Sunday, April 27, 2025

22nd April 2025: A Turning Point for India

 


“A line has been crossed — one that history will remember.”

For India, the events of 22nd April 2025 are what 9/11 was for America in 2001 and what 7th October 2023 was for Israel.
It is not about the scale, nor just the horror of the massacre. It is about the line that has been crossed.

In the United States, 9/11 was the first time the heartland was attacked — something even the two World Wars did not achieve. It delivered a wound that has scarred generations.
In Israel, Hamas exposed the true brutality of jihadist terrorism: burning children alive, massacring families, kidnapping babies, and razing peaceful communities.

History Repeats: India’s Long Battle with Islamic Terrorism

In India, terrorism linked to Islamic expansionism is sadly not new. It dates back to the 7th century when invading armies first attacked Sindh, then India's westernmost province. Raja Dahir, its ruler, initially repelled these attacks. But unaware of the new and brutal form of warfare Islamists practiced — unconstrained by the ethics of battle that defined Indian traditions — he was eventually defeated at the Battle of Ahor.
What followed was unimaginable: a massacre of all men over the age of 14, the enslavement of women and children, and the imposition of a brutal new order alien to Indian civilization.
Slavery, previously unknown in India, was introduced. Battles in Indian tradition had always spared civilians — a stark contrast to the onslaught of Islamic invaders.

India’s Spirit of Resistance

Despite repeated over centuries, India stood as a wall against repeated attempts of conquest.

For nearly 500 years, successive waves of invasions were repelled — a contrast to the mighty Persian Empire, which fell within a few decades. Kings like Emperor Suheldev in the western regions recognized that brutality had to be met with strength.
India's resilience was extraordinary. Despite repeated attacks, despite the establishment of Islamic sultanates and eventually the Mughal Empire, the majority of Hindus refused to convert. Many chose death, self-immolation, or exile into forests over submission.

This unbreakable spirit is etched into Indian civilization.
Even today, the echoes of those sacrifices can be seen among the Romani people of Europe — descendants of Indians who were captured and enslaved during medieval invasions.


Fast forward to the present:
The terror attack on 22nd April 2025 marked a horrifying departure.
This time, terrorists systematically targeted civilians based on their religion. They forced victims to recite Islamic prayers, confirmed their faith by inspecting for circumcision, and executed them on the spot if they failed.
This form of targeted religious execution had not been witnessed in modern Indian consciousness — certainly not in the social media age, where information spreads instantly and cannot be hidden under political or media narratives.

A Personal Encounter: Misunderstanding Kashmir

I felt the impact personally.
When I heard the news, I happened to be at a friend’s house, meeting a British acquaintance. Upon hearing I was from India, she mentioned her travels to Kashmir — but when I shared the grim news, her immediate response was, "But hasn't India occupied Kashmir?"
I was stunned but remained silent. Not because I agreed, but because I recognized the ignorance behind the comment.

Western narratives often distort the truth of Kashmir — forgetting it is the heartland of India since thousands of years, not a modern geopolitical creation.
The reality is that Kashmir is not an occupied territory. It is an ancient, integral part of India — named after Rishi Kashyapa, one of the seven great sages. Kashmir was once a flourishing center of Hinduism, science, philosophy, and spiritualism.
Even today, Hindus identify not just with names and family lineages, but with their ancient "gotra" — their ancestral lineage. My own gotra is Kashyapa — linking my heritage back to Kashmir across millennia.

Kashmir’s history is India’s history, and India is not merely a nation; it is an idea — a civilization founded on Dharma (righteous living), eternal and unyielding. No force, whether Islamic, Christian, or secularist, can erase it.


The Brutality of 22nd April: A New Low

Islamic terrorism is not new in India.
We have endured centuries of barbarity even before Europe’s own religious wars.
After British colonialism devastated India's wealth and unity, Pakistan — a state founded on religious separatism — continued the assault via terror and war.

For decades, terror attacks caused tragic loss of life, but were largely random: bombings, shootings, border skirmishes.
This attack, however, was different.
It was methodical. It was ideological. It demanded proof of faith under the threat of execution — a direct challenge to India's civilizational core.

Today, thanks to social media, these truths can no longer be hidden. Indians are more aware than ever of the ideological war being waged against them.
And this time, they will not stand down. Today, the common Indian knows: survival demands awakening.


Conclusion: The Battle Ahead

22nd April 2025 marks a new chapter — a painful but awakening moment for India.
Just as America changed after 9/11 and Israel after 7th October, India too is now at an inflection point.
Our history teaches us that resilience, unity, and Dharma will see us through — as it always has.

The line has been crossed.
Now, the real fight begins — not just for territory, but for the soul of India.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

The Last Wish

The eye staring
A single drop, imagination
Ten years have passed by
Struggling, striving and procrastinating
Blend in, cave in, accept
Did I, didn’t I?
The next ten to look forward to?

Only if wishes had wings


Saturday, March 21, 2015

I am different

Oh, the colours I see. 
Wriggling, myriad and smoky flames
They are my thoughts, my speech and my emotions
will it connect to all those I love
Or fly away in the blue
Yonder and away
Mingling in my dreams, since I don't speak 
And give words to all that I feel 
I will scratch and I may pinch
Don't punish me, it's the yeast
I want to play and also make friends 
It's the lead which comes in my way
I curse the Mercury in the mmr
Just my luck,let's fight this war
For in your success is my win too
Then at last I can say, I love you too. 

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Song of Stone - II

I want to fall asleep
Deep within the womb of time
Dust to dust we go
Rusting to peace in our tombs.

