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When Silence Screamed Louder Than Intelligence and Action Came After Carnage

In the wake of the grotesque carnage that befell Pahalgam on the 22nd of April, 2025—a grim testament to the malignant reach of transnational terror networks—the Government of India, in an ostentatious display of diplomatic retaliation, unfurled a series of reactionary measures aimed at castigating Pakistan, the alleged incubator of this orchestrated barbarism. The Indian state apparatus, jolted from its habitual inertia, embarked upon a diplomatic offensive, summoning high commissioners, suspending bilateral dialogues, and threatening economic sanctions cloaked under the guise of strategic restraint.

Home Minister Amit Shah’s perfunctory visit to the site, along with Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s truncated foreign sojourn, may have signaled urgency, but such theatre reeked of performative governance—too little, too late. In reality, these machinations, shrouded in bureaucratic bravado, barely mask the resounding hollowness of India's counter-terror intelligence architecture. For a government that touts zero-tolerance towards terrorism as a keystone of its nationalist manifesto, the sheer lapse in preemptive action underscores an alarming dereliction of duty.

Despite possessing a multi-tiered intelligence surveillance network and having previously claimed to have neutralised terror infrastructure in Kashmir post-Article 370 abrogation, the Government's inability to anticipate such a high-profile massacre is not merely a failure—it is an indictment. What transpired in Baisaran Valley is not a lapse in intelligence, but a collapse of vigilance; a bureaucratic torpor that emboldened militants to strike at the very heart of India's tourism-driven soft power in Kashmir.

Further compounding the ignominy is the administration's proclivity to deflect rather than reflect. The belligerent finger-pointing at Pakistan, albeit partially merited, conveniently obfuscates the systemic rot within India's own internal security mechanisms. While Islamabad’s nefarious complicity with groups like Lashkar-e-Taiba is a geopolitical reality, it does not absolve New Delhi of its cardinal sin: complacency dressed as confidence.

In sum, while the post-facto steps undertaken—ranging from diplomatic isolation of Pakistan to mobilization of the National Investigation Agency—may satiate a restless public and manufacture an illusion of control, they do not erase the culpability of a government that, despite all its bluster and bravado, failed in its primordial duty: the protection of its people. The Pahalgam incident, thus, is not only a tragedy—it is a seismic revelation of institutional lethargy masquerading as national resilience.

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A Lover’s Lament in Lust and Longing

Oh, the fire that stirs within my veins, A tempest of lust I cannot contain. Each pulse, each throb, a maddening beat, Yet tethered by dreams of love so sweet.

Horny, yes, with a hunger untamed, A desire unhidden, unbridled, unshamed. But deeper still, beneath the heat, Lies a yearning that hookups can’t complete.

For fleeting touch, for empty cries, Leaves no spark in love’s eternal skies. The hookup scene—so hollow, so vain, A carousel spinning in cycles of pain.

I crave the curves, the whispers, the moans, Yet more than flesh, I seek the unknown. A soul to match this sensual fire, A heart to dance with my deepest desire.

Frustration builds, a cruel, sharp sting, Where is the woman who feels this thing? This blend of lust and love’s embrace, A tender storm, a passionate grace.

The nights are long, the shadows tease, As my body yearns, yet my heart won’t appease. For what’s a lover without a muse, A sacred bond I refuse to lose.

Generation lost, in swipes and lies, Shallow promises under starlit skies. I ache for depth, for truth, for more, A love that shakes me to my very core.

So here I stand, both cursed and blessed, With a fire of lust and love confessed. Waiting for her, with matching flames, To rewrite the rules, to change the games.

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The Incomplete Love of Calcutta

In Calcutta’s streets, where time stands still,

Beneath the clouds that whisper on the hill,

The old trams hum a sorrowful tune,

And lovers dream beneath a silver moon.

The Hooghly ripples with forgotten cries,

As hearts are drawn beneath the ink-black skies.

Yet in the beauty, there's a secret pain,

A love that never blooms, a sweet refrain.

The city’s pulse, a rhythm so divine,

But many hearts beat out of sync, out of line.

Words left unsaid on crowded benches sit,

In the noise of life, hearts never quite fit.

A letter unopened, a promise half-spoken,

Fingers brushing but never truly broken.

Love’s fragrance lingers but fades in the air,

Like the smell of rain, both fleeting and rare.

The lovers of Calcutta, in longing steeped,

Find their hearts in places they cannot keep.

One-sided stories, in shadows they roam,

The city, their lover, yet never a home.

Still, the beauty of Calcutta remains—

A lover's whisper, a thousand refrains.

For in every heartache, there's something true:

The incomplete love, always born anew.

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20's Love ?

20 ki umra mein jo mohabbat thi, Dil mein khilte the sapne, armaan jo katti thi. Pyaar ka rang tha bina daam ke, Jise samajh na paaye, wo duniya ki baat thi.

Aaj bhi dil mein woh jazbaat hai, Par jo dil tha, wo 90’s ka saath hai. Waqt badla, rishte badle, Par mohabbat ki kahani, wo purani saath hai.

Commitments jo the, bina shart ke, Chhupke chhupke zindagi se the rishton ke. Kya jaane yeh duniya, pyaar ka hai kya rang? Dil to maara tha, lekin haath tha khaali, jo tha bandhan.

Na jaane yeh zamanay kaise badal gaye, Jahan pyaar ke jumlay bas faaltu lag gaye. Par 20 ki umra ka pyaar, ab bhi wohi hai, Dil ki suno, bas waqt ke saath chhupa hua hai.