Meet the Pony-wallahs of Pahalgam Who Rescued Victims of a Deadly Attack
They came to guide tourists, not save lives. But when terror struck Baisaran hill, Pahalgam’s pony-wallahs—unarmed, untrained, undeterred—stepped in to the rescue
Waheed Ahmad Wani began in 2007 with just a pony and a purpose—ferrying pilgrims up the rugged paths of Pahalgam, Kashmir, during the annual Amarnath Yatra.
As the region’s lush green meadows and meandering rivers began drawing tourists in greater numbers, his seasonal hustle turned into a full-time calling, and he began offering rides through the valley’s meadows and forests all year round. Over time, his role expanded beyond the trail. Driven by a deep sense of social responsibility, Wani began offering vital assistance to underprivileged families, advocating for local issues, and forging strong ties with the administration. His leadership soon saw him rise from president to general secretary of the local pony association, representing nearly 5,000 pony-walas, guides, and all-terrain vehicle (ATV) operators since 2019.
In nearly 20 years, Wani had weathered many challenges, but nothing remotely prepared him for the events of 22 April this year—the day terror struck the picturesque meadows of Baisaran hilltop. Twenty-five tourists and a fellow pony operator were killed in a brutal attack that shook the nation to its core.
At the time, the 39-year-old was in Ganishbal, three kilometres away, attending a condolence gathering for a relative. He remembers the moment clearly—2:36 p.m.—when his phone rang. On the line was a local policeman, his voice urgent: “Waheed sahab, do you know what’s happened in Baisaran?&rdquo...
Waheed Ahmad Wani began in 2007 with just a pony and a purpose—ferrying pilgrims up the rugged paths of Pahalgam, Kashmir, during the annual Amarnath Yatra.
As the region’s lush green meadows and meandering rivers began drawing tourists in greater numbers, his seasonal hustle turned into a full-time calling, and he began offering rides through the valley’s meadows and forests all year round. Over time, his role expanded beyond the trail. Driven by a deep sense of social responsibility, Wani began offering vital assistance to underprivileged families, advocating for local issues, and forging strong ties with the administration. His leadership soon saw him rise from president to general secretary of the local pony association, representing nearly 5,000 pony-walas, guides, and all-terrain vehicle (ATV) operators since 2019.
In nearly 20 years, Wani had weathered many challenges, but nothing remotely prepared him for the events of 22 April this year—the day terror struck the picturesque meadows of Baisaran hilltop. Twenty-five tourists and a fellow pony operator were killed in a brutal attack that shook the nation to its core.
At the time, the 39-year-old was in Ganishbal, three kilometres away, attending a condolence gathering for a relative. He remembers the moment clearly—2:36 p.m.—when his phone rang. On the line was a local policeman, his voice urgent: “Waheed sahab, do you know what’s happened in Baisaran?” A wave of dread set in. Wani stepped out, heart pounding, and dialled one contact after another, trying to piece together what was going on. But none of the calls went through.
The responsibility of leading an association that oversees all transport in the highland areas without road access—including Baisaran—suddenly felt immense. For Wani, it was as if the biggest test of his life had arrived. He didn’t hesitate. Determined to see the situation for himself, he set out towards the meadow, which could be reached from Ganishbal in about 30 minutes on foot.
But before he could head into the pine-covered woods, his brother-in-law, Sajjad Ahmad Bhat, stopped him. Pahalgam, usually full of sound and movement, had turned eerily silent. A thick unease hung in the air. Bhat, only 31, and weeks away from his own wedding, refused to let Wani head into danger alone. “Life and death are in Allah’s hands,” he told Wani. “If it is meant to happen, it can happen even at home. And if it’s not, even the worst won’t touch us.”
As they climbed quickly toward the meadow, Wani and Bhat came across groups of terrified tourists running for cover into nearby homes and makeshift shelters. The sounds of gunfire still echoed in the hills, and panic was etched into every fleeing face and trembling voice. Meanwhile, Wani’s phone kept ringing—his daughter, a ninth-grade student, was pleading with him to return. “Abu, please wapis aajao (come back),” she said again and again. But Wani couldn’t. Something within him wouldn’t let him walk away.
