When the sky turned red

It began like a sparkler—innocent, almost festive. A red streak across the sky. Then another. A strange hush fell on the park where I was walking with my parents, just before my mother’s voice cut through the silence like a siren. “We’re under attack!”

The next thirty seconds felt like five hours. We ran—not in panic, but in instinct. The house was only a few feet away, but every step felt like a lifetime. The air was thick with questions no one had time to ask. Were those fireworks? Drones? Missiles? Was this really happening?

It was.

That night, over 50 drones and ballistic missiles tried to strike Jammu. Every single one was intercepted. The Indian defence systems—especially the S-400s we had once debated over dinner tables and budget allocations—worked with chilling precision. For the first time, I understood what it meant when they said our taxes were building a shield. That shield had just saved my family.

We were safe. Grateful. Shaken to our core.

The next day brought light, but not peace. Shops opened. A friend dropped by. We tried to stitch some routine back into the day with a short drive. But the fear lingered in our bones. So that evening, instead of the park, we paced the driveway and garden.

7:45 PM: blackout.

7:47 PM: sirens.

7:50 PM: blasts.

It was happening again. Drone strikes. Fighter jets—American F-16s, Chinese J-10s. Shelling from across the border. My phone buzzed with news from Srinagar, where friends were also in the dark—both literally and figuratively. Then came a blast at Srinagar Airport, followed by reports of shelling in Gulmarg, where I had hosted the Secret Ski Party just two months ago. The same slopes where we once clinked glasses in snowbound luxury now echoed with gunfire.

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

This is not the kind of alarm one should ever wake up to.

Another blackout. Another round of sirens. A blast so close it shook our windows. Conversations turned into rapid-fire calls: “Did you hear that?” “Is everyone okay?” There was no time for sleep. There was no concept of morning.

And just when we thought it was finally over, we read that a ballistic missile had been fired toward Delhi—intercepted just in time.

I skipped my usual intermittent fast that morning. I needed grounding—milk, toast, anything that felt ordinary. But as I sat at the table, fighter jets tore through the sky above. The war had now become a background hum.

That’s when the decision came: We had to leave.

If you had to pack your life into a single bag—not for travel, but for survival—what would you carry? Photographs? Property papers? Warm clothes? Prayers?

We drove toward Delhi. By 5:45 PM, somewhere near Ludhiana, came the message that felt like a lifeline:

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

Senator Marco Rubio followed with a statement.

The mood shifted instantly. We cheered in the car. Friends called with relief in their voices. After two nights of sirens, the silence felt sacred.

We stopped for dinner, laughed over memories, talked about the future again.

We spoke too soon.

Akhnoor reported fresh firing. Nagrota, an ambushed sepoy.

Srinagar blacked out. My closest 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.”

Just like that, the illusion of peace shattered.

We weren’t at war. We were in a cycle.

The night in Jalandhar passed without incident—but not without fear. I kept waking up to phantom sirens. My ears were ringing. My thoughts were exhausted.

The next morning, word trickled in: no new attacks since the early violations. Perhaps the order had finally reached across the border. Perhaps someone had listened.

By 11:30 AM, it was quiet.

Friends in Jammu and Srinagar confirmed the calm.

I sat with my family. Eyes on the news. Bags packed. Phones charged. Waiting. Debating: move to Delhi or go back home?

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

And so, we turned the car around.

When I left home, I didn’t know if I’d see it again. I didn’t know if the garden would still bloom, or if the walls would still stand. Coming back felt surreal.

The peace held. For now.

### Living Where the Headlines Begin

We who live near the border don’t need reminders of how fragile peace is. We don’t need lectures on patriotism or provocations from armchairs far from the line of fire. We live it.

We didn’t ask for this war.

But we pay for it in shaken windows, in packed bags, in the way our mothers flinch at loud noises long after the blasts are over.

The defence systems—S-400s, radars, interceptors—worked. And for that, I am grateful. But I hope I never have to hear them work again.

### Hope, Unscripted

Even in war, there were moments.

A soldier’s mother lighting incense in the blackout.

Friends sending voice notes from under their beds.

The stranger at a petrol pump who said, “Stay safe, brother.”

This is where hope hides. Not in ceasefire announcements or hashtags. But in people who plant tulips in bunkered courtyards. Who keep wedding cards ready—just in case peace lasts.

We’re not asking for much.

Just that the skies stay quiet.

Just that children sleep without sirens.

Just that this peace, fragile as it is, lasts.

We’re home.

And for now, we’re safe.