Prayers for snow and rain to break dry spells have now become a winter ritual. Living in a forested hamlet of Gurinard in Verinag, 82-year-old civil society activist, Mohammad Yusuf Mir offers a stark context. He remembers 1955–1956, when snowfall reached 8 feet consistently. This January brought just 3 feet across two storms. For two decades, he's watched the decline, attributing it to global warming and climate change, though local factors may also play a role.
At Reshimool Saeb (Baba Hyder Reshi) shrine in Anantnag's heart, where Muslims and Pandits gather as one, a woman with her children offers her prayers with gratitude and urgency. Late January snows and early February rains have brought relief, but her whispered prayer asks for more rain in the plains and snow in the heights to heal the land she considers nearly drought stricken.
Nearby, a 70-year-old farmer, hands shaped by soil, voices the same plea. He knows water's truth deeper than any textbook. He asks for more snow and rain, not as a blessing, but as a lifeline for the coming harvest.
Ibtisam, 25, a computer engineer from Anantnag, welcomed late January's snowfall and early February rains but hopes for more to offset the deficit.
Changing Weather-Patterns
A week before that snowfall, the air was cold and hollow. On January 18, 2026, Taufeeq Ahmad Bhat, 55, sat cross-legged in his Bona Dialgam home, Kangri glowing between his palms, gazing at the bare Pir Panjal peaks. For the first time in his life, mid-January brought brown, not white.
"My grandfather called it 'Sheshr Maas,'" Bhat says. "Snow rose above first-floor windows. We tunneled door to door. That snow was our insurance and promise for our grain, our water, our summer."
Chillai Kalan, the forty-day deep winter from December 21 to January 31, has been Kashmir's hydrological reset for millennia. Its snowpack feeds the Jhelum, Chenab, and Indus, sustaining 320 million people across India and Pakistan. But now there are clear signs of changing weather patterns.
High-altitude areas, like Gulmarg, Sonamarg, Pahalgam, and Sinthan Pass, still receive heavy snow. But the plains and Srinagar now see mostly rain and light snow instead of thick cover.
This winter's reset catastrophically failed. From November 1, 2025, to January 21, 2026: only 20.6 mm rainfall against a 139 mm norm—an 85% deficit. The first 17 days of January saw 1.5 mm against 44.4 mm—a 97% deficit. Plains had no snow cover until January 22. Over 50% of springs dried up. In January 2026 alone, the deficit was approximately 18% and from November 1, 2025, to February 13, 2026, the deficit was 52-56% in Kashmir Valley and 70% in Jammu province.
This is a decade-long trend. November 2019 and 2020 brought early winter onset, then turned dry with brief rain spells. Early January saw some activity, but overall precipitation fell below average in a sharp contrast to the previous wet winters.
January 2020 and 2021 showed significant deficits. The 2021-22 season (December-January) received less than 2020-21. Chillai Kalan 2022 brought below-average snowfall, raising concerns about water scarcity and agriculture.
The decline accelerated in subsequent years. January 2024 saw a 91% deficit. January 2025 recorded a 75% precipitation drop, with daytime temperatures 6-8°C above normal. Rivers fell, tourism suffered, and horticulture struggled as the Jhelum's water levels dropped.
The decline in the preceding decades was steady and gradual. Srinagar received 6-8 feet of snow (1891-1910), 5-6 feet (until 1947), 3-4 feet (1950s-60s). The historic average of 45 inches is now a memory.
The recent shortfall highlights the dramatic shift from the region's characteristic "white blanket" winters toward drier conditions. The average, snowfall translates to roughly 50–100 mm [5.0-10.00cm] or 50-100 cm of snow of liquid precipitation (rain) across the valley. Although this varies heavily by temperature location and year, the change is of consequence and concern.
Recent snow has sparked hope, but the pattern is clear. Kashmir is witnessing climate system breakdown, compounded by political conflict and governance failure, with the potential to turn one of South Asia's most fertile and contested regions into a boiling pot of conflict and scarcity.
Snowlines, Streams and Shrinking Lifeline
Environmental scientists, satellite imagery, and climate data reveal an alarming shift. Comparing 1980 to 2025 maps: "The concept of 'permanent snowlines' is becoming obsolete." Snow once guaranteed at 13,000 feet now appears above 17,000 feet; it’s thinner and receding. Forest fires have surged. Glacier mass balance is severely negative, with accelerated melting, increased cloudbursts, and artificial lake formation.
‘Water, Polity and Kashmir-2018’ documents this ascent, attributing it to "global warming, climate change, rampant deforestation, and uncontrolled human encroachment into fragile alpine zones."
Vanishing snow means disappearing water. Winter precipitation no longer stores as slow-release ice. Instead, erratic winter rain, up 30% in some areas over two decades, rushes down denuded slopes, causing erosion without replenishing groundwater.
