The Celestial Pilgrims

Every winter, when the breath of Kashmir turns frosty and the mountains fold themselves into white silence, an ancient procession arrives. Not on foot, nor by caravan, but on wings stretched across continents. They come as pilgrims of the sky, as seekers of quietude, as bearers of forgotten hymns.

From Siberia, Central Asia, and the distant lands of frozen rivers, the saffron-winged ruddy shelduck drifts down upon the waters of Wular. The silver-crowned northern pintail carves mirrored ripples across Hokersar. The obsidian coot, dark as midnight, whispers against the reeds of Haigam. And the greylag goose, with its eyes lined by time itself, glides over Shalbugh as though it were gliding over a page of scripture. Each bird is not a visitor but a devotee, entering Kashmir as one enters a shrine.

It is said that every land has its sanctuaries, but our valley is blessed twice over: by the saints who once carried the fragrance of Sufism across its fields, and by these feathered mystics who still arrive each winter to recite prayers in the language of silence. If you pause at dawn, when mist lies low upon the wetlands, you will hear it — not a sound that can be caught by microphones, but a rhythm, an unhurried chorus that rises from wings brushing water. It is the earth remembering itself.

And yet, how often do we pass them by without wonder? How easily do we forget that a northern pintail has travelled thousands of miles through storms, deserts, and seas just to alight upon Hokersar for a few weeks of rest? How rarely do we tell our children that a ruddy shelduck is no ordinary bird but a pilgrim, returning faithfully to Kashmir as though to a holy retreat?

To call these wetlands mere waterbodies is to strip them of their soul. Wular, Hokersar, Haigam, Shalbugh — they are not ponds or lakes, they are sanctuaries, water where prayers are sung without words. A single dive of a pochard is a hymn. A teal rippling the surface is a verse. If one listens carefully, the whole wetland turns into a scripture of devotion.

The message then is simple, yet urgent: do not disturb them. Do not desecrate their prayer. When a pellet strikes a coot or a stone shatters the silence of reeds, it is not merely a bird that is wounded, but the sanctity of Kashmir itself. To honour them is to honour ourselves, for they have chosen us — our valley, our lakes, our silence — as their resting place.

In the old days, Kashmiris were known to lay out their hearths for strangers, to feed a traveller before feeding themselves. These winged travellers too deserve such hospitality. It requires a shift within us — a gentleness, a willingness to see beyond utility. It requires teaching our children to stand at the edge of Haigam and watch the northern pintail without throwing a stone. It requires telling them that to see a greylag goose rise into the winter sky is to glimpse a piece of eternity lifting its wings.

Kashmir has always been a host — to mystics, to saints, to poets, and now, to these pilgrims of the sky. If we allow them to fade, if our wetlands fall silent, what hymn will remain to remind us of who we are?

So, let us keep the sanctity alive. Let us guard Wular as we would guard a shrine. Let Hokersar remain a place where prayers land each winter. Let Haigam and Shalbugh continue to echo with the hymns of wings. This is not the duty of governments alone; it is the responsibility of each Kashmiri heart.

The pilgrims have arrived again. Their wings are wet with memory, their eyes heavy with distance. They have crossed half the world to kneel upon our waters.Let these pilgrims of the sky be honoured.

Khursheed Dar is a teacher and and author from Langate.