It is a curious thing—how swiftly the national conscience is stirred by tragedy, how noisily it responds, and yet how soon it forgets. In the aftermath of the grievous and cowardly attack on innocent tourists in Pahalgam, a place long known not merely for its serene meadows and murmuring Lidder River, but also for its fragile place on the chessboard of national security, the nation has once again slipped into its now-familiar ritual: political blame games, televised thunderbolts, WhatsApp forwards soaked in half-truths, and the roaring volcano of opinion that is social media.

Ministers across state lines engaged in a peculiar race—who shall rescue the injured first, who shall win the race to bring the tourists back, who shall be seen offering compensation with the most gravitas, who shall speak with greater emotional torque before the cameras. The frenzied media, starved for spectacle, pirouetted from anchor desk to on-the-spot drama, repeating the same frames of carnage and concern, while scrolling banners grew bloodier by the hour.

Yet, in this cacophonous theatre of national emotion, what remains astonishingly absent is silence—the deep, analytical silence from which truth often emerges. Amid all the noise, no one seemed to pause and ask the most foundational question: where were the security forces?

Pahalgam is not an obscure hillock. It is a town in the Anantnag district of Jammu and Kashmir, known to intelligence agencies, tourists, trekkers, and militants alike. Its sensitivity is not just topographical, but historical. Given its strategic significance—especially in light of recent geopolitical developments, including the extradition of Tahawwur Rana, a name that sends ripples through national security corridors—one would imagine that Pahalgam would be wrapped in the additional protective embrace of the nation’s finest security apparatus.

So why was that embrace absent? Or rather, if it was present, how did such an attack transpire?

These are not merely rhetorical questions—they are questions born of constitutional responsibility and administrative accountability. 

How many security personnel are assigned to the region on a daily basis? What protocols are enacted when intelligence alerts point to heightened risk? Was there any reassessment of threat perception in view of Rana’s extradition, a move that surely sent alarm bells ringing in certain circles across the border? 

If so, what were the steps taken? 

If not, why not?

This is where the national conversation should now graduate. Not into the binary debates of ideology and opportunism, but into the realm of measured institutional scrutiny. It is not enough to merely perform the post-mortem of horror. We must examine the living tissue of systems and see where necrosis has set in.

It is disheartening to note that such questions are not asked even by those in the Opposition benches who should be most vocal in demanding accountability. Perhaps they, too, have forgotten how to interrogate the State with dignity and diligence, choosing instead to mimic the performative angst of television panels. And the media, in its present avatar, is far more enamoured with sound than with substance.

We, as a nation, must demand better. Democracy does not mature merely by the conduct of regular elections or the multiplicity of voices in public discourse. It matures when the questions asked begin to pierce through the comfort of official versions and strike at the heart of systemic failure.

If indeed, there was a lapse—and all signs point to the possibility of one—then the accountability must not be lost in the misty mountains of bureaucratic deflection. We are too engrossed in making the political leadership as favourite punching bags leaving alone the bureaucratic apparatus in its cozy environment. Those entrusted with the safety of the people must be held to account. For when security falters in known danger zones, and innocent lives are snuffed out like candle flames in the wind, it is not enough to mourn. We must demand answers.

Let us not remain a nation that only reacts after the blood has dried. Let us be a people who ask uncomfortable questions while the wounds are still raw—because that is when answers have the power to prevent the next tragedy.

-Mahesh Zagade