Pakistan’s Rise Leaves India Isolated: A Set…

“The ‘I’ of Bulleh Shah represents man in his very essential capacity as a unit of creation”. —Najm Hosain Syed, Recurrent Patterns in Punjabi Poetry  Najm Hosain Syed’s reading of Bulleh Shah rescues one of Punjab’s most familiar poems from the ease of popular applause. Bullah ki jaana main kaun is commonly heard as a graceful confession that ultimate truth cannot be known. Najm sees something more demanding. Bulleh’s “I” is the elemental human being confronting the question “who?” Every answer offered by history—religion, institution, inherited status, nationality, relationship or dogma—tempts the seeker with a final identity. The poet accepts none as sufficient. His negatives are not an escape from commitment; they refuse to let any socially manufactured label exhaust the meaning of being human. This makes Bulleh Shah indispensable to our inquiry into poetry, power and humanity. Shah Hussain crossed the narrow passage between possession and freedom [Poetry, Power & Humanity—III:  Shah Hussain: Crossing the Narrow Passage of Love & Rebellion, Minute Mirror, July 21, 2026]. Bulleh Shah interrogated the walls on either side. Who constructed them? Who benefits when human beings are separated into pure and impure, believer and unbeliever, ruler and subject, high-born and low-born? His poetry exposes how identity, initially a source of belonging, can be converted into an instrument of hierarchy. اُٹھ گئے گوانڈھوں یار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Uth gaye gawandhon yaar Rabba hun ki kariye The Beloved has left the neighbourhood; Lord, what am I to do now? اُٹھ چلّے ہُن رہندے ناہیں ہویا ساتھ تیار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Uth chale hun rehnde nahin Hoya saath tayyar Rabba hun ki kariye He has risen and departed; the caravan stands ready, and he will remain no more. Lord, what am I to do now? ڈاڈھ کلیجے بل بل اُٹھے بھڑکے بِرہوں نار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Daadh kaleje bal bal uthe Bharke birhon naar Rabba hun ki kariye The depths of my heart are aflame, kindled by the fire of separation. Lord, what am I to do now? بُلھا شاہ پیارے باجھوں رہے اُرار نہ پار رَبّا ہُن کیہ کریے Bulla Shah piyare bajhon Rahe uraar na paar Rabba hun ki kariye Without the Beloved, says Bulleh Shah, I remain stranded midstream, reaching neither shore. Lord, what am I to do now? The kafi begins with departure, though it does not end in private sorrow. The familiar neighbourhood has lost its centre; the traveller is left between shores. This is the existential moment preceding Bulleh’s interrogation of identity. Once the familiar world departs, inherited answers can no longer shelter us. “What am I to do now?” becomes the cry of every human being whose social certainties have collapsed. Bulleh Shah lived in a Punjab experiencing political dislocation, declining Mughal authority and sharpening religious and social conflict. His spiritual choice itself challenged inherited hierarchy. Born into a Syed family, he accepted Shah Inayat, traditionally identified with the Arain community, as his murshid. Knowledge and spiritual worth were thus placed above genealogy. Their relationship was not merely devotional; it denied the proposition that dignity could be inherited by one group and withheld from another. His choice of Punjabi carried similar democratic force. Persian was associated with administration and cultivated elites; Arabic commanded religious authority. Punjabi was the living speech of cultivators, artisans, women, faqirs and labouring communities. Through the kafi, philosophy ceased to be the exclusive property of courts and seminaries. It could be remembered, sung and transmitted without permission from those controlling formal knowledge. The kafi was central to Bulleh Shah’s poetic expression and to the wider Sufi traditions of Punjab and Sindh. Bulleh’s resistance becomes sharper in the following kafi, where he compares the ostentatiously pious with dogs. راتیں جاگیں کریں عبادت راتیں جاگن کُتے تیتھوں اُتے Raatin jaagein karein ibaadat Raatin jaagan kutte Taithon utte You remain awake at night in worship; dogs keep vigil too— and surpass you. بھونکنوں بند مول نہ ہندے جا روڑیں تے سُتے تیتھوں اُتے Bhonkanon band mool na honde Ja roorin te sutte Taithon utte They never cease their watchful barking, then sleep upon a refuse heap— and surpass you. خَسم اپنے دا در نہ چھڈدے بھاویں وجن جُتے تیتھوں اُتے Khasam apne da dar na chhadde Bhaven vajjan jutte Taithon utte They never abandon their Master’s door, though struck repeatedly— and surpass you. بلھے شاہ کوئی رَخت وِہاج لے نہیں تے بازی لے گئے کُتے تیتھوں اُتے Bulleh Shah koi rakht vihaaj lai Nahin te baazi lai gaye kutte Taithon utte Bulleh Shah, acquire provisions for the journey, or the dogs will carry away the prize— and surpass you. The poem reverses an established hierarchy with deliberate audacity. The dog, conventionally treated as impure, becomes the moral