As they stepped out of the cave, the January sun had finally broken over the peaks, painting the snow in hues of pink and gold. The world was blindingly beautiful. And then she saw him.

Anjali’s heart clenched. She saw other pilgrims, some elderly, being carried in palkis (palanquins) by sturdy porters whose faces were cracked by the wind. A pony man offered his service, but the fare was more than Anjali had budgeted for the entire trip. She knelt down, wrapping her own shawl around Kavya.

At last, they saw it. The holy cave. The line was short due to the season. As they stepped inside, the temperature dropped further, the air thick with the smell of ancient stone, camphor, and ghee. The icy pindis —the three rock formations representing the Goddess in her forms as Mahakali, Mahalakshmi, and Mahasaraswati—glistened under the oil lamps.

For the first two kilometers, Anjali felt a surge of defiance. The physical exertion was a welcome antidote to the paralysis of her thoughts. But as they climbed past the Adhkuwari cave, the real test began. The wind howled through the gorge, a sharp, invisible blade. Kavya began to shiver.

The month of January had wrapped the Trikuta Mountains in a fierce, crystalline embrace. For most, the biting cold and the threat of snow made the climb to the sacred cave of Vaishno Devi an act of madness. For Anjali Sharma, it was an act of desperate necessity.