by Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee
Kashmir in winter is a paradox wrapped in snow. The valley, celebrated as paradise on earth, becomes a theatre of contradictions when the cold sets in. Tourists arrive with dreams of snow-clad mountains, of shikara rides on Dal Lake, of steaming kawaha tea sipped against a backdrop of white peaks. Locals, meanwhile, brace themselves for biting winds, frozen pipes, and the daily struggle to keep warm. The sun rises in Kashmir, but its warmth is muted, its promise fragile, and its presence symbolic of hope more than relief.For visitors, snow is spectacle.
They want Gulmarg’s slopes covered in powder, Pahalgam’s meadows blanketed in white, and Srinagar’s rooftops shimmering under frost. Yet they do not want Dal Lake to freeze, because boating across its waters is part of the romance. They want snowfall, but not too much, because too much snow means cancelled flights, blocked roads, and disrupted itineraries. Their desire is selective, shaped by leisure. For Kashmiris, snow is survival. It is beauty, yes, but also burden. It is the paradox of life in the valley: you want snow, and you don’t want snow.
I remember speaking to a young boatman named Yaseen on Dal Lake one January morning. His shikara was painted bright blue, its cushions embroidered with Kashmiri motifs. He smiled as he poured kawaha into small cups for tourists, but his eyes betrayed worry. “If the lake freezes,” he said, “my boat sleeps. And when my boat sleeps, my children go hungry.” For him, snow was both livelihood and threat. Tourists marveled at the thin sheet of ice forming at the lake’s edge, but Yaseen saw danger in every frozen ripple. In Gulmarg, I met a family from Delhi—parents and two children—who had come for skiing. They were thrilled when fresh snow fell overnight, rushing to the slopes with rented gear. “This is heaven,” the father exclaimed, his voice echoing across the valley. But later that evening, when their hotel lost power for several hours, their excitement dimmed. Wrapped in blankets, they realized that paradise has its shadows.
For them, the inconvenience was temporary. For locals, it was routine.The paradox of snow is not new. Historical accounts from the Mughal era describe emperors retreating to Kashmir in summer, enchanted by its cool climate. Jahangir famously declared, “If there is paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.” Yet even then, winters were harsh. Villagers relied on kangri, the traditional earthen pot filled with embers, carried under the pheran to keep warm. Fires often broke out when kangris tipped over, a danger that persists even today. The same device that symbolizes Kashmiri resilience also embodies its risks.
In a small village near Pahalgam, I visited the home of an elderly couple, Ghulam and Rafiqa. Their house was modest, with wooden beams and a tin roof. A kangri glowed between them as they sat wrapped in pherans. “We want the sun,” Rafiqa said softly, “but we also want snow. Without snow, tourists don’t come. Without tourists, our sons have no work.” Her words captured the paradox perfectly. Snow was both blessing and curse, both beauty and burden.Tourism thrives on snow, but life struggles under it. Hotels are booked, guides are employed, shops sell souvenirs. Yet snow also disrupts agriculture, damages orchards, and delays transport. The economy gains and loses at the same time. The sun rises in Kashmir, but it rises on a land where prosperity and poverty coexist, where gain and loss are inseparable.
Dal Lake itself is a metaphor. Tourists glide across its waters, sipping kawaha, watching reflections of snow-covered mountains. They want the lake to remain liquid, a mirror of beauty. But when temperatures plummet, the lake begins to freeze, and boating becomes impossible. For locals, the frozen lake is not just an inconvenience but a disruption of livelihood. The paradox deepens: the snow that enhances the beauty of the lake threatens the very activity that makes it attractive. The fires that break out in hilly regions during winter are another reminder of struggle. Families light stoves, burn wood, and sometimes use unsafe heating methods to fight the cold. Accidents happen, homes are destroyed, lives are lost.
The fight against cold becomes a fight against fire. It is a cruel irony: in trying to escape the freezing grip of snow, people fall victim to flames. Yet, despite the hardships, Kashmiris endure. They endure with resilience, with traditions evolved over centuries, with foods and drinks that warm the body, with stories and songs that warm the heart. Kawaha tea, with saffron and almonds, is not just a beverage but a symbol of hospitality. Kangri is not just a heating device but a cultural icon. These are the ways in which Kashmiris fight the cold, ways that tourists admire but rarely understand in depth.
The paradox of snow is also cultural. Snow is celebrated in Kashmiri poetry and folklore. Habba Khatoon, the legendary poetess, wrote verses that likened snow to purity and longing. Modern Kashmiri songs still celebrate snowfall as a symbol of romance. Yet the same snow is also feared, endured, resisted. The culture embraces snow, even as life resists it. In Srinagar’s Lal Chowk, I spoke to a shopkeeper named Bashir who sold woolens. His shop was crowded with tourists buying shawls and sweaters. “Snow is good for business,” he admitted. “But when roads close, supplies don’t reach us. Then snow is bad.” His laughter carried the weight of centuries of paradox. The paradox extends to the psyche. Snow silences the valley, muffling sounds, slowing life. For tourists, this silence is peace. For locals, it is isolation. Roads blocked, villages cut off, families separated. The silence of snow is both serenity and suffocation.