By around 3:10 p.m., the two had entered the meadow, scaling a fence to get inside. At first glance, the clearing seemed eerily empty—except for vultures and crows circling above and picking at the ground, drawn to a terrible feast. A few steps later, the full weight of the tragedy hit them. Women were wailing over the bodies of their husbands and loved ones. Blood had soaked into the grass, staining the green earth red.
“Recite the Kalima,” Wani told Bhat quietly. “There is no going back from here.” The two were among the first to reach the site after the attack; police and rescue officials were on their way. “It was horrifying,” Bhat later tells us. “Wives and children were screaming, beating their chests in grief.”
In the panic and confusion, even Wani and Bhat were initially mistaken for attackers—until someone recognized Wani and reassured the crowd. “President sahab is here now. Nothing bad will happen to you,” Bhat announced, invoking Wani’s name as a sign of safety.
According to Wani, the terrorists had fired with chilling precision, aiming at the heads of male tourists to ensure instant death. Based on the usual footfall, he estimates there were around 300 visitors at the meadow at the time of the attack. Of them, 26 lost their lives—including a local pony operator, Adil Hussain Shah, who was fired upon repeatedly while trying to wrest a gun away from the attackers in a desperate attempt to protect the tourists. “Three people tried to escape through a narrow water channel that opened just below the fence,” Wani recalls. “But they were gunned down near the pine trees, their bodies left where they fell.”
Wani immediately contacted the police and local authorities, and began sending voice notes and messages across his network, calling for urgent help. But in those early moments, the responsibility of rescue fell squarely on him, Bhat, and the one other pony-wallah present, Rayees Ahmad. Wani grabbed bottles of water and urged others to do the same. Together, they moved from one injured person to another, tending to the unconscious and inconsolable—most of them women since the men appeared to have been specifically targeted.“The women were pleading through their pain, saying they were still alive,” Bhat remembers. “But when we checked the bodies, we found no breath, no pulse.”
With the attackers still at large, imminent danger hung over their heads, so the immediate focus was to get the survivors to safety. Within minutes of Wani’s call, about 10 pony-wallahs and ATV operators had arrived. Without wasting time, they began lifting the injured on to horseback to carry them the five kilometres downhill for medical aid. “They couldn’t even stand, so we laid each across two horses,” Bhat says.
Soon, they began running out of horses and stretchers, but a few survivors still needed urgent evacuation so they turned a makeshift cart into a stretcher for one critically injured tourist. Meanwhile, a 16-year-old boy—who had seen his father die before his eyes—was lying on the ground in shock, unable to breathe, gripped by trauma. Bhat lifted the boy on to his shoulders and began the 2.5-kilometre trek down the raw, stony path to reach the ambulance. Though the boy’s weight threatened to break his strength, Bhat didn’t stop until he had delivered him to safety.
Wani remained at the meadow even as a large contingent of security forces—the Army, CRPF, and local police—arrived. What followed was the grim task of identifying the dead, and then something even more harrowing: collecting scattered bodies and severed remains, wrapping them in shawls that had once been meant for sale on tourist carts.
Both Wani and Bhat are still grappling with the trauma of witnessing one of the most horrific attacks in recent memory. Bhat’s newly married life is clouded by the images that refuse to leave him—gruesome memories that steal his sleep. He leans on his partner for strength as he tries to heal. Wani, too, searches for solace in the warmth of his family—his daughter, and a young son, who has just started school.While time may eventually soften the edges of their pain, Wani is haunted by a different fear—the visibility their actions have brought. “We helped. We called for help. Our videos went viral,” he says quietly. “But those brutal, heartless men … what if they come for us next?”
The Pahalgam terror attack has since marked a turning point in Kashmir’s recent history. The attack marked a devastating blow to the region’s tourism. In 2024, the region had welcomed a record 3.5 million visitors, and 2025 had been expected to surpass that figure. But in the wake of the tragedy, even the recent signs of recovery seem fragile. The projections now lie in limbo. Candlelight vigils were held across the Valley. For the first time in decades, ordinary people stepped out onto the streets—not to protest politics, but to publicly denounce terror. In their shared grief, something shifted.
It was as if a silent threshold had been crossed—where fear gave way to collective outrage, and the impulse to protect life overpowered the urge to stay silent. Amid the heartbreak, a rare moment of unity emerged, one that briefly cut through the long shadows of conflict.
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