Rowing Against Fate: Kashmir's Shikarawalas Face Uncertain Future
Srinagar, May 19: The morning mist still rises from Dal Lake's placid waters as Muhammad Maqbool Karnai pushes his ornately decorated shikara away from the wooden dock. The 58-year-old boatman's weathered hands grip the paddle with practised ease, but his eyes reflect a growing desperation.
"For generations, we have been the ambassadors of Kashmir's beauty," Karnai says, gesturing across the empty expanse of water that should be dotted with tourists. "Now we paddle through silence and struggle to feed our families."
It has been nearly a month since terrorists killed 26 tourists in a brutal attack at Baisaran in Pahalgam. The reverberations of those gunshots continue to echo across Kashmir's tourism-dependent economy, with perhaps no group feeling the aftershocks more acutely than the shikarawalas of Dal Lake.
The painted wooden boats, with their distinctive canopies and cushioned seats, have long been emblematic of Kashmir tourism. Now they sit moored in neat rows along the lakefront, their vibrant colours a stark contrast to the grim economic reality facing their operators.
"Before the attack, I would make eight to ten trips daily. Now, I am lucky if I get one customer in three days," laments Karnai, who has been rowing tourists across Dal Lake for over four decades. "When there are no tourists, there is no bread on our table—it is that simple."
The boatmen's union estimates that daily losses for shikarawalas exceed several lakhs of rupees a day.
"We survived COVID. We survived the Article 370 shutdown. Each time, we told ourselves things would improve. But this attack has frightened tourists away during what should be our peak earning season. For many boatmen, this could be the final blow," said Javid Ahmad.
For many shikarawalas, the economic equation has become impossible to balance.
"My boat isn't just a vessel—it's my office, my livelihood, my family's future," says Abdul Majeed, a third-generation shikarawala from Nehru Park area. "I took a loan of ₹1.5 lakh last year to buy this shikara, believing tourism would finally recover after the pandemic. Now the bank wants their money, and my boat sits empty."
In good years, a shikarawala might earn around ₹180,000 to Rs 250000 for the entire six-month season—approximately ₹15,000 per month, which must stretch through the lean winter months as well. Following the Pahalgam attack, even those modest projections seem wildly optimistic.
"When winter comes, we usually survive on our summer savings," explains Nazir Ahmad Dangola, who has operated his shikara for over twenty years. "This year, there will be no savings. Many of us will be forced to sell our boats—our only assets—just to survive."
Some boatmen have already begun looking for alternative employment, but options are scarce in a region where tourism directly or indirectly sustains nearly half the population.
Despite the magnitude of the crisis, shikarawalas claim they have received little government support. Unlike some other sectors, there is no compensation scheme for boatmen who lose their livelihoods due to such disruptions.
"Officials come and take photographs with us when they want to promote tourism," says Karnai bitterly. "But when terrorism strikes and tourists flee, those same officials cannot be found. Do they think we can eat the beauty of this lake?"
The tourism department has announced plans to launch a promotional campaign to lure visitors back to the Valley, but shikarawalas remain skeptical about its immediate impact.
"Campaigns and slogans won't bring back tourists who have seen those headlines," argues Mir. "What we need is immediate financial support—perhaps a waiver of boat license fees or interest-free loans to help us survive until visitors return."
The Human Cost
As the sun climbs higher over the Zabarwan mountains, casting long reflections across Dal Lake's surface, Karnai prepares for another day of likely disappointment. He adjusts the cushions on his empty shikara and straightens the fresh flowers he placed there at dawn—a daily ritual of hope in increasingly hopeless times.
"The tourists will return someday," he says, his eyes scanning the quiet shoreline. "Kashmir's beauty is eternal, but I wonder how many of us will still be here, still rowing, when they finally come back."