Teenage wasn't supposed to look like this.

I had really hoped that the blog I wrote about the Pahalgam killings would be the first and last one I’d ever write about such a horrendous incident.

Alas, I guess, my generation will have to see this. 

 I’ve never felt this kind of fear before. The kind that lingers in the back of the mind every second of every day, these days.  

And I’ve already lived through a pandemic, wars on TV, climate breakdowns, school shootings from afar, and now this—mock drills and blackouts like it’s all part and parcel of living. But it’s not. None of this is.

The air feels... wrong.

I’ve grown up in a free country, surrounded by laughter, chaos, music, and dreams. I’ve walked home late after dance class, had sudden dinner plans with friends, sat through boring school days only to come home and laugh with my family over lunch and chai.

But right now? Everything feels different. Heavy. Tense. Quiet in a way that isn’t peaceful.

The India-Pakistan tensions at the moment aren’t just headlines—they’re bombs of uneasiness and fear in the air. They’re in the way my mother and I keep glancing at the news every ten minutes when it's live on the TV. They're in the group calls we have that eventually end up with a discussion about the current situation. They’re in the hesitation our parents feel when we talk about going out for dinner. They’re in the cancelled trips, the random scary news every second on Instagram, and the emergency mock drills that are happening all over India. 

We’re all living in a state of “what if.”

What if there’s a strike?

What if things get worse?

What if the line gets crossed again?

We just had our first blackout drill.

Not a “fire drill.” Not a “just in case” thing.

We were told what to do if a strike hit.

How to hide. Where to crouch. How not to cry and panic.

How do you not panic when you're a kid and someone is telling you how to survive a war? When you're being told to keep test alerts switched on, keep water bottles filled and keep documents and medicines handy.

Just yesterday, the news channels reported that Jammu, Srinagar, Jaisalmer, and Bhuj are all under a complete blackout. 

Blackouts are becoming more common. Lights out. Silence. The eerie kind. people sitting with candles like it’s a scene from a movie, except there’s no script, and no one knows how it ends.

Mock drills? They used to be just “safety exercises” for the forces after 1971, and now they feel real. Too real. What to do if there’s a strike. How to hide. What not to say online. This is not what teenage was supposed to feel like.

Evenings feel different now. There’s a hesitation when we step out. Malls and eateries aren’t as full. Streets seem quieter. Even the slightest noise feels cautious. The tension isn’t loud—it’s chillingly quiet, like everyone’s afraid to exhale.

And the news channels...They’re louder than ever.

Screens filled with graphics, countdowns, and warnings. Some of it is real. Some of it is hype. But it all adds up to fear. Fear that bleeds into every conversation. Every meal. Every plan. Every Hanuman Chalisa being chanted. 

Because now, it's not just about the women who lost their sindoor, it's about a country as a whole. 

The fear is in Delhi. In Gujarat. In Punjab. In every home where someone turns down the volume on the news because they can’t bear to hear one more warning.

It's in the quiet lunches. The cancelled plans. The way no one asked on a Friday, “What are you doing this weekend?” 

The blackouts aren’t symbolic. They’re real.

And amidst this, my house feels like it’s holding its breath too.

We’re all just waiting for a sign, for a message, for it to end.

And through all of this, I keep asking: How did it get this far?

I’m not a political expert. I don’t know everything about treaties or borders or airspace violations. But I do know this: War isn’t the answer. Escalation isn’t a strength. And every time tension rises between India and Pakistan, it’s not just two governments facing off—it’s millions of lives caught in between.

The social impact is everywhere—divisions, mistrust, fear of “the other.” We start building walls inside ourselves before anyone even builds them outside. 

But if it's required, if it ends it, once and for all, 

I believe in India. Through all of this, I stand with India. Not just for borders or flags, but for what we’re meant to be. For unity. For strength that doesn’t come from missiles, but from minds. From compassion. From peace.

I support my country because I know we are more than this moment. We are more than fear and headlines. We are a billion hearts who just want to live freely, love fiercely, and protect what we call home.

And to anyone watching this unfold from a distance—don’t you dare underestimate us.

We may be scared, but we are not weak.

We may be cautious, but we are not broken.

We know what's happening. We know what has happened in the past. And we remember. Retaliation to a wound first created by "the other" is just a way to show that, as a country, India wants its justice.  It wants its Kashmir to be thriving just like every other place. It wants its mothers to smile and close their eyes out of love instead of fear when they hold their children in their embrace. It wants every child in the coming generation to have a "childhood", and I don't think we're going to be content with anything less. Nothing less. Nothing less will do. 

Just when I penned these paragraphs and went back to reading them, I went back to a song Dad played last April after a school event, in the car, with a smile on his face, just telling me to listen to the guitar. 

I read the lyrics later and I realised this was about a war back in the day, written from the perspective of a soldier who fought through it all. Sadly, I had never expected that I would have to relate to them. But I felt like sharing the lyrics because it really hit hard. 

"Through these fields of destruction,

Baptisms of fire

I've witnessed your suffering

As the battle raged higher

And though they did hurt me so bad

In the fear and alarm

You did not desert me

My brothers in arms"

Those lyrics—by Dire Straits—say everything I feel but can’t always find the words for.

We’ve been through enough. Our generation—my generation—has witnessed too much already. Pain, fire, lockdowns, division. And still we hold on to each other. We still hope. My heart goes out to every soldier on the front line that are uncertain about something as basic as seeing the sun tomorrow, but somehow leads with a fire burning so bright, it brings tears of pride to my eyes. 

But the song doesn’t stop there. It cuts deeper:

"There's so many different worlds

So many different suns

And we have just one world

But we live in different ones."

And maybe that’s the real heartbreak.

That we live in different worlds—divided by politics, fear, and hate—when all we really have is one earth, one sky, one chance to get it right.

I don’t want war.

I want peace. Real peace.

I want to walk into a café without scanning the room first.

I want to hear fireworks and not wonder if it’s something worse.

I want to live in a country that chooses courage over chaos.

We need to stop before it’s too late.

Before another generation grows up afraid of the night.

Before dreams shrink to fit inside bunkers.

Before peace becomes just another word in a textbook.

This is not just a tension between two nations.

This is a warning.

Because when sixteen-year-olds are quoting war songs to understand their present, the world has already gone too far.

I'd like to share the last verse of the song as a way to end my blog post.

"But it's written in the starlight

And every line in your palm

We're fools to make war

On our brothers in arms."

(The song, by the way, is Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits)

JAI HIND 🇮🇳

As ever,

Ambika