On May 7th, as the world woke up to the news of Operation Sindoor—a precise and devastating counter-terrorist operation that neutralised scores of terrorists—a tweet went viral that read: “On principle, I object strongly to the name Operation Sindoor . It reeks of patriarchy, ownership of women, ‘honour’ killings, chastity, sacralising the institution of marriage, and similar Hindutva obsessions.”
The confused farrago of words masquerading as intelligent thought, which sounds like it was lifted from a Dismantle Global Hindutva conference, could’ve challenged Poe’s Law if we didn’t know the author’s intent.
What was strange, considering India’s noisy landscape of a million mutinies, though, was the fact that there were very few such voices of “dissent” against India’s retaliation after the Pahalgam terror attack.
Almost every member of the Indian commentariat—elite columnists, angsty fact-checkers, chairman-loving communists, and even the sort of chaps who would have been sipping champagne at a conference organised by Ghulam Nabi Fai—is on the same page as the Government of India and no longer has any qualms about the Pakistani quom. There are no delusions of peace about our bloodthirsty neighbour’s raison d’être—that is, the destruction of India—their version of the River-to-the-Sea “circus” because they keep running out of “bread.”
This wasn’t always the case.
A Timeline Not So Long Ago
Just two decades ago, the idea that Indians and Pakistanis are loving Biblical neighbours who want to just get along irrespective of the two countries’ establishment view was the prevailing narrative. Most folks wanted Pakistani players to play in the IPL, Fawad Khan’s immaculate jawline to grace movie screens, and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan to croon more.
The aforementioned bonhomie was best captured by Farah Khan’s debut movie Main Hoon Na, when the good guys wanted peace and bad ones advocated war. Twenty-one years later, after numerous terror attacks—which included a few off-field trips by charming young men like Ajmal Kasab—the Chamberlain-like delusion is shattered.
From the slums of Dharavi to the high-rises of Gurugram, the pernicious myth has no takers, no political backing—not even among India’s Muslim populace. While Pakistan’s actions over the years have chipped away at the goodwill, Pahalgam turned out to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Crossing the Rubicon
Pahalgam wasn’t the first time India has faced a terror attack originating from Pakistani soil, but it was perhaps the most indelible since 26/11—not just for its brutality, but for its horrifyingly intimate familiarity. People didn’t die via a bomb left in a local train—they were killed up front when you could see the whites of the terrorists’ eyes. The terrorists weren’t indiscriminately spraying bullets—they were checking people’s religion. Reciting the Kalma or proving one’s religious ID became the litmus test for survival. Women were spared to send a message: “Go back and tell Modi what happened there.”
Something changed for almost every Indian, barring John Lennon fans.
Until now, India had often responded with strategic ambiguity, restrained outrage, or backchannel pressure. But Pahalgam crossed an invisible red line—not of diplomacy, but of civilisation.
The bards of war poured more salt on the wound, as international media outlets played their tired old game of both-siding the issue, calling the demons that had murdered innocents “gunmen” or “rebels” and making stock remarks about Hindu nationalism or Kashmir.
And perhaps the most devastating was the image of a sindoor-clad Himanshi Narwal—her wrists still adorned with bridal bangles—sitting beside the lifeless body of her husband, Lt Vinay Narwal . In that single image, the tragedy of Pahalgam was distilled: love cut down, innocence violated, and a nation united in collective grief. The modern-day equivalent of Draupadi’s cheerharan, where it would be almost impossible to move on without washing the sins with Dushasana’s blood.
And no one had any doubt about the identity of Dushasana.
Sindoor, Shakti, and Symbolism
To the uninitiated, like deracinated columnists for foreign publications, the sindoor might appear to be a cosmetic flourish, but in India’s 5,000-year-old civilisational ethos, it is sacred—predating Hindutva, politics, or postcolonial lectures.
One of the most enduring stories involves Hanuman asking Sita why she applied vermilion to her forehead for Rama’s long life. When Hanuman learnt that, he smeared his entire body with it, which is why so many of Hanuman’s depictions are in red. And it’s Hanuman who also represents retribution.
In naming its military response Operation Sindoor, India didn’t just choose a title—it summoned a civilisational archetype. Because in Hindu cosmology, when the sacred feminine is violated, you don’t awaken a victim.
You awaken a goddess.
Abrahamic traditions may reserve divine wrath for patriarchs, but in the Indic imagination, it is Shakti who rises. Durga was born of the gods’ collective fury to slay Mahishasura. Kali emerged when Durga’s rage could no longer be contained. Chamunda annihilated demons that even Ambika couldn’t ignore. Draupadi, humiliated in court, became the moral ignition for a war of dharma .
Hell hath no fury like Shakti scorned.
So when Himanshi Narwal sat beside her martyred husband’s coffin, sindoor still streaked in her parting, India was way past mourning. It remembered. And it responded—not with vengeance, but with dharma.
