Danishwar Hameed
For more than a month, Kashmir was dry. The rivers had receded and the sky had remained an unrelenting shade of blue. But in the village of Panzath in south Kashmir, hope had not yet dried up.
Nazir Ahmad Dar, a respected elder of the village, took it upon himself to revive a centuries-old tradition. As the drought persisted, he gathered the villagers for Niyaz, a religious offering of food, and Khairat, a collective charity.
Hundreds of men, women, and children came together in the open fields, their hands raised in unison as they sought relief from the Almighty. The cries of supplication filled the valley. And then, as if in answer, the heavens finally opened.
“When our hearts move towards Allah, anything can happen,” Nazir said, watching the rain soak the land that had long been gasping for moisture.
The prayers came after weeks of distress. According to the Meteorological Department in Srinagar, Kashmir had seen an 80 percent rainfall deficit in the winter months—a near catastrophe in a region where water from snowfall sustains everything.
Former Chief Minister Omar Abdullah had already warned of impending water shortages. “The lack of precipitation is going to hit us hard,” he had said in a statement. “I urge people to store water and use it judiciously.”
Officials had also anticipated a drought-like situation. The agriculture department had advised farmers in various districts to switch to less water-intensive crops and to avoid planting paddy, a staple that relies heavily on irrigation.
Yet, for Nazir and his villagers, their faith remained stronger than the warnings. “We are grateful,” he said, wiping his eyes as he watched the rain pelt the rooftops. “But we must also learn from this.”
Changing for the worse
Experts say the drastic decline in precipitation is linked to large-scale deforestation. Thousands of trees have been felled over the years, stripping the land of its ability to hold moisture. “People think rainfall and snowfall only benefit farmers,” said a senior environmentalist. “But the truth is, everything in Kashmir depends on winter precipitation—our drinking water, our irrigation, and even the electricity supply that comes from hydroelectric projects.”
For farmers like Ghulam Hassan from Qazigund, the damage had already been done. Once an apple grower who earned enough to sustain at least five families, he has been forced to abandon his land.
“Years of untimely snowfall, market collapses, and lockdowns hit us hard,” he said. “Then came the biggest blow—the government took over my orchards for an infrastructure project. I had no choice but to leave.”
With no means left to survive, he did what many others in the region had done. He migrated to another state to find work. “We are farmers, not laborers. But circumstances made us laborers,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.
Many in the Qazigund belt have already sold their land, unable to bear the losses. For them, the rain came too late.
Calls for care
As the rains finally drenched the valley, another farmer stood in his field, his face lifted to the sky. “Alhamdulillah,” he whispered, echoing the sentiments of thousands across Kashmir. The valley had been crying for rain, and now, at last, it had come.
Yet the signs of destruction remained. Achabal Spring, once a gushing marvel, had nearly dried up. Other famous springs—Kokernag, Verinag, and Sukhnag—had seen a drastic drop in water levels. The Jhelum, Kashmir’s lifeline, flowed at an alarmingly low level.
In Anantnag, an elderly woman had wept by the side of a dying spring, mourning the loss of water that had once nurtured generations.
The crisis has forced Dr. Bashir Veeri, an MLA from the region, to propose a bill for the conservation of Jhelum. The proposed legislation seeks strict regulations on encroachments, penalties for pollution, and a long-term plan to restore water bodies.
“Kashmir is water-rich, but without a prevention policy, we are on the verge of disaster,” experts warned. “Jhelum and our springs are lifelines. If we don’t act now, the future will be bleak.”
For Ghulam Hassan, the lesson was personal. “We were once landowners, farmers with pride,” he said, standing at the edge of his now-lost orchard. “But when the water disappears, so does life. I just pray that those who remain don’t have to leave like I did.”
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