The Dal Lake with all its dense algae, never ending weeds, and thickened waters is a wonder. It is a far cry from what we are told it used to be. But it is beautiful. Of course, it is still beautiful.
On a unusually quiet autumn afternoon, you sit motionless on the banks of the Dal and concentrate on the sound of the water as it slaps the rocky wall. The deep rippling voice of the lake, like a sagacious grandparent, speaking to you. The Dal has been a witness of Kashmir. Under the mass of algae and weeds the spirit of the Dal lies waste. It bears a witness to the daily struggle of Kashmir in its innumerable forms, from dawn to sunset.
In the golden sunlight the sun is slowly sinking behind the houseboats. The boatmen are mooring their boats. An elderly couple, a group of old friends, and a lonesome photographer stand quietly waiting for the sun to slowly change its colours. A few noisy cars, a group of famished dogs and a few army men pass by. The sun has gone and the waves rise to bid it good bye. A few fountains lit up. A white moon hangs low.
Beneath the algae, the spirit of the lake sleeps.