26 Killed in Pahalgam Terror Attack: Bitan Adhikari, a Kolkata techie, was among 26 killed in the April 22, 2025 Pahalgam terror attack. His courageous stand sparked nationwide grief, Operation Sindoor, and a call for religious unity and justice
On April 22, 2025, a harrowing act of terror shattered the peace of Pahalgam’s picturesque Baisaran Valley, a lush, green expanse often referred to as the “Mini Switzerland” of Jammu and Kashmir. This popular tourist destination, nestled in the Himalayan foothills, typically resonates with laughter, scenic pony rides, and the calm murmur of vacationing families. But that day, the valley was instead pierced by the sounds of gunfire, panic, and irreversible loss. A group of terrorists launched a sudden and brutal attack on civilians—targeting a convoy of tourist vehicles and individuals on foot. The carnage left 26 people dead, making it one of the deadliest attacks on civilians in the region in recent memory.
Among the victims was 40-year-old Bitan Adhikari, a software engineer with deep roots in Kolkata, West Bengal. Bitan had been living and working in the United States for the past several years, employed in the tech industry in Brandon, Florida. His career was marked by steady success, and he had recently taken some time off to visit India with his wife, Soheni Adhikari, and their young child—a vacation that was meant to reconnect them with their homeland and offer a brief respite from the pressures of work and life abroad. The family had chosen Kashmir for its unparalleled beauty, unaware that the tranquility they sought would be shattered so violently.
Bitan was known among friends and colleagues as a thoughtful and gentle man, deeply committed to his family and proud of his cultural heritage. He had looked forward to showing his child the serene mountains and snow-fed rivers of India’s northernmost state, hoping to create lifelong memories. But those dreams were cut short in a matter of moments. Witness accounts and initial investigative reports suggest that during the attack, the terrorists singled out individuals based on their religious identity. When confronted, Bitan was reportedly asked to recite the Kalma, an Islamic profession of faith. Unable to comply, he bravely affirmed his Hindu identity—and was then mercilessly shot.
This horrifying detail—of a man being executed for his faith in front of his family—has since become a searing symbol of the brutality of the attack. It speaks to the deepening crisis of religious intolerance in conflict zones and highlights the vulnerability of civilians caught in ideological crossfires. For Bitan’s wife, Soheni, the trauma was immediate and life-shattering. In mere seconds, she went from being a joyful traveler on a family holiday to a widow and a witness to unspeakable violence.
The news of Bitan’s death sent shockwaves not only through his extended family and hometown community in Kolkata but also through the Indian diaspora in the United States. Friends, coworkers, and fellow expats remembered him as a warm, sincere man who loved music, cricket, and conversations about philosophy and technology. His sudden death was not only a personal tragedy but also a grim reminder of how political violence can reach far beyond borders, tearing through the lives of those who once felt safe and removed from such dangers.
As the Indian government began investigating the attack and tracing the perpetrators, the story of Bitan Adhikari and his family emerged as one of the most poignant and painful narratives of that tragic day. His wife’s courage in speaking out about what had happened—despite her immense grief—helped give a human face to the statistics. Her later statement, “My sindoor was wiped off by terror,” would echo across national media and social platforms, turning her pain into a public symbol of both loss and resistance.
In the immediate aftermath of the Pahalgam terror attack, while rescue operations were underway and security forces combed the forested valleys for the assailants, Soheni Adhikari found herself thrust into a nightmarish reality. Bloodstained, shaken, and in utter disbelief, she had just witnessed the man she loved—the father of her child—gunned down in front of her eyes. The sanctity of their shared life had been shattered in seconds. But amid the shock and chaos, she also found the courage to speak out, to lend her voice to what quickly became a national conversation about faith-based violence, security failures, and the unbearable cost of extremism.
Back home in Kolkata, word of Bitan’s death devastated his family, neighbors, and childhood friends. He was not merely a victim of circumstance, but the latest in a growing line of Indian civilians to fall prey to religiously motivated violence. His parents, too elderly to travel, were inconsolable. “He was our only son. He had built a life abroad but always kept us close in heart,” his mother was quoted as saying, as the family began preparing for the final rites that would now take place not in the joyous glow of a returning NRI visit, but in the solemn, ash-covered courtyards of mourning.
