November 10, 2000 Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad21:00 Hours
The aftershock of the Sub-Continent Premier League still pulsed through the country. In Mumbai, Pakistani bowlers were being cheered like hometown sons. In Karachi, an Indian captain's name rolled through the stands with the easy affection of a local hero. For the first time in a long time, the region's most reliable weapon—mass emotion—was pointing toward something other than rage.
Aditya Kaul understood the risk better than most. A bridge built from cricket could carry crowds, yes—but not storms. And the storm was coming.
Across the table sat the Indian High Commissioner, composed in the way only a man trained to read rooms and conceal conclusions could be. His gaze kept returning to the porcelain teacup in his hands, as if it might be wired, poisoned, or symbolic—three things diplomacy never stops suspecting.
"Your Excellency," I began, leaning forward, voice steady, tone deliberate. "The SPL has proven our people can share a stadium. Now I want to prove something harder."
He looked up.
"I want to show them they can share a sanctuary."
I placed a folded map between us and opened it with the care of a man laying out a blueprint, not a proposal. The Salt Range spread across the paper—ridge lines, roads, scrub land—and there, like a deliberate secret, a cluster of ancient stones around a sacred pool:
Katas Raj.
The Proposal: A Celebrity Pilgrimage
I didn't speak like a dreamer. I spoke like a civil servant who had already run the risks through his head three times and still saw a path.
Restoration. "Pakistan will provide the workforce and security," I said. "But I want Indian archaeologists granted streamlined, near-frictionless access—call it 'priority clearance'—to ensure the restoration follows the traditional shastras and proper conservation standards. No shortcuts. No theatrics disguised as heritage."
He raised an eyebrow at the implied trust.
The spectacle. "A restoration announcement is not enough," I continued. "People don't protect what they don't feel. We need a story that makes protection socially fashionable."
The face of the story. I tapped the map once, gently. "We invite a delegation from the Indian film industry. A controlled visit. Carefully curated. And we ask Preity Zinta to lead."
The High Commissioner's expression shifted—surprise, then calculation, then the faint discomfort of recognizing a clever tactic.
The media arc. "PTV covers it," I said, "and Indian networks do the same. Not a press conference—an experience. The camera follows her through the ruins. She speaks about the pool, the legends, the architecture, the place in the shared memory of the subcontinent. If she tells the story with reverence, it becomes heritage, not controversy. The loudest critics can attack policy; it's harder to attack a broadly loved cultural figure without paying a public price."
He set the teacup down carefully, as if the room had changed weight.
"You want an Indian actress explaining a Pakistani site on Pakistani television," he said, choosing each word like it might be quoted later.
"I want our public to see a familiar face treating a Hindu site with dignity on our soil," I replied. "That single image can do what ten speeches cannot. It reframes the argument from 'them versus us' to 'ours, together.'"
The Strategic Gamble
I stood and moved to the window. Islamabad at night looks calm even when it's not—a city of angles and quiet lights, pretending the world beyond its hills isn't sharpening itself.
"Excellency," I said, looking out, "the Americans will move into Afghanistan. When they do, the temperature in this region will rise. And when it rises, extremists will look for targets—symbols to burn, narratives to own."
I turned back to him.
"If India remains only an 'enemy' in the public imagination, hatred becomes a tool anyone can pick up. But if our people are connected by cricket, commerce, and places like Katas Raj—then hate loses its clean target."
I let the silence sit for a beat.
"I am not merely opening a temple. I am reducing the number of fronts on which a war can be sold."
The High Commissioner rose slowly. For the first time that night, his guardedness softened into something like recognition.
"I will relay this to Prime Minister Vajpayee," he said. "He is a poet. He will understand what you're trying to do with a place like Katas."
The Internal Counter-Move
The door closed behind him. A moment later, General Mahmood stepped forward from the darker side of the room—he had been there the entire time, listening without announcing himself, the way men do when they understand history is made in conversations, not ceremonies.
"Sir," Mahmood said carefully, "religious hardliners will call this capitulation. They'll say we're inviting outsiders to rewrite us."
"They can call it what they like," I replied, returning to the table. "They are distracted—busy with the concessions they demanded, busy with their own accounting. And the public? The public is still intoxicated by victory, by spectacle, by something that feels like dignity."
I picked up a red pen and circled a date on my desk calendar:
January 15, 2000.
"Operation Sweetness enters Phase Two," I said. "We've softened the mood with food, redirected emotion with cricket. Now we anchor peace somewhere older than politics."
I looked at the map again—at the stones, the water, the idea.
"Get me Dr. Shoaib Suddle. Tell him this escort detail is not routine security. It's strategic protection."
Mahmood nodded, already understanding the subtext: symbols don't survive on intentions; they survive on discipline.
"If a single incident occurs," I added, voice low, precise, "the dream doesn't merely stall. It becomes ammunition—for every side."
The pen hovered above Katas Raj one last time.
"Make sure the first image the nation sees is not a protest."
I capped the pen.
"Make it reverence."