Shereen Naman
I remember standing at the edge of Wular Lake one quiet afternoon, watching its vast waters stretch endlessly into the horizon. The wind was fierce, rippling through the lake with the kind of authority only nature can command. A fisherman nearby pointed toward a speck in the middle of the water. “Zaen Lank,” he said. “Budshah’s island.”
That was the first time I heard the story—part legend, part history—of Sultan Zain-ul-Abidin and his mysterious island. The tale goes that the king, deeply revered across Kashmir as Budshah, once heard about a submerged temple hidden somewhere in the belly of Wular. Curiosity got the better of him, and he sent men to explore. What they found underwater were ruins—stones whispering of ancient times—and glittering gold sculptures lost to the world.
But Budshah wasn’t a man to let such discoveries fade away. He decided to build an island right atop that forgotten temple. A mosque rose there, so did a small palace. The place became more than a structure—it was a statement. A reclamation. A celebration. And just like that, Zaen Lank was born.
The beauty of this story lies not just in its royal grandeur but in its quiet brilliance. The island wasn’t created only as a place of worship or retreat. It had a purpose far deeper—almost scientific. Wular Lake had always been known for its wild, untamable waves. Old folks in the village would speak of the wav jinns, spirits said to stir up monstrous waves that swallowed boats whole. The island, as I later learned, helped break those waves apart. It made the lake safer. It calmed the chaos.
What might seem like folklore today was, in many ways, a sophisticated understanding of geography and water behavior. Budshah didn’t just respond to myth; he responded to its underlying truth. His creation of Zaen Lank wasn’t only about heritage—it was about harmony.
There’s a similar logic behind the small islands in Dal Lake too. These weren’t ornamental or accidental. They were born from ancient knowledge—an understanding of how to live in rhythm with nature, not against it. These islands, some now overgrown or neglected, were part of an ecological strategy—absorbing wind, breaking waves, giving shelter to birds, and shaping a relationship between humans and water that was built on respect, not domination.
What stayed with me most, though, was an old stone inscription said to have been found on the island, dating back to 1443. It bore a Persian verse that went something like this:
“May this place endure like the foundation of heaven!
Be known to the world by the name of Zaina Dab!
So that Zain-ul-Abidin may hold festivities therein,
May it ever be pleasant like his own date!”
It’s poetic and personal—almost like a love letter to a place he created with both heart and wisdom. I imagined Budshah sitting there on a clear day, perhaps with musicians nearby, the mosque echoing gentle prayers, the waves calm, tamed by design. I imagined him proud—not of power—but of creating something that served both beauty and purpose.
In modern times, we often separate design from meaning. But in Budshah’s era, architecture was an extension of philosophy. The king wasn’t only building to mark his rule—he was building to solve, to protect, to inspire. Zaen Lank, in its layered existence, did all of that. It stood on memory, held water at bay, offered prayer, and perhaps most quietly, told a story about how vision can live gently in the world.
Even today, when one visits Wular, the lake doesn’t give away its secrets easily. The island is hardly visible, more myth than monument. Boats pass it by without stopping. There are no plaques or tourist boards announcing its significance. And yet, when you look closely, you can almost hear it. The rush of wind meeting stone. The hush of history beneath the waves. The echo of a name—Zain-ul-Abidin—whispered by time.
It’s tempting to mourn the fading of such stories. But perhaps that’s not what they ask of us. Maybe they ask us only to remember—to notice, to listen. Zaen Lank may now be a faded dot on the lake, its story washed into silence. But for those who care to pause and ask, it still speaks—in winds, in waves, and in verses carved on ancient stone.
And what of Budshah?
In the pages of history, he is remembered as the people’s king—benevolent, artistic, forward-thinking. A lover of peace after years of invasion. But I believe this island, this quiet testament in the middle of Wular, captures the essence of his rule better than any textbook. He did not just rule with power—he ruled with purpose. He left behind not just monuments, but metaphors. In calming the lake, he reminded us that even the fiercest forces of nature can be respected, understood, and embraced.
There is a quiet revolution in such thinking—one we might do well to recall in an age of environmental strain and cultural amnesia. The stories of Kashmir are not always grand or loud. Sometimes, they are small islands. Sometimes, they are windbreakers. Sometimes, they are old verses on forgotten stones.
But always, they wait for someone to listen .
The author can be reached at shereennaman332@gmail.com
