Weapons of Mass Distraction: Tandoor vs Sandur
Asem Mustafa Awan
In the strange theatre of South Asian geopolitics, 2025 served up a surreal spectacle. While India and Pakistan exchanged airstrikes and accusations, the real fireworks unfolded not just in the skies but on screens, streets, and the backs of vividly painted trucks.
Out of the ashes of tension emerged memes, mishaps, and masterpieces of satire. Welcome to the Meme War of 2025, where Operation Sandur was met not with fear—but with naan, glitter, and toasted humiliation.
It all began with India launching a military operation named “Operation Sandur”—the term “sandur” referring to the red vermilion line married Hindu women wear on their hair parting. Meant to evoke symbolism and strength, the name quickly spiraled into satire. Pakistanis were quick to respond with a meme campaign dubbed “Operation Tandur,” a not-so-subtle jab comparing the heated conflict to a clay oven meant for baking naan.
Cue the French Toast meme. A viral image showed three slices of toast, each with a Rafale jet branded into the surface. The joke? India’s pricey French jets, proudly paraded as invincible war machines, were now breakfast material burnt, buttered, and bitingly funny.
Read More: https://thepenpk.com/french-toast-falling-drones-meme-war-behind-missiles/
Pakistani creators didn’t stop there. Social media exploded with parodies, songs, and short clips. One TikTok song titled “I Bought a Jet That Fell From the Sky” hit millions of views, dancing between languages, cultures, and roast levels.
But the pièce de résistance? Truck art.
One viral truck bore the slogan: “Kabhi aao na Sandur laga ke”—loosely translating to “Come back wearing your sandur sometime.” The smouldering eyes painted on the truck could rival any Bollywood heroine. Below, a caption declared, “Akhir woh truck aa hi gaya jis ka intezar tha”—“At last, the truck we’ve all been waiting for has arrived.” A wedding-themed truck, drenched in red, followed soon after, as if mocking the romantic drama of cross-border narratives.
The message was clear: if India’s war was going to be wrapped in symbolism, Pakistan would match it with color, wit, and chaos.
Perhaps the most poetic jab came not from a general, but from a watermelon vendor. Lining up his melons on a wooden cart, he carved into them slogans like: “Sandur garmi say pigal gaya” (The Sandur melted in the heat) and “Tandur mein toast ready hai” (Toast is ready in the clay oven). Who needs international diplomacy when fruit stalls are throwing shade?
This was not just trolling. It was cultural resistance—with rhymes, riddles, and rotis.
Truck art in Pakistan has long been an expressive form of political and social commentary. But this time, it served as a rolling news ticker of public sentiment. In a region where traditional media often leans towards hyper-nationalism, it was the roads, bakeries, and fruit carts that told the truest stories.
And the stories weren’t limited to laughs. Embedded within the memes was real critique. The French jets, once welcomed with coconut-breaking ceremonies and saffron-smeared rituals, were now appearing damaged and ineffective. One viral tweet quipped: “When superstition flies a fighter jet, it crash-lands into reality.”
Another meme showed a drone in a Pakistani scrapyard, allegedly sold by a civilian for Rs. 1300 and then repurchased by authorities for Rs. 1500. The caption? “Welcome to wartime capitalism.”
India’s blackout orders, meant to protect cities at night, ended up inspiring videos of neighbors yelling across balconies to switch off porch lights. Meanwhile, Pakistanis were spotted casually filming missile trails with hashtags like #TandoorModeActivated.
Even the truck art leaned into irony. One carried a painted Indian map that featured a new fictional seacoast in Lahore. Another had a picture of a Rafale jet with the text: “Special Delivery: Burnt Toast Inside.”
In a region riddled with tension, this comedic catharsis mattered. It gave people a sense of agency—a way to laugh while leaders threatened escalation. While Indian TV anchors scribbled imaginary war maps and claimed fantasy victories, everyday people turned satire into a survival tool.
Read More: https://thepenpk.com/who-really-won-the-pakistan-india-clash/
And it all culminated, of course, with the arrival of the ultimate meme truck: bedazzled, oversized, blaring wedding music, and topped with a banner that simply read: “Ceasefire.”
Was it a declaration or a demand? Maybe both. The truck, with its eyes glinting under fairy lights, garlands waving like peacemaking flags, and speakers booming with Qawwali remixes, seemed less interested in artillery and more in RSVP lists. “Shaadi bhi hogayi, ab bas karo!”. “The wedding’s over, now stop it!” became a rallying cry across memes, reposted thousands of times. If that wasn’t peace diplomacy via horsepower, nothing is.
Some even speculated the truck would next cross the border to deliver ladoos and ceasefire certificates. “Why bomb bridges,” one post read, “when you can drive across in full bridal regalia and honk for peace?”
In the end, no war was won—but the meme-makers certainly didn’t lose. If satire is the weapon of the people, 2025 was the year Pakistan deployed it with precision. And somewhere between tandurs and toast, the world chuckled, paused, and perhaps remembered why peace tastes so much better.
The article is the writer’s opinion, it may or may not adhere to the organization’s editorial policy.
Asem Mustafa Awan has extensive reporting experience with leading national and international media organizations. He has also contributed to reference books such as the Alpine Journal and the American Alpine Journal, among other international publications.
