One-Front ILLUSION
Op Sindoor: More Chest-Thumping, Less Thinking
Let me begin with categorical disagreement—not gentle
dissent, but full-throated, Sumo wrestler style takedown—of the “received
wisdom” that now saturates prime-time India: the punditry of “TV Generals” and
the breathless prose of what I call “cookie-pusher editors,” more trained in
literary flair than geopolitical nuance. Case in point: the recent article
titled “Op Sindoor is the First Battle in India’s Two-Front War. A Vicious
Pawn in a King’s Gambit.”
Dramatic? Certainly. Factual? Barely.
The idea that China’s aggressive calculus came into India’s
view only after Op Sindoor is laughable. For decades, China has not
merely operated in isolation—it has built a playbook around proxy
warfare. This is not new. It is not even controversial. It’s doctrine. North
Korea is the textbook example: a rabid outpost used by Beijing to keep Japan on
edge. Missile tantrums over the Sea of Japan are not Pyongyang’s expression of
anger—they are choreographed noise, manufactured in Zhongnanhai.
Closer to home, of course, the crown jewel of Beijing’s
proxy enterprise is Pakistan. Historically and tactically, the China-Pakistan
nexus has been symbiotic. During the 1962 war, Pakistan observed Indian anguish
from the sidelines. In return, Beijing stayed silent during Pakistan’s 1965 and
1971 misadventures. But the arrangement evolved in 1999. Kargil wasn’t some
rogue commander’s fantasy—it was a calculated risk, a nuclear-age redux of
Operation Gibraltar. Pakistani soldiers, disguised as insurgents, attempted to
ignite flames in Kashmir. What gave Rawalpindi the gall? Nuclear cover. What
doused the fire? An intercepted phone call between General Musharraf and Lt.
Gen. Aziz—an exposé so revealing it tore through both Pakistani audacity and
Raisina’s sluggishness. Who leaked that tape? Theories abound. But Musharraf’s
coinciding visit to Beijing has led many to suspect Chinese intelligence had a
silent hand.
This brings us to another misguided flourish in Gupta’s
essay: the suggestion that Pakistan and China are playing white in some
elaborate chess match. That metaphor, while dramatic, reeks more of newsroom
poetry than strategic clarity. If anything, New Delhi today resembles a
disoriented knight—leaping without coordination, and landing nowhere. A Foreign
Minister delivering monotones, a media bubble high on adrenaline, and
diplomatic bridges burning from Maldives to Canada—this is hardly a picture of
coherence.
Take the 2025 Pahalgam attack. The world’s response was
restrained—no ringing condemnation, no unified front. Just polite statements
and averted gazes. Why? Because recent precedent—Uri, Pulwama—was handled not
with transparency but theatre. Remember Pulwama: forty CRPF men dead, a nation
livid. The response? Balakot airstrikes. A roaring soundbite. But to what end?
No convictions. No mastermind. No systemic accountability. A tragedy submerged
in a sea of sensationalism. The world noticed. TV generals helped Indians move
on. Diplomats did not.
Gupta claims Pakistan and China are the “first movers” in
this so-called geopolitical game. Even that’s debatable. South Block, with all
its intelligence paraphernalia and budgetary muscle, hasn’t convincingly ruled
out other scenarios in the Pahalgam case. Could it have been a Pakistani group
not formally aided by the establishment? Possible. Could it have been a locally
radicalised cell? Equally plausible. Or—brace for discomfort—could it have been
orchestrated by India’s own Deep State?
This last theory isn’t mine. It was floated by Najam Sethi
during an interview with Karan Thapar. He invoked the Chattisinghpora massacre
of 2000, where masked gunmen killed 35 Sikhs during President Clinton’s visit
to India. The parallels with Pahalgam are unsettling: a BJP government, a
high-profile U.S. dignitary, ambiguous attribution, and an almost ritual
silence post-incident. Sometimes, history doesn’t repeat—it just whispers the
same lines in a darker tone.
Now to the essay’s underlying conceit—that the two-front war
caught India unprepared. Nonsense. The military doctrine of
“two-and-a-half-front” warfare has been publicly repeated by Indian Army Chiefs
for years. General Bipin Rawat, in June 2017, explicitly told ANI that India
was ready for simultaneous action on multiple fronts—Pakistan, China, and
internal insurgencies. So this alleged surprise is either ignorance or an
attempt to rewrite narrative post-facto.
Then comes Gupta’s speculative crescendo: that Pakistan
might launch another strike “as soon as Field Marshal Munir’s political capital
from Op Sindoor is depleted.” Perhaps. But what should worry us more is not
what they might do—but what we failed to prevent. A more critical
analysis would ask: who in South Block exposed India’s vulnerabilities so
blatantly? Who misread the room? Who left gaps wide enough for “a King’s
Gambit” to even play out?
Look briefly to Iran. When Tehran launched “True Promise
I”—a retaliatory strike on Israel after the Damascus consulate bombing—it did
not unleash its top-tier arsenal. Instead, it sent an array of dated missiles
and drones. Why? To gauge Israeli defences. To send a message, not start a war.
The symbolism mattered. The restraint was strategic.
India’s leadership should have taken note. But instead, the
External Affairs Minister declared Op Sindoor a “message operation.” Fine. But
if it was only a message, why use advanced systems and risk escalation? Why
expose cutting-edge capability just to send smoke signals? The Cabinet has no
answer.
In medieval courts, the jester was tasked with delivering
truth to power—sometimes through ridicule, always through courage. Today,
India’s rulers are surrounded not by jesters but by echo chambers. Emperor
Modi, if he still values clarity over applause, must find new jesters—those who
dare to say that Op Sindoor has made India more vulnerable, not more secure.
The real danger isn’t a two-front war. It’s a one-front
illusion.
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