travelled to the rest of the region, and some Gujjars were beaten up in Kathua. "They were so scared that they stopped coming to our homes to deliver milk," said Bharat Bhushan, a taxi driver. "Thankfully, it all quietened down in two-three days."

***

The women were dressed in bright colours. The men wore mostly white. Both had kohl-lined eyes.

Eight months ago, they had walked their buffaloes down from Billawar, up in the hills, 70 kms away. As is customary, the farmers in the plains gave them space outside their villages to set up huts and cattle sheds. When they move out at the end of the summer, they would leave behind fields rich in manure for the farmers to plough.

On the morning of the election, in the countryside of Kathua, a group of Gujjars stood by the road, waiting to gather enough numbers to make a trip to their homes in the hills to cast their vote.

Who would they vote for, I asked.

"Hum to haath ko denge," said Sher Ali, an elder of the group.

Was that because the Congress had worked for them, I asked, provoking much laughter.

"Kaam to kissi ne nahi karke dena. Kaam khud karenge to roti khayenge."

It turned out that their area's Gujjar leader was a member of the National Conference, which had formed a pre-poll alliance with the Congress. This alliance was helping the Congress candidate, Ghulam Nabi Azad, the Minister for Health in the United Progressive Alliance government, withstand the BJP's tide.

Living on the margins, the Gujjars had heard of neither Narendra Modi nor Omar Abdullah, the state's chief minister. Why did they vote, I asked them.

"Vote nazayaz nahi jane dena. Chahe kidde daalo, daalo zaroor. Your vote should not be allowed to go to waste. Give it to someone," said Sher Ali.

But was it not expensive and exhausting to travel 70 kms to cast their vote?

At this, Ali pointed to a bus standing a short distance away. The local leader had sent it to fetch them.

"Bande nu khareed liya. The politicians buy our leaders," explained Ali, who by now had warmed into the conversation. "You stopped by to talk to us. But the ministers don't. Gareeb ko poochna nahi. They come and deliver speeches. They claim they have given us BPL [Below Poverty Line] cards and that we are getting wheat for Rs 2 a kg. But we haven't got any cards. We buy wheat for Rs 25 a kg. They say our children would get jobs once they pass 10th and 12th, but they don't."

As evidence, Murad Din, a young man, was pushed forward. He was the only one in the group who wore trousers instead of shalwars. He had studied up till the 12th standard and yet he was still tending buffaloes.

"Yeh bhi khareedne aaye hai. They have come to buy us," said the elder Ali, as the group started moving towards the bus. "Humara kuch nahi karna kissi ne. Not that they really care for us."

***

"We are the 'and' in Jammu and Kashmir," joked Danish Muzzafar, a journalist based in Banihal.

Part of the same constituency as Kathua, but separated by 220 kms of road, lies the town of Banihal. It forms the northern periphery of the region of Jammu. A potholed highway passing through the town leads to Kashmir. Travellers navigating the rough highway have comforting views of the Chenab river flowing below.

Most people in the region, which is known as Chenab valley, speak Kashmiri. "The people of Jammu think of us as Kashmiri, because in terms of language, culture, dress, food, we are Kashmiri," explained a college teacher who did not wish to be named. "We also identify with Kashmir in terms of our political will." By this, he meant he saw India as an occupying force and believed Kashmiri people had the right to self-determination. But the great tragedy, he said, was that despite the common culture and the shared experience of brutalities by the Indian Army, "the people of Kashmir valley think we are part of Jammu because geographically we are separated from them by the Pir Panjal range".

People here believe this identity crisis has contributed to a neglect of the Chenab valley. In recent years, the demand for a separate hill council for the Chenab valley has picked up steam.

But during this election, said the teacher, it was not regional aspirations that underpinned people's voting choices as much as religious identities. "I have never voted in my life. I was waiting for the day of self-determination. But I voted this time," he said, showing me his inked finger, "because it is important to keep Narendra Modi out."

