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A Question Before the Bullet: How the April 22 Massacre Shattered Illusion of Peace in Kashmir

On April 22, 2025, the meadows above Pahalgam in India’s Kashmir turned red with blood of innocent travellers. The tourist hotspot that was just being marketed as “Mini Switzerland” became a killing ground as terrorists opened fire. Visitors who had ridden up by pony and foot to Baisaran that morning found themselves, by afternoon, part of the deadliest civilian-targeted attack in Kashmir in over a decade as some armed men, camouflaged and calculated, moved through the crowd, questioning names, testing faith, and firing with precision and the single aim of killing in cold blood. At least 26 people were killed in broad day light. 

Families were shattered within seconds of mayhem. And this nation and its people were forced to confront the illusion it had been carefully constructing: that Kashmir had finally returned to normalcy.

What made the horror so condemnable was its target. These were not military convoys or political figures. These were families on holiday — honeymooners, software engineers from Florida, grandparents from Bengaluru, children with DSLRs. They had not come there to register their protest in any way. They were there to breathe, to enjoy the beauty of Kashmir and create unforgettable memories in the valley. They had come to enjoy a spring afternoon above the Lidder River. They were unarmed, unguarded, unprepared. And they were picked apart one by one.

Witnesses described three men moving slowly, they were dressed in pherans and Kashmiri wool. One held what appeared to be an M4 carbine. This is a weapon that is more often associated with foreign combat zones. Witnesses revealed that they didn’t fire at random and just at anybody. They asked names. They asked for religious identity. “Can you recite the Kalma?” was a question posed more than once, and recounted by several witnesses. For those who failed to answer, or answered wrong, there was no second chance.

Among the dead was Lt. Vinay Narwal, 26, on his honeymoon. Shot through the neck while holding a bhel puri plate in his hand. Bitan Adhikary from Florida, who had returned to India for a short holiday, died in front of his wife and young son. Bharath Bhushan was killed after answering “Hindu” to a gunman’s question. His wife was told to walk away with their child. Jennifer Nathaniel’s husband, Sushil, told his killers he was Christian. They shot him six times.

By the time local authorities received the first call for help — nearly thirty minutes after the initial shots — it was too late. The terrorists had disappeared into the trees that make up the forests of the valley. No one knows exactly how. But they had filmed the attack using body cams, sources later confirmed. This was a spectacle.

Within the initial hour, New Delhi erupted into action. Prime Minister Narendra Modi, who had been in Jeddah on an official trip, decided to fly back to New Delhi. At the airport itself, he was briefed by National Security Adviser Ajit Doval, External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar, and Foreign Secretary Vikram Misri. The urgency was recognisable. At first sight, Home Minister Amit Shah was already on his way to Kashmir. He met with victims’ families, chaired local intelligence meetings, and visited security installations. A Cabinet Committee on Security (CCS) session was convened too. Every key minister was present. India was preparing to respond.

The central government made three things clear in its public posture: there would be no delay, no ambiguity, and no mercy. The defence minister issued a sharply worded statement, promising a response that would be “loud and clear.” The CCS authorised multiple agencies to act in concert. The Army, the Jammu and Kashmir Police, and the Central Reserve Police Force began joint operations within hours. Sketches of the attackers were released. Intelligence inputs suggested seven men were involved — four to five from Pakistan, the rest local. Surveillance teams swept nearby districts. Intercepts were reviewed. Drones and choppers flew as part of scouting measures.

The scale of the preparation has stunned officials. The attackers were armed with assault rifles, including American-made M4 carbines and standard AK-47s. They carried between 50 to 70 cartridges each. They wore military-style camouflage. They didn’t flee randomly. They had an escape plan, a signal network, and — crucially — a communications blackout they could exploit.

This was a coordinated strike designed to shock the Indian state at the height of its international visibility. Just a day earlier, US Vice President J.D. Vance had praised India’s rising global stature during his diplomatic visit. The attackers chose this moment deliberately — to remind the world, and perhaps more pointedly, India itself, that Kashmir was not done bleeding. That there was more bloodshed they were prepared to bring in the valley.

And bleed it did. Not just metaphorically. In Srinagar, schools shut down. Petrol stations and shops were shuttered. For the first time in decades, Kashmir saw a voluntary hartal that wasn’t called by separatists or militants, but observed by the ordinary people of Kashmir — as a show of grief, not defiance. Local politicians joined mourners. No flags. No slogans. Just sorrow.

