A Life of Grit, Grace, and Unyielding Hope
By the banks of the Jhelum, in the heart of Srinagar’s Amrakadal, a group of women rise before dawn. Wrapped in threadbare shawls, their hands calloused and their spirits unbroken, they carry forward a tradition as old as the river itself. They are the fisherwomen of Amrakadal, guardians of an age-old trade, and their lives are a testament to resilience in the face of relentless hardship.
For these women, the day begins in darkness. As the city sleeps, they make their way to the riverbanks, their wicker baskets slung over their shoulders. Some row their own boats, their hands steady on the oars, while others wait for the men to return with the morning’s catch. The air is thick with the scent of fish and the promise of another grueling day.
“This is all we know,” says 45-year-old Zaina, her voice tinged with both pride and exhaustion. “My mother did this, her mother before her, and now I do it. It’s not just a job; it’s our life.”
Zaina’s story is not unique. For generations, the women of Amrakadal have been the backbone of the local fishing trade. While the men cast the nets and haul in the catch, it is the women who sell the fish, their voices echoing through the markets as they haggle with customers. They know their trade inside out—the freshness of a fish by the color of its gills, the right price by the flicker in a buyer’s eyes.
But mastery of the trade does not shield them from its harsh realities. The waters of the Jhelum are not what they used to be. Pollution and overfishing have dwindled the fish population, forcing the women to bring in fish from outside—trout from Jammu, carp from Punjab. The cost is higher, the profits thinner.
“Some days, we return home with half our baskets still full,” says Shaheena, a 38-year-old fisherwoman. “The fish spoil, and we lose money. But what can we do? We have no cold storage, no proper stalls. We sell on the roadside, under the open sky, rain or shine.”
Shaheena recalls a particularly brutal summer day when the sun was so harsh that half her fish spoiled by noon. “I had to throw them away,” she says, her voice breaking. “That was half my day’s earnings, gone in minutes.”
The challenges are endless. Municipal workers often ask them to vacate the roads, citing cleanliness concerns. Customers complain about the smell. Yet, with no designated spaces to sell, the fisherwomen have nowhere else to go. They stand their ground, their resilience as unyielding as the river itself.
But amidst the struggle, there is hope. The daughters of these fisherwomen watch and learn, their young eyes taking in every detail of their mothers’ trade. Some dream of a different future—of becoming teachers, nurses, or entrepreneurs.
“My daughter studies hard,” says Rubeena, a fisherwoman from Amrakadal. “Maybe she won’t have to do this. Maybe she will have a better life.”
Yet, for now, the cycle continues. The daughters help their mothers, carrying baskets, counting money, and learning the trade. Tomorrow, they might leave. Or they might stay.
The fisherwomen of Amrakadal don’t ask for much. They don’t want charity or handouts. They want recognition. They want support. Cold storage facilities to keep their fish fresh. Financial assistance to buy better tools and boats. Organized market spaces where they can sell without fear of being moved. Self-help groups to negotiate better prices and reduce their dependence on middlemen.
“If the government can support apple growers and saffron farmers, why not us?” asks Zaina. “We also contribute to the economy. We work just as hard.”
The lakes may change. The markets may shift. The world may forget them. But the fisherwomen of Amrakadal remain. By the water’s edge, baskets full, voices loud, hands weathered, eyes sharp.
Tomorrow, they will be here again. Just as they were yesterday. Just as they always will be.
But the question remains: Will they continue to be ignored, or will someone finally listen?
For now, they endure. Their hands may smell of fish, but their hearts are filled with hope. And as long as the Jhelum flows, so will their spirit.
