A River’s Cry in Wahibugh
Gowher Bhat
In the quiet village of Wahibugh, nestled in South Kashmir’s Pulwama district, the night no longer belongs to the gentle calls of nightjars or the rustle of chinar leaves. Instead, a mechanical hum pierces the darkness—a relentless drone of excavators tearing into the fragile bed of the Romshi River. Under the cover of night, the machines descend like scavengers, clawing at gravel, shattering boulders, and hauling away the river’s essence, load by load. There is no secrecy, no hesitation—only a brazen theft of earth and water that unfolds with chilling precision.
The Romshi, once the lifeblood of Wahibugh, is more than a river. She is the village’s rhythm, its memory, its breath. For centuries, she nourished apple orchards, cooled dusty summer paths, and glimmered like molten silver at dusk. Her steady murmur marked the seasons, her flow a constant in a changing world. Children splashed in her shallows, elders shared stories by her banks, and farmers depended on her to sustain their livelihoods. But that was before the machines arrived, before the river became a quarry, before silence took on a heavier, more oppressive weight.
Each morning, the Romshi retreats further into herself. Her banks crumble, her waters recede, her voice grows faint. The violence is quiet—not a sudden catastrophe, but a slow, haunting erosion of life itself. The orchards, once lush and bountiful, now stand in distress. Trees, some planted generations ago, lean wearily, their roots exposed, their fruit small and bitter. “These trees were our legacy,” says Mohammad Ayoub, a fruit grower whose family has tended this land for decades. “Some were worth lakhs. Now they wither, and we lose them every season.” His words carry a grief too profound for tears—a mourning for a way of life slipping away.
The villagers understand the mechanics of their loss. They see the river’s bed carved deeper each night, its natural balance disrupted. “It’s not just the land,” says Altaf Ahmad, another grower. “It’s the timing. The crops are confused. The seasons are out of sync.” Trees bloom too early, fruit fails to ripen, and leaves curl brown before the rains. The village feels dazed, caught in a liminal space where the familiar rhythms of nature no longer hold.
A deeper threat looms beneath the surface: groundwater depletion. When riverbeds are gouged beyond their natural depth, the delicate process of aquifer recharge falters. Rainwater, once absorbed gently into the earth, now rushes off, leaving the soil parched. A 2023 Central Ground Water Board study flagged Wahibugh as a critical zone, warning that unscientific excavation could render the groundwater table unsustainable within five years. “The land is thirsty,” says Ghulam Rasool, a retired schoolteacher. “Even after rain, the soil forgets how to hold water.”
The Romshi’s tributaries—once vibrant streams feeding fields of pears and plums—have vanished, reduced to dry scars across barren land. Greater Kashmir reported in 2023 that illegal mining has obliterated over 70 percent of the river’s minor feeders in Pulwama alone. The ecological toll is stark: fish have disappeared, birds have fled, and mosquitoes breed in stagnant pools, raising fears of waterborne diseases. The weather, too, seems to turn against the village. Rains fall harder but bring no relief; floods threaten, yet droughts persist. Weakened embankments crumble, and even minor downpours erode farmland, washing away topsoil and hope.
The economic impact is devastating. Apple yields have plummeted, and market buyers now bypass Wahibugh’s shrunken, substandard fruit. “We can’t afford new saplings,” says Bilal Ahmad, a young farmer. “We don’t know if they’d survive.” The village, once a proud hub of agriculture, is hollowing out. Young men leave for distant cities—Srinagar, Delhi—seeking work far from their roots. Behind them, aging parents tend thirsty fields, their heritage crumbling.
The miners, often outsiders backed by powerful interests, operate in a murky world of loopholes and indifference. Some hold licenses but flout limits; others work without any approval. Complaints are lodged, inspections conducted, but enforcement is fleeting. The National Green Tribunal issued a notice in November 2023, demanding answers from Pulwama’s administration, yet the machines return each night, cloaked in impunity. The District Mineral Office reported seizing 333 vehicles and collecting ₹91.43 lakh in fines in 2024, but locals say the mining persists, merely better concealed.
Wahibugh’s plea is simple: sustainability, not miracles. The villagers know gravel feeds progress—roads, homes, cities—but must it cost them their river? Can mining not be regulated, boundaries respected, laws enforced? The Romshi is more than water; she is identity. Her loss unravels not just ecosystems but communities, erasing rituals, rhythms, and resilience. Yet hope endures. “The river can come back,” Rasool insists. “If we stop now. If we protect her.”
This is not just Wahibugh’s story—it is a warning. Across Kashmir, rivers are mined to exhaustion, their voices silenced by greed. The Romshi’s fate hangs in the balance, a question echoing in the silence: Will the next generation know her song, or only her absence? The villagers wait—not for pity, but for justice. For someone to say: Enough.
(Note: Gowher Bhat is a versatile wordsmith, weaving stories as a published author and creative writer while shaping minds as an experienced English instructor.)
