<p>India and Pakistan are on a collision course, as they have frequently been since independence. Just over half a century ago, a series of skirmishes between the two countries culminated in a full-blown war. In September 1965, when the conflict raged, I was 10 years old and experienced some exciting events.<br /><br /></p>.<p>‘Bliss was it that dawn to be alive/ But to be young was very heaven,’ declared William Wordsworth, in the early stages of the French Revolution. My brother and I felt a similar sense of exhilaration during the Indo-Pak hostilities. Our father was in the Air Force and, growing up in an Armed Forces colony in New Delhi, we and our friends were proudly patriotic. While our elders were grimly aware of the mounting casualties, we children were far from fearful. Like Queen Victoria, commenting on the Second Anglo-Boer War, we were ‘not interested in the possibilities of defeat.’ <br /><br />Besides, we quite enjoyed the war because it brought brief breaks from our studies! India and Pakistan were actively engaged in aerial combat and, to our deplorable delight, the nation’s capital was a prospective target. Schools were instructed to ensure that students were adequately prepared to face the threat of airstrikes. <br /><br />Consequently, self-defence drills routinely rescued us from our lessons. Every morning, the sound of a wailing siren would send us scurrying to the trenches that covered the playing field. Crouching in them quietly, as we had been taught, we awaited (not one bit eagerly!) the ‘all-clear’ signal that would return us to our classrooms. <br /><br />Evenings were even more thrilling. Safe indoors, we drew thick curtains securely across blackened windowpanes, so that not the slightest sliver of light could be sighted by bomb-bearing aircraft. In those hours of darkness, the air-raid alerts were real. The alternate rising and falling pitch of the warning alarm, which seemed theatrical in the daytime, held a hint of menace. Night after night, however, the danger was averted.<br /><br />My brother and I believed that our city was unassailable. We had faith in our father, whose area of expertise was electronic warfare, and we were confident that our anti-aircraft guns would deal deftly with airborne invaders. Also, flying foes were no match for our homegrown heroes. The latter occasionally visited our neighbourhood, and we gazed in worshipful wonder at the brave pilots, who were shooting down enemy jets.<br /><br />‘Fight is Right’ was our motto, despite daily reports of death and destruction. When a ceasefire eventually came into effect, we were disappointed. Whether or not we had heard of John Milton, we would have scorned his dictum: ‘Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war.’ A Simon and Garfunkel song was making waves at that time, but we did not want ‘The Sound of Silence’. Our choice of music was the sound of sirens!<br /></p>
<p>India and Pakistan are on a collision course, as they have frequently been since independence. Just over half a century ago, a series of skirmishes between the two countries culminated in a full-blown war. In September 1965, when the conflict raged, I was 10 years old and experienced some exciting events.<br /><br /></p>.<p>‘Bliss was it that dawn to be alive/ But to be young was very heaven,’ declared William Wordsworth, in the early stages of the French Revolution. My brother and I felt a similar sense of exhilaration during the Indo-Pak hostilities. Our father was in the Air Force and, growing up in an Armed Forces colony in New Delhi, we and our friends were proudly patriotic. While our elders were grimly aware of the mounting casualties, we children were far from fearful. Like Queen Victoria, commenting on the Second Anglo-Boer War, we were ‘not interested in the possibilities of defeat.’ <br /><br />Besides, we quite enjoyed the war because it brought brief breaks from our studies! India and Pakistan were actively engaged in aerial combat and, to our deplorable delight, the nation’s capital was a prospective target. Schools were instructed to ensure that students were adequately prepared to face the threat of airstrikes. <br /><br />Consequently, self-defence drills routinely rescued us from our lessons. Every morning, the sound of a wailing siren would send us scurrying to the trenches that covered the playing field. Crouching in them quietly, as we had been taught, we awaited (not one bit eagerly!) the ‘all-clear’ signal that would return us to our classrooms. <br /><br />Evenings were even more thrilling. Safe indoors, we drew thick curtains securely across blackened windowpanes, so that not the slightest sliver of light could be sighted by bomb-bearing aircraft. In those hours of darkness, the air-raid alerts were real. The alternate rising and falling pitch of the warning alarm, which seemed theatrical in the daytime, held a hint of menace. Night after night, however, the danger was averted.<br /><br />My brother and I believed that our city was unassailable. We had faith in our father, whose area of expertise was electronic warfare, and we were confident that our anti-aircraft guns would deal deftly with airborne invaders. Also, flying foes were no match for our homegrown heroes. The latter occasionally visited our neighbourhood, and we gazed in worshipful wonder at the brave pilots, who were shooting down enemy jets.<br /><br />‘Fight is Right’ was our motto, despite daily reports of death and destruction. When a ceasefire eventually came into effect, we were disappointed. Whether or not we had heard of John Milton, we would have scorned his dictum: ‘Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war.’ A Simon and Garfunkel song was making waves at that time, but we did not want ‘The Sound of Silence’. Our choice of music was the sound of sirens!<br /></p>
