What Uber’s latest venture in Kashmir means for shikhara owners in Srinagar

On a crisp November morning, the Dal Lake glimmers with a liquid mercury under the muted winter sun. Spade-shaped paddles cut through the icy waters and the soft cadence of a phiran-draped gondolier, clutching kangris and narrating folklore make the shikara as Kashmiri as kahwa or zafraan. Amid the ornate boats moored along the ghats, with their floral cushions and hand-painted flourishes, there it is — perched somewhat incongruously on the prow — a sleek black-and-white logo that city dwellers know all too well: Uber.

It is, perhaps, the strangest of partnerships — a fusion of old-world charm and new-age convenience — that the ancient trade of the gondolier is yoked to the efficiency of the algorithm. Just as Charon ferried souls through the frigid Styx, the shikara now carries visitors through the murky depths of a region caught between past and future, between tourist boom and political discord.

As part of its expansion in the region, the ride-hailing giant has ventured into Kashmiri waters, offering tourists the ability to book shikara rides with a few swipes. Born out of a partnership between Uber and the Shikara Union the initiative is being pitched as a win-win: For tourists, the appeal is obvious. No more haggling, no more being guilt-tripped into buying overpriced saffron or papier-mâché trinkets. Just an easy, app-based transaction where the price is set, the route is clear, and the shikara operators are vetted by Uber. A ride that might have cost a clueless firangi ₹5,000 after hard negotiations can now be booked online for the fixed rate of ₹800 per hour. 

For shikara operators on the other hand, it provides predictability in an uncertain economic climate and the elimination of middle-men. But the move also highlights a deeper tension in a place where change is often viewed with wary eyes — what does it really mean to inject tech-driven expedience into a land where time itself seems to move with caution?

The sprawling lake, often dubbed the “jewel in the crown of Kashmir”, has always been more than just a tourist hub. It feels like a microcosm of the region itself: breathtakingly beautiful, endlessly romanticised, and constantly embroiled in contrast. 

A decade ago, the waters reflected a different reality — frequent shutdowns, protests, and a disconcerting quiet interrupted only by the sounds of military convoys. The region’s special status under Article 370 had been revoked in 2019, and promises of development and prosperity hung in the air like unanswered prayers. Today, the checkpoints remain, as do the soldiers, but the narrative has (slightly) shifted. Tourism is booming, and with it comes the sheen of progress.

For most, the Uber Shikara service is a pragmatic response to a booming tourism sector. The pandemic-induced lull gave way to a surge of domestic and international visitors, eager to experience the Dal’s famed waters. But with this boom came logistical challenges: overcrowded boulevards, overbooked houseboats, and an overwhelmed fleet of shikaras.

There is no denying that the Uber Shikara makes life easier for tourists, nor that it brings a semblance of order to an industry that has long been at the mercy of its erratic tourism. But in a region as politically charged as Kashmir, even something as seemingly innocuous as a ride-sharing app can feel like a symbol of larger forces at play. While the Government touts the record-breaking influx of 28 million tourists to Jammu and Kashmir in 2024 as a sign of normalcy, the locals offer up some perspective.

There is a whispered worry that Dal’s magic lies in its unpolished chaos, and the operative precision of Uber risks sanding down the rough edges of what has always been a beautifully idiosyncratic experience. “Alas, the old is the old, and the new is the new,” says 50-year-old Abdul Ghani, a shikhara operator who has been paddling these waters since he was 16. While he welcomes the uptick in tourists, he cannot help but reminisce about “the Kashmir of old,” before commercialisation seeped into every corner of life.

If there is one thing that unites Kashmir’s locals, it is their pragmatism. Shikara operators, while largely welcoming of Uber, know that technology alone cannot solve their challenges. “It’s good, but the people need to be trained,” said Mehraj, a young shikhara operator. “Many of them are not educated. They don’t fully understand how big Uber is or how it works. But if it brings business, that’s what matters.”

Uber’s no-commission policy for shikara rides is an unusually generous move, and one that has already garnered praise from the locals. By making the service more transparent and accessible, it has levelled the playing field for operators who have long been at the mercy of local power dynamics.

But what about the tourists? Will they trade the charm of spontaneous exploration for the convenience of pre-scheduled rides? For now, the answer seems to be yes. An early look at the service seems to demonstrate its ease of use and fairness.

More pointed observations by Mehraj however, paint a complex portrait of life on the Dal. “The problem is that people are scared of this place,” he says. “People used to tell me not to go to Kashmir. It is dangerous. And that is a thought perpetuated as a byproduct of media narratives and the armed forces.” But Mehraj is just as quick to counter. “We are not what you see in the headlines. When people come here, they realise this is a place of peace, not violence. They’ve never seen people like Kashmiris anywhere else in the world.” He speaks of a Kashmir where this undying sense of hospitality and generosity is more than just the norm, rather, quiet acts of defiance against the venomous stereotypes that cling to the region like mist on the mountains.

The question no one is asking (at least not publicly) is whether this fresh sheen of revitalised “normalcy” risks papering over the unresolved tensions that define life in the valley. Kashmir’s “peace” is maintained through its disturbingly heavy military presence.

The more time you spend on the Dal, the Uber Shikara doesn’t feel like too much of defining shift, rather an update to something that has always been there. The shikara floats as both artifact and allegory. Whether steered by a wooden oar or nudged to its destination by Google Maps, it bears the weight of a history that refuses to sink and the fragile hope of progress that always threatens to drift.

The waters of the Dal reflect it all: progress and pain, tradition and transformation, the ceaseless interplay of past and future. Mehraj had earlier shared a proverb that seemed to capture these winds of change: “When sunlight hits one side of the tree, there’s shade on the other. And when it shifts, so does the shadow.”

On my last evening of my brief visit there, the sun dipped behind the mountains, gilding the waters in ochre haze, as life carried on. The shikaras rowed, the tourists snapped photos, and the soldiers stood watch. Here, everything changes, but nothing really does.

The writer was in Srinagar at the invitation of Uber