Hindus might be a minority in the state but Muslims are a minority in Jammu region. Fear and insecurity remain the common drivers of people’s political choices.

***

One evening in Jammu, after a dinner conversation on the polarisation on the state, a journalist-friend who lived in the city walked me down to my hotel on Residency Road, the city's busy commercial street. Here, we found a musical concert was being set up on the pavement. Harmoniums were being tested, microphones adjusted. An audience of men and women had begun settling into chairs. The children had taken over roadside ledges.

'Vishaal Bhandara. Mehefil-e-Qawaali,' said a poster stuck on a shop front. It was not just a night of music by the qawwals. There was food being served too, in the tradition of Hindu feasts.

What was this hybrid event, I asked my journalist friend. He lived in a neighbourhood further down the road but did not know.

Then, a man appeared to confabulate with the musicians. He looked like the organiser of the evening. They had a brief discussion and he walked away. We followed him as he went inside a tiny wedge-like shop decorated with balloons and festons. Once inside, we discovered we were at the dargah of Baba Umar Ali Shah.

"Like we celebrate the birthday of our family members, we thought of throwing a bash for Babaji," said Vishal Sharma, the man we had followed. "Although traditionally rice and chana is served at dargahs, we thought that hum inko apna samajhte hai, since we consider Babaji as part of the family, we should celebrate like we do at home, with pizza, chowmein, paneer bhurji, sugar candy..."

Vishal Sharma works in the administrative section of the Jammu and Kashmir legislative assembly. Born and raised in Jammu, he lives in a neighbourhood in the old city. He remembers visiting the dargah as a child with his grandfather. Some years ago, the childhood memory surfaced and he found himself back at the tiny shrine wedged between a paan bhandar and an opticians shop. "I did not even know Babaji's name," he said. "The place was dark and dusty. No one used to come here. Andar se awaaz aayi aur main inka sewak ban gaya. I began coming here regularly. One day, a man at neighbouring STD PCO booth told me there used to be a board with the name of Baba Umar Ali Shah...”

Wasn't this syncretism rare in the region's communally surcharged climate?

"Look when panic is created, everyone flees, whether Hindu or Muslim," he said. "Nahi to aisa kuch nahi hai. He is a Muslim fakir and I am his Hindu devotee."

The poster of the organising committee had both Hindu and Muslim names. The music had picked up steam. "Allah hu, allah hu, allah hu..."

"Some Muslims thought we were capturing the shrine because we wanted to profit from it. But I have never taken money from here. In fact, once we thought, why not put up a gate outside and a donation box inside to collect the money offerings and put them to good use. But then Babaji came to me and said Tum kaun hote ho? Who are you to create enclosure? Ibadatgaah se wahin uthata hai jo zaroorat mand hota hai. Only the needy pick up money from a place of worship. If someone in need comes to me, I would give him my chaddar. What else am I there for? Phir main kiss liye hoon."

And so the shrine has remained open and unguarded.

"Our people visit temples and dargahs. They worships stones but do not feel anything deeply. Yeh jo buzurgwaar hai, these old and wise people, they have gone away. They won't fly back. But they continue to send us messages. It depends on us whether we are intelligent enough to pick them or not."

The musicians, a troupe from a village in the neighbouring district, had broken into the next song, which not only dissolved the religious and regional boundaries within Jammu and Kashmir, but in one sweep felled the border with Pakistan.

Ho, laal meri pat rakhiyo bhala jhulelalan
Sindri daa, sewan daa, shakishah baaz kalandar....

It was the famous Sufi song, sung in honour of the mystic Hazrat Shah Baz Kalandar who lived in Larkana in modern-day Pakistan.

The audience clapped to the beat.

Dama dam mast kalandar
Ali da pehla number 

The singer raised his voice.

Ho laal meri, ho laal meri

On this note, we took leave of Babaji.

Click here to read all the stories Supriya Sharma has filed about her 2,500-km rail journey from Guwahati to Jammu to listen to India's conversations about the elections – and life.