As officers race for honours under the Smart City Mission, Srinagar’s streets tell a different story: displaced drivers, overcrowded buses, and a fractured commute struggling against time, writes Umaima Reshi
The day in Srinagar begins not with a calm rhythm but with the restless sounds of its roads. Amid the bustle, the cry of Batmalyun! Batmalyun! Hayy cuts through the air as drivers beckon passengers towards buses heading for Batamaloo, once the very nerve centre of Kashmir’s transport system. At key junctions, queues of Tata Sumos idle for their turn, while others sweep in to gather waiting crowds. The chorus of honking horns, the drivers’ shouts, and the unending growl of engines merge into a soundtrack that defines Srinagar’s daily struggle with mobility. The old order of a functioning public transport hub collides with the unfinished promise of the Smart City.
The Smart City dream was sold with visions of modern systems, ease of travel, and structured planning. Yet in Srinagar, these lofty aspirations crash into ground reality. Instead of fluid mobility, residents find themselves ensnared in longer journeys, endless jams, and broken routines.
Iqbal, a commuter from Budgam, explained how daily travel has become a test of endurance. Leaving home at 9 am, he said he rarely reached Jehangir Chowk before 10:30. From Hyderpora to Barzulla, the stretch drags on in gridlock, especially in the heat of summer. “It eats into everything, our work hours, our health, our energy,” he said. His experience echoes that of thousands whose lives now bend to the unpredictability of traffic.
Inside buses and sumos, further delays mount. A working woman said she loses nearly 30 minutes each morning and evening as drivers wait to pack vehicles to bursting point. “They are taking a bit of our lives,” she said bitterly, “in waiting for them to fill up the buses beyond their capacities.” For residents, commuting had become not merely about reaching a place, but enduring a drawn-out ordeal.
Private Transport Surge
As public transport lost its rhythm, private vehicles surged onto Srinagar’s narrow roads. The city today reflects a profound shift: cars parked in lanes, two-wheelers darting between rows, and long lines of vehicles choking arterial stretches.
Maqbool, an auto-rickshaw driver, recalled how his livelihood once sufficed for household needs. “Now nearly every home has a car bought through loans. Traffic has multiplied, congestion worsened, and our earnings collapsed,” he said.
In Sanat Nagar, Amin offered another perspective. His neighbours in nuclear families all kept their own cars. His joint family had two. Yet he still encouraged his children to travel by bus to build independence and resilience. For most, however, the choice was simple: owning a car or bike was faster and, in the long run, cheaper. The convenience outweighed the frustration of public transport.
This growth in private vehicles has reshaped the city’s atmosphere. Once reliant on shared rides and collective rhythms, Srinagar now struggles with a patchwork of individual commutes that has not only weakened public systems but also altered the social fabric of travel.
Service Gaps
The flaws of Srinagar’s public transport are most visible in planning, or the lack of it. Mini-buses, still the backbone for many, often freeze speedometers and crawl at 15 kilometres per hour, well below the legal minimum of 40, so they can scoop up more passengers. Overloading is routine, safety a casualty.
Smart City buses and e-autos were introduced as an answer. Yet, for residents, the patchiness of service meant little relief. Ulfat, from Peerbagh, recounted her daily ordeal of searching for a bus. “Red Bus No 2 is useful and free for women, but in the afternoons it becomes nearly impossible to find one,” she said.
Technology, too, has failed commuters. The Chalo app, designed to streamline schedules, rarely matched reality. “The timings are shown, but the buses don’t come,” Ulfat said. The digital promise, like the physical, has faltered.
Night travel magnifies the problem. Kamran, a restaurant worker from Naid Kadal, finishes late and leaves Lal Chowk at 9 pm. At that hour, catching a bus is sheer luck. He waits endlessly, often walking home when no sumo appears. “Autos are too costly, private vehicles not possible,” he said. For many, late-night work simply means late-night hardship.
E-rickshaws, meant as a cheaper solution, remain divisive. Commuters debate their safety and strength. Some embrace them as convenient, others deride them. A black auto driver dismissed them as dabbeh autos. A resident of Airport Road said they vanished entirely past Baghat. In some pockets, they crowd the streets; in others, they are nowhere to be found.
Rahim, from Chanapora, had already been in two accidents inside e-rickshaws. “There were no injuries, but how can this be called an improvement?” he asked. Their lack of shockers, especially for elderly passengers, made the rear seats unbearable. With no fixed stands, disputes with police and traditional drivers erupt regularly.
