The Hidden Dal

Under the mesmerising beauty that is this lake in the heart of Kashmir, there is much that can unsettle you. 

If the water were clear enough, / If the water were still, / But the water is not clear, / The water is not still, / You would see yourself, / Slipped out of your skin, / Nosing upstream, / Slapping, thrashing, / Tumbling / Over the rocks /Till you paint them/ With your belly’s blood—Stanley Kunitz

Far away from the familiar picture postcard of houseboats imposingly silhouetted against the setting sun on Srinagar’s Dal lake, is another world.
This is a place of startling beauty and an endless quiet. Here at sunset and sunrise, the several shades of blue of the water and green of the chinar trees are set ablaze by the sun. This is the hidden Dal lake where fishermen cast their nets, farmers grow vegetables on floating gardens, and children as young as six paddle shikaras to school. The sound of water ripples seem to stream into your subconscious with supreme subtlety.

An estimated 60,000 people live here. Few tourists ever venture this far, and not even many Kashmiris drop by either. As we paddle our way from the familiar pond to the Dal’s secret interiors, we glide past an old rickety wooden bridge, our last glimpse of the ‘tourist Dal’. Five kilometres further, tranquility rules. The occasional whoosh of the boat paddle and odd mating call of the heron are the only sounds you hear. Limpid pools, green canopies, deep waters and a strange drug-like calm all come together as you row away from the houseboat promenade.

We realise that we are no longer onlookers. It is a place of unreal beauty, and we are at one with it—like the lotus flowers we are drifting away from. The Dal just takes over, dream like.

Except if you live here. Then, the Dal is nothing short of a nightmare. There is little infrastructure for those who live on the lake. And for all its incredible beauty, there is floating garbage, plastic, household waste and excreta enough to make Srinagar India’s fourth most polluted city.

We come upon a ramshackle two-floor house on an island of sorts. The owner, a fisherman called Ghulam Ahmed, is welcoming. Over kahwa, we try to see life on the Dal through his eyes. He has 15 people staying in the three bedroom home. “Look, beauty is alright, but a man has to live. We can’t modify this house—it will impinge we are told on the environment. I have been fishing for 50 years, and as the family has grown, we’ve been cramped. The lake itself meanwhile shrinks by the day because of all the roads they’re making.” He is right: the lake has shrunk 20 odd sq km over the last 30 years.

And with it, Ahmed’s catch has shrunk too. “Earlier, I used to go out at night and come back in 4 hours with an average catch of 10 kg. Now, in the same time, I am lucky if I manage five.” He may not be educated, but he knows that time is running out. He is keen to be shifted away. His lament: there are schemes aplenty at the Srinagar Secretariat, but no one to deliver.

Pollution control on the Dal is big business. It’s all government controlled. So the pace is slow. For all the big talk of money spent on desilting and tackling weeds, the lake has lost 4 metres in depth over the last decade. The Dal has almost 700 natural springs that feed its waters, but plastic bags are choking these sources.

Inside the Dal, there are organised farms with landlords producing a variety of fine vegetables. The prized one is kadam, a tuberous vegetable reputed to be great for your eyesight. There’s a farmer busy washing the crop—it requires elaborate thrashing of the stack in water, a laborious routine that can go on for a good three-quarters of an hour. We disturb his schedule. Reluctantly, he speaks. “Look, get one thing clear: on this lake, you live off the water literally. If I get ill, there is no ambulance, no hospital… the kids have to learn to reach school through the water. The truth is that beyond the picture postcard, the Dal lake is forgotten. For the outside world, we are over and done.”

It’s the same story at the school on the Dal’s periphery. Cramped classes. Sporadic lessons. And for even the most basic shopping, the ladies of Dal households have to paddle 45 minutes to reach the main city—which shimmers in the distance once we return to ‘tourist Dal’. It’s late evening. And the mid-May wind is chilly.

A big boat appears. It has a DJ and Kalashnikov-toting guards in tow. They are getting ready for the Srinagar version of a ‘page 3 party’ on the Dal.
We row away and return to our houseboat, named King of Kashmir, ironically. For we know that this is a place where perfect beauty can hide so much pain and naked neglect.

About The Author

Ninad D. Sheth