Everything that has followed has been an act of war of precise calibration.
From the tipped jar of vermilion in the official Operation Sindoor graphic to the press conference flanked by two women officers, it wasn’t just optics. The calm authority of Wing Commander Vyomika Singh and Colonel Sofiya Qureshi told the world: India’s daughters don’t just wear sindoor—they avenge it.
The New Unity
For once, we are not BJP, Congress, or Communist. We are not Left or Right. We have risen above internecine petty differences. We are simply Indian.
No one is asking for proof of surgical strikes. No one is raising questions about satellite coordinates. Even the communists—who once opposed wars if the Chairman didn’t approve—stand aligned.
Many years ago, TOI’s masterful scribe Jug Suraiya had penned a delightful piece Kurukshetra Now, when a Siberian court wanted to ban the Gita, in which Arjuna tells Lord Krishna: “Holy moly. Preach war? Me? Don’t those guys know that I’m a conscientious objector, the original peacenik, the ‘him’ in the middle of ahimsa? Boy, talk about ignorance.”
But there are times when even the warriors of enlightenment—those who forsake violence—must choose it. After all, the Gita came when Arjuna, seeing his brother and uncles across the battlefield, felt the urge to de-escalate.
But, as Krishna told Arjuna on that ancient battlefield: follow your dharma without attachment. Justice must be done—not in anger, but in duty. Not with vengeance, but with resolve.
India has never been the aggressor.
Not in 1947. Not in 1965. Not in 1971. Not in 1999. And certainly not in 2025. But make no mistake—hell hath no fury like Bharat Mata scorned. The same mother who nurtures with one hand carries a trident in the other. The same civilisation that composed the Rigveda also gave us the Rudram.
As Krishna told the original peacenik of the Mahabharata—the man who put the “him” in Ahimsa—there comes a time when even the most reluctant warrior must pick up his bow.
That time came with Pahalgam. Operation Sindoor wasn’t launched in anger—it was launched in clarity. In that moment, India remembered that dharma is not fulfilled through retreat but through righteous resistance. The Gita doesn’t call for escape; it demands engagement. Not with hatred. Not with greed. But with purpose.
No one seeks war. But even Arjuna—the idealist, the philosopher, the dreamer—knew that when war comes knocking, you don’t fold your hands.
You draw your bow. And you aim true. For grief must be mourned. But justice? Justice must be delivered. Operation Sindoor isn’t the end. It’s a beginning. And much to the chagrin of a lot of think-tankies around the world: India is not seeking an off-ramp.
The confused farrago of words masquerading as intelligent thought, which sounds like it was lifted from a Dismantle Global Hindutva conference, could’ve challenged Poe’s Law if we didn’t know the author’s intent.
What was strange, considering India’s noisy landscape of a million mutinies, though, was the fact that there were very few such voices of “dissent” against India’s retaliation after the Pahalgam terror attack.
Almost every member of the Indian commentariat—elite columnists, angsty fact-checkers, chairman-loving communists, and even the sort of chaps who would have been sipping champagne at a conference organised by Ghulam Nabi Fai—is on the same page as the Government of India and no longer has any qualms about the Pakistani quom. There are no delusions of peace about our bloodthirsty neighbour’s raison d’être—that is, the destruction of India—their version of the River-to-the-Sea “circus” because they keep running out of “bread.”
This wasn’t always the case.
A Timeline Not So Long Ago
Just two decades ago, the idea that Indians and Pakistanis are loving Biblical neighbours who want to just get along irrespective of the two countries’ establishment view was the prevailing narrative. Most folks wanted Pakistani players to play in the IPL, Fawad Khan’s immaculate jawline to grace movie screens, and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan to croon more.
The aforementioned bonhomie was best captured by Farah Khan’s debut movie Main Hoon Na, when the good guys wanted peace and bad ones advocated war. Twenty-one years later, after numerous terror attacks—which included a few off-field trips by charming young men like Ajmal Kasab—the Chamberlain-like delusion is shattered.
From the slums of Dharavi to the high-rises of Gurugram, the pernicious myth has no takers, no political backing—not even among India’s Muslim populace. While Pakistan’s actions over the years have chipped away at the goodwill, Pahalgam turned out to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Crossing the Rubicon
Pahalgam wasn’t the first time India has faced a terror attack originating from Pakistani soil, but it was perhaps the most indelible since 26/11—not just for its brutality, but for its horrifyingly intimate familiarity. People didn’t die via a bomb left in a local train—they were killed up front when you could see the whites of the terrorists’ eyes. The terrorists weren’t indiscriminately spraying bullets—they were checking people’s religion. Reciting the Kalma or proving one’s religious ID became the litmus test for survival. Women were spared to send a message: “Go back and tell Modi what happened there.”
