The Sound Before the Silence
The day the missiles stopped, the loudest thing in Kashmir was the silence.
No sirens. No slogans. Just the rustle of tree leaves and the faint echo of a mosque loudspeaker in the distance.
For a region so accustomed to diplomatic, military, performative noise, this quiet was unfamiliar. Suspicious, even.
On May 10, India and Pakistan agreed to a full and immediate ceasefire.
The announcement was made by Donald Trump on social media. A ceasefire between two nuclear states, brokered by the country that has the power to reign in both rivals. Within hours, officials from both sides confirmed the news. There would be no more airstrikes. No more drone footage. No more tweets about vengeance.
Just like that, it was over.
Or at least, paused.
But to understand the strangeness of that moment, you have to rewind the tape. Not to 1947 or Kargil or Balakot, but just a few weeks earlier.
April 22. A date most of the world has already forgotten.
Gunmen killed 26 people in Pahalgam, a small town nestled in the folds of Indian-administered Kashmir. Within 24 hours, India blamed Pakistan. Within 48, borders were sealed, treaties suspended, and visas canceled. By the end of the week, both countries had pulled their diplomats, shut down airspace, and taken aim.
By May 3, Pakistan was test-firing missiles. India responded by banning Pakistani ships from its ports. Then came the real escalation.
May 7. Indian missiles struck nine targets inside Pakistan, killing 31. The next day, drones flew over the border, hitting what India claimed were air defense systems. May 10, Pakistan said its airbases were attacked. Kashmiris on both sides reported hearing explosions deep into the night.
Then the silence.
What changed?
There was no breakthrough meeting. No handshake. No framework for peace. Just a sudden pivot from total war to total quiet.
It didn’t feel like diplomacy. It felt like exhaustion.
For a brief moment, the two countries had plunged into something dangerously close to open war. And for a brief moment, the world noticed. The G7 called for “maximum restraint.” Social media timelines filled with dread. American think tanks started gaming out nuclear scenarios again.
And then someone blinked.
Maybe both did.
This isn’t how war usually ends. But then again, this wasn’t a war in the traditional sense. It was a performance. A familiar choreography. Grievance, retaliation, escalation, denial, and then—when the political temperature gets too high—disengagement. Not resolution. Just retreat.
Each country got what it wanted.
India flexed its muscle, sent a message, and rallied domestic support. Pakistan postured as the victim, showcased its deterrence capabilities, and claimed moral high ground. The missiles weren’t the end. They were the climax.
Everything that followed was just clean-up.
But the human cost isn’t measured in diplomatic wins or strategic optics. It’s measured in what doesn’t make the headlines. In the families displaced. The children who can’t sleep. The air that hums with the threat of more.
Because everyone in Kashmir knows this script. And they know it ends the same way it always does: with a fragile quiet, just waiting to be broken.
The real tragedy isn’t the conflict. It’s the predictability of it.
There’s no suspense anymore. Just a rhythm. One that everyone dances to, even if they hate the music. A kind of cursed familiarity. Like watching a horror movie you’ve seen before—still terrifying, but never surprising.
And yet, there was something different about this round.
The speed.
How quickly it began. How suddenly it ended. As if both sides understood they were reaching the limits of their own narrative. As if they needed to restore the illusion of control.
Or maybe the silence wasn’t a truce. Maybe it was a timeout. A pause in a game that neither side knows how to win, but both refuse to stop playing.
For now, the guns are quiet. The borders are sealed. The politicians are back to pretending that everything is fine.
But Kashmir is still there.
And it’s still listening.
Waiting for the next sound.