It is time to declare Kashmir’s twin rivers Doodganga and Jhelum as open sewers.
There was a time when Kashmir’s soul was mirrored in its waters. The Jhelum, known locally as Vyeth, was more than a river; it was the carrier of history, trade, and poetry. Its tributaries like the Doodganga once brought crystal-clear streams that nourished orchards, fields, and entire communities. To speak of Kashmir was to speak of its rivers. Yet what was once a lifeline has today been degraded into a stinking reminder of our negligence. Jhelum and Doodganga have been reduced to open sewer lines, robbed of dignity and respect. Generations of Kashmiris fetched drinking water from these rivers. Families prayed along their banks, saints meditated near their flow, and poets found verses in their calm currents. Children swam in them, women washed clothes on the steps, and men guided boats laden with goods. All of that is memory now. Today, Doodganga reeks long before it joins Jhelum, its waters carrying untreated sewage from Srinagar’s expanding colonies and municipal drains. Jhelum itself drags along plastics, effluents, and filth, its slow waters now more a conveyor belt of human waste than a source of life.
When a river begins to carry more sewage than fresh water, it is not just an environmental tragedy—it is a civilizational collapse. The question is obvious: how did lifelines turn into sewer lines? The first culprit is the absence of sewage treatment. Srinagar generates roughly 201 million litres of sewage daily. Against this, treatment capacity is less than a quarter—just 53.8 million litres. The rest—nearly 150 million litres—flows untreated into Dal Lake, Jhelum, and tributaries like Doodganga. Dal alone receives over 44 MLD. That leaves more than 100 MLD seeping untreated into Jhelum and Doodganga. Each litre carries its burden: excessive phosphorus and nitrogen that choke lakes with weeds and kill aquatic life. Scientific studies now confirm what everyone can see: Jhelum and its tributaries are laced with microplastics and loaded with slaughterhouse waste, including animal blood, offal, and wash water. The very chemistry of the river is altered, with oxygen depletion making survival impossible for fish.
Second, we have vandalised the rivers physically. Encroachments have narrowed their beds, floodplains have been turned into concrete housing, and wetlands that once filtered water have been filled and fenced. A river that cannot breathe, cannot cleanse itself. Third, the institutions tasked with protection are complicit through inaction. Pollution Control Boards, water resource departments, and municipal bodies generate reports and hold meetings. But action rarely leaves the page. The cycle of paperwork rolls on while rivers suffocate. And finally, there is our own social behaviour. Throwing garbage into rivers has become normalised. Drainpipes from homes and shops are connected straight to the nearest stream. Once upon a time, rivers commanded reverence; today, they invite indifference.
Declaring Jhelum and Doodganga as sewer lines is not a dramatic exaggeration. It is a blunt acknowledgement of a public health crisis. Untreated water is a carrier of cholera, diarrhoea, hepatitis, and typhoid. Seven lakh Srinagar residents depend on water supply channels that are exposed to contamination. In a recent review meeting on Doodganga, activist Dr. Raja Muzaffar Bhat estimated the volume of sewage, slaughterhouse discharge, and septic tank effluents entering the river. He rightly argued that bleaching or alum treatment of water cannot possibly safeguard human health.
“Declaring Jhelum and Doodganga rivers as sewer lines is a serious issue that demands accountability and societal reflection. It highlights a critical failure to protect essential water sources. This situation challenges society to reconsider its priorities: if we can’t protect our lifelines, what are we truly safeguarding?”
The risks extend to villages too. In rural belts where river water is still used for drinking and household purposes, the danger is magnified. Contamination seeps into groundwater, taints bore wells, and seeps into irrigation canals. Vegetables and rice grown with this water return pollution back to our own dining tables.
That Kashmir, a land of glaciers and springs, now depends on packaged water and filtration units, is nothing short of tragic. This is not progress; it is a symptom of ecological collapse. The Jhelum’s decline is heartbreaking for another reason—it was once the commercial artery of the valley. Timber, rice, spices, and goods floated on its surface. Today, instead of floating trade, it floats plastic bottles, wrappers, and sewage froth. The river’s slow pace, once ideal for navigation, now makes it a stagnant pool of waste.
Governments, meanwhile, spend crores each year on flood management of Jhelum—building embankments, dredging, and planning. But what good is flood control if the river itself is poisoned every day? We prepare for the occasional flood while ignoring the permanent flood of sewage. If Jhelum is suffocating slowly, Doodganga is gasping in agony. Originating in Pir Panjal, it once carried cool, sparkling waters through orchards and villages before joining Jhelum. Now, its journey through Srinagar resembles that of a gutter. Residential colonies and commercial establishments pour drains directly into it. By the time Doodganga merges with Jhelum, it has already transformed into a carrier of filth, adding to Jhelum’s burden. The fate of Doodganga mirrors that of dozens of tributaries across Kashmir—once-pristine water bodies that have been reduced to nothing but open drains. Official responses, sadly, are mostly cosmetic. A dustbin here, a fence there, occasional cleaning drives before VIP visits, or treatment plants that operate far below capacity. These are bandages on a body that requires surgery.
What Kashmir needs is a structural shift. First, sewage treatment must be universal and mandatory—no drain should enter a river untreated.
Second, wetlands like Hokersar and Shalabugh, the natural kidneys of the valley, must be restored urgently. Third, riverbanks must be cleared of illegal constructions. Fourth, pollution monitoring must be transparent, with data displayed publicly. And finally, river health must be made a collective responsibility. Schools, mosques, and community groups should all be partners in building a culture of care for rivers. We must understand: the death of a river is the death of a culture. Kashmir without its rivers is unthinkable. Declaring Jhelum and Doodganga as sewer lines is not despair—it is a call for accountability. A society that allows its lifelines to become sewers must pause and reflect: if we cannot protect the water that gives us life, what exactly are we protecting?
(The author is a teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora of Central Kashmir’s Budgam district. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