Kashmir's agriculture is devastated. Arable land per person halved from 0.14 hectares (1981) to 0.06 hectares today. Paddy cultivation collapsed from 158,000 hectares (2012) to 142,000 hectares (2017), with further decline likely. Dilapidated canals and minimal irrigation investment worsen the crisis.
Agriculturists warn the valley could be "bare of any agricultural land to cultivate rice" by 2040 if current weather patterns persist. The apple orchards of Shopian and Sopore - Kashmir's apple bowls - already feel the impact.
Even in their winter dormancy, before January 21, 2026, the rows of trees in Shaikh Abid Shabir’s orchard in Shopian appeared to be stressed. Bending down to pick up a handful of the grey, dry earth, he said, "Look at the soil." His fingers broke it apart. "This ought to be snow-covered and moist.”
He added, “Our wells get their water from glacier streams like Rambiara and its branches, which are now a trickle. We drill deeper every year—150 feet, 200 feet—and by late summer, even those bore-wells cough dust. Apple trees require water in addition to cold. The yield is pitiful and the fruit is small without snow melt. We are crying ourselves to tears.”
His despair is supported by the data. Droughts in the summer are directly triggered when mountain water storage is reduced by 40 to 90 percent. By June, irrigation canals are depleted. In some districts, groundwater tables are falling at a rate of more than a foot per year.
Over half of Kashmir's districts' "stage of groundwater development," a measure of withdrawal against recharge, has increased from "safe" to "critical" in just fifteen years, according to official data. The quality of what little remains is also deteriorating, with dangerous levels of fluoride, iron, and nitrate being reported.
Similar to the groundwater crisis in Punjab and Haryana, unregulated individual bore-well extraction results in anarchy and ecological collapse, as seen in Malaysia. In Jammu and Kashmir, a blanket ban can be counterproductive because it ignores legitimate requirements and may exacerbate scarcity.
Structured collectivisation is the answer. Community cooperatives or inclusive PPP models that encourage bore-wells make it possible to share water in a controlled and equitable manner. By combining oversight and local participation, this strategy prevents a fracas and sustainably manages the aquifer for all stakeholders, particularly for drinking water and miniature irrigation of vegetable beds.
Gender divides the burden of this scarcity. Before the late January snowfall, women like Rafiqa Bano were awaiting water tanks from the Jal Shakti (PHE) department in some villages across the Valley. The diminishing springs have resulted in a severe lack of water.
Rafiqa said, “the men are working or in the agricultural fields. Our duty is to arrange the water for kitchens. However, where is it?”
IWT and Politics of Thirst
Kashmir's water crisis extends beyond environment into contested politics. The 1960 Indus Waters Treaty (IWT) allocated the Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab primarily to Pakistan, while granting India "non-consumptive" rights of run-of-the-river hydro-power, drinking water, and irrigation.
Jammu and Kashmir holds 54,000-70,000 MW of hydro-power potential but has tapped less than 15%. Projects like Salal, Dul Hasti, and Uri are operated by India's National Hydroelectric Power Corporation (NHPC), which profits while Kashmir faces daily power outages. A 2018 report estimated J&K's cumulative losses at over ₹20,000 crore owed by NHPC.
"We are the source of this wealth, yet we live in darkness and thirst," is a popular local narrative regarding the bilateral IWT which treats water as a commodity shared by India and Pakistan. This is a half-truth that completely sidelines the rights and interests of the people who live in the basin as lower riparian. This is a narrative that was constructed by politicians whose regimes failed to develop robust water systems for drinking, irrigation, and local hydroelectric generation.
In more recent times, the trust in the IWT is eroding incrementally. India unilaterally suspended dispute-resolution mechanisms after the April 2025 Pahalgam attack, followed by an 88-hour May 2025 military standoff where water control was a strategic undercurrent. Disinformation from both sides accuses the other of "water theft" and "secret dam-building," poisoning cooperation.
India's plan to divert Chenab water for its own irrigation needs beyond J&K threatens to escalate tensions with Pakistan. In an era of shared scarcity, water is becoming a weapon.
MLA Mubarak Gul recently demanded that power projects control be transferred from central authorities to Jammu and Kashmir to better serve local needs and generate Rs 6,000 crores annually. Similarly, on February 10, 2026, Chief Minister Omar Abdullah expressed hope that work would soon begin on the Tulbul navigation project and diverting Chenab River water to supply drinking water to Jammu.
The Bulldozer and the Lake
Man-made actions are systematically destroying Kashmir's inherent capacity to cope, even as nature withholds its bounty. A "development" model that puts concrete ahead of conservation is dramatically speeding up the crisis. The ancient, fertile plateau lands known as Karewas are being leveled across the valley for government infrastructure and housing colonies, unregulated and unregistered colonies.