Soheni, meanwhile, had become the face of loss in national media. In a moving public statement, issued just days after the attack, she said:
“My sindoor was wiped away by bullets. It was not fate—it was hatred. No one else’s sindoor should be erased like mine. We came here to show our son the mountains. Instead, he saw his father fall.”
This deeply symbolic reference to sindoor—a sacred red vermilion powder worn by Hindu married women—was not just a personal lament but a searing political message. In India, sindoor represents more than marital status; it is a symbol of continuity, protection, and womanhood. To lose it is to lose a piece of identity. Her words ignited nationwide outrage, especially among women who resonated with the grief of a young widow left behind to explain to a child why their father would never return.
Public mourning soon turned into a demand for justice. Across India, from Bengal to Mumbai to Delhi, vigils were held in Bitan’s name. Protesters lit candles and shouted slogans not only in grief but in anger. Anger at the terrorists, yes—but also at a system that had, many argued, failed to anticipate such a massacre in a known tourist destination. Questions flooded the airwaves: How were armed militants able to reach Baisaran Valley undetected? Why were security protocols not strengthened during peak tourist season? Was there an intelligence lapse?
In response, the Indian government launched a sweeping counter-terrorism operation—Operation Sindoor. The name was a deliberate and symbolic choice, drawn directly from Soheni’s statement. It served both as a tribute to Bitan and a message to the nation that such religiously targeted killings would not go unanswered. The mission, spearheaded by elite units of the Indian Army and security forces, focused on identifying and neutralizing the militant group believed to be behind the attack, which was suspected to have been aided by Pakistan-backed extremist cells operating in the region.
For many, Operation Sindoor signified a deeper battle: not just against insurgents hiding in the mountains, but against the ideologies that condone and propagate violence in the name of religion. The naming of the mission resonated widely, especially among women’s groups, who saw in Soheni’s words a painful, universal cry against war and widowhood.
Soheni herself, speaking again days later from a secure hospital in Srinagar, reiterated her plea:
“My husband died not just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He died because he was a Hindu man who refused to lie about his faith. He chose truth. And I lost everything.”
Her statement reverberated beyond India’s borders. In the U.S., where Bitan had spent over a decade building his career, the local Indian community organized memorial services. Colleagues remembered his sharp intellect and gentle spirit. Tech forums shared tributes. An online fundraiser for Soheni and her child quickly crossed ₹1 crore in donations, showing how even strangers were touched by the depth of this tragedy.
As national news channels debated whether the attack constituted a failure of security intelligence or was an inevitable outcome of the worsening situation in Kashmir, the Adhikari family quietly prepared to take Bitan’s ashes back to Kolkata. There, a final ceremony was planned along the banks of the Ganga—where Bitan’s parents had hoped to welcome him home alive, not as ashes in an urn.
Political, Religious, and Societal Reactions: A Nation Grapples With the Cost of Hate
As news of Bitan Adhikari’s killing spread across the country, the political landscape quickly responded with a mix of grief, condemnation, and pointed calls for action. Leaders from across party lines issued statements denouncing the terror attack and calling for justice for the families of the victims. However, it was the emotional resonance of Bitan’s story—of a man gunned down after affirming his religious identity—that cut through partisan politics and struck a national nerve.
Prime Minister Narendra Modi, in an address at an election rally in Gujarat shortly after the attack, referred to the incident with visible emotion. Without naming Bitan directly, he said:
“Those who seek to divide this great land through fear and bullets will face the iron resolve of our people. We will avenge every drop of blood shed in the name of faith.”
Home Minister Amit Shah echoed the sentiment in a press briefing, announcing that Operation Sindoor would continue until the perpetrators were brought to justice. He emphasized that the attack was not merely an act of violence but an act of “religious persecution”—a targeted killing designed to strike fear into the hearts of minorities and tourists alike. “This was an attack on India’s secular soul,” Shah stated.
Meanwhile, West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee expressed her deep sorrow and support for the Adhikari family. She offered government assistance to the bereaved and demanded an all-party meeting on internal security, emphasizing that Bengal’s sons and daughters should be able to travel anywhere in the country without fear. In a tweet, she said:
“Devastated to learn about the murder of Bitan Adhikari, a brilliant son of Bengal, in the Pahalgam terror attack. My heart goes out to Soheni and their child. We stand by you.”
