January 19, 200 Prime Time RelayPTV / Doordarshan / Network Syndication21:30 Hours
The league's intermission had become its own tournament.
No matches. No scoreboards.
Instead, the region's most powerful currency—attention—was being redirected, packaged, and sold back to the public as culture. Prime time now belonged to temples, mausoleums, and controlled emotion.
The broadcast opened on an unusual sight: not a politician, not a star, but a bespectacled academic seated beside a table of maps, photographs, and a worn copy of the Mahabharata.
A banner at the bottom of the screen read:
"Katas Raj: A Shared Heritage"Guest: Dr. Aniruddh Sen, Historian (Ancient South Asian Religions)
Segment One: The Historian's Bridge
Dr. Sen did not speak like a man chasing applause. He spoke like a man who knew that precision was the only safe path through a room full of landmines.
"Katas Raj," he began, "is not just an archaeological site. For Hindus, it is a place where story and devotion meet."
The screen cut to wide shots: stone temples scattered across the Salt Range, the sacred pool—still, reflective, heavy with legend.
"In our tradition," Dr. Sen continued, "pilgrimage is not always about travel. It is about orientation. A person goes to a sacred place to realign the inner life with the moral life. Katas Raj is bound to narratives of suffering, endurance, and repentance—ideas that are central to how Hindu spirituality understands struggle."
He gestured toward a map and the camera zoomed in on the location.
"This complex is associated with the Pandavas," he said. "Not because we can prove every legend like a court case, but because sacred geography is often built on memory—collective memory—carried across centuries."
The broadcast cut to old sketches and archival photographs.
"For Hindus, these sites are anchors," he explained. "They are proof that faith is older than politics and wider than borders. And that is why what we are seeing today is sensitive. If a sacred place becomes a pawn, it provokes. But if it becomes protected heritage, it stabilizes."
On Pakistani television, that line landed in a careful space. The producers held on the faces of ordinary viewers—some nodding as if hearing a history lesson they had never been offered, others still skeptical but unable to deny the calmness of the delivery.
Dr. Sen anticipated the suspicion and addressed it directly.
"Let me say something to the Pakistani audience," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You are not being asked to adopt someone else's worship. You are being asked to understand what sacred space means to the human heart."
He paused, then chose a comparison designed not to flatter but to translate.
"Just as a Muslim understands the meaning of Makkah—even without visiting—Hindus understand the meaning of places tied to their sacred narratives. It is not about stone. It is about continuity."
In India, the statement reassured. In Pakistan, it softened the frame: not conversion, not concession—translation.
He concluded with a sentence that could not be easily attacked without sounding small.
"Civilizations are not judged only by the monuments they build," Dr. Sen said. "They are judged by the sacred places they allow to remain standing."
Segment Two: The Industrialist's Signal
The broadcast then shifted tone—fewer maps, more studio lighting.
A second banner appeared:
"Culture & Confidence: A New Chapter?"Exclusive Interview: Ness Wadia
Wadia sat in a modern studio chair, relaxed posture, expensive simplicity. He spoke with the confidence of a man who understood the media was not merely reporting history—it was manufacturing a future.
"I watched the footage," he said. "And I felt something I didn't expect to feel."
The anchor asked the obvious question: why speak publicly, and why now?
Wadia did not dodge it.
"My grandfather's generation lived through Partition," he said. "And yet, there were moments when people allowed love, devotion, and dignity to exist—even across fear. When I saw a Hindu offering placed openly, respectfully, under Pakistani security, I felt proud of that older idea of the subcontinent—where someone's devotion did not have to be hidden like a crime."
On Pakistani screens, some viewers reacted with irritation—Why is he talking like he owns this?—but others heard something else: a powerful Indian family acknowledging Pakistan as capable of protecting a non-Muslim sacred act.
Then came the line that was destined to be replayed.
"If Pakistan can carry this kind of confidence forward," Wadia said, "then yes—I would consider doing work there. Maybe a film. Not propaganda. A real production. Collaboration. Because cinema goes where politics can't."
The anchor raised an eyebrow. "You mean shooting in Pakistan?"
"I mean treating Pakistan like a place where stories can exist," Wadia replied. "Not only as a headline, but as a location, a partner, a market—an equal."
In India, it sounded bold. In Pakistan, it sounded like a challenge and an invitation at the same time.
And in Islamabad, behind closed doors, it sounded like something else entirely:
a hook set cleanly into the mouth of an industry.
The Cutaway: The Real Audience
In the Chief Executive's Secretariat, Aditya Kaul watched the interview without expression. The room around him was quiet—security men posted near doors, a television set glowing like a small controlled fire.
General Mahmood stood nearby, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the screen.
When Wadia finished speaking, Mahmood glanced toward Aditya, as if waiting for a verdict.
Aditya's voice was low, almost clinical.
"There," he said. "That is what we needed."
Mahmood frowned slightly. "A film?"
"A stakeholder," Aditya corrected. "A man with capital, influence, and a public platform volunteering to tie his reputation to the idea that Pakistan is stable enough for culture. He thinks he is making a brave statement."
Aditya allowed a thin smile.
"He does not realize he is stepping into a corridor we designed."
Mahmood's tone remained cautious. "You wanted him to say it."
"I wanted him to consider it," Aditya replied. "Consideration becomes conversation. Conversation becomes investment. Investment becomes dependency. Dependency becomes a constituency for peace."
He leaned forward as the broadcast replayed Wadia's soundbite in a highlight loop.
"If business families and film producers begin imagining projects here," Aditya continued, "then every extremist understands something instantly: violence now carries a price tag that reaches beyond borders."
Mahmood's eyes narrowed. "And if they accuse us of humiliation? Of letting outsiders perform faith on our soil?"
Aditya's answer was immediate.
"Then we answer with the same weapon we used in cricket," he said. "Pride. We frame it as strength."
He pointed at the screen, where Dr. Sen's face reappeared in a brief recap.
"The historian said it correctly," Aditya added. "Civilizations are judged by what they allow to remain standing. We will make protection look like confidence."
He paused, then delivered the line that revealed the entire architecture.
"A stone can break a window," Aditya said. "But it cannot break a narrative that millions have already repeated to themselves."
Mahmood didn't look convinced. He looked worried—which meant he was thinking like an operator, not an idealist.
"And the 'Three Snakes'?" he asked.
Aditya's gaze stayed on the television.
"They are watching too," he said. "That is why this phase is valuable."
He finally turned away from the screen.
"If they strike now," Aditya said, "they will strike under the brightest light we can create. And when they do—everyone will see exactly who the enemies of stability are."
Mahmood understood the cold logic. He did not like it. But he understood it.
On the television, the studio anchor concluded the segment with a line written by someone who believed they were summarizing the night.
In reality, they were sealing it.
"Katas Raj," the anchor said, "is not merely a temple complex. Tonight, it is a question: can the subcontinent protect what it once tried to erase?"
In living rooms across two nations, viewers sat quietly—some moved, some angry, some confused.
But almost all of them watched until the end.
And in the shadows—beyond the cameras, beyond the studio lights—men who could not afford peace began adjusting their plans.
Because the intermission was over.
And the next act was going to be violent.