teacher; the visibly devout human being becomes the object of satire. Bulleh does not ridicule worship. He asks what worship is worth when it produces neither loyalty nor humility. The dog remains at its master’s threshold despite hunger, rejection and blows. The worshipper may remain awake, although ritual performed for reputation can coexist with pride, cruelty and the pursuit of power. This distinction is critical. Bulleh Shah’s target is not religion but its conversion into social capital. Piety becomes another possession—something to display, trade and employ against others. In Erich Fromm’s terms, the mode of “having” invades faith: one “has” learning, sanctity, lineage and followers. Bulleh insists upon the mode of “being”, where truth appears through conduct rather than claim. The dog’s fidelity defeats the worshipper’s performance. The same assault on borrowed identity culminates in three immortal lines: بلھیا! کی جاناں میں کون Bulleya, ki jaana main kaun? Bulleh, how can I know who I am? نہ میں مومن وچ مسیتاں نہ میں وچ کفر دیاں ریتاں Na main momin vich maseetan Na main vich kufar diyan reetan I am not confined to the believer in the mosque, nor to the rituals called unbelief. نہ میں موسیٰ، نہ فرعون Na main Moosa, na Firaun I am neither Moses nor Pharaoh. Bulleh removes the available answers one after

Readers might have noticed my infatuation with the past. I often relate my childhood experience to a modern day issue. I often drag my school or university days when I write about today’s youth. I love my past, but sometimes what worries me the most is what if these memories disappear or fade gradually. As we age, our memory becomes weak and we start forgetting the past events. Occasionally, I struggle to remember the name of someone who I met a couple of weeks ago. I still have several friends who narrate a two decade old event with minute detail. I envy their brain health. Now I find this excellent blog on Minute Mirror site which says something that gave me real comfort. It said forgotten memories may not be gone at all. They may just be sleeping. Scientists studied fruit flies, of all creatures, and found something remarkable. When they placed these tiny flies back in an environment similar to where a memory first formed, that memory came alive again. It was not dead. It was only quiet, waiting for the right door to knock on. Now I am no scientist, friends. I am just a man who spends too much time looking backward. But when I read this, something in my chest loosened up a little. Because I always feared that my old memories were leaking out of me, drop by drop, the way water leaks from a cracked clay pot. I feared that one day I would wake up and my childhood street would be gone from my mind, my mother’s voice reading me stories would be gone, the smell of my school canteen would be gone. But this research tells a gentler story. It tells me that memory is not a candle that simply burns out. It is more like a lamp switched off in a room I stopped visiting. The lamp is still there. The bulb still works. I only need to walk back into that room, and somehow, the light comes on again. Think about it, friends. Have you ever caught a scent, maybe of rain falling on dry earth, and suddenly you are eight years old again, standing on your grandmother’s veranda? Have you ever heard an old song on the radio and felt your whole childhood come rushing back in one breath? That is not magic. That is your brain finding the right key for a door it had quietly locked. Of course, the article is honest enough to admit that scientists still do not fully understand everything. Sometimes the brain brings back memories that are not entirely true. It mixes things up. It adds a little color here, removes a little detail there. Human memory, unlike a fruit fly’s, is a complicated thing. But even with its flaws, I find this idea beautiful. Our memories are patient. They do not vanish just because we stop visiting them. They simply wait. I think of my old friends, the ones who can recall an event from twenty years ago as if it happened yesterday. I used to envy them, thinking their brains were simply built better than mine. Now I wonder if maybe they just keep walking back into those old rooms more often than I do. Maybe remembering is not only about a strong brain. Maybe it is about visiting. So here is what I plan to do, friends. I plan to walk old streets again. I plan to visit my old school gate, even if it now sells mobile phone covers instead of candy. I plan to play those old songs my father used to hum while shaving in the morning. I plan to open every quiet room in my mind, one by one, and let the light back in. Because somewhere in me, my mother is still calling me in for dinner. Somewhere in me, my school bell is still ringing. Somewhere in me, a boy is still running home before the streetlights come on. They are not gone. They were only sleeping. And tonight, God willing, I intend to wake every single one of them up.

