The weather has changed. Whether we change with wisdom or merely with regret is now up to us
ZAHID MUJTABA
The seasons in Kashmir once followed a script everyone knew by heart. Autumn’s burnished chinars gave way to crisp November mornings, December announced itself with snow on the mountains, and by January the Valley would be wrapped in a thick white quilt. Spring came on time, gentle and gradual; summers were brief, mild, and welcome. Today, that script is being rewritten before our eyes—and often, to our alarm.
Over the past few years, the people of Kashmir have begun to speak of winter the way they once spoke of politics: with uncertainty, frustration, and a sense that something fundamental has gone wrong. Snow arrives late or in violent bursts. November feels like October, and January sometimes feels like March. Summers are not just warmer, they are harsher, drier, and longer. Rains come when they should not, and stay away when they are most needed.
The changing weather patterns in the Kashmir Valley are no longer an abstract debate for conferences and climate reports. They are lived reality—in our orchards and fields, in our markets and homes, and in the anxious conversations of ordinary people who sense that the Valley they inherited will not be the same one they leave to their children.
Winters that no longer feel like winters
Kashmir’s identity is intertwined with its winters. The three months of ‘chilay kalan’ have long been seen as both a test of endurance and a time of quiet beauty. But in recent years, snow has often arrived late, fallen unevenly, or melted too quickly. There have been winters with almost no significant snowfall in the plains, followed suddenly by intense spells that disrupt life instead of sustaining it.
These shifts are not cosmetic. Reduced and erratic snowfall means reduced snowpack in the mountains—the natural reservoir that feeds our rivers and streams through the year. When the snow does not accumulate properly, or when it melts all at once during sudden warm periods, the entire water cycle is thrown off balance. Springs that once flowed reliably in villages across the Valley are weakening or drying. Farmers who planned sowing, irrigation, and harvesting around predictable patterns now find themselves guessing rather than knowing. For an economy and culture built around the rhythm of the seasons, this uncertainty is deeply destabilising.’
Orchards under stress
If one wants to measure climate anxiety in Kashmir, one needs only speak to an orchardist. Apple, the backbone of the Valley’s horticulture, is acutely sensitive to both temperature and timing. It needs a certain number of cold hours in winter, followed by a steady, predictable shift to spring. Increasingly, the Valley is witnessing warmer winters, sudden spells of extreme cold, and early or uneven flowering.
Unseasonal snowfall in late autumn has damaged trees and fruits right before harvest. Untimely rains during flowering and fruit-setting affect yields and quality. Episodes of intense heat in summer cause sunburn on apples, reduce their size, and disrupt traditional grading standards in the market. Small growers, already squeezed by rising costs and fluctuating prices, now face the added burden of a climate that no longer cooperates.
The story is similar for other crops. Saffron cultivation in Pampore has been affected by erratic rains and changes in soil moisture. Paddy farmers worry about irrigation water in critical months. Even everyday vegetables face unpredictable pest attacks as warmer temperatures alter the lifecycle of insects and diseases.
From floods to droughts: a cycle of extremes
Kashmir has always known floods, but what worries scientists and citizens alike is the increasing tendency of the weather to swing between extremes. Years of deficient snowfall and scant rain are followed by cloudbursts, sudden downpours, or intense snowfall events that overwhelm infrastructure and preparedness.
On one hand, there is the fear of drought: receding glaciers, shrinking snowfields, and thirsty fields during the growing season. On the other hand, there is the fear of another catastrophic flood, like the one in 2014, when swollen rivers and poor planning combined to devastate the Valley. The same climate disruptions that reduce water availability overall can also increase the frequency of such extreme events.
Kashmir now lives with a double insecurity: not knowing whether the coming months will bring too little water or too much, and whether the state is equipped to handle either.
A social and psychological toll
Climate change discussions often focus on statistics—rising temperatures, reduced snowfall, and changing rainfall patterns. But in Kashmir, the impact is also emotional and cultural.
The older generation speaks nostalgically of winters when snow would reach the windowsill, when children skated on frozen ponds, when the first snowfall was a community event. Today’s children may grow up knowing snow more as a disruption than a delight—shutting schools abruptly, snapping power lines, or arriving so late that Harud (autumn) and winter seem almost to collide.
There is also a quiet but growing anxiety in rural households. When your livelihood depends on the orchard, the paddy field, or the saffron karewa, every unpredictable spell of rain or sunshine becomes a source of stress. Farmers speak of sleepless nights before a forecasted storm, of watching the sky as if it were a capricious employer whose mood can ruin a year’s labour.
What must be done—beyond rhetoric
Acknowledging the problem is no longer enough. The Valley needs a clear, practical response to changing weather patterns—one that combines science, governance, and local wisdom. First, there must be a serious investment in climate-resilient agriculture and horticulture. This means:
- Developing and promoting crop varieties better adapted to new temperature and rainfall realities.
- Training farmers in modern techniques for water management, soil health, and pest control that account for changing conditions.
- Strengthening crop insurance and compensation mechanisms so that one freak weather event does not push a family into debt.
Second, water management has to move from ad-hoc reactions to long-term planning. Protecting wetlands, restoring traditional water bodies, regulating construction along riverbanks, and upgrading drainage and flood control systems are no longer optional—they are essential to survival in a climate-uncertain future.
Third, the Valley urgently needs reliable, localised data. Weather forecasting, early warning systems, and village-level climate advisories can help farmers and residents make informed decisions. Decisions about sowing, harvesting, or even travel should not be left to guesswork when technology can give timely guidance.
Finally, there must be an honest conversation about our own role. Deforestation, unplanned urbanisation, encroachment on floodplains and wetlands, and the careless treatment of rivers and forests have all made us more vulnerable. Global climate forces may not be in our control, but the way we treat our own landscape certainly is.
A question of stewardship
The changing weather patterns in the Kashmir Valley are not just a scientific phenomenon; they are a moral challenge. The snow that no longer comes on time, the rivers that run lower than before, the orchards that yield less fruit—all of these ask us an uncomfortable question: are we being good stewards of the land we claim to love?
Kashmir has survived conflict, political upheaval, and economic hardship. But the slow, relentless transformation of its climate will test it in a different way—quieter, but no less profound. If we respond with denial and delay, we risk losing not only economic security but also the very character of the Valley.
The time for viewing climate change as someone else’s problem is over. It is here, in our winters and summers, in our fields and markets, in the conversations of farmers and students alike. The longer we wait to adapt, to protect, and to reform, the more expensive—and perhaps irreversible—the damage will be.
The Valley still has a chance to chart a different course: to blend traditional knowledge with modern science, to insist on responsible development, and to treat its mountains, rivers, and orchards not as resources to be exhausted, but as trusts to be safeguarded. The weather has changed. Whether we change with wisdom or merely with regret is now up to us.
( The Author is a lecturer in Environmental science)