Islamabad | New Delhi | Washington D.C. | Beijing | London
March 23–24, 2025
The footage was already everywhere – burning bodies, broken streets, charred market stalls, temple bells twisted into shrapnel. The massacre at Rajouri was no longer just an incident – it was a crisis headline flashing in every capital, a wound bleeding across the digital landscape of a world already primed for conflict.
The images seared themselves into the collective consciousness: a young girl's sandal, abandoned in a pool of crimson; an elderly man's spectacles, one lens shattered, the other reflecting the flames that consumed his world; prayer beads scattered like fallen stars across the cracked pavement. Each pixel of suffering transmitted at the speed of light to screens across the globe, each frame a testament to humanity's capacity for brutality.
In New Delhi, the air hung heavy with grief and rage, a palpable tension that seemed to electrify the very molecules of the atmosphere. The scent of incense from impromptu memorials mingled with the acrid smell of burning tires from spontaneous protests. Mothers clutched photographs of lost children to their chests, their wails forming a haunting chorus that echoed through the capital's streets. Young men with clenched fists and tear-streaked faces demanded vengeance, their voices hoarse from hours of shouting slogans that promised retribution.
Within hours of the attack, India's Prime Minister Rajiv Agarwal stood before a grieving nation, flanked by military chiefs and waving folders stamped Top Secret. The weight of seventy years of partition history pressed down upon his shoulders, bending them slightly beneath his immaculately tailored suit. His eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, darted briefly to the faces of the bereaved families seated in the front row, before he steeled himself for the words that would inevitably push the subcontinent closer to the precipice.
"We have compelling intelligence linking the attackers to handlers across the border," he declared, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within him. Memories of his childhood stories about Partition flashed through his mind – his grandmother's tales of fleeing her ancestral home with nothing but the clothes on her back, the generational trauma that had shaped his political consciousness.
"Their origins are clear. Their agenda – undeniable." Each word felt like both a balm to his nation's wounds and a match thrown onto dry kindling. "We will respond. Decisively."
The last word hung in the air like a sword suspended by the thinnest thread, ready to fall and cleave the fragile peace that had persisted despite decades of mistrust. Behind him, the Defence Minister nodded almost imperceptibly, his mind already calculating casualty projections and strategic targets. The Foreign Secretary's stomach churned with anxiety, knowing that diplomatic channels were about to be tested beyond their breaking point.
As Agarwal spoke, television screens split into panels showing the reactions across India – crowds in Mumbai erupting in applause, silent vigils in Kolkata, tearful embraces in Chennai. The nation unified in grief, but fractured in its understanding of what justice should look like. Some called for measured response, others for swift military action. The spectrum of human reaction played out in real-time, a kaleidoscope of emotion that would ultimately coalesce into a singular demand: action.
Across the border in Islamabad, the mood was equally grim – but far more volatile. The city itself seemed to hold its breath, the usual cacophony of traffic and commerce subdued to a nervous murmur. In tea stalls and living rooms, citizens gathered around television sets, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of breaking news, their expressions shifting between disbelief, indignation, and fear.
Inside the Prime Minister's Office, a crisis meeting unfolded in tense silence. The room, with its wood-paneled walls and portraits of founding fathers, felt suddenly claustrophobic. Prime Minister Khawaja Mahmood sat at the head of the oval table, his fingers steepled before his lips, his eyes moving from face to face as he gauged the temperature of his advisors. The weight of history pressed down on him too – the memory of previous conflicts, the knowledge that miscalculation could cost countless lives.
The Foreign Minister, his face flushed with a combination of anger and anxiety, placed a printed dossier on the table with trembling hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's aggressive air conditioning. He had been awake for thirty-six hours straight, fielding calls from ambassadors and dignitaries, each conversation more inquisitorial than the last. Masood had, had to bring his lifetime learning of politics, diplomacy and the long forgotten studies of law to bear. Convince the calling nations that Pakistan had nothing to do with the incident. No motive. India had no proof just blatant accusations. He thought he convinced many to look towards India for proof, but not all.
