January 22, 2001Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad08:30 Hours
The petitions had arrived like weather—quiet at first, then everywhere at once.
They were not angry cables from Delhi. They were not threats from Washington. They were envelopes stamped in London, Vancouver, Dubai—letters written by elders, signed by committees, carried to Pakistani missions with folded hands and steady voices.
In Islamabad, that distinction mattered.
Because anger could be resisted with pride.
But devotion—devotion delivered politely—could only be answered in one of two ways: with dignity, or with cruelty.
Aditya Kaul sat at his desk in uniform, the morning light caught in the glass of a framed map. A thick file lay open before him, titled in bureaucratic shorthand:
KARTARPUR: CONTROLLED ACCESS PILOT (CONFIDENTIAL)
General Mahmood stood to the side, watching Musharraf's read without blinking.
"Sir," Mahmood said carefully, "if you open this door, everyone will demand a key."
Aditya did not look up.
"That is why we do not open the door," he replied. "We open a window. Narrow. Measured. Controlled. A corridor that is too small for trouble to breathe in."
He slid a page across the desk. Mahmood read the header and frowned.
PROPOSAL: VISA-FREE PILGRIM CORRIDOR (LIMITED ZONE) — JOINT OBSERVATION
"You want visa-free?" Mahmood asked. "That word will detonate inside our own system."
Aditya nodded once.
"It will also detonate their argument abroad," he said. "No visas means no humiliation at the window. No selective approvals. No discretion that can be accused of bias. We remove the insult from the process."
Mahmood's eyes narrowed. "And we invite infiltration."
Aditya finally looked up.
"Not if the corridor is engineered like a controlled facility," he said. "We can build a lane that feels humane and operates like an airport."
He tapped the file.
"This is not an open border," Aditya continued. "This is a sealed passage. Entry, movement, exit. Every meter accounted for."
The Delhi Signal
By late morning, a secure channel was activated—not social, not informal—state-to-state.
A packet left Islamabad for New Delhi through diplomatic backchannels, supported by a hotline call that was brief, almost clinical. Aditya did not speak like a man requesting permission. He spoke like a man offering an opportunity with conditions.
Visa-Free CorridorJoint Security ObservationInfrastructure by PakistanPilot, then scale
The document contained one deliberate piece of theater: a name.
"Tourist Police."
In a margin note, Aditya had written—only for internal eyes:
Tourist Police = commando-quality unit in police posture. Visibility high. Aggression low. Discipline absolute.
Mahmood understood instantly.
"You're dressing a blade as a walking stick," he muttered.
Aditya's expression remained neutral.
"I'm dressing a blade as a shield," he corrected. "The crowd must feel protected, not occupied. If they see soldiers, they will feel conquered. If they see police, they will feel managed."
The Corridor Design
January 22, 2001Inter-Services Coordination Room13:00 Hours
A small group assembled—security, civil engineering, religious affairs liaison, and one man Aditya trusted to treat symbols like infrastructure:
Dr. Shoaib Suddle.
Maps were placed on the table. Not poetic maps. Survey maps. Distance markers. Visibility lines. Entry choke points.
Aditya spoke first.
"We build the corridor as a facility, not a road," he said. "A defined strip. Fenced. Lit. Monitored. Entry controlled by a single gate."
Suddle nodded slowly. "If it looks too militarized, it will fail."
"That is why it will be run by Tourist Police," Aditya replied. "Uniforms like law enforcement. Conduct like hospitality. Training like commandos."
An engineer slid forward a proposal for basic infrastructure: a reinforced approach road, pedestrian lanes, and a small bridge to manage seasonal water flow.
"Pakistan will build it," Aditya said. "Not as charity. As investment. We put our signature in concrete."
Then he added the second layer—the layer designed to turn a corridor into a long-term story.
"And we renovate the gurdwara complex," he continued, "properly. Not cosmetic paint. Real restoration. Clean water. Sanitation. Controlled crowd movement."
A religious affairs officer shifted uncomfortably—this was sensitive terrain.
Aditya didn't let him speak first.
"We will not touch worship," Aditya said. "We touch facilities. We provide respect through competence."
Then came the third layer, the one that made Mahmood's jaw tighten.
"And we establish an agricultural university," Aditya said, voice steady. "Named after Guru Nanak. A local institution. Research. Extension services. Scholarships. A development anchor."
Suddle looked up sharply. "That will be seen as a major concession."
"It will be seen as confidence," Aditya replied. "A state that fears names is a weak state. We will show strength by being unthreatened."
Mahmood finally spoke.
"Sir, the domestic backlash—"
Aditya raised a hand slightly.
"We will frame it as rural uplift," Aditya said. "Agriculture is not ideology. It is food, jobs, and modernity. Give the local population benefits and they will defend the project themselves."
He turned a page.
"And now," Aditya said, "the economic valve."
The Joint Market
The room quieted. Everyone understood that economics, unlike poetry, creates stakeholders who do not disappear when headlines change.
"We create a joint market inside our side of the zone," Aditya said. "Controlled perimeter, separate entrance, separate exit. Indian visitors can enter without visas—within the limited zone—and purchase services."
An officer frowned. "Services?"
"Food stalls, book kiosks, religious items, handicrafts, basic lodging packages for sanctioned visitors," Aditya said. "And we charge a minimal management fee."
He wrote the number on the pad:
USD 5
Mahmood stared at it.
"Five dollars?" he asked.
"Small enough not to feel like ransom," Aditya replied. "Large enough to fund the system: sanitation, crowd control, maintenance, staffing, surveillance."
Suddle nodded slowly. "A self-financing corridor."
"A self-defending corridor," Aditya corrected. "Once there is a functioning economy around it, local interests will emerge. People will want stability because instability will cost them money."
Mahmood's voice turned hard.
"And it also creates a target-rich environment for sabotage."
Aditya met his eyes.
"That is why Tourist Police are commandos," he said. "And why the zone is sealed. The market is inside our perimeter, not outside it."
He paused, then delivered the line that made the room feel colder.
"If someone wants to poison this," Aditya said, "they will try to create a single incident that produces a single image. We will design the corridor to deny them that image."