Bilal Bashir Bhat
Abdul Gani Dar, a carpenter by profession, is about 65 years old, perhaps a little older. He does not know his exact date of birth; a detail lost somewhere in the quiet passage of time. What he does know, however, is a story that lives deeply within him. His father and grandfather had once performed Hajj, travelling by sea in an era when the journey was long, uncertain, yet within reach.
For Abdul Gani, that journey remains a dream. The sea route no longer exists, and the cost of air travel has placed Hajj far beyond his modest means.
Hajj, the annual pilgrimage to Makkah in Hijaz, is one of the five pillars of Islam. It is not merely a ritual, but a profound spiritual obligation. Every adult Muslim who is physically and financially capable is required to undertake it at least once in their lifetime, while also ensuring that their family is supported in their absence. For many, it is the journey of a lifetime. For others, like Abdul Gani, it is a lifetime of waiting.
In recent years, the pilgrimage itself has grown more challenging. Between 14 and 19 June 2024, more than 1,300 pilgrims lost their lives during Hajj due to extreme heat, with temperatures crossing 50°C. The ruling class in Hijaz responded with extensive safety measures, planting thousands of trees, installing cooling systems, and enforcing stricter regulations, including banning children under 12 and restricting unauthorized pilgrims, though it should have been done long before.
But fear of heat does not trouble Abdul Gani. His resolve is firm. What weighs on him instead is the quiet memory of a missed opportunity. Years ago, when Hajj was more affordable and supported by government subsidies, his name did not appear in the draw. The money he had carefully saved for the pilgrimage was eventually spent on his children’s marriages, an unavoidable social obligation in Kashmir, where weddings often carry expectations that go far beyond one’s financial capacity.
Since then, the cost of Hajj has risen sharply, increasing by nearly 50 to 60 percent. What was once difficult has now become, for many, nearly impossible.
The changing trend is visible across Jammu and Kashmir. The number of pilgrims has steadily declined over the years. Where once the Jammu and Kashmir contributed nearly 8 to 10 percent of India’s Hajj pilgrims, that share has now fallen to around 3.5 percent. The reasons are not hard to find.
The withdrawal of government subsidies, following Supreme Court directions, added tens of thousands of rupees to each pilgrim’s expenses. The introduction of a 15 percent value-added tax by Kingdom further increased the burden. Combined with rising airfares, the cost of performing Hajj has reached levels that many families simply cannot afford.
The numbers tell their own story. In 2023, over 14,500 people from Jammu and Kashmir applied for Hajj against a quota of around 12,000, forcing authorities to conduct a draw. A year later, in 2024, applications dropped to about 7,800, even though the quota was higher. By 2025, the number fell further to around 4,300 applications against a quota of over 8,000. In 2026, only 4,717 pilgrims are set to undertake the journey, still far below the allocated capacity.
The financial shift is stark. In the early 2000s, the cost of Hajj was under one lakh rupees. By 2017–18, it had risen to around 1.1 lakh. Today, it exceeds four lakh rupees through official channels and can go beyond six lakh through private operators.
Faced with such costs, many are turning towards Umrah, the lesser pilgrimage that can be performed at any time of the year. Others postpone Hajj, waiting for what they believe will be more convenient circumstances. This growing hesitation has also drawn concern from religious leaders. Kashmir’s chief cleric, Mirwaiz Umar Farooq, recently urged people to prioritise Hajj and not delay it in pursuit of ideal worldly conditions.
Yet, the issue runs deeper than cost alone. Social expectations continue to play a silent but powerful role. In Kashmir, weddings remain elaborate affairs, often requiring families to host hundreds of guests regardless of their financial condition.
Even performing Hajj brings its own set of social obligations, including hosting gatherings before and after the journey. These customs, though rooted in tradition, add to the financial strain and quietly push religious obligations further down the list of priorities.
In a society where even, modest households feel compelled to build large homes and maintain appearances, the line between necessity and expectation often blurs. For many, including Abdul Gani, this has meant postponing Hajj year after year, until postponement itself becomes a lifelong reality.
Today, as he approaches his seventies, Abdul Gani stands as perhaps the first in his family’s living memory who may not complete this sacred journey. Not because he lacks faith or willingness, but because the path to Hajj has grown increasingly distant.
The question then is not just personal, but collective. What can be done?
There is a need to rethink both policy and social priorities. Exploring more affordable travel options, including the possibility of reviving sea routes, could make a difference for those with limited means. Greater competition among airlines might also help reduce costs. At the same time, communities must reflect on their own practices, especially the culture of extravagant spending that places unnecessary burdens on families.
Equally important is the role of religious guidance. While sermons often describe the rituals of Hajj, there is a growing need to emphasise its urgency and importance, on lines of Mirwaiz-e-Kashmir, encouraging people to undertake it when they are able, rather than waiting indefinitely.
For Abdul Gani Dar, the dream remains alive, though time is no longer on his side. His story is not an isolated one. It echoes quietly across countless homes in Kashmir, where faith endures, but the means to fulfil it continue to slip away.