He repeated his stance now, "No direct evidence. No names. No chain of custody. Just media reports and unverified chatter," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying to every corner of the hushed room. His mind raced with diplomatic permutations – which allies would stand with them, which would distance themselves, how the narrative could be controlled. "We're being set up."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Defence Minister Asif Malik shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his military training at odds with the political quagmire they found themselves in. His eyes met those of the Intelligence Chief briefly, a silent exchange that spoke volumes about what they suspected but couldn't yet prove. A false flag? Agarwal's popularity had been waning at home!
General Azaad Ahmed, Chief of Army Staff, slammed his fist on the table, the sudden sound making several aides jump. His weathered face, normally composed and calculating, now contorted with barely contained fury. Decades of military service had taught him to read between the lines of intelligence reports, to sense when something didn't add up. And nothing about this situation felt right to his finely-tuned instincts.
"We demand access to the proof," he growled, his deep voice resonating with authority born of command and combat experience. "If they claim these were our people, let them show us who – how – and why."
As he spoke, his mind flashed to the faces of his men stationed along the Line of Control – young soldiers from villages across Pakistan who had joined to defend their homeland, not to be pawns in a game of international intrigue. He thought of their families, of how quickly peace could unravel into war, of how easily political manipulations could translate into body bags returned to weeping mothers.
But there was nothing solid with Indian authorities. The vacuum of verifiable information only amplified the suspicions on both sides, creating a dangerous feedback loop of accusation and counter-accusation.
The bodies of the attackers were burned beyond recognition, charred husks that offered no clues to their origins or motivations. The supposed Pakistani identity cards? Forgeries – easily manufactured by anyone with access to basic printing technology and a rudimentary understanding of document design. The intercepted radio chatter? Leaked by media outlets with clear political leanings, uncorroborated by independent sources, fragmented in ways that suggested selective editing, clearly planted to create a narrative that served someone's agenda.
In the Intelligence Bureau's and the National Security headquarters, analysts worked around the clock, their eyes red-rimmed from staring at screens, their desks cluttered with coffee cups and hastily scrawled notes. They combed through satellite imagery, signal intercepts, human intelligence reports – searching for any thread that might unravel the tapestry of deception being woven around their country.
"It doesn't make sense," muttered one senior analyst to her colleague as they reviewed the timeline of events. "Why would we orchestrate something like this now? What strategic advantage would it serve?" The question wasn't rhetorical – it was the fundamental puzzle piece that didn't fit into the picture being painted by international media.
And yet, the global response fractured instantly, splitting along lines of geopolitical interest and historical alliances.
The United States, caught in post-election period, paralysis, issued a measured statement from the White House Rose Garden. The President, flanked by flags and advisors, chose words with surgical precision: "We urge both sides to exercise restraint while we review the intelligence." Behind closed doors, however, the National Security Council debated furiously, with some Pentagon analysts favored intelligence-sharing India, while State Department veterans cautioned against hasty judgment. The President, eyes fixed on polling numbers and donor interests, navigated the narrow channel between action and abstention.
China called for de-escalation calling for "sovereign-led investigations." While offering disaster relief and mobilizing medics in the effected area – a move welcomed by Islamabad, called provocative by Delhi. In Beijing's Zhongnanhai compound, strategists observed the situation discussing how to motivate both sides to find a peaceful solution.
France and the UK while sympathizing with India quietly urged restraint via backchannels, their statements nearly identical in their condemnation of terrorism and support for democratic allies. In London, the Prime Minister paced his office at Number 10, phone pressed to his ear as he coordinated with European partners, conscious of both post-colonial responsibility and modern strategic interests. The ghosts of Partition – a British legacy – the root cause – seemed to hover at the edges of every conversation.