Pakistan has a peculiar relationship with workplace merit. We talk about it constantly. Government departments are criticised for delaying promotions. Corporations are questioned over favouritism. Universities are urged to reward academic performance. Employers are told to retain talent. Media organisations routinely expose nepotism, extensions, political appointments and institutional injustice. But there is a question that is rarely asked: Do the organisations making these arguments follow the same standards inside their own walls? The question is particularly relevant to Pakistan’s media industry. Newspapers and television channels have considerable influence over how society understands fairness at work. They report on workers denied promotions, bureaucrats given extensions, senior officials superseded and institutions accused of favouritism. But journalism cannot demand accountability from everyone else while exempting itself from scrutiny. That is where the conversation around employee retention, promotions and extensions becomes uncomfortable. The Extension That Blocks an Entire Career Ladder In any hierarchical organisation, one senior position can determine the careers of dozens of people below it. When a person occupying a senior position retires, the organisation has several choices. It can promote someone from within. It can recruit externally. It can restructure the position. Or, where there is a genuine institutional requirement, it can retain the individual for a defined period. The problem begins when an exception becomes a culture. A six-month extension becomes another year. A temporary arrangement becomes a permanent arrangement. A retired employee is brought back. Another extension follows. Meanwhile, people below continue waiting. For them, the issue is not merely that someone has been allowed to continue working. It is that their own careers may have been placed on hold to accommodate someone else’s continued career. That distinction is often ignored in Pakistan. Even Dawn Has Written About This Problem Dawn itself has been among the publications highlighting the damage caused by prolonged temporary arrangements. In a May 2026 editorial titled “Ad hoc culture,” Dawn criticised the practice of keeping people in higher positions through prolonged temporary arrangements, noting that such practices can leave employees without formal promotion, financial benefits or recognition of seniority. It specifically highlighted the frustration of employees whose seniority is bypassed. That position is difficult to disagree with. In fact, it is precisely the position that responsible journalism should take. But it also raises a more uncomfortable question: What happens when the same principles are applied to the media organisations themselves? The Dawn Question Dawn has long presented itself as an institution committed to professional journalism, institutional accountability and workers’ rights. Its pages have repeatedly carried arguments in favour of merit-based promotions and against prolonged ad-hoc arrangements. A January 2026 Dawn editorial page contribution on academic promotions, for example, argued that delayed promotions erode meritocracy, demotivate employees and can drive talented professionals towards private institutions or overseas opportunities. In another recent editorial, Dawn argued that prolonged temporary arrangements can stagnate careers and deprive employees of financial progression and recognition. These are sound principles. But principles become meaningful only when they are applied consistently. And this is where, based on my own knowledge of the organisation, an uncomfortable contradiction deserves examination. Dawn’s senior management structure has itself seen prolonged extensions, while retired managers have, according to my knowledge, been brought back into employment in Lahore and elsewhere. That raises a straightforward question: If retaining retired or extended senior personnel is justified by institutional necessity, why should the same practice be criticised when governments or other organisations do it? And if prolonged extensions are capable of blocking the careers of younger employees in government departments, why would the principle suddenly cease to apply inside a media organisation? This is not an argument against experience. Nor is it an argument that every retired employee should automatically be removed. Experience has value. Institutional memory has value. A highly experienced editor or manager can be extremely difficult to replace. But institutional value cannot become a permanent justification for blocking succession. Fifteen Years Is a Long Time in Any Profession The question becomes even more significant when a senior position remains occupied for an exceptionally long period. From my own knowledge of Dawn, its editor has remained in the position for nearly 15 years through extensions. Again, the question is not whether an individual is competent. The question is whether an institution that advocates professional advancement should also have a mechanism for developing and promoting the next generation of leadership. Fifteen years is enough time for an entire generation of journalists to enter an organisation, build careers, become senior reporters, become editors and eventually expect to take on greater responsibility. If the top positions remain occupied indefinitely, where does that generation go? There is a very real distinction between retaining talent and preventing succession. A healthy institution must know the difference. The Supreme Court Has Now Entered This Conversation This is no longer merely an HR theory. Pakistan’s Supreme Court has recently addressed the issue in remarkably strong terms. In January 2026, the court ruled that government departments could not use administrative