By Shereen Naman
In the quiet folds of the mountains of Aishmuqam, where faith breathes through the wind and memory lives in every stone, there burns a fire that is far more than ritual—it is identity. The annual Zool festival at the revered shrine of Sakhi Zain ud din Wali stands today not merely as a celebration, but as a powerful testament to Kashmir’s enduring cultural roots—one of the few traditions our elders have carried forward, unbroken, through generations.
As dusk descends, the shrine transforms into a spectacle of light and devotion. Piles of wooden sticks are set ablaze, illuminating the entire landscape with a golden glow. Thousands gather—men, women, elders, and children—each holding mashaals (torches), walking together in a river of fire. The air resounds with a slogan that is not just spoken but felt:
“Zaen Shah Badshah!”
—a chant that echoes through the hearts of devotees, binding them in shared faith and reverence.
But Zool is not just a festival of fire—it is a story. Or perhaps, many stories woven into one.
Some call it a myth, others a passed-down truth. It is said that once, a terrifying jinn—a dev in Kashmiri lore—haunted the people of Aishmuqam. Every day, it claimed the life of a young boy from the village. Fear became routine, grief became normal.
One day, an old mother sat weeping softly, her sorrow wrapped in murmured songs. Her son was to be married—but fate had marked him as the next sacrifice. It was then that Hazrat Sheikh Zain-ud-Din Wali noticed her anguish. On learning the reason, he did not turn away. With spiritual strength and unwavering resolve, he confronted the jinn and ultimately destroyed it, liberating the village from its shadow.
Another story speaks of the time of a king, Ashushah Badshah, when a demon terrorized the same land. The villagers, helpless and afraid, began offering lives to appease it. Then came Bumisad—a brave young Gujjar boy, whose wedding day coincided with his turn to die. But instead of surrendering, he chose courage.
Facing the demon, who had taken the form of the mighty serpent Shahmar, Bumisad did something extraordinary—he ate from the demon’s food and declared, “Whatever I eat will reach you anyway.” Enraged, the demon fought him for seven days and nights. In the end, courage triumphed. Bumisad defeated the demon, freeing his people forever.
That night, the villagers lit torches in celebration—fire not of fear, but of victory, unity, and hope.
And that fire still burns.
The Zool festival is that very flame carried forward through centuries. It is where myth meets belief, and belief becomes identity. In a world that is rapidly forgetting its roots, Zool stands as a rare and powerful reminder of who we are.
It is not just about lighting wood—it is about igniting memory.
Not just about walking with torches—but walking with history.
Not just about stories—but about the spirit that refuses to fade.
Today, when thousands gather under the starlit sky of Aishmuqam, carrying mashaals and chanting in unison, they are not just celebrating a festival—they are keeping alive a legacy.
A legacy of faith.
Of courage.
Of light over darkness.
And perhaps, that is what makes Zool truly sacred—not just the fire that burns outside, but the one that continues to burn within.