Russia warned of a larger war spiraling beyond control, though Moscow was worried about how regional instability might affect their energy interests. In the Kremlin, analysts prepared briefs on how to leverage the crisis – which side to support publicly, which to support privately, and how to ensure that whatever the outcome, Russian influence would expand rather than contract.
The UN Security Council descended into a shouting match, ambassadors abandoning diplomatic niceties as they pointed fingers and made thinly veiled threats. The normally staid chamber echoed with raised voices and pounding fists, the blue-and-white UN flag seeming to droop in shame at the failure of international cooperation.
The world was split, just like the evidence – fragmented along fault lines of interest and allegiance, each nation viewing the crisis through the distorted lens of its own agenda.
Journalists clashed on primetime screens – was this Pakistan's doing? A false Flag? or something more sinister like Third party sabotage? In newsrooms across the globe, editors made split-second decisions about headlines and chyrons, knowing that their framing would shape public perception. Reporters on the ground in Kashmir dodged military patrols and angry mobs to capture footage that might reveal some hidden truth, their satellite phones clutched like lifelines to the outside world.
Social media burned with theories: false flag, rogue cells, foreign sabotage, AI-generated chatter, digital misdirection. Hashtags trended and faded, replaced by new ones as the online discourse evolved at dizzying speed. Ordinary citizens became amateur intelligence analysts, dissecting grainy footage and scrutinizing official statements for inconsistencies. Conspiracy theories flourished in the fertile soil of uncertainty, each more elaborate than the last.
Everyone had an opinion, delivered with the unshakable confidence of those who had nothing at stake.
No one had the truth, that elusive butterfly that fluttered just beyond the reach of even the most dedicated fact-checkers.
And in the vacuum of clarity – missiles moved. The Jets scrambled. The machinery of war, always eager for activation, hummed to life with terrible efficiency.
The Line of Control saw its heaviest shelling in a decade, the night sky illuminated by artillery fire that arced over the disputed territory like deadly shooting stars. Villages on both sides evacuated in panic, the roads clogged with families fleeing with whatever possessions they could carry. Hospitals in the region prepared for mass casualties, medical staff working double shifts as they set up triage areas and counted blood supplies.
Pakistan's Air Force squadrons went on full alert, pilots sleeping in their flight suits beside their aircraft, ready to scramble at a moment's notice. In the officers' mess at Skardu Air Base, Wing Commander Sohail Mirza, "Shadow", stared into his untouched cup of tea, his mind not on the potential combat ahead but on the faces of those he had sworn to protect – his few still alive relatives in Lahore, his friends' children who called him uncle, the memory of his younger sister Maryam who had been lost in an act of terrorism, too similar to what had happened in Rajouri. He thought of Beenish, the sole joy in his life, the light that had brightened his heart, and felt the familiar ache of protective love that had always made him question his choice to remain unmarried. He had avoided matrimony knowing the risks of his profession, unwilling to leave behind a grieving widow and fatherless children. Now, as war loomed once again, he wondered if that decision had been wisdom or cowardice. War would mean sorties over Kasmir – the same peaks where Maryum once taught refugee children. "Some borders," he murmured, "exist only on maps."
"Ready for this, Shadow?" asked his wingman, a young pilot fresh from the conversion course, whose enthusiasm had not yet been tempered by the reality of combat.
Sohail's lips curved into his characteristic half-smile, masking the turmoil beneath. "Always ready," he replied with practiced nonchalance, his tone betraying none of the complex calculations running through his mind – fuel loads, missile ranges, evasive maneuvers, survival odds. "Just remember your training and stay on my wing."
India's Northern Command surged troops and artillery to the frontlines, convoys of military vehicles clogging the mountain roads of Kashmir. In forward operating posts, soldiers checked and rechecked their equipment, wrote letters to loved ones, and engaged in the gallows humor that has been the universal language of warriors since time immemorial. Junior officers studied maps and memorized terrain features, knowing that such details could mean the difference between victory and defeat, between life and death.