Her message was echoed by leaders from the CPI(M), Congress, and even Trinamool’s rivals in the BJP—all of whom observed a rare moment of unity in the face of tragedy.
Religious Communities Speak Out
The incident also prompted significant responses from religious leaders across the spectrum. Prominent Hindu spiritual heads condemned the killing as a “blasphemy against humanity,” while Muslim clerics and organizations were equally vocal, denouncing the attackers as “enemies of Islam” who had perverted the essence of their faith.
The All India Muslim Personal Law Board issued a statement saying:
“We categorically condemn the heinous attack on innocent civilians in Kashmir. Islam forbids the taking of innocent life. The murder of Bitan Adhikari is not just un-Islamic; it is inhuman.”
The Hindu Mahasabha and Vishwa Hindu Parishad called for stronger measures to protect Hindu tourists and pilgrims visiting sensitive regions. Meanwhile, interfaith organizations such as the Indian Pluralism Forum urged citizens to unite against hate and reaffirm India’s diverse cultural fabric. In Delhi, a multi-faith vigil was held at Rajghat, with religious leaders from Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, and Buddhist communities lighting candles in Bitan’s memory.
Despite the rare interreligious solidarity, some hardline factions tried to hijack the narrative to foment further communal discord. Social media witnessed a wave of polarizing content, with misinformation and hate speech targeting Muslims. Civil society and fact-checkers pushed back swiftly, emphasizing the need to distinguish between terrorists and communities, and to channel grief into justice—not vengeance.
Civil Society and the Public Respond
In metro cities and small towns alike, citizens poured into the streets for candlelight vigils and prayer meetings. Artists painted murals dedicated to Bitan. Schools observed moments of silence. Hashtags like #JusticeForBitan and #OperationSindoor began trending online. Writers, poets, and musicians began dedicating their work to the themes of loss, remembrance, and communal harmony.
A powerful poem written by a young Bengali writer went viral on social media:
He did not ask for war, he asked for sky and silence.
He did not carry arms, only stories for his child.
He died not as a soldier, but as a man of peace—
A sindoor torn, a silence broken, a truth remembered.
This wave of mourning sparked a broader introspection: How had India arrived at a place where tourists could be gunned down based on their religion? What structural gaps in intelligence, security, and social harmony had allowed such a targeted massacre to occur?
Civil rights organizations such as PUCL and Amnesty International India called for an impartial judicial probe, not just into the attack itself, but into the apparent lapses that enabled it. Legal aid groups began pushing for more robust travel advisories and increased security patrols in conflict-prone tourist zones.
At the grassroots level, citizens rallied in support of the Adhikari family. Volunteers organized food drives, mental health support, and legal assistance for families impacted by the tragedy. NGOs working in Kashmir also released statements assuring tourists that they remained committed to peace-building efforts and intercommunity dialogue, despite the actions of fringe extremists.
Here is the final part of the expanded 3000-word news article, focusing on Operation Sindoor’s progress, Bitan Adhikari’s legacy, and the larger lessons for India and the Indian diaspora:
Operation Sindoor: Progress and Pushback
In the weeks following the Pahalgam attack, Operation Sindoor intensified across Jammu and Kashmir. Special forces launched multiple coordinated raids in suspected militant hideouts in Anantnag, Pulwama, and Kulgam. By early May, security forces reported the neutralization of at least five militants believed to be linked to Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT), the Pakistan-based terror group allegedly involved in orchestrating the April 22 attack.
The Indian Army released photographs of arms recovered from the sites—AK-47s, grenades, satellite phones, and religious propaganda materials. Intelligence intercepts indicated that the militants had been planning a larger campaign targeting non-local Hindus and tourists to destabilize the region before the summer pilgrimage season.
Union Defence Minister Rajnath Singh praised the operation and vowed that Bitan’s death would not be in vain.
“This mission is not just about retaliation—it’s about deterrence. The message must go out clearly: India will not tolerate faith-based terror. We will hunt down each hand that lifted a gun against an innocent.”
