Far away, where mustard-yellow fields stretch to touch the horizon, where apple blossoms sway under the vigilant gaze of the snowy mountains, there lies a land we once called paradise — Kashmir. A place where poets sang that if there is heaven on Earth, it is here. But today, that sacred valley smells not of spring, but of blood and sorrow.

In that wounded land, a young girl sits motionless beside her beloved. She is no longer just a child of the valley; she is now a symbol — the symbol of orphanhood, of a shattered dream. Her tiny wrists, once adorned with the bright red glass bangles that sang of love and life, now lie broken, their melody forever silenced. Those bracelets — silent witnesses to a sweetness that lasted only six days — now scream louder than any voice ever could.

There, in that stillness, even tears find no place to fall. There is no room for mourning, no space for cries. Only a silence so crushing that it feels like iron nails driven straight through the heart, leaving gaping wounds too deep for time to heal. This silence is not just Kashmir’s. It is India’s.

Can this land, can this nation, can this world ever forget? Should we? Will we ever forgive?

Twenty-nine lives — dreamers, tourists, fathers, mothers, children — gunned down in cold blood in Baisaran’s meadows. Their only crime? Believing they were safe in the lap of the Himalayas. Their only fault? Trusting that life was returning to normal. Those who pulled the triggers — and those who commanded them — murdered not just people; they struck at India’s heart, at humanity itself.

And what of Pakistan? Once again, like a tired and broken gramophone, it spits out its familiar lie: “We have no role.” Just as it did after Pathankot. After Pulwama. After Uri. After Amarnath. After every drop of innocent blood they have ever helped shed.

Once more, they offer their hollow condolences — a cheap mask over their gory faces. Shahbaz Sharif, the Prime Minister of a crumbling, bankrupt state, strings together false words of sympathy, even as his hands tremble with the guilt of complicity. He cannot even stand up to his own uniformed tyrants, much less face the world with honor.

But we know the truth. We know Saifullah Kasuri, Hafiz Saeed’s blood-soaked shadow, sat in the dark, planning the death of innocents. We know that the ISI — that rotting cancer masquerading as an intelligence agency — nurtured this plan with the same hatred it has cultivated for decades. And now, when confronted, they deny, they deflect, they deceive.

But history remembers. History remembers how your army chiefs, humiliated and defeated, knelt at Kargil. History remembers the firestorms unleashed over Balakot, when Indian Mirages painted the skies with a new lesson — that India will strike back, and it will strike hard. Did you think, Pakistan, that we had forgotten? That our spirit had dulled? That our resolve had withered?

You are mistaken. Gravely mistaken. Your Army Chief Asim Munir, a man blinded by religious hatred and historical ignorance, may cling to fantasies of resistance. Let him. Let him and his mercenary soldiers prepare themselves for a storm they cannot weather. A storm born not from politics, but from the deep, holy rage of 140 crore Indians who see in every fallen tourist, every murdered child, a reflection of themselves.

You thought you could break our spirit by turning Kashmir into a graveyard. Instead, you have set fire to a force that now demands justice. Not in words. Not in resolutions.

But in action. In fire. In retribution. We Indians do not ask the religion of the fallen. We do not ask where they were from, what language they spoke. They were ours. And today, their blood cries out for a response — a response as unstoppable as the tides, as unforgiving as history itself.

Kasuri and his cabal of death have planted the seeds of their own ruin. Their waiting is over. The engines of our Rafael jets hum a new song — the song of vengeance. The sky itself will roar. The destructive power we hold in our chests is no longer restrained. It is rising. It is ready.

To those who masterminded this bloodshed — hear this well: You have opened the gates of hell for yourselves. India will respond, and when it does, your palaces of terror will burn to ash, your illusions of invincibility will collapse, and your names will be cursed for generations. Pahalgam bleeds. India rises. And this time, the world will not be able to look away.