The disruption didn’t end there. Thousands of tourists, already in the region or planning to arrive, suddenly found themselves stranded. Security checks multiplied overnight. The Srinagar-Jammu highway — Kashmir’s vital road artery — was temporarily closed due to weather-triggered landslides. Though reopened later, traffic was one-way and limited. Flights out of Srinagar surged in demand. In the initial chaos, airline prices skyrocketed. Tickets that normally cost ₹6,000 shot up to ₹65,000. In response, the government capped prices and coordinated with major carriers to stabilize outflow.

Special trains were announced for domestic tourists. Embassies were notified. The foreign ministry worked around the clock to ensure no diplomatic damage spiralled out of control. Kashmir, which had just started enjoying its busiest tourist season since the abrogation of Article 370 in 2019, was back under a cloud. Hotels emptied. Travel advisories were reissued. Influencer posts turned sorrowful.

But what hurt most for many was not just the violence. It was the betrayal of trust. Tourists had returned to Kashmir in record numbers in 2024. Over 3.5 million visited that year. The local economy, decimated by decades of insurgency and COVID, had started breathing again. Houseboats in Dal Lake were full. Saffron trails were promoted. Ice rinks, hiking lodges, startup hubs — all received subsidies and necessary promotion and media attention. The state projected itself as stable, secure, and open for business.

And the people had bought into that idea. So had the tourists. So had the victims. Now, Baisaran will forever be remembered for its grief. No photo can undo the reality of children watching their parents’ bleed. No brochure can erase the sound of gunfire on an April afternoon. The illusion of normalcy has cracked in the collective memory of our nation.

What trauma leaves behind is suspension — a moment that gets stuck between breath and memory, where people continue living but never quite leave the place where it happened. For the survivors of the Baisaran massacre, life did not resume with the return downhill. It split open and rewired itself into something colder, quieter, more watchful.

Sohini Adhikary had not wanted to come to Kashmir. Her husband Bitan had planned the trip. They had flown in from Florida with their young son, Hridaan. On the morning of April 22, they were on the grass, adjusting the angle of a selfie, when a man asked for Bitan’s name. Then his religion. Sohini says she heard the shot before she understood what it meant. Bitan fell next to her. She remembers the smell of earth more than the sound. She doesn’t remember screaming. Hridaan, just six, still asks why his father “fell asleep in the grass.”

Lt. Vinay Narwal had been married eight days. He was eating a snack with his wife Himanshi when he was shot. She never let go of the paper plate. Later, when she gave her statement to security officials, she mentioned that strange detail — the way her hands wouldn’t release the plate as though the shock had welded it there.

Jennifer Nathaniel saw her husband Sushil shield her with his body. He told the terrorist he was Christian. They told him to lie down. Then they shot him six times. Their son Austen has not spoken since. He was found hiding behind a rock by a local guide who dragged him down the mountain in silence.

There were others — tourists from Pune, Kochi, Kolkata, Indore — some who died shielding family, others who survived by accident. One couple from Kochi missed their ride because their food took too long at a dhaba. That delay saved their lives. Another family was spared because their child had altitude sickness, and they turned back halfway.

In homes across India, grief became a national ritual. Funerals were held with state honours, with military processions, with schoolchildren holding placards, with mothers burning incense. At Vinay Narwal’s funeral in Karnal, his bride didn’t speak. She stood still, watching the flames. In Bengaluru, Bharath Bhushan’s father wept beside a small Indian flag. “He died as Bharath,” he said. “That is enough.” In Kolkata, Sohini spoke into microphones: “He came to India for peace. He found bullets.”

In Delhi, the Cabinet Committee on Security continued to meet. Sources confirmed that surveillance of known sleeper cells had intensified. Drone patrols were increased near key infiltration routes. Intelligence agencies were ordered to compile actionable data within seventy-two hours. The RAW and IB were tasked with triangulating external signals and financial flows connected to the Resistance Front (TRF). By all estimates, the group remained the prime suspect.

