A Homecoming of Hope
Waseem Farooq Mir
Wular Lake, the jewel of north Kashmir, begins its winter not with snow but with wings. As temperatures dip and mist curls over its vast waters, flocks of migratory birds return from distant skies, carrying with them the quiet grace of Siberian plains, the song of Central Asian wetlands, and the rhythmic whispers of trans-Himalayan winds. Their arrival is nature’s way of turning a page — the first line of winter’s poetry written in flight.
Each year, the world’s second-largest freshwater lake becomes a sanctuary for thousands of winged travelers: mallards, pochards, grebes, teals, and the elegant bar-headed geese, known to soar over Mount Everest. These birds cross borders without passports, guided not by political maps but by ancient instincts encoded in their feathers. When they descend upon Wular, rippling the lake’s mirrored surface at sunrise, it feels as though the landscape has inhaled a piece of heaven.
But their return is more than spectacle — it is ecological testimony. It tells us that despite changing climates, despite encroachment and pollution, some resilience still survives in our wetlands. Migratory birds are nature’s most sensitive messengers; they do not return to places that no longer nurture them. Their arrival, therefore, is not merely a biological event but confirmation of ecological hope.
For centuries, the people around Wular have marked the advent of winter not by the calendar but by the sound of wings overhead. Elderly fishermen still say, “Jab parinday wapas aate hain, tabhi asli sardi aati hai” — real winter arrives only when the birds do. For younger generations, many of whom rarely wake before the fog lifts, this seasonal reunion is often missed. Yet the legacy continues in folklore, in unspoken pride, and in the quiet understanding that Wular holds life even in stillness.
Sadly, wetlands like Wular are often seen as wastelands. Development projects, waste dumping, illegal fishing nets, and land reclamation threaten their delicate ecosystems. But while buildings and roads rise quickly, they do not echo at dawn the way birdsong does. Migratory birds do not seek comfort in concrete. They seek water, reeds, quietness — things we consider trivial until they disappear.
That is why their arrival must also be a reminder — a reminder that conservation isn’t just about saving birds but about preserving silence, reflection, and harmony, values often drowned in the noise of modern living. Wetlands store floodwater, recharge groundwater, support biodiversity, and stabilize climate; but they also offer something science cannot quantify: a sense of belonging to something larger than ourselves.
Imagine standing at Wular’s edge on a foggy December morning. The horizon melts into silver-grey. A flock rises together — wings flapping in synchrony, as if choreographed by the wind. In that moment, no one worries about borders or disputes. The lake doesn’t ask where they came from, the birds don’t question who watches them. That is harmony. That is home.
For photographers, writers, and nature lovers, winter at Wular is a living canvas. For scientists, it’s a critical seasonal process. For the birds, it’s survival. And for us — perhaps — it’s a lesson. In a world where we build walls between ourselves, these birds cross continents to remind us that survival is rooted in journey, not in fear. That belonging is earned not by exclusion but by adaptation.
As the chill deepens and snow begins to settle on the Pir Panjal, Wular will continue to resonate with fluttering wings and soft landings. The lake will darken, the winds will sharpen, but life will move across the surface in graceful arcs.
Winter has arrived — not with snowfall, but with flight.
Because sometimes the season begins not when the leaves fall or the mercury drops, but when the sky returns to the water.
Wular’s winter begins with wings. May we learn to welcome it as gently as the lake does.
(Note:Waseem Farooq Mir is a Conservator with the Forest Department, specializing in wetland restoration, bird habitat protection, and ecological monitoring. With deep field experience and a passion for Kashmir’s natural landscapes, he blends scientific insight with evocative writing to highlight the silent stories of forests, lakes, and wildlife.)
