Sukriti Taneja
Pilgrimages are often described as journeys of faith.
But the older I get, the more I wonder if faith is something else entirely…
I found myself questioning this somewhere en route back from Katra, a small town tucked into the folds of the Trikuta mountains, where every street seems to be moving in the same direction. Pilgrims pass through at all hours of the day and night, families with children half-asleep in their arms, elderly couples walking slowly but steadily, groups of friends laughing between breaths.
And somewhere above the quiet hum of footsteps, the chant of ‘Jai Mata Di’ rises and falls like a rhythm everyone already knows.
It’s not merely another town nestled within our geography. It’s a town that feels strong, steady, and certain.
But if you look closely, you begin to notice what doesn’t usually meet the eye. Most people walking these paths are not strong in the ways we usually imagine strength. They limp, they pause, they lean on railings, they sit for longer than they planned.
And yet they continue.
Many of us would label that to be faith. But as a first-time visitor, my views and notions differ slightly.
Months in advance, my parents and two of our family friends planned to journey to the Vaishno Devi temple. Everything was decided, and the tickets were booked. A last-minute date change clashed with my father’s work schedule, rendering him unable to go.
But as they say, “Vaishno Devi ki yatra Mata Rani ke bulave ke bina nahi hoti.”
Loosely translated, one may plan the journey, but unless the goddess summons you, something will always stand in the way.
Quickly ensuring my mother still had company, I volunteered to go. Having never been before, I thought it would be a wonderful way to start the year. What better way to begin than with the blessings of the Almighty?
My mother had been to Vaishno Devi many times before, but this trip was different. She had been unwell for some time, fighting an inner battle we perhaps still do not fully understand.
Just a few days before the journey, she walked into my room late at night, unable to sleep.
“Check the cancellation charges of the flight,” she said quietly, uncertainty in her eyes.
It was the kind of practical question people ask when they are trying not to say something else.
She wasn’t sure if she could make the trip.
At last came the day we were scheduled to fly down, “Bulava aaya hai. Jaana toh padega,” she said, as if gathering whatever strength her body would allow. We decided to take horses for most of the climb so she wouldn’t have to strain herself too much. But anyone who has been there knows that some walking is inevitable, especially on the final stretch toward the Bhairavnath temple.
There are parts of the path where the mountain seems to lean inward, almost as if it is watching the pilgrims who pass beneath it.
On those stretches, my mother walked quietly, breathing carefully, one step at a time. She never once suggested turning back. She never asked to slow down. She simply continued, gracefully at her own pace.
At the time, all we noticed was that she tired more easily than usual. The mountain air seemed heavier on her breath, and the pauses between her steps grew slightly longer.
But nothing about her resolve changed.
Faith has always been a familiar language in my life. I grew up around it. The rituals, the prayers, the stories of gods and goddesses, they were never something I felt the need to question deeply.
But this trip made me notice something I had never thought about before.
The strength we attribute to faith is often something we have already seen in the people around us.
In the story of Vaishno Devi, the goddess is often remembered for her power; her ability to protect, to endure, to defeat darkness. But the part of the story that stays with many pilgrims is quieter than that.
She retreats into the mountains. She waits. She persists. Her strength is not loud. It is patient.
Watching my mother walk those paths, breath shallow but resolve steady, I began to realise how familiar that kind of strength is.
We see it in women all the time.
It exists in the spaces that rarely get named. In the decisions made quietly at night. In the ways women continue carrying responsibilities even when their bodies protest. In the way they hold together families, routines, and hope, often without announcing the effort it takes.
From the outside, everything can appear perfectly ordinary. But beneath that ordinary surface is often a complexity we barely understand. Fragile bodies. Hearts that are determined. Faith that persists even when breath becomes difficult.
When we returned from the trip, the knowledge of her ailment suddenly became sharper, more clinical, more visible. Machines, appointments, numbers that doctors measure carefully.
And yet, when I think back to that journey, what stays with me most is not the diagnosis that followed. It is the image of her walking through Katra. Breathing carefully. Continuing anyway.
There is something about pilgrimage that reveals a quiet truth about people. When thousands walk toward the same destination, their reasons are rarely the same.
Some come with prayers. Some come with gratitude. Some come simply because they promised they would. But almost everyone who walks those mountains is carrying something unseen. Illness. Fear. Hope. Love. Responsibility. And yet the path continues to fill with people who move forward anyway.
Perhaps that is why the story of Vaishno Devi resonates so deeply with so many women. Because it is not only a story about divine power. It is also a story about endurance. About finding refuge in the mountains when the world demands too much. About holding your ground quietly until the storm passes.
Watching my mother that day, I realised something I had never put into words before.
Women carry mountains long before they ever arrive at one.
They carry them in their bodies, in their homes, in their silence, and sometimes even in their breath.
From the outside, it rarely looks extraordinary. But if you look closely enough, you begin to see the effort in every step.
And perhaps that is why Katra feels the way it does. A town that appears strong on the surface but is built on the quiet persistence of those who arrive there carrying invisible weights.
People, who may pause or struggle, but somehow, they keep walking.