Amarnath Yatra: ‘We are not deterred by terror attack… but scared of these mountains’

Now, the trekking route has been widened and paved, adorned with locking tiles against the raw mountain face. Solar-powered street lights pierce the alpine darkness, handrails and safety walls guide the faithful along paths of this treacherous trek.

But this has come at a cost. Where once white glacial streams cascaded in diamond-bright torrents, now mere trickles escape from mounds of rubble. Trees stand mutilated, their branches severed to accommodate the wider paths. The price of progress is written in scars across the landscape.

The sun hadn’t yet crested the jagged peaks of Kashmir when Parvati clutched her hiking stick, her knuckles white against the weathered wood. Dressed in a simple grey shirt and pyjamas, feet clad in mere sandals, she is underprepared but resolute. Beside her, son Rishabh shifted nervously — he has skipped school to make the trek. “This was my husband’s plan. My son will miss school, but we are here as a family. We are not deterred by the terror attack. But I am scared of these mountains,” she said.

Around them, the stark contrast between pilgrims became evident. Some arrived as modern adventurers, sporting jackets, proper hiking boots, and carefully planned provisions. Others embodied raw faith, undertaking the trek barefoot in simple knickers and shirts, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

Poonam Sharma, Santosh Sharma, Babita Devi, and Anshu, all from Meerut, Uttar Pradesh, have taken a break to catch up on their breath. “This time there are a lot of toilets on the way,” Poonam observed, although she quickly added: “But some of them are dysfunctional. We make do with what we can.”

By 9:30 am, as temperature rose, the dusty trail began its relentless test.

Nisar Ahmed, a weathered pony handler with eight years of experience ferrying pilgrims, pulled his face mask higher against the swirling dust. “This is the hottest month in the past 8 years,” he said.

The sun climbed mercilessly. Pilgrims who had begun with enthusiasm now wilted, their fervour giving way to the harsh reality of high-altitude trekking. They jostled for patches of shade, some collapsing onto rocks, hoping for even the smallest respite.

Mothers and children began to break down from exhaustion. Men who had earlier scoffed at paying Rs 20 for nimbu paani and cucumber now desperately sought these simple lifesavers. At every few metres pilgrims swoon on their hiking sticks cursing at the unrelenting sun.

Swami Digambara from Pune, his saffron robes dark with sweat, stumbled toward a Mountain Rescue Team officer, pointing desperately at an oxygen cylinder. The officer and accompanying doctor examined him with practised efficiency before making their decision: “Iski lat lag jaayegi toh iske bina nai kar paoge bhole (once you’ve become used to the oxygen cylinder, you can’t do without it),” the officer reasoned.

Digambara rested momentarily, then continued his journey after he was assured the track would become plain in a short while.

Shadab Ahmed, a Jammu and Kashmir Police officer with the mountain rescue unit said: “We have attended to 40 pilgrims with altitude sickness. Most of them are youngsters in the age group of 25-35. This is because they lead a sedentary lifestyle. They don’t exercise and end up falling sick in the mountains. In fact, the older people who are still active manage to undertake the trek.”

Dinesh Chawla from Delhi had reached his breaking point — his body refusing to move another step. His friends rushed to him with cucumber slices sprinkled with black salt. As he slowly rejuvenated, he shook his head, refusing to continue. His friends begin to chant: “Bum bum Bhole”. The sound rippled through the crowd, connecting strangers in shared devotion. Slowly, Chawla found his feet and began moving forward again.

As the old mud track merged with the new paved pathway near Pissu Top, the complexity of managing this sacred space became evident. A tourist was struck by a pony navigating the crowded path. Information crackled through radio communications to BSF officers perched at strategic command stations on high ground. They descended swiftly on the pony handlers for even minor transgressions.

“Hum yahan seva karne aye hai. Kasam se (We’ve come here to serve. We promise),” the handlers protested in unison.

In such an arduous trek, water becomes the ultimate currency. Shanti Devi from Bihar, who had arrived with a group of 34, found herself alone, separated by dehydration. “I can’t move forward, I can’t move back,” she whispered. “There should be water along the way. They’re selling water for Rs 50.”

By 3 pm, as pilgrims reached Sheshnag camp, the mountain began asserting its ancient authority. Ominous announcements crackled through the air: “Bhaiya mein Sultanpur se Pyarelal baat kar raha hun. Yahan mausam kharab hone wala hai. Aap log kahan hain? Mujhe dar lag raha hai (Brother, this is Pyarelal calling from Sultanpur. The weather is about to turn bad here. Where are you all? I’m scared).”

Through the night, these desperate calls continued as the day’s scorching heat gave way to bitter cold winds.

At the base camp hospital, Dr Nishra Ahmed attends to over a dozen patients who conquered the tough trek. “Most of the patients are suffering from high-altitude sickness,” Dr Ahmed said. “They complain of breathlessness, headaches. One male patient, age around 40, died.”