TRF was not new. It had been active under that name since 2019, shortly after Article 370 was scrapped. Most security analysts consider it a rebranded arm of Lashkar-e-Taiba — created to skirt FATF blacklists and reframe militancy under the guise of ‘resistance’ rather than jihad. Unlike its predecessor groups, TRF claimed no attacks publicly, released no propaganda videos, and avoided religious rhetoric. Instead, it operated in silence — precise, symbolic, and often untraceable. The Baisaran strike fit this model.

But the psychological impact of this attack exceeded even TRF’s previous operations. This was messaging. The victims were citizens — middle-class, multilingual, multi-faith — the very image of the “New India” the government had been promoting. To kill them in a meadow was to kill the illusion that India’s development alone could outpace ideological barriers within Indian society.

But the valley didn’t erupt this time. No mass protests followed. No curfews were needed. The silence in Kashmir is telling of the exhaustion. “We are not indifferent,” said a schoolteacher from Anantnag, “we are just tired of being blamed for what we do not control.”

In Pahalgam and Srinagar, local guides and pony handlers, many of whom had protected tourists during the shooting, were left in a peculiar bind. Celebrated by some, suspected by others. Social media narratives spiralled into blame: were there local collaborators? Did someone tip off the attackers? No evidence emerged. But in Kashmir, insinuation travels faster than proof.

Even those who stayed neutral found themselves caught in the fog. “You know what hurts?” said a pony handler who helped hide a child. “That even now, people will say we were part of this. Why would I protect someone if I wanted them to die?”

This tension — between grief and suspicion — cuts deep across Kashmir’s civil society because for years, educators, lawyers, and artists have worked quietly to stabilize community life. They have also built schools, clinics, youth centers like many other parts of the country. After the attack, many are fearful that progress would be reversed by renewed militarization, reinforced surveillance, and shrinking civic space. “One attack, and we’re all back under the lens,” said a teacher from Baramulla. “We lost people too — our trust, our dignity, our small freedoms.”

Meanwhile, New Delhi is facing increasing pressure to reassure the country and its citizens. The optics have shifted slightly. Kashmir had been showcased in trade fairs and tourism expos. The Prime Minister had called it a jewel in India’s crown. Now, international media — from BBC to The Guardian to Der Spiegel — have run stories titled “Terror in the Tourist Trail.” Hashtags like #PahalgamMassacre and #IndiaRemembers trended globally. Editorials demanded justice. Foreign embassies issued advisories. India’s diplomatic image, so carefully curated over years, was now backlit by bullet casings.

The Ministry of External Affairs managed the blowback carefully. Dr. Jaishankar made calls to key capitals. The US State Department issued solidarity, but stopped short of naming Pakistan. The EU’s statement was stronger, calling the act “cowardly.” Russia expressed condolences. But Turkey, Qatar, and China maintained ambiguous silence. No one named Pakistan. Not publicly. Delhi took note.

Privately, Delhi’s concern is much deeper. Would this embolden other sleeper cells? Could foreign-backed proxies strike in other “normal” zones? How much of the local security architecture had atrophied under the narrative of calm?

What has come next is a scramble of things, an all-out hunt in the valley. New check posts have been ordered along all tourist zones. All registered homestays and pony trails were asked to submit identification logs for recent clients. Kashmir’s digital surveillance ecosystem, already among the densest in India, is likely to expand further. But no breakthrough has seemingly emerged. The terrorists, it seemed, had vanished.

That vanishing has become a metaphor for the way India has sometimes engaged Kashmir — as terrain to manage, rather than a community to understand. The killings had happened under the state’s watch. The perpetrators had escaped. And in the meantime, the valley returned to a posture it knew too well: visible quiet, internal churn.

On the streets of Delhi and Mumbai, the mourning continued. In temples and mosques, churches and clubs, candles were lit. Victims’ names were read aloud in classrooms. One school in Pune held a moment of silence for Kaustubh Gunbote and Santosh Jagdale, friends who died shielding their families. In Indore, Austen Nathaniel’s school sent a condolence book to his home. Every page was signed. In Kochi, Alby George and Lavanya fed 500 people at a temple to honour the accident that spared them.

None of it changed what had happened. But it made the grief national. And personal. For once, Kashmir was not a distant story. It was a story from the grass. The trail. The picnic. The place anyone could have been that day.