Sleep comes in heady relief
Only to be broken by shuddering dreams
Of painted relief in graying shades
A picture of us in the times ahead.

And life carries on
Till I can drag my feet
On the sands of time
Trudging alone on the desert road.

With the wind whipping past
And the grains cutting my skin
My hair flying back
With a dust storm brewing within.

The horizon clouds over
And the sun takes a dull glow
When the wall of sand ahead
Hits my face with a full blow.

And the ordeal passes over
To be followed by another one
Following in the footsteps
Of the giant just gone.

Torn and bleeding left behind
Scrambling for a grip in the shifting sand
I look ahead as far as I can see
Searching for my wings in order to be free.

Something ahead I can now see
Lying before in the expansive sea
Of rolling motions and wavy patterns
Under the gray sky waiting to be

The nemesis of the peace I had seen
Lying ahead just out of reach
Shifting away as I try to grasp
Vanishing away in the gathering dusk.

Laden with grief
The sky hangs low
The weight around its neck
Waiting for the final blow.

Mirrors of light flicker around
Shinning mirage of the dreams
Darkness covers their surface
The moment I move to touch them.

Drips of rain start to fall
The sky weeping at last
The droplets shine off me
And the desert sucks them up.

Not a blade of grass
Sways to greet me
As I travel the desert road
To the place where I want to go.

To the crack on the wall
Where I can rest
My tired body
And my heavy head.

Copyright© Anirban Sarkar, 26th October 1998

Song of Stone - I

Jagged pieces of broken glass
Strewn all over the tar road
Brown stains matting the shine
Muted reflections of the light around.

Cars crisscross over in daily commotion
Screeching to a halt when the light turns red
A beggar steps over in unmindful passage
In search of food among the roadside garbage.

Innocent eyes form a silent plea
As realities of life start crowding me
To the rushing ‘Goliaths’ without control
Another life gets snuffed on the highway of Hell.

The world starts revolving around me
Pictures whiz past out of reach
I stretch out my hand as far as I can
And my fingers barely caress it.

Down and down further I slip
Deep in a cavern where lights don’t reach
My solitary tear turns to stone
Cracking to dust on the marble floor.

I pick up a broken glass
Dark blotches stain the pristine floor
The beggar’s head hangs in shame
Choking on his breath again and again.

I see the world go by
Trickles of sand through my fingers
I have tried but failed
To hold onto them a little longer.

The window opens to reveal the sky
With the sun in its glory, scorching bright
Covering the surrounding in painful glow
Getting reflected on the marble below.

My face cringes away from the light
And my fingers make a futile try
To block the pain out of sight
Away from my wings of flight.

As if the sun dazzling above
Scorches the feathers of the flying dove
Which never before had flown so high
But today it did to caress the sky.

Staggering ahead I start to grope
My hands feel numb, without feelings
Like a car with a broken steering
Where the hell am I going?

I search for hope
With despair filling up my soul
Something feels stuck within
Cutting deeper more and more.

Reaching far, deep inside
I grab the wheel
Jabbing my fingers within the gears
Trying to bring a semblance of control.

My dream floats away
I wish for a slow motion replay
To get a chance again
To catch the morning sun’s ray.

To look at things I wished to see
The way it didn’t turn out to be
But a second chance never comes
In this sad world of broken glass.

Copyright© Anirban Sarkar, 26th October 1998

Saturday, January 23, 2010

To you or to me

Life is packing box
Emotions nailed on the board of presuppositions

Nails stick out at odd angles
Catching the fabric that life wraps itself

Fallacy of notions grumbles alive
Realises mistakes of presumed situations.

Misery burrows deep in the cracks
The maliase stretches into the corners.

Ants start chewing the heart out
Nostalgic leftovers on a wooden platter.

Wooden frames hang in repose
Fraying pictures look lost within

Faces stamped on the stricken brownscape
Fading recess or a charming enclave.

In the cuboid, time loops
Trapped in a jungle in existence no more

Mind creeps on parallel grooves
Searching for the end in the box of wood.

The organic shrieks out in mental friction
Firing the emotions hovering at threshold

The tongues of flame leaps within
Sucking up the O2 in the claustrophobic surrounding.

The burnt carbon prods the soul
The ego starts pricking the piece of wood.

Blank lives etched over the wooden face.
The road had lead, but then, it ended too.

Copyright: Anirban Sarkar
Circa: 25th July 1999

Letter to my best friend.

You are the tiny slivers of light
                                   To the lone star in the twilight sky
Gathering the dying bright of the day
                                   Spreading orange at the rim of horizon.

You are the soothing fingers of hope
                                   To the mortal wounds of the broken warrior
As he watches the wisps of life
                                   Escape through the cracks of his shattered armour.

You are the showers of morning rain
                                   To the cracked brown earth on parched land
Opened up in the agony of thirst
                                   Scorched dry in the months of drought

You are the spectrum of colours
                                   To the blind man's midnight dreams
Painting a reality he will never see
                                   Cursed to darkness in the waking hours.

You are the winds of luck
                                   To the born loser of many a years
Whose wheels of fortune like still with rust
                                   Having never moved since his birth

You are the long forgotten tune
                                   To the mind saddened with grief
When nothing can perhaps lessen the pain
                                  Of a loss, which will stay forever.

You are the songs of friendship
                                  To the lonely poet within me
Waiting forever to shower my feelings
                                  On the women I have married.

Copyright: Anirban Sarkar
Circa: 2000