Red Ink

In the aftermath of the blood-soaked tragedy at Pahalgam, where the question “Are you Hindu?” was met with the unrelenting blast of bullets, one thing became abundantly clear — this was not merely an attack on individuals, but a violent assault on India’s very existence. The Pahalgam massacre was not just an isolated incident of terror; it was the unsettling whisper of a far larger and more insidious threat closing in on the nation. A quiet, unseen threat, festering in the darkest corners of Indian society, exploiting the loopholes of immigration, marriage, and trust. It is the story of Pakistani men using the guise of love to slip into India — and India, in its naive compassion, opening the gates to its own destruction. When the Indian government finally issued its directive, demanding all Pakistani nationals holding temporary visas to leave, many hailed it as a long-overdue act of courage. It seemed like the government had finally recognized the urgency of the situation. But behind t...

  T here was a time when the Indian subcontinent breathed like a living goddess—her veins were rivers, her breath the monsoon winds, her voice the chants of morning aarti and azaan in peaceful coexistence. That goddess is dying now. Her body is still, her soul gasping, not because a foreign army has invaded her—but because her own children have poisoned her blood from within. And at the heart of this national suicide stands a cunning cabal, draped not in camouflage but in khadi and Che Guevara T-shirts. They call themselves intellectuals. They call themselves progressives. They are the Left. But make no mistake—they are the most dangerous fundamentalists India has ever known. In Kashmir, the land of sages and snow, of Sufis and shrines, a silent genocide brews under the cover of normalcy. And then came Pahalgam—April 22, 2025—a date that should be carved into stone and stained with national shame. On that cursed day, Tourists were asked just one question: "What is your religion?...

They came for the breeze, the pine-scented skies, and the gentle laughter that often fills the meadows of Pahalgam. It was a Tuesday like any other in the spring cradle of Kashmir—sunlight danced on the leaves, children giggled while riding ponies, and tourists, many for the first time, marveled at the emerald landscapes of Baisaran. But in a single moment, the serenity of the valley was ruptured, twisted into a nightmare orchestrated not by nature’s fury, but by the cold, deliberate malice of men. Gunfire echoed where songbirds had sung. And in that fatal instant, innocence died under the shadow of a question: “What is your religion?” What followed was not war. It was not even terrorism in the traditional cloak of ideology or rebellion. It was a hate crime in its most naked form—a sectarian slaughter meant not to challenge governments but to frighten a nation by tearing at its soul. At least twenty-six people—Hindu pilgrims, students, newlyweds, retirees on vacation—were executed in t...

It began like a slow fever—unnoticed, seemingly harmless, yet quietly spreading, reshaping the pulse of the land. For decades, India has been bleeding silently from its borders, not from conventional war, but from an infiltration so methodical, so sustained, and so ignored, that the very idea of Bharat stands shaken. Today, we are no longer asking if illegal immigration is a problem. We are whispering among ourselves, afraid to say it aloud: have we already lost parts of our country? The statistics are a scream that no one wants to hear. Over 20 million illegal Bangladeshi immigrants are believed to be living in India. Twenty million—larger than the entire population of many countries. That is not a migration. That is an occupation. Yet, in the face of this demographic assault, our leaders speak in cautious euphemisms. Our media shrinks from the horror. Our institutions retreat behind paper shields of "human rights." And so the siege continues—relentless, unapologetic, and de...

  It begins in the lanes of Canning — not with a gunshot, not even with a scream, but with whispers. Whispers that the mobs are coming. Whispers that the state is watching. Whispers that nobody will speak for them — the Hindus, whose only crime was living on land someone else now claims through faith and a law nobody voted for. The fire that swallowed homes in Canning didn’t need a matchstick. It was lit by silence. That same old familiar silence that coats the lips of those in power when the victims don’t serve their electoral math.   Children dragged by their mothers, barefoot, running across muddy fields as their homes vanished behind flames. Shops gutted, temples defaced. An old man clutched his tricolor as if it could protect him. It couldn’t. His house was marked with green spray paint the day before — he knew what that meant. He thought maybe they'd spare an old man. They didn’t. This isn’t fiction. This isn’t 2002. This is West Bengal in 2025. And this is not about rio...