Growing up I never thought this would become a story one day. Here today, when I look back to the early 2000s, we did not have tap water system in Hunza. There were no pipes connections into our kitchens. Instead, every neighborhood had a Gulk (a communal well) which was brimming over with fresh water every day. These communal wells were not only the source of fresh and cold water but also a place where people, especially women used to gather and socialize.
Women gathered every day, not only for fresh water but also to gossip, laugh, rest, and simply be together. As the sun climbed and the fields grew too hot to work in, they’d retreat to the Gulk’s cold and refreshing shade. Some would sit with their feet in the water, sleeves rolling up, chatting for hours. Others brought along little sewing kits and worked on cross-stitch embroidery carefully crafting traditional Hunza caps and art pieces meant as gifts for brides to take to their in-laws.
And somehow, while all this was happening the talking, the stitching, the splashing of water meals was also being prepped. I still remember the sound of sha/hoi (local mustard greens) being washed and chopped by the edge of the Gulk. Everything happened there, all at once.
Elders, would sit there for most of the day. They didn’t have anywhere to rush to. They just watched the day unfold, nodding at familiar faces, stopping people for a quick chat or sometimes a long one. Everyone passed by the Gulk. Everyone had a moment to spare.
Our Gulk was like that too. I have so many vivid memories. Women from our neighborhood stopping to talk, or strangers just passing through who’d get pulled into the conversation. My grandmother always sat nearby, often with a basket of apples from our trees. She’d hand them out to the kids walking by; no questions asked. That’s just how it was. People shared what they had, stories most of all.
Everyone knew everyone. You didn’t need a phone to know who was sick, who had guests, or who just needed a chat. There were people who loved long conversations. Others kept it simple: a warm hello, a quick check-in, and then home they went.
Back then, it never crossed my mind that we might be the last generation to witness this way of life. But sadly, we are. One by one, the Gulks disappeared. Some were filled in. Others were just abandoned. The water came to our taps, but something else quietly left, that sense of community, of togetherness. We lose the stories, the warmth, the everyday magic of human connection. We lost the sound of laughter, the splash of water mingled with gossip, and a way of life built around something as simple and essential as water. We lost a space where women rested and laughed and embroidered dreams into cloth, where elders passed on wisdom in casual conversations, where neighbors stayed connected without even trying.
The very water that once sustained our Gulks flows through forgotten channels, neglected and polluted. People have connected wastewater pipes to the same channels that once carried the purest glacier water into our lives. With the Gulks gone, the collective responsibility vanished too. Where neighbors once gathered to protect and share this precious resource, now there is apathy. The water channel still runs quieter, dirtier, lonelier. We didn’t just lose a water system; we lost our way of caring, of being together, of respecting what sustained us.
Now, when I walk through my village, it feels quieter. Fewer people, fewer voices, fewer gatherings. And no Gulks. I carry those memories like treasures. And maybe that’s all we can do to our childhood memories, hold on to them, share them, and remind ourselves of the beauty we once had when life was slower, simpler, and a little more human.
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