Yesterday, like many visitors before me, I came to Manasbal expecting to witness one of Kashmir’s quieter wonders. After all, this is one of most celebrated lakes, often spoken of in the same breath as Wular, famed for its depth, its stillness, its migratory birds, and its postcard promise. What I encountered instead was not beauty, but neglect. And that, honestly, hurt more than disappointment.
Manasbal is supposed to be a jewel. A place where nature breathes freely, where birds travel thousands of kilometres to rest, and where visitors pause to absorb silence and serenity. But as I walked through the garden and along the lake, the first thing that struck me was not the water, it was the dirt. Litter scattered casually, pathways poorly maintained, and an overall sense of abandonment that was impossible to ignore. I found myself thinking, almost absurdly, that my local neighborhood park is cleaner and better cared for than this so called tourist attraction.
The irony is painful. We charge an entry fee, yet fail to offer even basic cleanliness in return. Dustbins are either missing or ignored. Plastic lies unapologetically near the water’s edge, the same water that supports fish, birds, and an entire fragile ecosystem. If migratory birds could speak, one wonders what they would say about the state of their winter home.
Then there are the signboards, rusted, faded, and illegible. These boards are meant to educate visitors about the lake’s ecological importance, its bird species, and its history. Instead, they stand as silent symbols of neglect. What good is awareness if the words themselves can no longer be read? Tourism is not just about entry tickets and photographs; it is about storytelling, pride, and responsibility. At Manasbal, that story is corroding, quite literally.
What saddened me most was the wasted potential. The lake still holds beauty. The birds still arrive. The water still reflects the sky in moments of quiet grace. But beauty cannot survive forever on memory alone. Without care, even the most generous gifts of nature begin to withdraw.
Manasbal does not need grand projects or cosmetic upgrades. It needs something far simpler and far more urgent, respect. Regular cleaning, functional signboards, responsible waste management, and a sense of accountability. If we cannot protect what nature has already perfected, what right do we have to call it a tourist destination?
This is not written in anger, but in hope. Hope that authorities listen. Hope that locals and visitors alike feel responsible. And hope that one day, Manasbal will once again feel like a place we are proud to show the world, not one we apologize for.
Nature has done its part. The question is: will we do ours? Nature has given us pristine water, rich biodiversity, and a landscape people travel miles to witness. What it asks in return is minimal care and conscious stewardship. Whether Manasbal survives as a living lake or fades into a neglected memory depends entirely on how seriously we choose to answer that question today.
(Author is a columnist)
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