'Another cry from the wounded hills': Plains drown, But answer may lie in mountains of Kashmir

September 4, 2025 by News Desk

Daishwar Hameed

The Lidder river of Pahalgam rushes by as it always has, fast and clear, yet something about it unsettles the people who live by its banks. For Jumma Khan, a 71-year-old shepherd from Aru, the river is no longer the same. He has spent most of his life under the shade of tall pine trees in these hills, but today, he sits under an almost bare sky.

“The trees fell one by one,” he says, pointing at the slopes where only a few patches of green remain. “Nobody came to plant new ones. It feels like the mountains themselves have changed. They were once our guardians, but now they no longer welcome us.”

Jumma remembers a time when the Lidder was always calm despite its fast current. But on September 2, 2025, at Batkot, the river flowed above the danger mark. “This river never swelled like that before, its level was below 1 meter at Batakot during 2014 floods” he says. “The ground beneath has changed. The meadows where our sheep grazed are now trampled by vehicles. So many young boys come with their machines, and the government itself sponsors these adventure sports. They kill the grass. There is barely any left in Aru now.”

His words cut deeper than a simple lament. They tell the story of how Kashmir’s fragile mountain ecology, once a buffer against floods in the plains, is being undone by deforestation, unchecked development, and reckless adventure tourism. The consequences are visible far away, in the inundated streets of Kashmir’s towns and villages.

Vanishing Forests, Vanishing Balance

The story of Aru is not an isolated one. Across Jammu Kashmir, the balance between forests, meadows, and rivers is collapsing. Data from the Forest Survey of India (FSI) 2025 shows that the region has lost more than 1,200 square kilometers of forest cover in the past decade, with a sharp decline after 2019. The loss is not just in dense forests but also in alpine meadows, which play a crucial role in regulating water flow from glaciers into rivers.

Some of the biggest blows have come from official projects. In 2025, the government admitted through an RTI response that over 584,000 trees were cut along the Jhelum’s banks as part of an “anti-encroachment” initiative. The Ujh Hydropower Project in Kathua district, sanctioned earlier, will require the felling of more than 214,000 trees, while road-widening projects in Pahalgam, Gulmarg, and Sonamarg have already cleared large corridors of forests. Together, these figures suggest that Kashmir is losing not just isolated patches of woodland but entire ecological systems.

A senior official from the Forest Department, who requested anonymity, spoke with resignation, “Forests are being sacrificed at the altar of human greed. Every project, whether it is a road, a ropeway, or a solar plant, seems to cut through meadows and forests. Sometimes we say it is ‘development,’ but in reality, it is destruction. Everything feels like it is vanishing away, as if the earth itself is being stripped layer by layer.”

These losses have consequences beyond aesthetics. The meadows, long seen as harmless open spaces for grazing and recreation, act as natural water regulators. Their grasses absorb rainfall, slow its movement, and allow it to seep into the soil. With vehicles now crushing them under tires, these meadows lose their sponge-like quality. Water runs off rapidly into rivers, carrying with it eroded soil that clogs channels downstream.

Professor Farah Ahmad, who teaches Earth Sciences in Mumbai, explains this shift, “Meadows are among the most misunderstood ecosystems. They are not empty grasslands, they are living systems that store water and release it gradually. When vehicles compact the soil, the grass dies, and the ground becomes hard. Water then runs straight off the slopes, increasing flood peaks in rivers. What was once a controlled flow is now a sudden surge. This is why even rivers like the Lidder, known for their fast but steady course, are swelling unpredictably.”

For locals like Jumma, the change is visible in real time. But not everyone sees a problem.

A 22-year-old biker from Anantnag, who often rides in Aru, defends the practice, “We come here for the thrill, for the sense of freedom. Nobody told us it destroys the grass. And if it was really so bad, why would the government itself promote adventure tourism here? We are only doing what has been encouraged.”

A forest guard in Pahalgam, however, revealed the contradictions they face, “Off-roading in meadows is strictly not allowed. We do try to stop them, sometimes even catch the riders. But then comes a call from higher-ups..‘let them go.’ What can we do? Our hands are tied. We watch the meadows die, and we cannot intervene.”

Professor Ahmad points out that this pattern is not confined to adventure sports. The relentless cutting of trees magnifies the risks. “Forests intercept rainfall, prevent soil erosion, and stabilize mountain slopes. When you cut them, the soil becomes loose, rivers get choked with silt, and their carrying capacity reduces. What follows are floods in the plains. Every submerged street in Srinagar or Anantnag is linked to a felled tree somewhere in the mountains,” she told the Kashmiriyat

A Climate on the Edge

Despite his anguish, Jumma admits that some changes have brought relief. “The government gave us concrete roads, even expanding them deep into Pahalgam. For that, I am thankful. It is easier now to move our flocks, to buy supplies, and to take the sick to hospitals.”

But when pressed, his tone shifts. He remembers the time he tried to resist the felling of trees for one such road-widening project. “They cut dozens of trees at once. I spoke against it. After that, I was silenced. Since then, I feel the peace of this place is gone. It has become hot, humid, and the weather is no longer predictable. Sometimes it rains in December, sometimes it doesn’t rain at all. The mountains have changed, and so have we.”

Professor Ahmad says this is not just nostalgia; it is science. “Deforestation has disturbed the entire hydrological cycle of Kashmir. With fewer forests and degraded meadows, surface temperatures rise. This accelerates the melting of glaciers in places like Kolahoi and Thajwas. The meltwater pours rapidly into rivers that are already silted and narrowed. The result is sudden, more dangerous floods. It is a cascading effect, one cut tree here, one compacted meadow there, and suddenly the entire system is out of balance.”

She adds, “Since 2019, Kashmir has witnessed an unprecedented scale of deforestation, both legal and illegal. Combined with global warming, this is a recipe for recurrent disasters. The floods that drown our plains today do not start in the rivers alone; they begin with the mountains. As long as we keep stripping them bare, the rivers will roar louder and the plains will suffer more.”

Back in Aru, as the sun dips behind the hills, Jumma gathers his flock. His face is weathered, his voice heavy,“The mountains once protected us. Now, they feel angry. They are no longer as welcoming as they once were. We get warning after warning to stop the damage we have made, but nobody listens. The floods, the dried springs, the angry skies, they are not accidents, they are messages. And if we keep ignoring them, one day these mountains will stop warning us. They will simply bury us.”