November 12, 2000 Race Course Road, New Delhi 22:00 Hours
The Prime Minister's study carried the dense quiet of old power—sandalwood incense, leather spines, and the steady glow of a brass lamp that made every shadow look intentional. Atal Bihari Vajpayee sat wrapped in a shawl, contemplative, fingers resting lightly on the arm of his chair as if he were holding the room in place by will alone.
Across from him, the Indian High Commissioner had the slightly hollow look of a man who had flown with urgency and landed into consequence. Beside him, Brajesh Mishra sat upright and exact—every line of his posture communicating one message: assume risk first; hope later.
Vajpayee's voice arrived like a low instrument.
"So," he said, eyes on the lamp, "Pakistan's General has moved from the cricket pitch to the temple courtyard."
"Katas Raj, Prime Minister," the High Commissioner replied, placing a dossier on the low table. "Full restoration. He wants our archaeologists involved. He is also asking for media—ours and theirs."
Mishra's eyes narrowed immediately. "He wants cameras because he wants legitimacy."
The High Commissioner continued, careful not to editorialize too soon. "And he suggested a cultural delegation—Bollywood. Preity Zinta was specifically mentioned."
Vajpayee's lips curved with restrained amusement. "The girl with the dimples," he murmured. "He understands the age we live in. A familiar face disarms a crowd faster than any communiqué."
"It's still a trap," Mishra cut in, sharper now. "A military ruler seizes power and then launders the act through culture. If we send our stars and they film on Pakistani soil, he sells himself as 'reasonable' while keeping every coercive lever intact."
Vajpayee didn't react defensively. He picked up a pen and wrote—one line, then another—as if the argument needed a different language to be properly weighed.
"The past," he murmured, almost to himself, "does not ask who governs. It asks who remembers."
He set the pen down and looked at Mishra.
"Brajesh," he said calmly, "you are correct to see the instrument. But do not ignore the audience. The public mood has shifted. The cricket league has softened reflexes that were hardening for decades. If we refuse every opening because it might benefit him, we create a perfect prison for ourselves: principled, pure—and strategically irrelevant."
Mishra did not blink. "And if something goes wrong? One incident is enough. One provocation. One stone. We will be blamed for walking our people into a spectacle designed to humiliate them."
The High Commissioner added, "He claims he can secure it. He has hinted he will use the Motorway Police to control the route. A separate chain of command—less contamination."
Vajpayee's gaze drifted toward the window, toward the manicured gardens that looked peaceful precisely because they were curated to be so.
"A General does not offer temples without calculation," he said quietly. "But calculation is not always poison. Sometimes it is simply the recognition that war is expensive."
Mishra leaned forward slightly. "Then what is our counter-calculation?"
Vajpayee's answer arrived not as a refusal or acceptance, but as architecture—an approach that converted risk into stages.
"We do not send pilgrims first," he said.
Both men stilled.
"We test the air," Vajpayee continued. "We send culture first."
He tapped the dossier lightly.
"Preity Zinta, yes—but not alone. A small delegation. Faces the public recognizes. People who can absorb reaction without breaking the state. Let the cameras roll. Let the crowd speak. Let the clerics reveal their temperature. Let Pakistan show its discipline under a spotlight it cannot control."
Mishra's expression tightened, but he was listening now—not because he liked it, but because it was operational.
"This is a reconnaissance," Vajpayee said, voice steady. "A political weather check. If the atmosphere is calm—if the site holds—then we proceed to Phase Two."
"And Phase Two?" Mishra asked.
Vajpayee's eyes sharpened with a quiet certainty.
"Then we send the faithful," he said. "And we do it on our terms."
He stood slowly and walked to the window.
"If their General can protect a handful of celebrities under full media glare, he proves command and intent. If he cannot—if he hesitates, if the street turns ugly—we lose nothing but film. We do not lose lives."
He turned back to them.
"When Phase Two comes," Vajpayee said, "India will provide the train."
The High Commissioner's face changed—recognition of a headline forming.
"We will name it the Sanskriti Express," Vajpayee continued. "Not as a gift, but as a declaration: our civilization travels by its own engine. It is not carried as a favor."
Mishra exhaled slowly through his nose, the way a man does when he dislikes a risk but respects the structure of it.
"And what do I tell Miss Zinta?" the High Commissioner asked.
Vajpayee allowed himself a thin smile—half theater, half policy.
"Tell her to wear something bright," he said. "If she steps into that courtyard, she must look like tomorrow. Not like a relic. Not like a supplicant."
The meeting began to resolve into logistics—names, dates, channels, contingencies. Mishra rose, still severe, but now engaged in building guardrails rather than throwing the plan out.
When the room emptied, Vajpayee remained for a moment, alone with the lamp and the smell of books. He looked at the red telephone—the hotline that had become a narrow bridge across a wide canyon.
He did not dial immediately.
He simply watched it, as if waiting to see whether it would ring first.
"The General is playing with symbols," Vajpayee said softly to the quiet. "And symbols, once released, do not obey their masters."
A pause.
"Let us see whether he can control the street he claims to command."