War is a terrifying force, a dark shadow that smothers compassion with hatred in human hearts. Behind this veil of blood, humanity helplessly counts its wounds. The sound of bombs echoes across borders, mingling with cries of anguish and the silent weeping of unheard hearts.

Can humanity ever overcome this duality within itself? Why does a heart filled with love and kindness turn to hatred and destruction? This question pierces every conscience.

In the misty dawn, the roar of bombs on the border reverberated. The horrific remnants of destruction lay everywhere. Fields once spread like green carpets were stained red, littered with shrapnel. Broken fences and charred trees painted a gruesome picture. The earth, our mother, mourned the death of her children.

Fatima, leaning against the dilapidated wall of her home in a border village in Kashmir, was no ordinary woman: she was a living testament to war’s tragedy. The wrinkles etched on her face by time reflected its horrors. Her eyes, once gleaming with vitality, were now as lifeless as a dried-up river. In a recent attack, her son and daughter-in-law died before her eyes. Only memories remained her companions. Their laughter and words flickered in her mind, bringing tears that concealed untold sorrow.

The distant sound of gunfire made Fatima tremble, clutching her tattered blanket tighter as fear gripped her heart. The explosions of the past four days replayed in her mind like a harrowing film. “How many more lives will you claim, oh war?” she whispered.

Just then, two soldiers approached, their faces showing concern and sympathy. “Ammaa..(Mother), don’t be afraid. We’re here to help. It’s dangerous to stay here. Let’s go to a safe place,” one soldier said, gently touching her trembling hand.

Fatima gazed at them with suspicion. Her lips quivered, but no words came. Fear had seized her voice. Her eyes brimmed with questions: Whom could she trust? Where could she go? How long would this terrifying life endure? Helplessness and fear clouded her gaze.

“Look, Ramu, the fear in this old woman’s eyes,” soldier Krishna said, his voice tinged with helplessness, his eyes moist. “Innocent people are falling victim to these terrorists’ evil deeds. What sin did they commit?”

“If war escalates, how many more innocents will suffer?” Krishna sighed, echoing the saying, “When kings fight, the people suffer.” His aversion to war was clear on his face.

“How can you talk like that, being a soldier?” Ramu replied firmly. “We have no choice. If the enemy attacks, should we sit idly by? We must fight to protect ourselves.”

Krishna shook his head. “We stand at the edge of a great danger—not a natural disaster, but war, this man-made destruction. Why was it created? For power, selfishness, or hatred? Or is humanity afraid to question its own existence, seeking answers in bloodshed? War is a darkness without answers, a vicious cycle that seems endless.”

As the soldiers guided Fatima to safety, their words carried compassion and duty, yet even their kindness felt futile against the battlefield’s shadow. The area was steeped in fear and uncertainty. Their help offered a faint ray of light, but it couldn’t fully dispel the surrounding darkness—a reflection of humanity’s eternal struggle between justice and injustice, truth and falsehood.

***

In Rajupeta, a small village in Telangana, silence enveloped Santosh’s house, the atmosphere heavy with grief. Bhagya, who had lost her husband just days after their wedding, was overwhelmed by sorrow, her tears washing away the colors of the still-hanging wedding canopy. Its withered flower garlands mirrored the joy drained from her life.

“Will Santosh call tomorrow?” Bhagya asked, her pleading eyes fixed on the people in her house. She gazed at the door, clinging to hope that he would return, as people often do even in suffering. But how long could this hope endure in war’s cruelty?

Bhagya, her turmeric and vermilion still fresh from the wedding, found her heart shattered, weeping rivers of sorrow. The walls of her home echoed her cries. Santosh’s parents, who had lost their eldest son in the fight at the border, grieved silently. His dream of educating his younger brothers as engineers would remain unfulfilled. Fear for the future clouded their eyes. Relatives and friends, learning of his death through the news, came to console Bhagya, but her sorrow persisted. She clung to the hope of a miracle, that Santosh would return, though the wait only deepened her anguish.

“Child, don’t grieve like this. Gather courage,” Bhagya’s mother, Lakshmi, said, holding her daughter close, her own voice breaking with tears. “You are the wife of a soldier who gave his life for the country.”

“Mum, my soldier said he’d call tomorrow,” Bhagya cried. “They say he’s gone, but that’s a lie, isn’t it? He promised we’d go on a month-long honeymoon when he returned. Tell them, Mum, that my Santosh will come for me.” Her words brought tears to everyone’s eyes, the weight of her grief palpable.