A web of massive infrastructure projects is simultaneously cutting through farmland and forests. Over 875 hectares of prime forest and agricultural land, primarily apple orchards, have been consumed by the Prime Minister's Gram Sadak Yojana (PMGSY), the expansion of the Jammu-Srinagar National Highway, and the ambitious Banihal-Baramulla rail link, according to land use studies.
“These projects are necessary, but their environmental cost assessments are a fiction,” says a retired chief engineer of the state’s Public Works Department (R &B), speaking on condition of anonymity. “They destabilise slopes, block natural drainage, and obliterate the very land that feeds us.”
Though temporarily put on hold, the proposed railway projects of Bijbehara-Pahalgam and Awantipora-Shopian rail links will devour agriculture and horticulture lands.
The fate of Kashmir's water bodies may be the most moving representation of this ecological amnesia. Srinagar was once the ‘Venice of the East’, a city woven through with canals and lakes. It is now a city that is choking on its own waste. The famous Dal Lake has shrunk from 2,547 hectares in 1971 to approximately 1,620 hectares today, and the remaining water is caught between sewage woes and development.
In general, more than half of the wetlands and water bodies in the Srinagar region have vanished in the past century as a result of being illegally filled in to create real estate. This loss is devastating on numerous levels. It destroys biodiversity, decimating local fisheries and bird populations.
The Paradox of Floods
Kashmir faces a grim paradox: a drying basin birthing catastrophic floods. The region whiplashes between prolonged droughts and deluges.
Rapid, uneven glacier melt creates unstable glacial lakes. "Water, Polity, and Kashmir-2018" warns of Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOFs)—apocalyptic walls of water, ice, and rock overwhelming unprepared valleys.
The new climate normal is prolonged dry spells punctuated by intense rainfall, overwhelming a landscape stripped of resilience. In September 2014, unprecedented week-long rain submerged 70% of Srinagar. Deforested mountains and clogged waterways turned rain into disaster, causing losses unofficially estimated at Rs 1,00,000 crore.
Late 2025 reports confirm similar catastrophic floods and cloudbursts, a devastating sequel to a decade of failed recovery and ignored warnings.
Degraded wetlands, choked rivers, and inadequate drainage have destroyed the valley's shock absorption capacity. Each drought-flood cycle intensifies poverty, displacement, and resentment.
Prayers, Policy, and a Vacuum of Governance
The institutional response ranges from desperate symbolism to apathy. Prayers by top clerics offer spiritual comfort, but water security systems have failed completely. While people plead with the heavens, religious scholars must also ask people to voluntarily clear encroached water bodies (sars) vital for survival and conservation.
Water governance is a ghost town. The 2010 Jammu and Kashmir Water Resources Act is, critics say, "a licensing authority in search of a policy." It addresses water rights allocation but ignores conservation, pollution control, or sustainable management.
No comprehensive state policy covers rainwater harvesting, watershed management, or climate-resilient agriculture. A "politico-bureaucratic nexus" fills this vacuum, enabling illegal conversion of agricultural land and wetlands. The "land mafia" operates unchecked, trading ecological security for short-term gain.
Environmental activist and lawyer, Mubashir Zia, states: "Our laws are reactive, our institutions fragmented, and political discourse silent on water catastrophe. We're governed by crisis management, lurching from disaster to disaster with no vision for adaptation or sustainability."
The Way Forward
Kashmir's Civil Society Groups and intelligentsia propose a practical solution linking rehabilitation with justice. Given Jammu and Kashmir's immense hydrological contribution to the Indus system and economic losses under IWT norms, New Delhi has a moral obligation to compensate the region.
India must share 46-50% of NHPC power project profits with J&K, framed not as charity but as economic and climate justice. A "Climate Adaptation and Water Security Fund" should finance massive water conservation, reviving traditional Sars and spring systems, building modern reservoirs and percolation tanks, mandating rooftop rainwater harvesting.
It should support agricultural transformation through drip irrigation, less water-intensive crops, and organic farming to improve soil moisture retention. Ecosystem restoration must clean and legally protect lakes, wetlands, and Karewas. Disaster-proofing infrastructure requires strengthened flood defenses, improved drainage, and early warning systems for Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOF) and flash floods.
Simultaneously, the Indus Waters Treaty needs modernization. A 21st-century climate crisis cannot be managed by outdated agreements. India, Pakistan, and genuine representatives from both sides of the Line of Control must engage in result-oriented dialogue as confidence-building measures, recognizing the problem is trilateral or beyond.
The new framework must prioritise ecological sustainability, incorporate climate data, and recognise rights of source communities, who are the most vulnerable victims of climate change, as envisioned in IWT articles mutually agreed by India and Pakistan.
The snow is melting, and the clock is running out. The time of prayers is over. Kashmir's future hinges on whether Delhi, Islamabad, and Srinagar choose justice and collaborative adaptation or allow a fertile valley to become a permanent symbol of conflict, scarcity, and a continent's dying water system.
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