When the sky turned red

It started like a sparkler—harmless, nearly festive. A pink streak throughout the sky. Then one other. A wierd hush fell on the park the place I used to be strolling with my dad and mom, simply earlier than my mom’s voice reduce via the silence like a siren. “We’re under attack!”

The following thirty seconds felt like 5 hours. We ran—not in panic, however in intuition. The home was only some ft away, however each step felt like a lifetime. The air was thick with questions nobody had time to ask. Have been these fireworks? Drones? Missiles? Was this actually occurring?

It was.

That night time, over 50 drones and ballistic missiles tried to strike Jammu. Each single one was intercepted. The Indian defence methods—particularly the S-400s we had as soon as debated over dinner tables and finances allocations—labored with chilling precision. For the primary time, I understood what it meant once they mentioned our taxes had been constructing a defend. That defend had simply saved my household.

We had been secure. Grateful. Shaken to our core.

The following day introduced gentle, however not peace. Outlets opened. A good friend dropped by. We tried to sew some routine again into the day with a brief drive. However the concern lingered in our bones. In order that night, as a substitute of the park, we paced the driveway and backyard.

7:45 PM: blackout.

7:47 PM: sirens.

7:50 PM: blasts.

It was occurring once more. Drone strikes. Fighter jets—American F-16s, Chinese language J-10s. Shelling from throughout the border. My telephone buzzed with information from Srinagar, the place mates had been additionally at the hours of darkness—each actually and figuratively. Then got here a blast at Srinagar Airport, adopted by stories of shelling in Gulmarg, the place I had hosted the Secret Ski Occasion simply two months in the past. The identical slopes the place we as soon as clinked glasses in snowbound luxurious now echoed with gunfire.

At 5:15 AM, my telephone flashed: “Jammu under siege.”

This isn’t the type of alarm one ought to ever get up to.

One other blackout. One other spherical of sirens. A blast so shut it shook our home windows. Conversations changed into rapid-fire calls: “Did you hear that?” “Is everyone okay?” There was no time for sleep. There was no idea of morning.

And simply after we thought it was lastly over, we learn {that a} ballistic missile had been fired towards Delhi—intercepted simply in time.

I skipped my common intermittent quick that morning. I wanted grounding—milk, toast, something that felt odd. However as I sat on the desk, fighter jets tore via the sky above. The conflict had now turn into a background hum.

That’s when the choice got here: We needed to depart.

When you needed to pack your life right into a single bag—not for journey, however for survival—what would you carry? Pictures? Property papers? Heat garments? Prayers?

We drove towards Delhi. By 5:45 PM, someplace close to Ludhiana, got here the message that felt like a lifeline:

““There is a ceasefire,” tweeted Donald Trump.”

Senator Marco Rubio adopted with an announcement.

The temper shifted immediately. We cheered within the automotive. Mates known as with aid of their voices. After two nights of sirens, the silence felt sacred.

We stopped for dinner, laughed over recollections, talked in regards to the future once more.

We spoke too quickly.

Akhnoor reported recent firing. Nagrota, an ambushed sepoy.

Srinagar blacked out. My closest good friend messaged: “We’re on the floor. It’s loud. We’re under attack.”

Then, a tweet from Omar Abdullah:

“What the hell ceasefire? Blasts being heard all over Srinagar.”

Identical to that, the phantasm of peace shattered.

We weren’t at conflict. We had been in a cycle.

The night time in Jalandhar handed with out incident—however not with out concern. I stored waking as much as phantom sirens. My ears had been ringing. My ideas had been exhausted.

The following morning, phrase trickled in: no new assaults for the reason that early violations. Maybe the order had lastly reached throughout the border. Maybe somebody had listened.

By 11:30 AM, it was quiet.

Mates in Jammu and Srinagar confirmed the calm.

I sat with my household. Eyes on the information. Baggage packed. Telephones charged. Ready. Debating: transfer to Delhi or return residence?

“But how can we not go back? This is where we belong.”

And so, we turned the automotive round.

After I left residence, I didn’t know if I’d see it once more. I didn’t know if the backyard would nonetheless bloom, or if the partitions would nonetheless stand. Coming again felt surreal.

The peace held. For now.

### Dwelling The place the Headlines Start

We who reside close to the border don’t want reminders of how fragile peace is. We don’t want lectures on patriotism or provocations from armchairs removed from the road of fireside. We reside it.

We didn’t ask for this conflict.

However we pay for it in shaken home windows, in packed baggage, in the best way our moms flinch at loud noises lengthy after the blasts are over.

The defence methods—S-400s, radars, interceptors—labored. And for that, I’m grateful. However I hope I by no means have to listen to them work once more.

### Hope, Unscripted

Even in conflict, there have been moments.

A soldier’s mom lighting incense within the blackout.

Mates sending voice notes from beneath their beds.

The stranger at a petroleum pump who mentioned, “Stay safe, brother.”

That is the place hope hides. Not in ceasefire bulletins or hashtags. However in individuals who plant tulips in bunkered courtyards. Who maintain wedding ceremony playing cards prepared—simply in case peace lasts.

We’re not asking for a lot.

Simply that the skies keep quiet.

Simply that kids sleep with out sirens.

Simply that this peace, fragile as it’s, lasts.

We’re residence.

And for now, we’re secure.