Something changed for almost every Indian, barring John Lennon fans.
Until now, India had often responded with strategic ambiguity, restrained outrage, or backchannel pressure. But Pahalgam crossed an invisible red line—not of diplomacy, but of civilisation.
The bards of war poured more salt on the wound, as international media outlets played their tired old game of both-siding the issue, calling the demons that had murdered innocents “gunmen” or “rebels” and making stock remarks about Hindu nationalism or Kashmir.
And perhaps the most devastating was the image of a sindoor-clad Himanshi Narwal—her wrists still adorned with bridal bangles—sitting beside the lifeless body of her husband, Lt Vinay Narwal . In that single image, the tragedy of Pahalgam was distilled: love cut down, innocence violated, and a nation united in collective grief. The modern-day equivalent of Draupadi’s cheerharan, where it would be almost impossible to move on without washing the sins with Dushasana’s blood.
And no one had any doubt about the identity of Dushasana.
Sindoor, Shakti, and Symbolism
To the uninitiated, like deracinated columnists for foreign publications, the sindoor might appear to be a cosmetic flourish, but in India’s 5,000-year-old civilisational ethos, it is sacred—predating Hindutva, politics, or postcolonial lectures.
One of the most enduring stories involves Hanuman asking Sita why she applied vermilion to her forehead for Rama’s long life. When Hanuman learnt that, he smeared his entire body with it, which is why so many of Hanuman’s depictions are in red. And it’s Hanuman who also represents retribution.
In naming its military response Operation Sindoor, India didn’t just choose a title—it summoned a civilisational archetype. Because in Hindu cosmology, when the sacred feminine is violated, you don’t awaken a victim.
You awaken a goddess.
Abrahamic traditions may reserve divine wrath for patriarchs, but in the Indic imagination, it is Shakti who rises. Durga was born of the gods’ collective fury to slay Mahishasura. Kali emerged when Durga’s rage could no longer be contained. Chamunda annihilated demons that even Ambika couldn’t ignore. Draupadi, humiliated in court, became the moral ignition for a war of dharma .
Hell hath no fury like Shakti scorned.
So when Himanshi Narwal sat beside her martyred husband’s coffin, sindoor still streaked in her parting, India was way past mourning. It remembered. And it responded—not with vengeance, but with dharma.
Everything that has followed has been an act of war of precise calibration.
From the tipped jar of vermilion in the official Operation Sindoor graphic to the press conference flanked by two women officers, it wasn’t just optics. The calm authority of Wing Commander Vyomika Singh and Colonel Sofiya Qureshi told the world: India’s daughters don’t just wear sindoor—they avenge it.
The New Unity
For once, we are not BJP, Congress, or Communist. We are not Left or Right. We have risen above internecine petty differences. We are simply Indian.
No one is asking for proof of surgical strikes. No one is raising questions about satellite coordinates. Even the communists—who once opposed wars if the Chairman didn’t approve—stand aligned.
Many years ago, TOI’s masterful scribe Jug Suraiya had penned a delightful piece Kurukshetra Now, when a Siberian court wanted to ban the Gita, in which Arjuna tells Lord Krishna: “Holy moly. Preach war? Me? Don’t those guys know that I’m a conscientious objector, the original peacenik, the ‘him’ in the middle of ahimsa? Boy, talk about ignorance.”
But there are times when even the warriors of enlightenment—those who forsake violence—must choose it. After all, the Gita came when Arjuna, seeing his brother and uncles across the battlefield, felt the urge to de-escalate.
But, as Krishna told Arjuna on that ancient battlefield: follow your dharma without attachment. Justice must be done—not in anger, but in duty. Not with vengeance, but with resolve.
India has never been the aggressor.
Not in 1947. Not in 1965. Not in 1971. Not in 1999. And certainly not in 2025. But make no mistake—hell hath no fury like Bharat Mata scorned. The same mother who nurtures with one hand carries a trident in the other. The same civilisation that composed the Rigveda also gave us the Rudram.
As Krishna told the original peacenik of the Mahabharata—the man who put the “him” in Ahimsa—there comes a time when even the most reluctant warrior must pick up his bow.
That time came with Pahalgam. Operation Sindoor wasn’t launched in anger—it was launched in clarity. In that moment, India remembered that dharma is not fulfilled through retreat but through righteous resistance. The Gita doesn’t call for escape; it demands engagement. Not with hatred. Not with greed. But with purpose.
No one seeks war. But even Arjuna—the idealist, the philosopher, the dreamer—knew that when war comes knocking, you don’t fold your hands.
You draw your bow. And you aim true. For grief must be mourned. But justice? Justice must be delivered. Operation Sindoor isn’t the end. It’s a beginning. And much to the chagrin of a lot of think-tankies around the world: India is not seeking an off-ramp.
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