When Dal Turned Green

Beyond the postcard beauty, Dal Lake's green surface tells a story of strain and accountability.

- Palveen Kour

A few mornings ago, I stood by Dal Lake and watched the water turn green. The sight felt both distant and deeply personal at the same time.

The images had already reached me through screens and forwarded messages, where people described the colour as a seasonal phase, a passing change that arrives with warmer days and leaves without much consequence.

Their words felt tidy and reassuring, but standing there in front of the lake, I sensed something heavier beneath that surface.

The green film lay softly over the water, almost like fabric resting on glass, and I knew what moved below it.

A part of my childhood seemed to dim as I watched, as if a known story had shifted tone without warning.

I grew up believing Dal was permanent in a way few things are. The lake held the sky with such clarity that I once felt it owned the light itself.

Early memories float there, tied to mornings when mist lifted slowly and mountains leaned close enough to feel like guardians.

That morning, the colour spread wide and certain, and the explanations around me sounded technical and detached.

People spoke about temperatures and patterns, while my thoughts turned toward the drains that empty into the lake each day and the sewage that finds its way through cracks we pretend not to notice.

Plastic gathers near the edges, waste sinks below, and we continue as if the water can absorb every trace of our indifference.

The green cover looked like a long chapter we have written together.

Dal Lake is often called the Jewel of Kashmir, and visitors say it with shining eyes when they see it for the first time. Cameras lift quickly, shikaras glide past carved houseboats, and mountains frame the scene like a promise.

Photographs travel far, and captions celebrate paradise. But when I look at the same water, I see daily life before I see scenery.