SANJAY PANDITA
In the heart of Kashmir, where the chinars burn red in autumn and the rivers hum ancient songs, lies a shrine whose aura transcends the rigid lines drawn by man and memory. The temple of Ksheer Bhawani, nestled amidst tall poplars and gurgling springs in the village of Tulmulla (Ganderbal), is not merely a religious site. It is an emblem of cultural synthesis, a sanctum of spiritual memory, and a living testimony to Kashmir’s syncretic ethos. Every year, on the auspicious day of Jyeshtha Ashtami, thousands gather here—Kashmiri Pandits, pilgrims from distant lands, local Muslims, and curious onlookers—to celebrate the festival of Ksheer Bhawani, a celebration not just of devotion, but of resilience, return, and remembrance.
The very name ‘Ksheer Bhawani’ conjures images of a divine mother seated over a sacred spring, whose changing colors are believed to foretell the fortunes of the land. ‘Ksheer’ refers to milk, symbolic of purity, nourishment, and divine essence, which is traditionally offered to the goddess along with rice. The presiding deity, Ragnya Devi, is an incarnation of Durga, the fierce protector and loving mother—her sanctity guarded by myths, legends, and generations of unwavering faith.
But Ksheer Bhawani is more than a religious observance. It is a lived, breathing cultural phenomenon that speaks to the very soul of Kashmir—its pluralism, its composite culture, and its unyielding hope. It is the festival that unites rather than divides, heals rather than hurts. In the turbulent geography of Kashmir, where identity often becomes a battleground, this festival offers a fragile but luminous thread of togetherness.
The origins of the Ksheer Bhawani shrine are steeped in antiquity and mysticism. References to the goddess can be found in Kalhana’s Rajatarangini, the 12th-century chronicle of Kashmir, which mentions the reverence of the deity by the kings and the common folk alike. According to one legend, Ragnya Devi, originally worshipped in Lanka by Ravana, was brought to Kashmir by Lord Hanuman upon the request of the goddess herself, who desired a more peaceful abode.
Over centuries, the temple at Tulmulla evolved not only into a spiritual nucleus for the Kashmiri Pandits but also into a cultural space frequented and respected by Kashmiri Muslims. The temple spring’s mysterious color-changing water, believed to mirror the mood of the goddess, has been a source of wonder. Black or dark hues are considered ominous; milky or light shades suggest divine satisfaction. Anecdotal tales speak of the spring turning darker during times of political unrest and brightening when the land is at peace.
For Kashmiri Pandits, the festival has traditionally been both a pilgrimage and a homecoming. It is not uncommon to hear elders recall the journey to Tulmulla as children—walking barefoot, carrying milk and lotus flowers, singing hymns, and resting under the shade of mighty poplars. The gathering of thousands of families at the site was a cultural carnival of sorts, where music, food, laughter, and reverence mingled freely. It was during these moments that the fabric of community was woven tighter, where the divine and the everyday danced together.
But it is not only the temple’s sanctity that holds meaning; it is the unspoken, almost sacred, participation of Kashmiri Muslims in the festival that underscores its inclusiveness. For decades, they have been the keepers of the shrine—cleaning its courtyards, tending to its trees, caring for the spring. Even during the darkest days of Kashmir’s political unrest, many Muslims in Tulmulla and other nearby villages protected the site with devotion, offering flowers and oil lamps in the absence of their Pandit neighbors. Their role has been not just that of caretakers, but of co-devotees, affirming the spirit of Kashmiriyat, that elusive but powerful cultural fusion which defines the Valley at its best.
The exodus of Kashmiri Pandits in the early 1990s, under the shadow of militancy and fear, ruptured the cultural topography of Kashmir. The silence that fell over the Ksheer Bhawani shrine was more than a spiritual absence—it was a cultural amputation. The festival, once teeming with the warmth of community, fell into ghostly quietude. And yet, even during those grim years, some Muslims in Tulmulla continued the rituals in hushed reverence. They lit diyas, offered milk, and whispered prayers—not just out of obligation, but out of remembrance.