inefficiency and procedural delays as an excuse for denying employees timely consideration for promotion. It held that promotion is connected to merit, performance and operational requirements, and said employees should not suffer because a department failed to convene promotion committees or relied excessively on acting arrangements. Four months later, in May 2026, the Supreme Court went further. It held that prolonged ad-hoc, look-after, current-charge, acting-charge and additional-charge arrangements can amount to exploitation. The case involved a Pakistan Railways employee who had performed duties of a higher post for nearly eight years before receiving regular promotion. The court’s reasoning is important because it moves the debate beyond bureaucratic procedure. It is about human beings and their careers. A person who spends years doing higher-level work without receiving corresponding recognition, seniority or financial benefits is not merely dealing with an administrative inconvenience. Their career is being affected. What Happens to the Person Waiting Below? This is the part of the Pakistani workplace debate we often ignore. We discuss the person

For decades, Pakistan has been living with extreme heat. Every summer, temperatures rise above 50°C in parts of Sindh and Balochistan, and cities across Punjab and southern Pakistan face prolonged heatwaves that make daily life a struggle for survival. Agricultural workers, construction labourers, sanitation staff and traffic police continue working under the blazing sun, often without adequate rest, shade, drinking water or legal protection. Heat has long been an occupational hazard in Pakistan, but, unfortunately, it has rarely received the policy attention it deserves. Now, Europe is confronting an extreme heat that Pakistan has experienced for years recorded above 50°C. The recent heatwave across Europe has pushed temperatures above 40°C in Germany, France, Italy, Spain and several other countries. Heat warnings have become routine, hospitals have reported sharp increases in heatstroke cases, schools have closed, transport systems have been disrupted, and governments have activated emergency response plans. The crisis has revealed that no country, regardless of its wealth or technological advancement, is immune to the accelerating consequences of climate change. The difference is that Europe’s heat emergency is still treated as an exceptional event, whereas in Pakistan extreme heat has become almost routine. Every year, millions face dangerous temperatures with little expectation of institutional support. When temperatures exceed 50°C in Jacobabad, Dadu, Sibi and surrounding districts, headlines fade within days even though the suffering continues for months. Pakistan has already paid a heavy price for climate inaction. The 2015 Karachi heatwave claimed well over a thousand lives within a few days, overwhelming hospitals and exposing serious weaknesses in disaster preparedness. Later investigations identified prolonged power outages, water shortages and the absence of coordinated emergency planning as major contributors to the tragedy. The disaster should have transformed national preparedness for future heatwaves. Instead, progress has been uneven and largely confined to a few urban centres. The devastating floods of 2022 offered another painful lesson. Although Pakistan contributes less than one percent of global greenhouse gas emissions, it suffered one of the worst climate disasters in its history, affecting more than 33 million people, destroying homes, schools, hospitals and agricultural land, and causing economic losses worth billions of dollars. The catastrophe exposed Pakistan’s vulnerability to climate extremes, ranging from floods to droughts and heatwaves. A long-term climate adaptation has failed to keep pace with rapidly increasing climate risks. Yes, climate change is not an environmental issue. It is a public health crisis, to be very clear, it is an economic challenge and a labour rights issue. Thousands of outdoor workers continue to perform physically demanding jobs during the hottest hours of the day without mandatory heat safety standards. Lost productivity, rising healthcare costs, declining crop yields, and growing pressure on electricity and water systems are becoming defining features of Pakistan’s summers. Europe’s current experience should be seen as a lesson that climate friendly cannot be built only after disasters occur. Infrastructure must be redesigned for rising temperatures, cities need more trees and green spaces instead of endless concrete, early warning systems must reach vulnerable communities, and labour laws should guarantee rest breaks, access to drinking water and protection for outdoor workers during extreme heat. Schools, hospitals and public buildings should also be adapted to withstand prolonged periods of extreme temperatures. For developed countries, the heatwave exposes the limits of relying solely on emissions reduction without making sufficient investments in climate adaptation. For Pakistan, it is another warning against repeating the cycle of learning lessons only after each catastrophe. The country’s climate history from Karachi’s deadly heatwave to the unprecedented floods of 2022 offers painful experiences of the cost of delayed action. The climate crisis no longer belongs to the future or to any single region. It is unfolding across continents, exposing both rich and poor nations to unprecedented risks. Europe is now discovering what Pakistan has known for years: extreme heat is not merely uncomfortable. It is deadly, economically destructive and socially unequal. The real question is no longer whether another climate disaster will arrive, but whether governments will finally learn from the ones that have already occurred.