And while Srinagar core struggles, areas like Kangan in Ganderbal, part of the broader metropolitan zone, remain completely excluded from the so-called Smart transport.
The brunt falls hardest on private-sector employees. Yusra, a bank worker earning Rs 15,000 a month, said a third of her salary vanishes on commuting. “Smart City Mission promised convenience,” she said, “but it is meaningless if not everyone can access it.”
The Earning Hands
For many unemployed youth, e-rickshaws are both escape and entrapment. “It is like a fashion now,” a passenger remarked. “Anyone without work either drives an e-rickshaw or turns to drugs.”
Adil, who holds a Master’s degree in Environmental Science, sold his old petrol auto and took a bank loan to buy a quieter blue e-rickshaw. Passengers preferred it, but debt crushed him. “Weyn kyah karov—what can one do?” he sighed.
Zakir, just 19, dropped out of school after his father’s death. His mother sold her jewellery so he could buy an e-rickshaw and feed the family. “I just turned 19 this year. I found no other way,” he said.
Rameez, once employed at a Delhi call centre, secretly drives an electric auto in Srinagar. “My family still believe I have a regular job,” he said. Behind the wheels of these vehicles lie stories of broken careers, family sacrifices, and quiet compromises.
A Transport Decline
As mini-buses decline, the city suffers a deeper vacuum. Sumo drivers at Iqbal Park voice their despair. “We go out to earn a meal, but we are dragged away because we don’t have legal status. How are we to survive?” one asked.
A conductor called it “cruelty,” asking, “Are we not smart enough for the Smart City?” Mushtaq, a petrol auto driver, said new projects “cut our earnings and broke our routine.”
Petrol auto drivers like Sajad Ahmad said the Smart City push tilted the balance further against them. “People say we charge too much compared to the new ones. But we were the ones who gave convenience when nothing else was there,” he said.
Their frustration reflects a deeper truth: the transition to a Smart City has unsettled more livelihoods than it has secured.
The Khawaateen Khaas
The free bus service for women, under the Khawaateen Khaas plan, has been one of the few visible interventions. It changed travel patterns for thousands.
For school teacher Asmat Jahan, the impact was immediate. “Almost half my salary went into travel. Now I board this bus and save that,” she said. A university student echoed the relief: “I no longer ask my father for fare. For a month, I haven’t spent on transport. One just has to be quick to catch the bus.”
But relief came with crowding. Men hesitated to board, leaving buses cramped with women. An elderly commuter summed up his daily ordeal: “Every day, my only goal is to keep my dignity, surrounded by so many women.” Conductors now argue for gender-specific buses to balance the load. With overcrowding also come risks of harassment and safety concerns.
The Officials Take
Regional Transport Officer Kashmir, Qazi Irfan, drew a sharp line between Smart City and long-standing problems. “Iqbal Park is not a legal stand. It should only serve as a temporary stop,” he said. Monitoring nearly 9.7 lakh vehicles in Kashmir was “hectic,” he added, though regulated stands in Budgam and Exchange were showing results.
As of May 1, 2025, Srinagar counted 2,850 e-rickshaws. “At first, they gathered anywhere, but efforts are on to assign fixed spaces,” Irfan said.
On buses, senior official Rashid Mushtaq explained that complaints of buses not stopping arose because they were bound by system rules. “They halt only at designated points shown on the Chalo app. Midway stops are not allowed,” he said.
FIRs, he added, were not for mismanagement but for strict adherence. “Drivers face pressure from local operators to follow rules. Explaining it sometimes feels like talking to a wall,” he remarked. Overcrowding due to free travel for women was another burden, pushing operations to the edge.
Future Expansion
Currently, 100 electric buses ply 22 routes: 75 nine-metre buses with 23 seats, and 25 twelve-metre buses with 35 seats. Each is equipped with CCTV and audio systems. They operate from 6 am to 10:30 pm, under a Rs 100 crore government project partnered with Chalo, TATA, and SECL.
Mushtaq recalled how even enforcement officials sometimes misunderstood the rules. He once received a challan for four standing passengers, though the buses legally allowed it. “Even traffic police don’t always know these vehicles follow different standards,” he said.
A trial in Kangan failed, twelve-metre buses could not pass through encroachments, and nine-metre buses ran low on mileage. Yet expansion continues. Approval has been given for 200 more buses under the PME project. New charging stations are being set up at Ali Jan Road, Hazratbal, and TRC to ease pressure on Pantha Chowk.
“Good things take time,” Mushtaq concluded. “The disorder will take a while to settle, but progress is on, and changes will be seen.”
