In winters, the holy town of Katra wears a grey sweater. The green of the hills has turned to a brittle brown, and the peaks in the distance wear a fresh dusting of snow. The air is so clean it feels sterile, each breath a visible puff of gratitude. There are fewer pilgrims now. The endless summer queues have thinned into a quiet, purposeful stream. You can hear your own footsteps.

Winter at Vaishno Devi is not for the faint-hearted. But for the one who goes, it feels less like a pilgrimage and more like a quiet homecoming. The goddess is always awake, but in winter, she is listening.

The climb begins in a chill that bites through wool. It’s not the harsh, dry cold of a blizzard, but a damp, creeping Himalayan cold that seeps from the stone steps and hangs in the mist. The usual cacophony of the yatra —the chants of “Jai Mata Di,” the clanging of bells, the hawkers selling pink chunnis —is still there, but it’s muffled, wrapped in the fog like a secret.