With the gradual return of peace in certain pockets and the efforts of the administration, the festival began to witness a slow revival from the mid-2000s. What makes the recent gatherings significant is not just the physical return of devotees, but the emotional and symbolic weight of that return. For many Pandits visiting from Delhi, Jammu, or abroad, Ksheer Bhawani is more than a religious pilgrimage—it is a return to a space of childhood, a reclaiming of identity, and a reaffirmation of roots. The joy of reconnecting with Muslim friends, long lost in the tides of time and trauma, often evokes tears and embraces more divine than the rituals themselves.
In contemporary times, when the world reels under rising communal tensions, identity politics, and xenophobic currents, Ksheer Bhawani stands out as a glimmering emblem of inclusiveness. The fact that a Hindu festival in a predominantly Muslim region continues to be respected, facilitated, and even celebrated jointly speaks volumes of the deep-rooted bonds that no politics can sever.
Every year, the festival draws participation not only from returning Pandits but also from local Muslims who help in organizing the event, set up makeshift stalls, distribute drinking water, and greet old friends. It becomes a day where differences blur, and memory triumphs over manipulation. It is not unusual to see a Muslim man explaining the legend of Ragnya Devi to a visiting journalist, or an elderly Pandit woman blessing a Muslim child running barefoot near the spring.
It is this quiet, organic interfaith harmony that the Ksheer Bhawani festival nurtures, which makes it one of the most culturally relevant events in India’s spiritual calendar. While many festivals in the subcontinent are increasingly being boxed into identity markers—either saffron or green—Ksheer Bhawani remains unbranded, unfenced, and beautifully human.
Yet, like all sacred spaces in a troubled land, Ksheer Bhawani’s relevance in contemporary times must be examined beyond sentiment. The festival is increasingly being viewed through multiple lenses—spiritual, political, socio-cultural. Its revival is often touted as a sign of normalization, of return, of healing. And while these narratives hold merit, one must tread carefully.
Is the resurgence of the festival truly a sign of reconciliation, or is it a performance of peace for political mileage? Are the returning pilgrims allowed to re-root themselves in the Valley, or are they guests in their own land for a day? Does the presence of soldiers securing the site for the yatris echo safety or underscore the absence of trust? These questions remain complex and cannot be ignored.
Nevertheless, in a world fractured by sectarianism, the continued relevance of Ksheer Bhawani lies in its symbolism. It offers a template—however imperfect—of shared sacredness. It reminds us that religious observance need not be exclusive, that memory can be a bridge and not a boundary.
In an era where religious festivals often polarize, Ksheer Bhawani unites. In a time when temples are contested spaces, here is a temple that has been protected by those of another faith. In a landscape where heritage is often reduced to slogans, this shrine continues to whisper tales of coexistence.
What the Ksheer Bhawani festival needs now is not just preservation but nurturing. There must be efforts—both governmental and civil society-driven—to ensure that this festival continues to flourish in its true spirit. Educational institutions can include the story of Ksheer Bhawani in their cultural curriculum. Artists and writers can preserve its legacy through films, literature, and oral narratives. More importantly, the festival should remain untouched by majoritarian politics or tokenism. It must be allowed to remain a sanctuary of shared faith, not a photo-op for propagandists.
Perhaps the most important role lies with the community itself. Kashmiri Pandits and Muslims, who once lived as neighbors and friends, must reforge the bonds that decades of exile and violence attempted to sever. The Ksheer Bhawani festival can serve as a meeting ground—not merely for prayers, but for dialogue, forgiveness, and possible return. If the spring of the goddess indeed reflects the mood of the land, let its waters run ever bright and tranquil.
The festival of Ksheer Bhawani is more than a religious observance. It is a cry of longing, a whisper of belonging, and a sacred echo of what Kashmir once was—and could still become. It is a reminder that temples can be bridges, not borders; that faith can be inclusive, not insular. In a time when much of the world is retreating into silos of belief and identity, the soft chant of hymns at Tulmulla, mingling with the azaan from distant mosques, offers a harmony that no discord can drown.
The goddess of milk and memory continues to reside in her spring. And every Jyeshtha Ashtami, when thousands light candles and sing her praise, she reminds us not just of divinity, but of humanity. That, perhaps, is her greatest miracle. And that is why, in these divisive times, the Ksheer Bhawani festival is not just relevant—it is essential.
The writer can be reached at sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com
