A city is not judged by the height of its buildings or the beauty of its gardens, but by how easily people can move within it. Srinagar, a SMART city that prides itself on history and charm, has sadly become a maze where reaching a government office feels like running an obstacle course. My recent attempt to reach the DC office is not just a personal frustration—it reflects the daily ordeal of every Kashmiri who dares to drive into the city’s heart.
I began from Budshah Chowk, a stretch that should take minutes but consumed nearly 40. After crossing the bridge, logic suggested a direct route. But Srinagar’s traffic “design” rarely follows logic. At Jehangir Chowk, instead of continuing smoothly, I was forced left toward Amira Kadal, then right again into chaos. Near the flyover, I swung left towards Magarmal Bagh, made a U-turn, crawled towards the High Court, twisted past Jahangir Hotel, then another right, then left—only to reach a jam where cars stood nose-to-nose, both sides of the bridge serving as illegal parking lots.
The climax came when a driver chatting on his phone drove the wrong way on the bridge. A lone traffic van with overburdened cops could only wave helplessly as the entire stream of vehicles, mine included, reversed through a sea of honking cars. Imagine backing up on a packed bridge instead of your driveway—that is Srinagar’s daily humiliation.
If the journey was frustrating, the destination was worse. In front of the DC office, I drove nearly two kilometres without finding a single legal parking spot. Both sides of the approach road were clogged with cars and motorcycles. The message was clear: come here only if you’re willing to walk long distances or abandon your car illegally and pray it isn’t towed.
Just a day earlier at the High Court, the story was the same. Visitors and litigants circled endlessly, hunting for a square foot of parking. The courts may be temples of justice, but outside them chaos reigns. GMC, the old and new civil secretariats, and hospitals in Srinagar face the same crisis. Patients, attendants, and visitors compete for limited space while traffic police, despite sincere effort, are left firefighting.
It is easy to blame “too many cars,” but the problem runs deeper. Srinagar’s roads were designed for tongas and pedestrians, not today’s flood of SUVs, minibuses, and convoys. Urban growth advanced, but road design froze in another age. Multi-level parking near vital institutions like the DC office, civil secretariat, or High Court is conspicuously absent. New parking facilities at Polo View, Press Enclave, Old KMD and Shaikh Bagh are welcome, but too distant from these sites, leaving citizens—especially the elderly—no choice but to improvise.
The consequences are real. Thousands of productive hours vanish daily in traffic jams that shouldn’t exist. Tempers flare, horns blare, and civility erodes. Businesses in Lal Chowk and Jehangir Chowk lose customers who avoid these areas altogether. Safety measures, though necessary, often heighten public resentment when commuters are halted for emergencies or VIP movements. Yet glimmers of hope exist—traffic vans with loudspeakers guiding vehicles through choke points are reassuring, and the officers deserve appreciation for their hard work under immense strain.
The scale of the problem is staggering. Experts estimate Srinagar needs at least 30,000 parking spaces. Shockingly, fewer than 3,000 are available. This mismatch fuels congestion, frustration, and disorder. A comprehensive survey, followed by an actionable plan, is urgently needed. Without multi-level parking, strict enforcement of no-parking zones, and improved transport links, Srinagar risks permanent gridlock.
This crisis is not merely about enforcement—it is the cumulative result of decades of shortsighted planning and the absence of a coherent transport policy. Traffic police are left to treat symptoms of chaos while the disease of poor planning remains unaddressed. Cities worldwide tackled similar issues long ago; Srinagar must do the same. Bridges should be cleared of parked vehicles, with strict towing enforced. Smarter one-way systems, supported by digital signboards and real-time updates, can ease choke points. Electric buses help, but key corridors remain underserved. Without reliable public transport and last-mile connectivity, private cars will keep flooding the roads.
Walking to the DC office after abandoning my car far away, I asked myself: is this the capital of a 21st-century region or a forgotten town? Kashmiris are not asking for Dubai’s flyovers or Delhi’s metro—just the basic right to reach an office, park legally, and return home without hours of gridlock.
Traffic reform, however, is not the government’s responsibility alone. Unless we, as citizens, respect rules—keeping footpaths clear, avoiding encroachments, and parking responsibly—no authority can fix our streets. Real change begins with us. If we embrace discipline, even limited police efforts will yield results. If not, every traffic jam becomes more than a nuisance—it becomes a mirror of the disorder within our society.
Dr. Fiaz Maqbool Fazili is an emergency surgeon, healthcare quality expert and columnist who writes on civic and social issues in Kashmir.
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