However, Operation Sindoor also raised human rights concerns. Reports emerged of increased surveillance, internet shutdowns, and house-to-house searches across South Kashmir. Civil liberties groups, both in India and abroad, urged the government to ensure that counter-terror operations remained targeted and did not indiscriminately impact civilians. Kashmir-based journalists reported growing fear among locals, many of whom condemned the April 22 attack but feared collective punishment.
Despite the criticism, public support for Operation Sindoor remained high. For many Indians, Bitan’s death had become a symbol of the rising need to confront extremism head-on, while also safeguarding the ideals of secularism and coexistence.
Bitan Adhikari’s Legacy: From Tragedy to Testimony
As the smoke cleared and national attention slowly moved on, the memory of Bitan Adhikari lived on—not just as a statistic in a terror report, but as a beacon of human courage. In life, he had been a quiet achiever: a brilliant software engineer, a devoted husband and father, and a man deeply connected to both his American workplace and his Bengali roots.
But in death, Bitan had become a reluctant martyr—one who chose not to lie about his religion when asked by gunmen, and paid the ultimate price.
In the months following his passing, Soheni Adhikari established the Bitan Adhikari Memorial Trust, aimed at supporting victims of hate crimes and widows of terror attacks. The trust provides scholarships for children orphaned by communal or political violence, grief counseling, and legal aid. Its motto: “Let no one else’s sindoor be wiped away.”
Soheni also began speaking at interfaith peace events and anti-terrorism panels across India and abroad. Her speeches, translated into multiple languages, focused not only on her personal trauma but on the larger need for a united front against violence.
“My husband’s name is now known in homes he never entered, in hearts he never met. I will carry his story—not just as grief, but as resistance.”
A documentary titled Sindoor: The Man Who Wouldn’t Lie is currently in production, being directed by a Bengali filmmaker and funded through crowdfunding contributions. It aims to chronicle not only the events of April 22, 2025, but the societal awakening that followed.
Lessons for India and the Diaspora
The death of Bitan Adhikari left behind more than just mourning—it sparked a national conversation about vulnerability, identity, and resilience. His story brought home uncomfortable truths for a country navigating the tightrope between diversity and division.
For India’s diaspora, especially those returning to visit relatives or sacred sites, the attack raised critical questions about travel safety and regional tensions. Tech forums and community networks began issuing their own advisories, while travel insurance companies in the U.S. and U.K. added new clauses for terrorism-related injuries in Kashmir and other high-risk areas.
But beyond fear, there was resolve. Indian-American communities in Florida, New Jersey, and California organized interfaith vigils and fundraisers in Bitan’s name. Temples, mosques, and churches rang bells and offered prayers together. In many ways, Bitan’s death achieved what politics often fails to: a sense of shared loss and collective humanity.
For Indian society at large, the tragedy reinforced the urgent need to strengthen not just military security, but civil society—education that promotes pluralism, media that resists polarization, and justice systems that deliver closure without stoking further hatred.
A Widow’s Final Word
On the thirteenth day of mourning, as per Bengali Hindu custom, Soheni stood by the Ganges at Babu Ghat in Kolkata, holding their son close. As priests chanted mantras, family members floated flower-laden lamps on the water. Cameras from every major news outlet lined the banks. But the moment was deeply personal.
Later that day, she gave her final public statement before returning to the U.S. for her son’s schooling:
“I brought back only ashes. But I will also carry back something else—courage. My husband didn’t bow to a gun. Neither will I. Neither should any of us.”
Bitan’s Life, India’s Test
The killing of Bitan Adhikari in the Pahalgam terror attack was not just an assault on one family, but on the very ideals India was built upon—pluralism, peace, and pride in one’s identity. His refusal to deny his faith, and his wife’s refusal to retreat into silence, offered a rare moment of clarity in a country often fractured by noise.
In honoring Bitan, India was reminded that real patriotism lies not in slogans but in the everyday courage of citizens who live and die by their values. His story will remain etched in the nation’s conscience, not only as a tale of tragic loss, but as a call to protect the dignity of every Indian—regardless of where they come from, or what god they pray to.
DO FOLLOW:
- Jammu & Kashmir Security Operations – Jammu & Kashmir Police
- How Memorials Aid Healing After Terror – Global Policy Forum
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