War always seemed universes away.
On the 7th of May, I was on my way home after covering a security drill in a residential society in Delhi’s Mayur Vihar Phase 1. It was a routine practice assignment — my first solo coverage as an intern at The Times of India. I remember thinking that it was a political stunt. There’s no way there would be an attack so far from the border, right?
I covered the drill, submitted the article to my supervisor, and clocked off work for the day. My sister called while I was on the metro. She told me things were tense in Bathinda. The cantonment was under heightened alert, movement in the cantt. had been halted, and armed men were stationed near our house. I thought to myself, the precaution is great, but again, there’s no way there would be an attack so far from the border, right?
On the 8th of May, I went to work as usual. The article I wrote was printed. Page 4. My name, in The Times of India. I couldn’t stop smiling. It felt like everything I’d been working toward — the late-night edits, the early morning pitches — had finally started to mean something.
That evening, my sister called again. Another blackout. I told her not to worry. That it was just protocol. That everything would be okay. I got home. Had dinner. Lost an hour to YouTube. Took a shower — we had to leave for Jammu early the next morning.
When I stepped out and began to pack, the phone rang again. She said there had just been strikes near home. In Bathinda.
My heart dropped.
There’s no way there would be an attack so far from the border… right?
She told me they’d heard explosions — directly above the house, and all around it. That the power had been out for hours. I asked the only things that mattered.
Are you okay? Are Mom and Dad okay?
We couldn’t talk long. They were preserving their phone battery because we didn’t know how long the blackout would last. But before she hung up, she said something I haven’t been able to forget.
"It’s good that you’re not here. You’re safe."
War always seemed universes away. Even in a defence household, it felt like something abstract — something that happened to other people, in other places.
On May 6, I remember hearing my seniors at the office joke about war — whether it’ll happen or not, whether it should happen or not, whether India would win it. I didn’t think much of it then.
But on May 8, I found myself lying awake into the early hours, unable to sleep, praying that the situation would de-escalate.
It turns out, war doesn’t have to cross a border to reach you. Sometimes, all it takes is a phone call.
________
I never really recognised my own privilege. Not when it came to this, at least.
All defence kids usually have this thought, that they know more than civilian kids, that they've seen more than civilian kids. I thought the same way. I always thought that civilian kids wouldn't know what it's like to have your school have more frequent terror drills than fire or earthquake drills. I always thought they wouldn't know what it's like to be young, aware that your father is in the army, but not aware enough to know that 'rekki' is not an active warzone. They don't know what it's like when your father goes off for weeks on end, safe for the most part, but you're too young to understand. They don't know what it's like to see men with guns just roam around their house, or what it's like to sit in a tank, maybe even drive one. They don't know what it's like to climb onto a tank you're not supposed to climb on and then get scolded in front of everyone.
We spend our entire lives thinking about just how different we are from everyone else.
Civilian kids don't know how to 'close' their dinner plate, or 'open' it. Civilian kids don't know what it's like to make a new home, new life, new friends... new identity every two years.
Civilian kids don't know what it's like to beg and pray to a god you don't believe in to let there be peace. Because war is more than just... guns at the border, firing at each other. War is... personal.
War is my brother on the border, or my father, or my friend, or the men and women I grew up around. A bulletproof vest won't protect them from missiles and nukes and tanks. And that's the reality of war.
I always thought civilian kids didn't get it. That they'd never get it.
Till I forgot I was the son of Fauji, and became a civilian myself.
I haven't been the son of a Fauji since 2016. And I still held onto my Army brat pride till 2025.
I held onto it till I was sitting in the Delhi Metro, on my way home after a long day's work at the Times of India office, finding out that my family... my parents, my sister, my grandfather, all of them were still living in a cantonment. They were almost hit by missiles that day. And I could see friends from college, from school, posting on their social media, calling for war. Calling for revenge. Calling for retaliation.
And all I could think was... please, god, keep them safe. At least long enough so that I can be with them again.
And in that moment, I realised, those kids by the borders, yes, those lowly civilians, must feel this very fear in their hearts every single day.
In that moment, I realised I'm weak. Those kids and families by the borders have more strength in their hearts than I could ever muster.
I realised that a war I always thought was detached from me, because I was so far from the border, was always looming over the distance, threatening to jump at any moment. A war that rests and feasts by the borders. Feasts on civilians and faujis alike, for there is no winner in war, only survivors.
With love,
Hoping for peace and safety,
Kev<3
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