The war was declared on 6 September 1965, just five days shy of her twentieth birthday. The rumbling of military trucks made her to quickly deposit her tuition fee and rushed toward the bus station.
The border areas were bombarded so the civilians left their houses on foot or in their carts. The frail elderly and war-ravaged men and women were carried on the shoulders of younger ones. The atmosphere was tense and somber. The noise of the bombardment was so great that it shattered the windows and mirrors of her house. Whenever, planes zoomed over her house, they lunged toward the trenches, dug in their vast garden by her brothers.
She along with her mother and younger siblings went to her relatives by train. That home, her aunt’s home was surrounded by acres of fields. She remembered how the war-scarred people were glued to their radios, listening to news and soul-enriching songs of Late Madam Noor Jahan.
Now fifty five years have lapsed and she’s just turned seventy-five. Her heart still beats faster at the sound track of “Aya Putar Hatan Tey Nai Wikdey.”
She asks her grandson to bring her tablet from the table. A melancholy air fills the air and tears wells up in her eyes. Her husband pulls a tissue from the box and wipes her face. Both look at each other and close their eyes to energize their souls with those soulful songs of 1965.