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I’ve been trying to wiggle a lot this past month. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, till my face is blue in the corner one-seater as apoplectic debaters fume and combust the television over the carnage of nineteen soldiers in Uri by Pak grown terrorists.

The moon over the window remains as pale as ever though. Worse, I think there is a shade of blood on its face.

Wrapped in the national flag, frame after frame of shoulder-borne coffins bound homeward to mourning families take over in high definition grief. This is not the first time that we are a witness to mangled returns of the investment of a father, a mother, a wife, a brother, a sister, and sons and daughters, into the motherland. Sadly, this would not be the last time either. Thousands have laid their lives heretofore in the ‘thousand year war to bleed India to death by a thousand cuts’. Countless more will follow them in tricolour shrouds. We have been leaking red all over as per the script of our enemies.

But at 357 degree Celsius, the mercury had hit its boiling point in India with the fedayeen attack on the army camp on September 18, 2016. With the tough guy image that had propelled Modi to the prime ministerial chair, eyes of the nation were glued to the man feted for the girth of his chest. Yet, for six tortuously long days and nights, not a word could be heard from the portals of Delphi. The silence would be broken after six days in a speech where the incident was mentioned in a sentence, that the martyrdom of the soldiers shall not be allowed to go waste. I wiggled some more to digest the vague claim, little knowing the oracle for the ‘surgical strike’ had been delivered.

The nation has wasted a million man days since joyriding, speculating and regurgitating the Indian Army’s Jack Reacher moments in the killing fields of Pakistan on September the 29th. Popular conclusion has it that not less than fifty monsters have been dispatched to whatever heaven they had been aspiring for by the Indian para-commandoes wielding formidable weapons of assault that night. To the long aching hearts of the commoners, it was like a cool mountain stream finding its way into the parched lands. Sweet is the river of revenge.

Sweeter still, is the fear that it instilled in the deathly hollows of jihad. Pakistani establishments, civil and military, caught with their pants down were one in their vociferous dismissal of the claim. It was not only their honour at stake, the entire façade of a state resting on pillars of subversion and radicalism was experiencing tremors. As if to reassert their existence, they relapsed to their nuclear blackmail like a clockwork. After all, they are the ones who have been eating grass for a long while just so they have the atom bombs.

There is a grimmer understory to the saga, however. Or depending on the viewpoint, there seems to be a silver lining in the dark clouds. While the masses in India were on cloud ninety nine, a deathly quiet had descended on the home-grown political mafia. For about a day after the ‘surgical strike’ was revealed to the populace, the powerless and the power-starved mimed along with the government in situ. And then, a certain Muffler Man struck deep with a video that is rumoured to have given Machiavelli a paroxysm in his grave in Florence. Even as he saluted the Prime Minister for his courageous decision in his clip, he requested him to furnish a proof of the surgical strike to counter the Pakistani propaganda trashing India’s claim. And with that, the first pebble was hurled at the condemned minister, loosening the inhibitions of the predators. Claws holding on to stones swung and took aim. Raucous notes rose to a cacophonous symmetry. A hailstorm of execrable innuendos was let loose. Fake! Joke! Brokers of the blood of martyrs! Molesters of the army! Stop, kneel, apologise and never ever dare! Country’s most risible bachelor and his puppets had spoken. The balloon of Indian euphoria had been pinched hard and was diminishing in size. The congress of crows had descended.

Weirdly, a few days later, when a Pak police officer blabbered the truth about the high precision Indian operation, the crows flicked their beaks a tad to the right. Surgical strikes? They came a dime a dozen when the ravens wore the crown!

In case you have forgotten my predicament through all this rambling, I am still wiggling in the corner sofa whose springs have scribbled an epic on the very organ they are meant to comfort. Much has been said and evaded about Pakistan by the powermongers of the world and I will spare the readers the details. However, if the ruthless turncoats within the country are feeding the fangs of a terrorist state by corroborating their lies, they are also absolving them from the burden of an overt military response, among other things. And by joining the chorus of generals and their puppet governments that keep promising to unleash a nuclear rain on India, they are saving the whole planet from a certain nuclear holocaust.

To cut a winding story short, I realise, nothing less than a Nobel Peace Prize is in order for the crow-in-chief and his muffler-cloaked cohort, regardless of their original intent. I trust the Academy has wiggled its definition of greatness of late, has it not?