Retaliation often begins not with the thunder of jets but with the quiet accumulation of loss. On April 22, 2025, the tranquil town of Pahalgam, nestled in the lap of Kashmir’s sacred pine forests, became a site of unspeakable horror. A massacre targeting Hindu tourists and pilgrims shattered not just lives but a national psyche already weary of cross-border aggression. It was not merely an attack—it was a violation of sanctity, of faith, and of hope. In its wake, India responded with an unprecedented ferocity, launching Operation Sindoor, a decisive military strike that targeted terror infrastructure deep within Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir.
This operation was not crafted in the heat of impulse. It was a response calculated in corridors of strategy, executed with aerial precision, and delivered with the political message that the age of passive endurance was over. India’s leadership chose symbolism in naming it Sindoor, invoking not just the bloodshed of war, but the red vermilion—sign of marriage, devotion, and sanctity. The metaphor could not be more deliberate: what was attacked in Pahalgam was not only people but the very sacredness of life. And what followed was a declaration: violation of sanctity would now provoke force, not just diplomacy.
In the early hours of May 7, Indian fighter jets struck nine locations in Muzaffarabad, Kotli, and Bahawalpur—territories long understood, albeit informally, as sanctuaries for terror outfits operating with ideological impunity and military complicity. These were not symbolic targets. They were active training grounds for groups like the Lashkar-e-Taiba and Jaish-e-Mohammed, groups whose footprints have trailed across Indian tragedies for decades. According to Indian authorities, the strikes were designed to dismantle not just physical infrastructure but the idea that impunity comes with distance.
The Pakistani government denounced the strikes as “an unprovoked act of war,” denying the presence of terror camps and portraying the Indian action as electoral theatrics. But the denials, much like the smoke from destroyed bunkers, found little space to hide.
This wasn’t the first time India responded with force. The Balakot strikes in 2019, following the Pulwama attack, were perhaps a prelude to this newer, bolder posture. Yet Operation Sindoor differs in scale, intensity, and political tone. It was accompanied not only by missiles but by statecraft: India suspended the Indus Waters Treaty, expelled Pakistani diplomats, shut down the Wagah-Attari border, and launched an international media blitz aimed at reframing the discourse around terrorism and sovereignty.
This multidimensional retaliation speaks volumes. At one level, it redefines India’s strategic doctrine—from deterrence by diplomacy to deterrence by demonstration. At another, it forces the region into a moment of reckoning. The long-standing equilibrium between dialogue and conflict has been ruptured, and with it, the illusion that subcontinental peace can be maintained through passive rhetoric alone.
For India, Operation Sindoor was a moment of national resolve—a manifestation of its desire to change the rules of engagement. There was a visible shift from managing terror to eliminating its breeding grounds. This shift is not just about policy—it is about collective memory. India has endured decades of cross-border infiltrations, bombings, and calculated acts of terror that left cities broken and families grieving. Pahalgam was the proverbial last straw, not because of the scale of the tragedy, but because of its spiritual symbolism. The massacre struck at the heart of India’s civilizational consciousness.
For Pakistan, the operation presents a more complex dilemma. Officially, it denies hosting terror infrastructure, and yet, its strategic use of proxy groups has long been documented. The military establishment now finds itself pressed between escalating conflict and losing diplomatic face. Pakistan’s efforts to internationalize the conflict—taking the matter to the UN Security Council, calling for global intervention—are unlikely to find traction in a world increasingly intolerant of state-sponsored extremism.
Yet, beneath the layers of statecraft and strategy lies a more fragile truth—the unpredictability of escalation. Both India and Pakistan are nuclear-armed nations. A single miscalculation can provoke a catastrophe disproportionate to its cause. The airspace shutdowns, flight disruptions, civilian displacements, and public hysteria witnessed after the operation are stark reminders of how thin the veil of normalcy really is in South Asia. One spark, one misread radar signal, and diplomacy might find itself gasping beneath the rubble.
But even if escalation is avoided, the region now faces a deeper ideological chasm. With every such confrontation, the space for dialogue shrinks and the ecosystem of mistrust deepens. Cultural exchange, trade, tourism, and people-to-people ties—all casualties in this silent war that spans decades. One must ask: even if Operation Sindoor succeeds in deterring terror, what will be the cost to peace building efforts, to regional integration, to the dreams of citizens who wish only for bread over bullets?
It is also critical to interrogate the domestic implications of such strikes. In India, nationalist sentiment has soared. Social media is awash with celebration, patriotic hashtags trend by the hour, and opposition parties scramble to frame alternative narratives. While national pride in safeguarding sovereignty is justified, the danger of militaristic triumphalism looms large. War, after all, is a language best spoken with restraint. The line between defense and bellicosity is thin, and in the age of virality, easily crossed.
Pakistan, meanwhile, finds its civilian leadership once again overshadowed by the military establishment. The space for dissent, for introspection on the country’s long-standing support to militant outfits, continues to shrink. Voices that once called for de-radicalization, for rethinking foreign policy, now face a rising tide of jingoism. As always, it is the common people—be they traders in Lahore or farmers in Punjab—who bear the brunt of a conflict not of their choosing.
The world watches with concern but little concrete intervention. The geopolitical West, mired in its own crises and recalibrating alliances, offers the usual appeals for restraint. China treads carefully, wary of destabilizing a region where its own economic stakes run deep. Russia offers backchannel mediation, but its credibility, too, has waned in the post-Ukraine era. In essence, the India-Pakistan dynamic remains, as ever, largely unmediated—one of the most dangerous bilateral fault lines on the planet.
And so, South Asia stands at a critical crossroads. The question is no longer whether war will erupt, but whether peace can be envisioned beyond the binaries of war and appeasement. Can the nations involved create a new grammar of engagement—one where security does not come at the cost of dialogue, and sovereignty is asserted not through bombs but through justice, accountability, and courage?
Operation Sindoor may have temporarily shifted the calculus of terror, but it has also deepened the urgency for a political resolution. Until both nations address the root causes—historical grievances, contested territories, proxy warfare, and the radicalization of young minds—the cycle of violence will remain alive, dormant, waiting.
In the end, deterrence is not merely about showing strength. It is about changing minds. Whether Operation Sindoor will change hearts remains a question hanging in the high Himalayan air, echoing between watchtowers and valleys, as fragile and volatile as the peace it seeks to preserve.
(Author is RK Columnist and can be reached at: [email protected])
