The morning sun spills gold over the Dal Lake in Srinagar, setting its waters aglow like a sheet of molten glass. Wooden shikaras glide between narrow channels. At the edge of a quiet hamlet, Mohd Hussain, 14, steps into his boat with practiced ease; his uniform neatly pressed, shoes clean, and hair slicked back with a touch of water. He calls out a cheerful goodbye before pushing off. With each pull of the oar, the lake opens up before him, mirroring the sky above. Around him, the floating world stirs—homes puff trails of morning smoke, and the clatter of kitchen pots echoe softly over the water. It is a bright day, calm and clear. For boys like Hussain, days like this are a gift. Most mornings come with cold hands, wet cuffs, and winds that slap across the cheeks. Still, they row. Rain or shine. It is their daily journey to school—one shaped more by water and weather than by bells and buses. Hussain lives in Kand Mohalla, one of many small island communities tucked deep within the Dal Lake. These clusters sit surrounded by nothing but water. There are no streets, no honking autos or yellow school vans. Only channels and creaking wooden boats. For residents here, shikaras are everything—vehicles, supply carriers, ambulances, even cradles for babies rocked to sleep by the waves.
More than 50,000 people live in and around the Dal, spread across dozens of small hamlets like Kand Mohalla, Abi Karpora, Rainawari, and Gagribal. Most of the residents earn their living from the lake. They grow vegetables on floating gardens called raad, fish for carp, or work as boatmen, ferrying tourists across the lake. “We are the people of water,” says Shakeela Bano, a mother of three, as she prepares breakfast in her modest floating home. “The lake gives us food, work, and shelter. And we give it our life.” Each morning, she rows her children to school. Winters are the hardest. The water sometimes freezes, making the rowing difficult. “It’s like pulling your boat through honey,” she says with a tired smile. “But we still go. They must study.”
Her youngest son, Adil, now 13, still remembers the day he nearly didn’t make it. “A storm came from nowhere,” he recalls. “One minute the water was calm. The next, it was shaking the boat like a toy.” He tried to turn back but couldn’t control the oar. The boat rocked wildly, and water spilled in. “I panicked. I thought I would drown.” Luckily, a team from the State Disaster Response Force (SDRF), patrolling the lake, noticed him. They rushed in and pulled him out. “I couldn’t even feel my fingers. But I was alive. Since then, I keep looking at the sky before I leave,” Adil says. In the absence of strong infrastructure, the SDRF has become a silent lifeline for lake families.
For teenagers like Hussain, the daily boat ride is both a chore and a thrill. “My hands know the oar better than the pen,” he jokes, adjusting his wet school bag. On calmer days, he and his friends race each other across the lake. “We fly like dragonflies,” he grins. Like him, Bisma (13) and Aquib (15) have been rowing since they were six. “Nobody teaches us,” says Bisma. “You just watch your mother or father row, and then one day, you pick up the oar.” Aquib nods. “I fell in the water twice,” he says with a laugh. “Once, my hands went numb. I had to cling to the shikara until I reached home.” Zainab, a bright-eyed 13-year-old, keeps a raincoat in her boat at all times. “We know how to read the water,” she says. “If the clouds gather fast, we wait. Sometimes we skip school if the waves are too strong.” But missing school isn’t a choice families take lightly. Education remains the only bridge to a better future. “We can row our boats,” says Shakeela, “but our children should row their lives towards something greater—maybe even off this lake one day.”
Back on the water, the school day is ending. Bisma sits in her shikara again, her raincoat folded neatly beside her, untouched. Her mother and younger sister have come to pick her up, waiting quietly at the edge of the school steps. Bisma takes hold of the oar and begins to row—her eyes focused on the paddle, movements steady and sure. Her eyes sparkle as she watches the ripples stretch into the golden distance—calm, content, and quietly at home. “The lake is my friend,” she says with a grin. “It takes me to school and brings me home.”