Dogfights & blackouts: Why some are reliving memories of war

A different kind of Diwali in 1965Sabita ShankaranIt was August 1965, and we were living in Jammu. There had been persistent rumours of Pakistani activities in what we subsequently learnt was the infiltration of enemy forces to instigate an insurgency in Kashmir. Then, in the beginning of Sept, fighting broke out in the open when the Pakistani army invaded Chhamb, very close to Jammu, in an effort to capture Akhnoor and, thus, cut off India’s supply chain. It never came to pass.Most of the out-of-state scientists at the Regional Research Laboratory in Jammu sent their wives and families down south to stay with relatives. My father, who was director of the CSIR Laboratory, stood firm and kept his wife and two of his daughters with him. My oldest married sister lived in the UK and my younger brother, a student at The Doon School, was away in Dehradun. Our household also included a young servant from Katra, who went home to reassure his family and came back the very next day. So, the five of us hunkered down to face the hostilities.A deep L-shaped trench was dug in our front lawn. The very first morning when we heard the air raid, we all dutifully got in. Once it was over and we had managed to scramble out, my mother declared that if she was going to be killed in an air raid, she was going to die in her own home and not in a hole in the ground. The trench remained unused for the duration! In hindsight, trenches are fine for soldiers facing artillery fire but not very well suited to civilians in sarees facing an air raid. 121058527Even though we were so very close to the frontline where fierce battles were being waged, our home life settled into a surreal pattern. Every morning, my father and older sister, who was doing research at the lab, went off to work. My college was closed so I stayed home with my mother. Life in the town went on as usual, there was no panic, the vegetable stalls and shops were open. Our house was cleaned, clothes washed and meals appeared on time. The only difference was that we had to have our dinner much earlier while there was still daylight. The first night we tried closing all the curtains and lit a candle, but soon heard a tap on a window and a soldier from a nearby encampment very politely asked us to extinguish the light since it could be glimpsed from the outside. After dinner, we sat on the verandah in the darkening twilight until it was time to sleep.The absolutely no-light rule also meant that we could not switch on the radio, our only source for news. Normally, the Delhi edition of TOI was flown in every morning via the Indian Airlines Fokker Friendship plane and we got our copy later in the day. However, with all the flights cancelled, we had no newspapers. Somehow that did not seem to bother us, a state of affairs totally alien to our present 24/7 news cycle. My father had compiled a very extensive library and we were content to spend the daylight hours reading or in companionable silence.medium nocaption121060236Since we were so close to the border, the air raid sirens rarely came on in time, the only warning was when the ack ack (anti-aircraft) guns started blazing. The sight of the tracers ascending the night sky looked like diyas during Diwali, a sight to behold. One odd feature of the raids was that they seemed to occur to a fixed timetable, to such an extent that one night when they failed to show up, my father sat up in bed and wondered what was the matter! We got used to the noise and the disruption and even rejoiced in the exploits of a gunner named Raju, in our local emplacement. One morning on hearing the guns, my sister climbed to the terrace and witnessed a dogfight between an Indian Gnat and a Pakistani Sabre, with the Gnat being victorious. My biggest disappointment was that it was over by the time I raced up.One day, my sister visited an army hospital and came back with accounts of the suffering of wounded soldiers, a result of the devastation that war brings. In support of the cause, we donated blood. In spite of the constant air raids, the only known bomb dropped was on an out-of-commission plane on the tarmac of Jammu airport. Fortunately, there were no casualties as the airport was not in use. The tanks and heavy artillery never advanced beyond Chhamb, probably due to India’s counterattack. I was just a young college student living through a life-altering experience. In retrospect, what I remember most about those three weeks is the sense of calm, resolve and the unshakeable belief in the local population that the Devi would protect us. She did as She resided in her mountainous abode so clearly visible on the horizon, a reassuring sight.A scared bride, and a jeep that brought bad newsMangala AyreAt 3pm, a soldier would rush through camp shouting, ‘Batti bhujao! Batti bhujao! (Turn off your lights)’. I was just 22, mother to a two-year-old and an 11-month-old when the Indo-Pak war broke out in 1971. I also happened to be one of the few women who chose to remain at the base near the border with my husband squadron leader P K Ayre. medium nocaption121058533The moment the siren blared, the jawan posted outside would shout, “Get out, everybody!” The women, children, babies and their milk bottles would rush into the six-foot trench he had dug and lined with blankets. I remember looking up one day and seeing an aircraft explode right above us. And all I could think was someone has just lost a son, a husband, a father. Every day, the mess sent whatever it could, loaves of bread and basic supplies and the women ran a makeshift communal kitchen. Pilots would sometimes drop by, grab a quick meal, and leave.One night, a frightened young bride refused to leave her quarters during an air raid. I left my children in the trench and, with the help of a soldier, went to find her. A sliver of moonlight revealed her hiding under the bed. She began to scream, ‘I’m dying, I’m dying!’ I don’t know why, but I slapped her. She stopped crying and hugged me, asking, ‘Are we all going to die?’ I told her, ‘No, we are not.’ I pulled her out and took her back to the trenches.With no TV, we’d huddle around the mess radio every evening to hear who had been taken prisoner, who was missing, who had fallen. But every time the station commander’s jeep drove in, we knew it meant bad news. One day, it brought devastating news for a young wife. Her husband had been taken prisoner of war. We took care of her as best we could, while holding on to that one hope that he would return. And he did, after a year.It's been 54 years, but it still feels unreal. From Dec 3 to Dec 16, every day taught me more about life than I could have ever imagined.— As told to Kamini Mathai1965, 1971 wars are history but they taught us lessonsJahoor Khan MeharAs I sit in my home in Jodhpur today, Wednesday's blackout drill brings back vivid memories of 1965, when I was a 25-year-old living with my family in Sindhiyon ka Bas at Siwanchi Gate.I remember the city’s transformation during those uncertain times. Our normally bustling streets would empty at the sound of sirens, and we'd scramble into the trenches we'd dug around our homes. These weren't just random holes in the ground — the administration regularly inspected them for proper depth and design. With vacant land being abundant then, unlike today's crowded landscape, every household maintained these life-saving shelters.The administration’s management of information was remarkable. Loudspeakers installed throughout the city became our lifeline to truth, broadcasting verified news from the Public Information office. It was a far cry from today's communication systems, but it worked effectively in keeping panic and rumours at bay. 121058562The sirens had a clarity that is missing today; they were powerful and could be heard throughout the city. In contrast, the recent drills seemed muted, barely reaching the ears of the people. When enemy fighters approached, govt vehicles would rush through the streets, blaring warnings: “Dushman ka jahaj aa gaya, savdhan!” (enemy’s plane has arrived, stay alert). These words sent us rushing for cover. Though I heard of bombs falling near the jail and BJS Colony, I never witnessed it firsthand.We adapted our daily routines, cooking before sunset and maintaining total darkness after dusk. Even smoking a cigarette was forbidden.What stands out most in my memory is the overwhelming sense of patriotism that united us all. During discussions at the city's ‘hathai’ (popular spots for public discussion and debates), I remember unanimous anger towards Pakistan for initiating the unnecessary conflict. We all shared a common desire: to see Pakistan receive a decisive response that would prevent future aggression.Even then, the question of PoK loomed large in our conversations. Many of us believed, as we still do today, that reclaiming PoK could have been crucial in preventing Pakistan's continued hostility through terrorism.Looking back now as a retired history professor, I see how these experiences shaped not just my generation, but our nation's trajectory. The wars of 1965 and 1971 may be history to many, but for those of us who lived through them, they remain vivid lessons in patriotism, unity and the true cost of conflict. Today, as similar tensions persist, I can't help but reflect on how some things have changed dramatically while others remain painfully familiar. Our cities have grown, methods of warfare have evolved, but the fundamental challenges of securing peace in our region continue to echo through time.— As told to Ajay ParmarThe shouts of ‘jagte raho’ became a call of resiliencePadam PrakashI was barely 19. Armed with only a whistle and flashlight, my fellow civil defence volunteers and I were the invisible guardians of the city of Chandigarh during wartime blackouts in 1971. We used to be on the streets the whole night, walking from lane to lane, alerting people to switch off the lights, draw the curtains and stay quiet. Wherever there was space — in a bunker, a wooden trunk, under a bed — people would shelter to reduce the chance of injury during bombings. medium nocaption121058586Our job was not just about discipline, it was about keeping people safe. We underwent regular drills to handle emergency situations from dousing fires with sand and water to lifting the injured onto makeshift stretchers. Every household was advised to keep a torch or a candle handy. Electricity could go off anytime. A small source of light meant survival.Despite the sleepless nights, there was never a question of giving up. The shouts of ‘jagte raho’ were not just a call for vigilance, but a reminder to remain resilient. When we were not on the street, we would be at the railway station, offering hungry and exhausted soldiers free food- puris, sabzi, whatever we could cook. It was the least we could do for the ones protecting us.— As told to Mattrika Dhawan