Decolonization is often thought of as the process through which colonized nations became free from foreign rule. Flags changed, colonial governments were removed and national governments were. Political independence was officially given back. Yet political freedom did not always mean intellectual, cultural, linguistic or psychological freedom. In places that were once colonized the structures of colonialism stayed long after the colonizers left. These structures continued through education systems, languages, cultural expectations, literary standards, social organizations, economic systems, media portrayals and inherited ideas about what’s considered knowledge, civilization, intelligence, progress and even beauty. This ongoing influence brings up a question: Can a country really be independent if its people still judge themselves using the intellectual standards of their former rulers? The point of this article is that political decolonization is not complete without the decolonization of the mind. Decolonizing minds does not mean rejecting everything from the West. Does it mean replacing one way of thinking with another? Instead it means looking at the systems of knowledge that have been passed down, finding voices that have been ignored, acknowledging indigenous ways of thinking, challenging language and culture hierarchies and building confidence to create knowledge based on one’s own history and society while still being open to global ideas. The idea of the “colonization of the mind” is very important because colonialism was not about politics or money. Colonial powers often tried to show that their language, literature, religion, schools, social systems and ways of knowing were better than those of the people they ruled. The people who were colonized were. Sometimes forced to believe that the culture of the colonizers was modern while their own traditions were backward. The result was a system where the colonized person started to see themselves through the eyes of the people who ruled them. Frantz Fanon in his books about the psychology of colonialism showed how colonial control gets into the minds of the people who are oppressed. So colonialism does not end because the person in charge leaves. Its biggest success happens when its ideas and beliefs become part of the colonized person’s thinking. The mental impact of colonialism is one of its lasting effects. A colonized mind may feel ashamed of its language, accent, literature, clothing, history, traditions and ways of thinking. It may think that foreign things are advanced and local things are outdated. A student may think that an English source is automatically more important than a source from their country that is just as good. A university may value ideas from Europe or North America while not giving attention to ideas from Africa, Asia, Latin America or native communities. A society may celebrate culture while thinking its own traditions are old-fashioned. These views are not always because of individuals; they are often the result of historical systems that have taught generations what to admire and what to ignore. Education is one of the important places where decolonization needs to happen. Colonial education systems were often built not to help the people they ruled but to serve the needs of the rulers. Even though schools today have changed a lot, many still repeat the ways of knowing. The lessons may focus on history, Western books, European philosophy and Western science while giving little space to local knowledge and traditions. This does not mean that Shakespeare, Aristotle, Kant, Newton or other great thinkers should be removed from the lessons. That would only replace one kind of exclusion with another. The real goal is to have balance. Students should read Shakespeare along with writers from South Asia, Africa, the Caribbean and other areas. They should study philosophy while also learning about philosophies from Asia, Africa, the Islamic world and native communities. The purpose is not to get rid of knowledge but to make the learning more wide. A decolonized class asks tough questions about who has been allowed to create knowledge. Who writes history? Who is considered important in literature? Whose language is seen as academic? Whose knowledge is seen as scientific? Whose view defines life? These questions show the politics of knowledge. Knowledge is never made in a vacuum. Schools, universities, publishers, governments, colonial systems and international groups have often decided which types of knowledge are accepted. Decolonization means we have to see these systems and think about them carefully or just accept them as better. Language is possibly the obvious place where intellectual decolonization needs to happen. Colonial languages like English, French, Spanish and Portuguese still hold positions in many countries that used to be colonized. English in particular has become a language and gives access to international learning, technology, jobs, diplomacy and higher education. So the argument for decolonization can’t just be to stop using English. That would be unrealistic. Might even hurt students who need to speak English to communicate internationally. A better argument is to have languages. English should be seen as one tool, not a measure of smartness, civilization or social value. In countries where many languages are spoken, local languages carry histories, memories, identities, oral stories, cultural knowledge and different ways of looking at the world. When a language is pushed aside an entire system of thinking can be weakened. Losing a language