In a dim war room under Army Headquarters, Rawalpindi, a young officer muttered, "It's 2019 all over again." His face, illuminated by the blue glow of multiple screens displaying troop movements and satellite imagery, looked ghostly in the low light. Now a Major, he had been a lieutenant during the last standoff, had seen how close they had come to full-scale war. The memory made him clench his hands slightly as he marked potential strike zones on a digital map.
General Azaad Ahmed , who had entered silently behind him, replied grimly, "No. This time, the world isn't sure who to believe. That makes it more dangerous. War is mathematics. Count the cost: one million refugees, $20 billion lost in trade, generational hatred. Then ask – who gains from that equation?" His voice carried the weight of decades of military experience, of having seen how uncertainty could be more deadly than clear enmity. He placed a steadying hand on the young officer's shoulder, a rare gesture of humanity from a man known for his stoic command presence.
The General's mind was a battlefield of its own – strategic assessments warred with political considerations, duty to country clashed with responsibility to humanity. He had joined the military to defend Pakistan, not to lead it into a war based on false pretenses. And yet, if India attacked, he would have no choice but to respond with all the force at his disposal. The paradox of his position was not lost on him – trained for war, praying for peace.
"Sir," the young officer ventured, "what if we're being manipulated? What if neither side is seeing the complete picture?"
Azaad's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Then we must be even more vigilant. War is too serious a matter to be rushed into based on emotion rather than fact." He turned to the room at large, raising his voice slightly. "I want triple verification on all intelligence. No assumptions, no leaps of logic. We deal in certainties only."
The room responded with a chorus of "Yes, sir," but the undercurrent of anxiety remained. They all knew that in the fog of crisis; certainty was the scarcest resource of all.
The Indo-Nepal Border
Far away, in a room rented from the village-head, somewhere near the Indo-Nepal border, Mullah Ahab read every news feed with icy satisfaction. The confusion was the point. The blame-game was the goal. His new location was sparse but functional – mud walls lined with communications equipment, a cot in the corner, maps covering one wall with red pins marking targets both past and future. His location chosen to provide a quick egress to Nepal and from there to anywhere in the world his financiers needed him to be.
He didn't need victory in the traditional sense. Military conquest was not his objective. His financiers ledgers valued profit from chaos over flags.
He needed chaos – the dissolution of order, the erosion of trust between nations, the collapse of diplomatic channels that might otherwise prevent bloodshed. In chaos lay opportunity for those, persistent enough to wait, ruthless enough to act when the moment came.
And chaos was winning. He could see it in the fractured global response, in the mobilization of forces on both sides, in the inflammatory rhetoric of politicians who should know better but were trapped in the prison of public expectation.
Ahab's fingers traced the outline of the subcontinent on a worn paper map, lingering over the Kashmir region where the current crisis was centered. His eyes, dark and penetrating, reflected none of the emotion that might be expected from someone orchestrating such suffering. There was only calculation, only the cold arithmetic of destabilization.
"They never learn," he murmured to himself, a hint of contempt coloring his otherwise monotone voice. "They never see the puppet master, only the puppets." He allowed himself an imperceptible smile, the expression alien on his austere features. "By the time they understand, it will be too late."
In the corner of the room, a communications device beeped softly. Another piece of his plan falling into place, another strand in the web of deception he had spent years weaving. He moved to check it, his movements unhurried despite the urgency of the unfolding crisis.
After all, he had planned for this moment meticulously. The seeds of conflict had been planted long ago, nurtured with patience and watered with the blood of innocents. Now he needed only to watch them bloom into the flowers of war.
And as night fell over the subcontinent, as families on both sides of the border huddled around radios and television sets seeking reassurance, that would not come, as military commanders reviewed contingency plans they hoped never to implement, as world leaders issued statements carefully crafted to protect their interests rather than preserve peace, Mullah Ahab's prophecy seemed poised to fulfill itself.
Chaos was indeed winning. And in its shadow, the architects of hatred prepared to reap what they had sown.