January 31, 20017 Race Course Road, New Delhi21:15 Hours
In Delhi, peace never entered a room quietly.
It arrived with files, counter-files, and the stale air of institutional memory—each ministry carrying its own scars, each advisor remembering the last betrayal as if it were yesterday.
Vajpayee's residence was lit with the soft warmth of evening lamps, but the meeting in the inner study was not warm. It was sharp, tense, and crowded with people who believed their duty was to protect the Prime Minister from idealism.
The Foreign Minister spoke first, because foreign ministries always speak first when they fear being bypassed.
"This festival idea is reckless," he said, tapping a folder with two fingers as if it were contaminated. "A border event. Crowds. Cameras. Devotion. All on Pakistani soil."
The Defence Minister didn't wait for him to finish.
"It will be a disaster," he said bluntly. "If there is even a minor incident, the political cost will be catastrophic. The opposition will say you were seduced by propaganda. The security establishment will say you gambled with lives."
Brajesh Mishra sat nearby, silent, watching Vajpayee's face. He had seen enough crises to know that panic rarely looked like panic—it looked like concern and procedure.
Vajpayee listened without interrupting, hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. He looked tired, but his eyes were clear.
The Foreign Minister pressed his advantage.
"General Musharraf wants us to join a festival," he said. "That is not diplomacy; that is theatre. If our citizens cross, and there is an incident—stone, stampede, provocation—Delhi will carry the blame for sending them."
The Defence Minister nodded sharply.
"And we cannot even accompany them," he added. "He refuses armed BSF escort. He wants our forces to come as 'devotees'—unarmed. That is not security; that is surrender."
A senior official from the Home Ministry leaned forward.
"The Sikh sentiment is real," he said. "But so is the risk of infiltration. So is the risk of narcotics routes. So is the risk of being accused domestically that we created a corridor that becomes a pipeline."
The Foreign Minister seized the phrase.
"Exactly," he said. "This corridor can become a channel for trafficking. Or worse—terror infiltration. We would be legitimizing a corridor into Punjab, the most sensitive political territory in India."
The Defence Minister added, voice hard.
"And if an incident happens," he said, "you will be forced to respond. That response will collapse Agra before it even begins."
The room tightened around Vajpayee like a circle of caution. It wasn't disrespect. It was the bureaucratic instinct to prevent exposure. Ministers feared being blamed later for staying silent now.
They cornered him with the same question, dressed in different language:
Why are you risking this?
Vajpayee finally moved. He leaned forward slightly, not raising his voice, but changing the air.
"You are all correct about one thing," he said.
They paused, surprised.
"It can become a disaster," Vajpayee continued. "Yes. If it is unmanaged. If it is treated as sentiment without structure. If it is allowed to become crowd chaos."
The Defence Minister nodded as if the Prime Minister had conceded.
Vajpayee's gaze lifted.
"But that is why we will manage it," he said. "And that is why we will not let fear become policy."
The Foreign Minister tried again.
"Prime Minister, with respect—Pakistan has a long record. Kargil is not a poem. It is a wound."
Vajpayee did not deny the wound. He simply refused to live inside it.
"You are trapped in memory," Vajpayee said softly. "And memory is important. But it is not strategy by itself."
He stood slowly. The room fell silent—not because he demanded it, but because his rare authority was visible when he stood: a man who did not need to shout to remind others that he was the Prime Minister.
"I will tell you what the real danger is," Vajpayee said.
He walked to the window and looked out at the manicured darkness of his garden.
"The real danger is not that Musharraf will embarrass us," he said. "The real danger is that we will embarrass ourselves—by refusing devotion because we are addicted to suspicion."
The Foreign Minister's face hardened. "This is not about devotion. This is about national security."
Vajpayee turned back.
"And national security," he said, "is not protected only by refusing everything."
He pointed to the dossier on the table—the corridor file.
"Musharraf refused armed BSF escort," Vajpayee said. "Yes. That is his sovereignty line. But he offered liaison. He offered joint observation. He offered protocols."
The Defence Minister scoffed. "Protocols don't stop bombs."
Vajpayee's eyes narrowed slightly.
"No," he said. "Protocols expose who breaks them. And exposure is a weapon too."
He let that settle.
"If the corridor succeeds, we gain a verified channel," Vajpayee continued. "If it fails, the world sees who could not protect devotion."
The Foreign Minister tried one last angle.
"And if the festival becomes propaganda? If Pakistani cameras show smiling pilgrims and portray Musharraf as a saint?"
Vajpayee's answer was decisive.
"Then we counter with our own truth," he said. "If our pilgrims return safe, the propaganda belongs to the people, not to him. If our pilgrims return harmed, the blame belongs to the state that failed them."
He moved back toward his chair, then stopped—voice now carrying the finality that ministers rarely heard from him.
"I will not be lectured into paralysis," Vajpayee said.
The room stiffened.
"This nation has spent decades perfecting suspicion," he said. "We are very good at it. But suspicion is not a product we can sell to our children as a future."
The Defence Minister opened his mouth again.
Vajpayee raised a hand—not dramatic, just absolute.
"Enough," he said.
One word, quiet, and the air changed. The ministers fell silent, not because they had been defeated, but because they had been reminded that their job was to advise, not to overrule.
Vajpayee sat down slowly.
"We will participate in the festival in a controlled manner," he said. "We will set our conditions. We will insist on verification. We will send liaison teams. And we will allow our people to go."
He looked at them one by one.
"You may disagree," Vajpayee said. "But you will not sabotage this internally. If you have objections, bring me solutions—not fear."
Brajesh Mishra finally spoke, voice low.
"And the opposition?"
Vajpayee's eyes stayed steady.
"Let them shout," he said. "If devotion returns safely, their shouting will sound like cruelty."
The meeting ended without applause. No one smiled. No one celebrated.
But the decision had been made.
In Delhi, the machinery of the state was now forced to do something it hated:
Plan for hope.