is not just losing words; it can also lose knowledge about nature, stories, cultural memory, native words and community identity. Decolonizing the mind means people need to see that speaking a language does not make someone less educated and speaking English does not automatically make someone more intelligent. Knowing a language and being smart are things. A person can be very educated and still express themselves best in a language. At the time, decolonization should not make people dislike English or other global languages. English has been taken by writers, scholars, activists and thinkers from countries and used to show their own experiences. Writers like Chinua Achebe, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Salman Rushdie, Derek Walcott, Wole Soyinka and many others have shown ways to use colonial languages. Their work shows that language can

By Ahmad Hassan “The convoluted wording of legalisms grew up around the necessity to hide from ourselves the violence we intend toward each other… Elaborate euphemisms may conceal your intent to kill, but behind any use of power over another the ultimate assumption remains: ‘I feed on your energy.’” When Frank Herbert wrote those words in his novel Dune Messiah, he observed that elaborate euphemisms are often used by the state to conceal the raw mechanics of power. In Pakistan, August 5 is observed as Youm-e-Istehsal to condemn the 2019 revocation of Article 370 and its supplementary provision, Article 35A. This act of the Indian government removed Kashmir’s separate constitution, its flag and its control over its own affairs. Last week marked seven years since that day. What began as a dramatic constitutional rupture has now, by design, become quietly normalized. Jammu and Kashmir joined India in 1947 on defined terms. The Maharaja handed over defence, foreign affairs and communications. Everything else stayed with the state. The United Nations later called for a plebiscite. It never happened. Instead, over decades, the protections that were supposed to stand in its place were worn down piece by piece, until August 5, 2019, when the government removed what remained in a single stroke. The method deserves more attention than it usually gets. Article 370 was not directly changed. First, the government reached for Article 367, which was intended to aid in the interpretation of the Constitution, and used it to redefine one phrase: “Constituent Assembly” became “Legislative Assembly.” Kashmir had no sitting assembly at the time, and the state was under President’s Rule. So, the government’s own appointee, the Governor, signed off on the change. India’s Supreme Court had already ruled, in 1959 and again in 1969, that Kashmir’s constitutional status could only be changed after the approval of the Constituent Assembly of Kashmir. When that body no longer existed, no institution had the standing to give that consent on Kashmir’s behalf. New Delhi decided that its own Governor could stand in for the people he had not been elected by. That is not consent. It is a government consenting to itself. The Indian government argued that Kashmiris had lived for decades under an insurgency that killed tens of thousands and emptied the Valley of its Pandit community in 1990. It left the region isolated from the investment and policing coordination. That argument would carry more weight if the method had matched it. What followed the revocation was not the language of integration. It was a total communications blackout, landlines and mobile networks and the internet all cut at once. Independent estimates put the troop presence at 600,000 to 800,000, roughly one soldier for every ten Kashmiris. Even pro-India politicians, former chief ministers among them, were placed under detention. Perhaps a security argument can justify counter-insurgency operations. It cannot by itself justify dissolving a state’s constitutional status, its legislature and its statehood in one move. That too with no elected Kashmiri voice given the chance to object. Jawaharlal Nehru warned Parliament about exactly this shortcut in 1952, while Article 370 was still being drafted. No clause in a constitution, he said, could substitute for the will of the Kashmiri people. Real integration, in his words, comes from the mind and the heart, not from a clause imposed from outside. Actually, there is a longer, quieter project behind the legal manoeuvre. Article 35A once barred outsiders from buying land or settling permanently in Kashmir. Since its removal, more than 3.2 million domicile certificates have gone to outsiders, most of them non-Kashmiri Hindus. This alarming thing is that wherever a disputed territory’s demographics are reshaped before its people are asked what they want, the eventual vote, if one ever comes, no longer reflects the population whose future was originally in question. None of this required an invading army, or an open declaration of intent. It required a redefined word, a signature from an appointee, and a great deal of time. The convoluted legalisms that Herbert warned about have become policy in Kashmir: development, integration, correction. Each euphemism has quietly done the work that an honest admission of purpose could never have achieved. Seven years on, Kashmir’s assembly has voted decisively against the BJP that carried out the revocation, and passed its own resolution demanding the restoration of its special status. New Delhi can easily ignore them. Yet, that very power to ignore an elected legislature proves, beyond any doubt, that the “consent” obtained seven years ago was always a legal fiction