Before the chants rise toward the Amarnath cave shrine, Kashmir awakens to receive the annual pilgrimage with labour, memory, and grace. Mushtaq Ahmad Dar reports.

Every summer, before the first pilgrim reaches the mountain, Kashmir begins getting ready.

The preparations are subtle at first. Along the highway south of Srinagar, workers repaint road dividers dulled by winter. Temporary shelters are patched and expanded. Water tanks arrive on trucks. Markets in Pahalgam begin stocking extra blankets, rain ponchos, batteries, biscuits, and walking sticks. Pony owners check saddles worn from the previous season. Tea stalls prepare for longer hours. Guesthouses make room.

And then, slowly, the movement gathers shape.

This week, the Centre began one of the largest security mobilisations ahead of the 2026 Amarnath Yatra, with nearly seven hundred companies of Central Armed Police Forces being deployed across Jammu and Kashmir as part of a layered security arrangement for the annual pilgrimage. Convoys have already begun moving into the region. More personnel are expected to arrive in phases over the coming weeks, covering the routes, camps, transit points, and vulnerable stretches leading to the Amarnath cave shrine, high in the Himalayas at 12,756 feet.

Security officials describe it as a logistical operation. For Kashmir, it is also the beginning of a season.

The Amarnath Yatra is among the most revered Hindu pilgrimages in India, drawing lakhs of devotees each year from nearly every state – families travelling by bus from Gujarat, groups from Maharashtra wrapped in saffron scarves, elderly pilgrims from Bengal, young trekkers from Delhi, first-time visitors from the south who have never seen snow in summer. They come for darshan, for faith, for endurance, and for something less easy to define: the experience of reaching a cave deep in the mountains where ice and belief meet.

But before they climb, they arrive in Kashmir.

And Kashmir receives them.

For generations, the yatra has unfolded not only as a pilgrimage but as an encounter between visitors and hosts. The route to the cave passes through landscapes that are lived in – through villages, meadows, forests, bazaars, homes, and livelihoods. It moves through places where Kashmiris work and wait and watch the season change around them.

In Pahalgam, the traditional route begins like many Kashmiri mornings in summer: the smell of pine and horses, tea being poured into paper cups, hotel workers carrying luggage before sunrise. Shopfront shutters rise one by one. Taxi drivers gather at stands. Porters negotiate rates. Ponies stamp against the cold ground. Vendors line up waterproof covers, dry fruits, and woollens.

For many families here, the yatra is also economic season.

Hotel owners expect full occupancy. Restaurant kitchens prepare for rush weeks. Tent operators hire extra labour. Pony handlers, porters, drivers, photographers, roadside tea sellers, fruit vendors, pharmacists, mechanics – thousands depend directly or indirectly on the movement the pilgrimage brings.

Yet economics alone does not fully explain the atmosphere.

There is also hospitality – practical, unceremonious, deeply embedded in Kashmiri culture.

Across the valley, the idea of mehmaan-nawazi – receiving the guest with dignity – still carries meaning beyond transaction. Pilgrims who arrive exhausted from long train journeys or overnight road travel often find Kashmir first through gestures that are small but memorable: a cup of noon chai offered without asking, directions given by a stranger, a shopkeeper helping someone find medicine, a local driver waiting an extra half-hour because an elderly yatri walks slowly.

For many Kashmiris, hosting the yatra has become part of summer’s rhythm.

There remains, of course, the unmistakable visibility of security. This year, officials say the arrangements will include expanded surveillance, drone monitoring, intelligence-led operations, and increased deployment across both the Pahalgam and Baltal routes. Additional security layers are being planned in view of what authorities describe as the prevailing threat environment. Base camps and transit camps will see heightened monitoring. The Indian Army, Jammu and Kashmir Police, and CAPFs are expected to coordinate closely as the pilgrimage approaches.

The security presence can feel enormous – convoys, checkpoints, barricades, aerial monitoring, personnel stationed at intervals across mountain roads. But beyond that visible grid, another infrastructure rises in parallel: kitchens, camps, transport networks, volunteer groups, langars, medical teams, sanitation workers, pony services, emergency rescue crews, and the everyday labour of ordinary Kashmiris who make movement through difficult terrain possible.

By July, the valley will once again become a corridor of devotion and logistics.

The pilgrims will arrive carrying prayer flags, backpacks, medicines, family photographs, and hopes. Some will chant “Bam Bam Bhole” as they walk. Some will travel in silence. Some will struggle with altitude. Some will reach the cave in tears. Many will stay behind for a few days after the pilgrimage – to see Pahalgam, Srinagar, Gulmarg, Sonamarg; to sit by the Lidder River; to buy saffron or shawls or dried apricots to take home.

And Kashmir, as it has done year after year, will likely open itself to them.

Not without complexity. Not without security. Not without memory.

But with roads prepared, camps assembled, kitchens warmed, and doors opening.

Long before the first prayer echoes toward the cave shrine, the valley is already awake, making space for those on their way.

About the Author

Mushtaq Ahmad Dar has a keen interest in religion, spirituality, and politics across the spectrum from left to right to centre.