The paradox is perhaps best captured in the image of a tourist sipping kawaha on Dal Lake while a local family huddles around a kangri in a small house. The tourist wants snow for beauty, the family wants sun for survival. Both desires are valid, both are real, both coexist. The sun rises in Kashmir, but it rises differently for different people.In literature, snow is often a symbol of purity, of silence, of peace. In Kashmir, it is all of these, but it is also a symbol of paradox. It purifies, but it also petrifies. It silences, but it also suffocates. It brings peace, but it also brings peril. To live in Kashmir is to live with snow, to love it and to loathe it, to welcome it and to fear it.The paradox is eternal, but so is the sun. The sun rises in Kashmir, every day, even in the coldest winter, even in the darkest night. It rises with promise, with hope, with warmth. It rises on snow, but it rises nonetheless. It rises on paradox, but it rises with possibility. The sun rises in Kashmir, and that is the truth that endures.
The Mughal emperor Jahangir, who often retreated to Kashmir, famously wrote:“If there is paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.” This line, recorded in his memoirs, captures the imperial fascination with Kashmir’s landscapes. Yet Jahangir also noted the challenges of the climate, describing how the valley’s beauty was inseparable from its harsh winters.The French physician and traveller François Bernier, Travels in the Mughal Empire (17th century) who spent years in India during Aurangzeb’s reign, wrote of Kashmir:“The whole of Kashmir is one continued garden, and the beauty of the country is beyond description.
The air is pure, the water clear, and the fruits excellent. But the cold in winter is severe, and the snow lies long upon the ground.”Bernier’s account highlights the same paradox that persists today: the valley’s breathtaking beauty and the biting cold that makes life difficult for its inhabitants. That is the paradox of Kashmiri winters—tourists want snow, but Kashmiris often do not. For visitors, snow is romance and spectacle. As explained above ,they dream of Gulmarg’s slopes covered in powder, of Pahalgam’s meadows blanketed in white, of shikara rides on Dal Lake with a steaming cup of kawaha tea. Snow, for them, is beauty to be photographed, a memory to be cherished. For locals, snow is survival. It means frozen pipes, power cuts, blocked roads, and the daily struggle to keep homes warm.
Families huddle around kangris, sometimes risking fire accidents, while children walk to school through biting winds. They long for the sun’s warmth, even as they know that snowfall brings tourists and sustains the economy. A boatman on Dal Lake once put it simply: “Without snow, tourists don’t come. But if the lake freezes, my boat sleeps, and my children go hungry.” His words capture the contradiction perfectly.
Kashmir’s winters are no longer what they used to be. Climate change has begun to rewrite the valley’s snowfall patterns, with recent years witnessing unusually dry winters, delayed snow, and erratic precipitation. This shift threatens both the tourism economy and the traditional water systems that depend on steady snowmelt. Second consecutive dry ‘Chillai Kalan’: The 40-day harshest winter phase beginning December 21, once the backbone of Kashmir’s snow calendar, has seen unusually low snowfall for two years in a row. Scientists warn that this reflects a long-term shift, with snowfall becoming increasingly unpredictable and poorly timed. Experts describe the phenomenon as a “snow drought,” where winter snow accumulation is unusually low or melts earlier than expected. Warmer winters mean more precipitation falls as rain instead of snow, especially in mid-altitude regions. Despite prolonged sub-zero temperatures, snowfall is arriving late or in reduced amounts, disrupting traditional cycles that sustained agriculture, hydropower, and ecosystems.
Gulmarg’s ski slopes and Pahalgam’s meadows rely on consistent snow cover. Erratic snowfall has forced a rethink of Kashmir’s winter economy, as hotels and guides face cancellations when snow plays truant.Tourists want snow on the mountains but not on Dal Lake, which they prefer unfrozen for shikara rides. With climate change, the lake sometimes remains unfrozen even in peak winter, altering the traditional tourist experiences. Local shopkeepers, boatmen, and orchard owners depend on predictable winters. Reduced snow threatens apple orchards and groundwater recharge, while inconsistent snowfall undermines the seasonal rhythm of work and income.
Ecological Consequences are no less great .Snowfall in Kashmir is not just a seasonal spectacle—it is a natural water storage system. Reduced snow means less spring water, shrinking rivers, and stressed agriculture. The valley’s hydropower projects depend on steady snowmelt. Erratic snowfall patterns threaten energy security.Shorter, warmer winters affect wildlife migration and forest health, rewriting the ecological balance of the valley. A Srinagar resident told local media: “We used to see heavy snow by late December. Now it comes late, or not at all. Our children don’t know the winters we grew up with.”A Gulmarg ski instructor lamented: “Tourists come expecting snow, but sometimes the slopes are bare. Climate change is stealing our season.” Farmers in Pulwama worry: “Without snow, our springs dry up. Apples need water from snowmelt. The land is thirsty.” Kashmir’s paradox of snow—wanting it and not wanting it—has taken on a new dimension. Tourists still crave the romance of snowfall, locals still endure its hardships, but now both face the uncertainty of climate change. The valley’s identity, economy, and ecology are tied to snow, and its absence or unpredictability threatens them all.
The sun rises in Kashmir, but it rises on winters that are vanishing, on rivers that are shrinking, and on livelihoods that are fragile. The paradox remains: you want snow, and you don’t want snow—but now, sometimes, there is no snow at all.
Author is a former Affiliate Faculty of Virginia Commonwealth University and Retd Head Post Graduate Dept of English Dum Dum Motijheel College. He can be mailed at profratanbhattacharjee@gmail.com
