The Intention Is Everything: How Kashmir Marks Eid Al-Azha

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By Shafkat Aziz Hajam

The days before Eid al-Azha feel different in Kashmir. The air thickens with scent of livestock, of grass crushed under hooves, of wet wool, and of mouthwatering delicacies.

In the villages and towns, from the banks of Jhelum to the orchards of Shopian, animals are tethered near doorsteps. Children name them, feed them, sometimes grow attached. But everyone knows the moment is coming.

It always begins with the moon. Once sighted, everything moves. Tailors stay open late. Men visit butchers and brokers. Women count savings tucked into shawls. The streets get busy, but not noisy. Kashmir knows how to move calmly, especially during sacred days.

Eid al-Azha is not just a ritual here. It's a conversation with God that echoes through generations. People know the story well: the Prophet Ibrahim, the dream, the knife, the son, the divine replacement. But the story means more in a place like Kashmir. Where lives are shaped by strife, sacrifice isn't just a lesson. It's a lived thing.

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On the first morning of Eid, prayers spill out from mosques and Eidgahs into open spaces. Men in white, boys in crisp kurtas, rows forming on dewy grass. The imams speak of faith, of obedience, of the love between a father and son. Then the people return home, where the animals wait, and the blades have been sharpened with care.

This is not done casually. A proper qurbani must happen after the Eid prayers, scholars say, or it's counted only as charity. The animal must be healthy, the act deliberate.

A full-grown sheep can cost between Rs 12,000 to 18,000. For many, it means months of saving. Some families pool in together. Others give two animals: one for themselves, one on behalf of someone who passed, or someone too poor to afford their own.

In the city, the meat often gets packed in neat polythene bags and sent discreetly to neighbours and the poor. In the villages, the process is slower, more communal. Portions are weighed by instinct. Everyone knows who must not be left out: The widow with three daughters in Chadoora, the old tailor in Baramulla whose shop has been shut since winter.

There's an old practice many still follow: from the start of Zil Haj, those planning a sacrifice don't cut their hair or nails until after it's done.“It's a small thing, but it reminds you,” said Gulzar Ahmad, a retired schoolteacher from Anantnag.“You're preparing your body the way you prepare your heart.”

The butchers are busiest these days. Many are booked weeks in advance. Some young men learn the process just for these days. How to hold the animal, how to say the prayer, where to cut. It's not just skill. It's intention.“You have to be clean, in body and in mind,” said Irfan, a part-time butcher from Sopore.“Otherwise, it's just meat.”

In Kashmir, nothing happens far from memory. People remember fathers who once chose the animal, mothers who stayed up late making spice blends. A sacrifice, in many homes, carries their absence. The act becomes personal. The prayer whispered before the cut often includes names no longer spoken aloud.

Still, there is joy. Children watch wide-eyed. Some cry. Some boast. Old women distribute dried dates after the meat is sorted. Kitchens fill with sound: pressure cookers, knives on chopping boards, the soft bubbling of gravy thickening on a stove. The smell of meat and masala drifts through alleys. For a while, everything feels full.

And yet, the day remains solemn. Kashmiris have learned to celebrate without spectacle. This is not a loud festival. It's not about fireworks or lights. It's about fulfilment. The moment when a man offers something precious, not because he must, but because he chooses to.

That choice, of giving what is loved for something higher, is what gives the day its shape. It's what ties Kashmir's landscape to its living spirit.

In a place that has seen too much sorrow, this act of sacrifice gives some solace.

By nightfall, the animals are gone. The courtyards are washed. The meat is stored. The prayers have been said. But something lingers.

A feeling that something intimate has taken place. A gesture between earth and sky.

And tomorrow, the valley wakes again. Not just fed, but reminded.

• The author is a poet and reviewer from Handwara, Kashmir.

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