There was a time when the boats would sink under the weight of fish, says 70-year-old fisherman Aziz Kak, his voice slowing as he looks across the quiet waters of Wular lake in Kashmir’s Bandipora district. “Today, if we catch 2 kg in a day, we thank Allah.”
For Kak, the silence of the lake is the hardest part. He remembers a different Wular, alive with movement and sound. Nets once returned so heavy with snow trout and indigenous fish that boats struggled against the water. Families waited at the shore to sort the fish before sunset. Children helped clean and dry them for winter. Smoke from preserved fish rose from homes across the lake settlements.
Fishing was not simply work. It was security, dignity, and inheritance passed carefully from one generation to another. Now, Kak says, young people no longer believe the stories elders tell about Wular.
Once among Asia’s largest freshwater lakes, Wular — located 60 km from Srinagar — was not only an ecological treasure but also the centre of life for thousands of fisherfolk families. More than 60 fish species lived in its waters, connected through the Jhelum river and mountain streams that carried cold, clear water into the lake. Entire communities survived through fishing seasons. Fish were dried, smoked, traded, and stored for harsh winters. A family’s knowledge of water currents, fish breeding cycles, and weather patterns determined whether they survived the year with dignity or debt. Today, that world is disappearing.
At the heart of this loss lies the story of Golden Mahaseer, the declared state fish of Jammu and Kashmir. Older fishermen still remember catching the powerful fish in rivers feeding Wular and in the upper stretches of the Jhelum. The Mahaseer thrived in clean, fast-flowing waters and migrated upstream during the spawning season. It symbolised abundance and the health of Kashmir’s rivers. Today, it has almost vanished from the Valley’s waters.
The irony is painful. The state fish survives in official records, but not in its own natural habitat. Fishermen say the rivers changed slowly at first. Dams blocked migration routes. Pollution spread through streams. Silt buried spawning grounds. Water lost its clarity. Over time, the Mahaseer disappeared, and with it a part of Kashmir’s river identity.
Botia birdi, the bottom-dwelling loach, is valued for its taste. Istock
The decline did not stop there. For generations, Wular’s fisheries revolved around snow trout species belonging to the Schizothorax complex. Schizothorax niger, locally called Ale Gard or Chush, Schizothorax esocinus or Chirruh, and Schizothorax curvifrons, known as Sattar Gard, once dominated fishing nets across the lake.
These fish thrived in oxygen-rich waters and sustained thousands of households. Now, fishermen speak of shrinking catches, with the pain of people watching their livelihood disappear slowly in front of them.
Spawning grounds have been buried beneath silt caused by deforestation and soil erosion in catchment areas. Agricultural runoff carrying fertilisers and pesticides now flows directly into the lake. Untreated sewage, detergents, and household waste continue to poison the water. Wetlands that once protected the lake naturally have been encroached upon and degraded.
At the same time, common carp, an introduced species, has taken over much of Wular’s fish economy. While carp survives easily and provides commercial returns, it has transformed the ecological balance of the lake. Carp disturbs sediments while feeding and outcompetes native fish species that once defined Wular’s waters. For fisherfolk communities, this has been more than an ecological shift. It has been a cultural and heritage loss.
Raja Begum, a 68-year-old fish-hawker, speaks emotionally about species younger generations have never seen. There was Ram e Gurun, linked scientifically to Botia birdi, a bottom-dwelling loach once found in Wular’s shallow waters and valued for its taste. There was Feour Gard, the “smoke fish” traditionally preserved for winter consumption. Then there was Zub Gurun, often called “winter currency” because women dried and stored it to survive economically difficult months.
Species like Raput Hard and Churu Gard, once common in fishing nets, have now become almost absent. Even Lipet, a small fish originally introduced for mosquito control, became part of local food systems and helped poor families survive harsh winters. Every vanished fish carried with it a season, a memory, and a way of life.
Naseer Dar, a fisherfolk union leader from the Wular region, describes the change quietly but firmly: “Wular was once a living treasury of indigenous fish. Today, our nets return with carp, not culture.” His words reflect the grief many fishing families carry silently. Common carp may sustain markets, but cannot replace what has been lost.
Ghulam Hassan Bhat, another union leader of Wular region, remembers when every fishing net reflected diversity and abundance. “We used to catch snow trout, Raput Hard, Churu Gard, Ram e Gurun. Every net was full of life. Only carp remains.”
Scientific assessments support what fishermen have witnessed for decades. Wular once supported more than 60 fish species, but indigenous fish now form only a small share of catches. Pollution remains central to the decline. Untreated sewage, agricultural runoff, pesticides, fertilisers, detergents, and solid waste continue entering the lake unchecked. Urbanisation, shrinking wetlands, altered river flows, sand mining, and ecological disruption have weakened the entire aquatic system.
Episodes of mass fish deaths in Wular and the Jhelum have made the crisis impossible to ignore. Scientific assessments have pointed to high organic load in the water as a major factor behind oxygen depletion and fish mortality, reinforcing what fishermen have long understood, that the lake is slowly suffocating.
As the fish species disappeared, poverty deepened along Wular’s shores. Families which once depended entirely on fishing now struggle to survive. Daily catches have reduced drastically over the years, forcing many into debt and uncertainty. Younger generations increasingly leave the lake behind, searching for labour work because fishing no longer guarantees survival. What is disappearing from Wular is therefore not only biodiversity, but also an entire social and cultural world built around water.
Amid this crisis, the School for Rural Development and Environment (SRDE) has been working with fisherfolk communities since 2015 to document indigenous knowledge related to disappeared fish species, traditional fishing methods, and environmental changes in Wular.
Through oral histories and participatory research, the organisation is rebuilding the ecological memory of the lake itself. Prof Billal Ahmed Bhat, president of SRDE, says the disappearance of indigenous fish from Wular is not merely a biodiversity crisis, but the erosion of an entire cultural memory and livelihood system.
SRDE is now working towards an integrated conservation strategy involving scientists, environmental experts, civil society organisations, and government institutions, while the Wular Conservation and Management Authority has also agreed to collaborate towards restoring indigenous fish diversity and ecological balance in the lake.
As evening settles over Wular, Aziz Kak slowly pulls in his nearly empty net. The lake that once fed generations now feels tired and silent. “The lake gave us everything,” he says, softly. “Now it is asking us to save it.” His words carry the sorrow of an entire community. Because when indigenous fish disappear, people do not lose only a species. They lose memory, livelihood, identity, and belonging. And when Wular loses its fish, Kashmir loses a part of its soul.
— Shaikh Ghulam Rasool is founder of Nature Conservancy Alliance and Lubna Sayed Qadri is a development expert