Gilgit in the Light of Lost Purity From Crystal Waters to Concretized Chaos: A Valley’s Quiet Lament

By Syed Shams Uddin The Light That Once Was: A Lament and a Call for Renewal in Gilgit-Baltistan “There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell’d in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.” — William Wordsworth There truly was such a time in Gilgit. A time when the rhythm of nature shaped daily life, and the land flowed with a quiet, unspoiled grace now almost unimaginable. For those of us who lived through the 1960s and earlier, Gilgit-Baltistan was not merely a picturesque landscape — it was a realm of serenity, harmony, and purity. Even the most ordinary scenes seemed suffused with something ethereal. At the heart of this tranquil world was the Gilgit River — the pulse of the valley. Fed by ancient glaciers, its waters ran pure and icy, safe to drink straight from the banks. Children splashed and played along its shores; women washed clothes in its current; entire households depended on it, without hesitation or fear. It was more than a river — it was the soul of the land. Threaded across this valley were the dalejas — meticulously constructed water channels that guided snowmelt from the mountains to every orchard, field, and mohallah. These hand-dug conduits were lifelines, bringing not just water but also the shared spirit of community. In villages like Oshikhandas and Jalalabad, water from the Bagrote Nullah coursed through these channels, often filtered and desilted in communal wells thoughtfully placed along the way. One such well I remember vividly stood at Shangote Mohallah in Danyore — a legacy of foresight and compassion. Built to serve both travelers and locals, it offered not just water but a place of quiet gathering. Today, that same well lies dry, abandoned and forgotten, its purity lost to pollution and neglect. Yet even as late as the early 1990s, Danyore — a then-suburban locality of Gilgit City undergoing rapid urbanization — still held onto that legacy. Its watercourses still offered drinkable water, drawn directly from clean mountain streams. But the lessons of Gilgit’s unchecked growth went unheeded. Authorities failed to regulate construction, allowing a sprawl of concrete and chaos to replicate the very mistakes that had already scarred the city. Now, every watercourse in Danyore is contaminated — and the residents face mounting hardships in securing safe, clean water. Indeed, Danyore, like many once-idyllic locales around Gilgit, was a paradise — a mosaic of orchards, cool breezes, shaded paths, and generous soil. The people lived in quiet kinship with the land, guided more by ancestral rhythms than by the restless hand of modernity. Another example is of my own village Jalalabad in the vicinity of Gilgit.I have, regrettably, spent most of my life away from my native village. My ties to its soil remain deep, but circumstances kept me physically distant for many years. When I finally had the opportunity to visit the village a couple of years ago, I was struck by a wave of nostalgia — quickly followed by a profound sense of sorrow.The same perhaps remains the case with the adjoining Oshikhandas village. The daleja — the main water channel that once brought pristine, glacier-fed water into every home — was no longer what it used to be. In the 1970s and earlier, we drank freely from it, as did every household in the village, without the slightest concern for safety or purity. That water was life itself — cool, clean, and abundant. Ironically, the same daleja now runs polluted, its waters rendered undrinkable. The system that once symbolized communal well-being and self-reliance has deteriorated into a conduit of neglect. Today, the residents of Jalalabad have been forced to rely on piped water supply — a substitute that, while necessary, stands in stark contrast to the pure, flowing waters of the past. It is a sobering reminder of how much we have lost, and how urgently we must reflect on the consequences of our environmental disregard. But all of that began to change. From the 1970s onward, unplanned and ruthless urbanization began its slow conquest. Fields were buried beneath concrete; orchards gave way to plazas and roads; age-old dalejas were either abandoned or converted into open sewers. Construction mushroomed without concern for zoning, sanitation, or environmental integrity. It was “development” in name, but degradation in spirit. Perhaps the most destructive trend was the rise of blanket concretization. Cemented homes, paved roads, and unbroken slabs covered the once-breathing earth. Rainwater, which once soaked gently into the soil, now rushes across impermeable surfaces, pooling in corners or vanishing into gutters. Groundwater recharge declined. Natural springs dried up. The dalejas — once arteries of life — turned into foul-smelling drains. The Gilgit River, too, bears the scars. Once a shimmering ribbon of purity, it is now choked with untreated sewage, industrial waste, and construction debris. What was once the valley’s sacred lifeline now threatens the very health and dignity of its people. Clean water — once abundant, accessible, and free — is now a luxury. Communities that once drank freely from rivers and streams now wait anxiously for piped water, if and when it comes. The daily search for potable water has become an ordeal. This tragedy, let us be clear, is not a matter of fate — it is a matter of failure. A failure of vision, of governance, and of respect for what once was sacred. The authorities allowed — and at times, encouraged — unchecked construction, short-term profiteering, and environmental disregard. The result is plain for all to see: poisoned rivers, dry wells, broken landscapes, and a people cut off from their natural inheritance. Yet, not all is lost. The memory of what once was — the echo of running water, the scent of flowering orchards, the sound of laughter along the banks — still lives in the hearts of the elders. These memories must not fade. They must become our collective conscience — and our blueprint for redemption. We must act — and we must act now. We must restore the dalejas, clean the rivers, and halt all unregulated construction in vulnerable zones. We must end the culture of unchecked concretization and demand sustainable town planning that honors the geography, ecology, and cultural heritage of this unique region. Only then can we hope to reclaim that lost “celestial light” — the glory and freshness of a dream — that once bathed our meadows, groves, and streams.