Each year, as the twin yatras of Shri Amarnath and Machail unfurl across the Himalayas, lakhs of pilgrims brave the heights not only in search of divine grace but also guided by centuries-old traditions, stories, and sacred memory. Among these stories, none has gained more traction – especially in the past few decades – than the popular tale of Buta Malik, a Muslim shepherd from Kashmir who is said to have discovered the Amarnath Cave in circa 1850. This narrative has entered public consciousness, government brochures, and casual pilgrimage conversations. But is it grounded in truth?
The bitter truth is: there is no historical or scriptural evidence to support the claim that Buta Malik discovered the cave. There is no documentation in Dogra-era records (when the yatra was institutionalized), no reference in British travelogues (Lawrence, Drew, Vigne, etc.), and no trace in early Persian sources (Baharistan-i-Shahi, Tuzk-i-Jahangiri, etc.).
On the contrary, all available textual, photographic, and institutional records point to a much older, Shaivite tradition, predating this story by centuries, if not millennia.
History recounts that long before Malik’s claim, many foreign travelers had written of the cave and documented its presence. For example, Godfrey Thomas Vigne (1801–1863), who was a British traveler, writer, and amateur cricketer known for his extensive explorations in Kashmir, Ladakh, and Central Asia during the early 19th century. He was among the first Europeans to travel through these remote Himalayan regions and document them in detail. In his book, Travels in Kashmir, Ladakh, Iskardo, published in 1842, he makes indirect references to the cave as he hears of it from locals. He writes, “There is a very sacred cave in the mountains beyond Pahlgam, in which a solid ice-stalagmite is worshipped as a manifestation of Shiva…”
Then comes Frederic Drew (1836–1891), a British geologist, geographer, and civil servant who served under the Maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir during the mid-19th century. Drew provides the first systematic geographic account of the cave and pilgrimage in his book The Jummoo and Kashmir Territories: A Geographical Account (1875).
By the time Sir Walter Roper Lawrence arrives and writes The Valley of Kashmir (1895), the Buta Malik narrative seems to have strengthened itself and you find a mention of Buta Malik, especially in connection with the interesting coal bag story. Lawrence doesn’t claim Malik discovered the cave.
The Coal Bag Story We’re Told
As the legend goes, a poor shepherd named Buta Malik was grazing his flock in the Pahalgam region when he encountered a wandering sadhu. The holy man handed him a bag of coal. Upon returning home, Buta Malik found the bag had miraculously turned to gold. Overcome with gratitude, he rushed back to thank the sadhu, only to find that the sadhu had vanished – and in his place was the entrance to a cave, inside which gleamed the eternal ice lingam of Lord Shiva. Thus, the Amarnath Cave was “discovered,” and ever since, the Malik family is said to have shared joint custodianship of the shrine along with Hindu mahants. Apparently, the sadhu knew the cave long before Malik did.
On the surface, it is a tale of divine reward, symbolic of interfaith harmony. But beneath the simplicity lies an uncomfortable absence of historical continuity.
What History Actually Records
Let us turn to the chronicles of Kashmir. Kalhana’s Rajatarangini, the seminal 12th-century historical chronicle, mentions countless tirthas, shrines, and lakes across the Valley. However, it is completely silent on the Amarnath Cave – a conspicuous absence if it had been in common public worship at the time. This doesn’t mean the cave didn’t exist – only that it was either unknown to the broader society or part of a more esoteric yogic tradition, passed on orally among ascetics.
The first possible scriptural reference to the cave comes from the Bhrngish Samhita, believed to have been composed around the 13th century. It describes a sacred cave in the Himalayas where Lord Shiva narrated to Parvati the amarkatha – the secret of immortality – with two pigeons eavesdropping on the discourse. The location is unnamed but aligns with the mythology of Amarnath. Pilgrims who spot two pigeons now during the yatra find consider themselves as lucky.
However, it is only in the 19th century, under Dogra rule, that the Amarnath Yatra became a publicly organized and state-supported religious event. Maharaja Gulab Singh and later Ranbir Singh formalized the pilgrimage, provided facilities, and taxed pilgrims for revenue. It was under their rule that the Mahant system was institutionalized – the same system that organized the yatra well into the 20th century.
The first photographic documentation of the Amarnath Yatra comes from Diwan Alim Chand, the Dogra court photographer, who accompanied Maharaja Pratap Singh in 1898. His black-and-white photographs show campsites at Pahalgam, Chandanwari, Sheshnag, and the cave itself – with Pandit priests performing puja. There is no mention of a Malik, a shepherd, or a shared custodianship.
Similarly, British colonial accounts – from Sir Walter Lawrence to George Trebeck – document the Dogra administration of the pilgrimage but make no reference to any shepherd discovering the cave.
So Where Did the Buta Malik Story Come From?
The oral tradition of Buta Malik likely emerged in the 20th century, gaining momentum after the political upheavals of 1947 and particularly after the rise of Kashmiri separatist identity – not of 1990, but before that (a different topic that should not be part of this discussion). In the process of reshaping Kashmir’s historical memory, many older Hindu institutions were either erased or recast with local Muslim intermediaries as “original discoverers” or “natural custodians.” This coincided with the systematic shrinking of Pandit space from Kashmir’s cultural topography.
Some believe that the Buta Malik story was promoted as a symbolic gesture of interfaith ownership, projecting the shrine as a place of syncretism rather than civilizational continuity. Others suggest it was a political narrative intended to reduce the prominence of Hindu identity in the sacred landscape of Kashmir.
Whatever the reason, the fact remains: there is no documentation of Buta Malik in shrine records, revenue books, Persian texts, or colonial archives. Even the earliest mentions of the Malik family’s involvement in shrine affairs only surface in the post-independence period.
Why This Myth Matters
At a time when historical distortion is often justified in the name of communal harmony, we must ask: Does harmony require falsehood?
The Buta Malik story, however well-intentioned, obscures the authentic history of the shrine. It erases the role of ancient Shaiva traditions, Pandit priests, Dogra monarchs, and even ascetic lineages who maintained this tirtha over centuries. It also dilutes the symbolic power of the ice lingam, which, according to tradition, forms naturally each year as Shiva’s eternal presence.
The Amarnath Yatra is not a seasonal trek discovered by chance. It is a spiritual ascension etched into the Himalayan soul – part of a pan-Indian consciousness of Shiva worship that predates modern politics by thousands of years.
The Bitter Truth
Myths can unite, but they can also obscure. In trying to democratize divinity, we must not trivialize sanctity. The Amarnath Cave was not stumbled upon by a lone shepherd; it was sought, revered, and protected by generations of sages, devotees, and kings.
The story of Amarnath is not about a bag of coal turning into gold – it is about human frailty turning into faith, suffering turning into surrender, and silence turning into the shabda Brahman.
To remember this is not to disrespect Buta Malik. It is simply to restore what was lost: the historical spine of a sacred geography – one cave at a time.
An author, a communications strategist, Dr Sanjay Parva was a debut contestant from 28-Beerwah 2024 Assembly Constituency
