Sindoor reshaped the rules of engagement, but the ISI has adapted with ferocity, breathing life into networks that no longer rely on armed militants but on India’s own talent, technology, and trust. The frontlines now run through city lanes, payment apps, hospital corridors, and neighbourhood WhatsApp groups.
An NSG team and forensic technicians investigate the spot of the blast in a Hyundai i20 car near Gate no 1 of the Red Fort Metro station, in Delhi on Monday. ANI
In the aftermath of Operation Sindoor, a military operation launched by India in May 2025, the nation witnessed a moment of decisive action—a surgical strike aimed at dismantling terror infrastructure across its borders. The operation was a stark reminder of the resolve to protect Indian soil from cross-border aggression, leaving many hopeful that this would mark the end of a violent chapter in Indo-Pak relations. Yet, as the dust settled, a more insidious reality began to emerge—a shadowy architecture of terror, silently reconfigured by Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), unfolding like a phantom from the veil of peace.
The immediate impact of Operation Sindoor was palpable. Key terror camps and infrastructure in Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir (PoK) were reduced to rubble, and the diplomatic fallout placed Islamabad on the defensive. Emboldened by international support, India signalled a new era of deterrence—terror would no longer go unchallenged. But the ISI’s response was not one of confrontation; it was a calculated pivot, a strategic retreat into the shadows. The old playbook of overt infiltration and mass radicalization had become obsolete, its risks too great in an era of heightened global scrutiny. Instead, the ISI embarked on crafting a new paradigm—a stealthier, more insidious model of hybrid warfare.
The first whispers of this new strategy emerged not from the rugged terrains of Kashmir but from the unlikeliest of places—a nondescript house in Faridabad and the bustling streets of Ahmedabad. What linked these disparate locations was not the presence of armed militants but the involvement of respected professionals—doctors. In Faridabad, a staggering cache of 2,900 kilograms of bomb-making material, timers, detonators, and an assault rifle was uncovered, not in the hands of shadowy figures but those of Dr. Muzammil Shakil and Dr. Adeel Ahmad Rather, men of science turned instruments of terror. Similarly, in Gujarat, the Anti-Terrorism Squad (ATS) unearthed a chilling plot involving ricin, one of the deadliest toxins known to mankind, orchestrated by Dr. Ahmed Mohiyuddin Saiyed, a physician with ties to both Pakistan and the Islamic State-Khorasan Province (ISKP), aided by radicalized local recruits.
This new model is defined by its exploitation of trust—India’s most cherished social contracts. The so-called “white-collar” modules leverage legitimate professions, professional networks, and digital platforms to plan and execute attacks, blending seamlessly into the fabric of everyday life. Their operations are indigenized; materials like ammonium nitrate, castor beans, and detonator parts are sourced legally in small, unremarkable quantities, then aggregated for deadly purposes. Weapons, in at least one instance, were delivered by drone from across the Pakistan border—a method that bypasses traditional security measures.
The presence of nuclear arsenals on both sides of the border serves as a silent arbiter, a constant reminder of the unthinkable. Full-scale war is no longer an option; both nations understand the existential stakes. Yet, this state of deterrence does not equate to peace. For the ISI, the nuclear overhang is a strategic shield—a cover under which it can pursue a “thousand cuts” policy, inflicting pain without crossing the threshold that might provoke open conflict. The new terror architecture is thus defined by stealth and plausible deniability. Hybrid cells are composed of Indian citizens—trusted professionals, students, and increasingly, women—radicalized online, funded through charitable fronts, and operationalized through indigenous supply chains. Forensic evidence from recent seizures ties several of these “doctors’ modules” to handlers from Jaish-e-Mohammed and ISKP, illustrating a dangerous convergence of traditional and global jihadist networks.
Funding has become a game of smoke and mirrors. Layered transactions—charity donations, student scholarships, and now, cryptocurrency—blend seamlessly with India’s digital payment ecosystem. Operatives receive funds ostensibly for education and research, which are then converted into crypto and UPI micro-transfers for operational needs. The Gujarat cell, for instance, utilized charitable fronts and stablecoins to move money with minimal traceability.
Training, once confined to border camps, is now digital and decentralized. Encrypted messaging apps, AI-generated videos, and “virtual classrooms” have replaced the physical bootcamp, enabling rapid skill transfer and evading detection.
Execution has evolved into a form of “temporal warfare.” Instead of seeking mass casualties, modules time their operations to coincide with moments of high political, economic, or social sensitivity—budget sessions, policy launches, investor summits—aiming to create chaos and force a reactive governance paradigm.
A particularly disturbing aspect of this new model is the deliberate recruitment of women professionals—doctors, lecturers, nurses—as logistics operatives and fundraisers. The ISI understands that women, historically subject to less scrutiny, make effective couriers and, at times, radicalizers. Simultaneously, “family cells” bound by blood ties and shared operational roles insulate networks from infiltration. The emotional bonds within these cells are far more resilient than any ideological commitment.
For the average citizen, these developments may seem distant—abstractions confined to the realm of intelligence agencies and geopolitical analysts. Yet, they carry profound real-world implications. When a hospital, school, or small business becomes entangled in terror supply chains, the very fabric of trust and daily life is fractured. A digital payment link, used by doctors and merchants alike, can transform overnight from a tool of progress into an instrument of destruction. When police suspect a professional network or family cell, entire communities are engulfed in suspicion and anxiety.
The Gujarat module, in particular, exposes a dangerous new template. Here, doctors and local youth plotted not with guns smuggled from across the border but with ricin synthesized from castor beans purchased in Ahmedabad markets. Their reconnaissance, funded by cryptocurrency and executed through cross-state travel, underscores the ambition and reach of this new threat. Drones ferrying weapons erased the last defensive advantage of border surveillance.
India’s response is evolving, but the challenge is immense. Siloed police, intelligence, and financial enforcement agencies must converge into a unified, data-driven command. More granular oversight of professional licensing, chemical supply chains, charitable payments, and institutional hiring is now essential. Laws must expand to address “digital radicalization” and the indigenization of chemical precursors. Yet, just as crucial is preserving the openness, pluralism, and trust that define India’s social identity. Technology is a double-edged sword—while it fuels radicalization, it also enables predictive analytics and smarter interdiction. Digital literacy and civic vigilance must be cultivated as frontline defences. Ethical leadership in professions—medicine, education, finance—must reaffirm that careers dedicated to serving humanity cannot be hijacked by hatred.
Operation Sindoor reshaped the rules of engagement, but the ISI has adapted with ferocity, breathing life into networks that no longer rely on armed militants but on India’s own talent, technology, and trust. The frontlines now run through city lanes, payment apps, hospital corridors, and neighbourhood WhatsApp groups. The challenge is stark, but India’s capacity for resilience and adaptation remains its greatest strength. By confronting this new architecture with ingenuity, integration, and inclusive vigilance, the nation can ensure that the thousand cuts of terror are not met with fear but with a stronger, more resilient fabric of public life. This evolving threat is not merely a security challenge but a test of societal cohesion—a reminder that the shadows of terror cannot obscure the light of collective resolve.
Brijesh Singh is a senior IPS officer and an author (@brijeshbsingh on X). His latest book on ancient India, “The Cloud Chariot” (Penguin) is out on stands. Views are personal.
