The desert road between Makkah and Madinah has swallowed forty-five of our own. Forty-five Kashmiri hearts (no, not just Telangana’s; every Kashmiri felt the jolt) were returning from the House of Allah when fire embraced them on November 17, 2025. They had touched the Black Stone, drunk from Zamzam, prayed where the Prophet prayed. They were coming home lighter, forgiven, luminous. Instead, Allah chose them for a higher rank none of us dared imagine: shuhada on a pilgrimage bus.
We will never again hear their tired, happy voices describing the fragrance of the Haram, the way the adhan in Madinah pierces the soul, how they cried when they first saw the green dome. Forty-five stories ended mid-sentence. A child who promised his mother he would bring dates from the Prophet’s city. A grandmother carrying miswak for her grandchildren. Newly-weds who postponed their walima to first visit the Beloved ﷺ. All now wrapped in ihram turned kafan.
Yet even in this unbearable grief, there is a strange mercy. They died pure, in a state of worship, on the sacred highway, heading toward the city of the Messenger. If death had to come, it came dressed as acceptance of every dua they ever made. Allah did not let them return to the noise of this world; He invited them straight to His company.
To the families in Hyderabad and beyond who now stare at empty prayer mats and half-packed suitcases: we share your silence. Kashmir shares your silence. We know what it is to lose beloved ones suddenly, to wait for bodies that may never return the same way. May the same Allah who took them in His sanctuary grant you the sabr of Ayyub and the reward of Maryam. May every tear you shed become a river of light under their graves.
They left as pilgrims.
They reached as martyrs.
Allahumma ghfirlahum warhamhum wa aafihim wa’fu anhum.
Ameen.
