January 30, 2001Chief Executive's Secretariat, Islamabad22:40 Hours
The decision to call Vajpayee was not sentimental.
It was procedural.
Aditya's mind—inside Musharraf's body—treated momentum the way a bureaucrat treats a file with a narrow clearance window: you move it forward while the signatures are still possible, before someone invents a reason to stall it.
Kartarpur was no longer a proposal. It was becoming a public demand. The diaspora and business class had stepped into the field. GHQ had been ordered into event-security mode. The only remaining risk was predictable:
the first "incident."
So Musharraf did what he had learned not as a General, but as an administrator: he tried to share ownership before the saboteurs could isolate blame.
He picked up the hotline.
The line connected after a few rings, without ceremony. On the other end was the steady voice of Atal Bihari Vajpayee—older, softer, but not weak. A man who understood crowds, and understood history, and understood how easily both could be set on fire.
"General," Vajpayee said, with faint warmth. "You are moving quickly."
"I have to," Musharraf replied. "This is a narrow window. If we don't ride it, someone will puncture it."
Vajpayee paused. "Kartarpur?"
"Yes," Musharraf said. "I'm securing the perimeter. Patton bridging on emergency plan. Tourist Police at the front. Army in depth. Air surveillance."
He did not embellish. He did not boast. He spoke like a man reading out an operations directive.
"And I want to do something more," Musharraf added. "A controlled Festival of Guru Nanak at the border—dignified, devotional, tightly managed."
There was silence on the line—not shock, but assessment. Vajpayee was calculating the word "festival" as both poetry and risk.
"A festival can be prayer," Vajpayee said slowly. "And it can be target."
"That is why I'm calling," Musharraf replied. "If it is only Pakistan's festival, any incident becomes 'Pakistan failed.' If it is joint in spirit—even if not joint in sovereignty—then the world sees it differently. The saboteurs lose clarity. Blame gets complicated. That complicates violence."
Vajpayee's voice was thoughtful. "You want shared ownership."
"I want shared responsibility," Musharraf corrected. "It forces both sides to protect the moment."
Vajpayee breathed out softly. "And what would 'joined' look like in practice, General?"
Musharraf answered with Aditya's administrative precision—minimum promises, maximum structure.
"Joint schedule," he said. "Coordinated timing. Parallel cultural programming on both sides. Media access guidelines. A liaison channel at the site. Verification of protocols."
Vajpayee listened, then delivered his own concern without theatrics.
"Security," he said. "My people will ask: can we allow our citizens to cross without our own force accompanying them? The BSF will raise alarms. The opposition will raise louder alarms."
Musharraf expected this. He had already decided his boundary.
"Prime Minister," he said evenly, "your BSF personnel are welcome to come as devotees."
Vajpayee paused. "As devotees."
"As devotees," Musharraf repeated. "Unarmed. No operational formations inside Pakistan. No armed escort columns crossing the line."
The line went quiet again. Vajpayee was balancing dignity against domestic pressure.
Then he asked carefully, "Not even a small armed element? For reassurance?"
Musharraf's answer was firm, but not insulting.
"No," he said. "Weapons do not cross into Pakistan under the label of pilgrimage. That would poison the corridor before it starts."
He added the compromise immediately—because Aditya understood that refusing without offering a structure creates resentment.
"But," Musharraf continued, "we can establish a liaison mechanism. Your officers can coordinate with our Army and Tourist Police. Information can flow. Concerns can be addressed in real time. We can create a joint observation protocol—without armed deployment inside our territory."
Vajpayee's voice softened slightly, almost approving.
"You draw a hard line on sovereignty," he said, "but you offer a soft line on coordination."
"That is the only way it survives," Musharraf replied. "If we allow weapons, the hardliners will claim the corridor is a Trojan horse. If we refuse coordination, your hardliners will claim it is a trap. We must deny both narratives."
Vajpayee was silent for a moment, then spoke with the quiet force of a poet who knew how history punished hesitation.
"There is an old cruelty in this region," Vajpayee said. "We make devotion wait for paperwork. We make old men die without seeing what they prayed to see."
Musharraf did not respond emotionally. He let the Prime Minister speak—because this was Vajpayee's advantage: he could translate policy into dignity.
"I will consider your festival," Vajpayee said. "And I will speak to my advisors. But General—remember what you said."
"What did I say?" Musharraf asked.
"That you are offering a test," Vajpayee replied. "Not a miracle."
Musharraf's voice was steady.
"Yes," he said. "A test under light."
Vajpayee exhaled. "Then let us build a light big enough that no one can pretend they didn't see."
Musharraf nodded though Vajpayee couldn't see it.
"And Prime Minister," Musharraf added, "if we do this correctly, Agra becomes a summit with momentum—not a summit with desperation."
Vajpayee's reply was almost a whisper, but it carried steel.
"Momentum," he said. "Yes. Before someone turns it into mourning."
The call ended without ceremony.
Musharraf remained seated for a moment, staring at the corridor map on his desk.
Aditya's mind counted the next risks automatically:
India's domestic pressure for BSF escort
Pakistan's domestic pressure against "festival" optics
the first crowd movement
the first camera angle
the first attempt at an "accident"
He closed the file slowly.
The festival was now on the table between two nuclear states—fragile, audacious, and irresistible.
And if it happened, it would not be remembered as an administrative act.
It would be remembered as a decision to make peace visible.