The morning after the Cabinet Committee on Security met in Delhi, the conversation shifted from mourning to response. This was no longer about what had happened, but what would happen next. Prime Minister Modi’s government — known for its muscular posturing and election-season precision — now had to calibrate an answer that matched the grief without triggering a regional meltdown.

The pressure was immense. Balakot still echoed in public memory: the 2019 retaliatory airstrike inside Pakistan after Pulwama had recast India’s strategic playbook. But back then, the target was military — a Jaish-e-Mohammed camp. This time, there was no clear camp to bomb, no convoy to avenge. There were body cams, silence, and the ghosts of civilians.

The options were many, but none simple. Surgical strikes across the Line of Control? Limited air raids on suspected TRF launchpads? Cyber sabotage? A ground infiltration operation? A high-visibility diplomatic campaign? Military planners, according to sources close to South Block, favoured a short, sharp, deniable response. A message, not a war.

But any strike risked escalation. Pakistan’s army, under General Hafiz Asim Munir, had already begun preparing defensive narratives. Islamabad issued routine denials. Their foreign office expressed “regret” and “solidarity with victims,” but rejected “baseless allegations.” Intelligence sources in India suspected otherwise. They pointed to familiar patterns: foreign weapons, well-trained shooters, the timing. TRF’s involvement, they believed, was more than ideological — it was logistical, sanctioned, and supplied.

Behind Pakistan’s denials, however, lies its own crisis. The military’s hold on civilian institutions is fraying. Baloch separatists had launched multiple attacks in Quetta and Karachi over the past six months. The Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan had regained ground in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. The economy was in freefall. Inflation crossed 40%. Power cuts lasted twelve hours a day. IMF talks were stalled. In such instability, the use of Kashmir as an external pressure valve was not unprecedented — it was the doctrine that Pakistan has long relied on.

Munir, in a speech weeks earlier, had once again called Kashmir the “jugular vein of Pakistan.” It was the same line his predecessors had used. But now, with international sympathy dwindling and Gulf allies moving closer to India, his threats sounded less strategic and more desperate.

Inside India’s intelligence community, a second fear is rising: that the Pakistani military may no longer be fully in control of its proxies. Splinters within the ISI. Rogue commanders with their own networks. The 2011 Abbottabad raid had already proven how deep the duplicity ran. If TRF cells operated with partial or no command supervision, then India’s response could end up hitting the wrong targets — or worse, invite a conflict without executing the threat.

But India didn’t stop at words. Financial task forces have begun freezing suspected hawala networks in Srinagar and Delhi. Surveillance has been intensified on NGOs and trusts with cross-border ties. Covert channels were reactivated. RAW operatives are believed to be coordinating with UAE and Afghan counterparts to track TRF foot soldiers in safe zones. Quietly, without drama, the architecture of response is taking shape.

Publicly, the military remained on standby. No sudden deployments. No air force shows. But in Rajouri and Kupwara, command units were instructed to run “forward defence drills.” Not to provoke — but to prepare.

In the meantime, Kashmir’s civil society tried to stitch the wound. Vigils were held not just for tourists, but for the idea of safety. Local journalists reported not rumours, but resistance — the quiet kind. People opening homes to stranded travellers. Pony handlers staying with survivors until the army came. Mosque leaders denouncing the killings during Friday sermons. Even separatist sympathizers, off record, called the attack “un-Islamic” and “strategically suicidal.”

India now faces a choice. Retaliation is inevitable. But will it be precise — or performative? Will it protect without punishing the innocent? Will it separate killers from communities?

And beyond military calculus lies a bigger task: restoring the legitimacy of peace. Not through checkpoints or slogans. But through politics. Through governance. Through honest dialogue that doesn’t reduce Kashmiri identity to obedience or tourism.

Because if Pahalgam taught us anything, it is that terror doesn’t just kill bodies. It kills belief. And rebuilding that belief will take much more than force. It will take humility. And imagination. The ponies will return. Tourists will click selfies. Life, as it does, will try to move on. But under the soil, something now sleeps — memory. The memory of a picnic that turned into an execution. Of names turned death sentences. Of a place once known for peace, now remembered for questions that no one should have to answer with their life.

What’s your name?
What’s your faith?
Can you recite a prayer to prove you belong?

These are questions of conscience. And how we respond — as a nation, as neighbours, as humans — will define whether we honour the dead or just count them like we have done in the past.

 

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