On the third day of their marriage, Santosh had left reluctantly after receiving urgent orders to report for duty. Bhagya, understanding his role as a soldier, had applied a tilak, a traditional mark of blessing, on his forehead and sent him off. Their love, barely blossomed, was torn apart, leaving the house shrouded in unbearable silence.

“Brother, who will look after our studies now? Who will love us?” Santosh’s younger brother, Vinod, cried, plunging the family deeper into sorrow. No one spoke; heads bowed in shared grief. The family’s cries seemed to reach the sky, their pain indescribable.

This scene illuminated the sanctity of human bonds and how war shatters them. It raised a profound question: Why does humanity destroy its own creations? Why must love, family, and dreams be consumed in war’s flames? These questions lingered, unanswered.

Across the border, in an impoverished enemy village, the earth trembled with a missile’s roar. Rahim, working in his field, collapsed instantly. His wife, Parveen, and their three small children became orphans, their cries piercing the sky. The children, too young to grasp their father’s death, looked bewildered, their innocence amplifying the tragedy.

Nearby, a tin-roofed house lay in ruins—the home of Malik, a hard-core terrorist. He and fourteen family members perished in the attack. Alongside the guilty, innocent lives were buried under the debris, a horrifying scene.

“What injustice is this?” Ahmed Bhai, a neighbor, said with anguish. “Why should Malik’s family suffer for his crimes? How dare they take innocent lives?” Anger and sorrow flashed in his eyes, his words heavy with despair.

“Leaders gain power, arms dealers profit, but the lives of ordinary people are mere blades of grass to them,” Ahmed Bhai said. “War always soaks in the blood of innocents.” His voice carried weariness and disgust with the system.

Hospital wards overflowed with wounded bodies and cries of agony. Reshma, her leg broken, watched her unconscious son, her voice trembling: “When will he open his eyes?” Her question reflected not only a mother’s hope but humanity’s longing for life amid destruction.

Severely wounded soldier Krishna, lying in a hospital bed, thought of his pregnant wife, Radha. “Tell her I’m fine,” he told the nurse, his words defying his battered body. Even in the shadow of death, his love endured, yet the question haunted him: Why should their love be consumed in war’s flames?

In both countries, youth and intellectuals held peace rallies in cities and towns, carrying placards that read, “No War—We Want Peace.” Their voices rang with slogans of hope and anger. One placard declared, “Santosh, Rahim why should their dreams burn?” These young people, carrying the stories of war’s victims, shouted for peace, their determination stirring hope that humanity could overcome hatred and darkness.

“We are not enemies. We share the same history, the same culture. Why fight for selfish leaders? We are all human. War brings loss to both sides. Can’t we live in peace?” their passionate speeches echoed, urging humanity to recognize its unity to end war.

Yet, in centers of power, these calls for peace were overshadowed. The Prime Minister’s order, “Operation Sindoor must continue,” fueled the machinery of war. Political gains and national defense strategies dominated discussions, ignoring war’s horrific toll. Those decisions pushed the future deeper into darkness.

War is not just a physical conflict; it is the external manifestation of the human soul’s internal struggle. The arrogance of leaders, the greed of arms dealers, the lust for resources, religious differences, and political ambitions are war’s superficial causes. At its core, war reflects humanity’s self-destructive nature, sacrificing others to assert dominance. Perhaps this selfishness and hatred will forever distance us from our humanity.

War is never inevitable. Small issues, resolved at their root, can prevent larger conflicts, whether in a life or a nation. Dialogue, patience, and mutual understanding offer solutions, but human arrogance often closes those paths, staining them with blood.

Fatima, clutching her son’s colorful spinning top amidst her ruined home, held onto a glimmer of hope for peace. But the distant drums of war from military centers dimmed that hope, tearing at her heart.

The cries of Bhagya and Reshma dissolved into the air, joined by countless others, revealing war’s brutal truth. Soldier Krishna, wounded on his hospital bed, saw past wars flash before him. He had once glorified defending his nation, but now he questioned war’s necessity.

War exposes the duality of the human heart selfishness versus compassion. Yet amidst the bloodshed, calls for peace, hopes of love, and the heartbeat of humanity persist. The cry, “No War—We Want Peace,” is more than a slogan; it resonates in streets, colleges, and social media, reflecting the aspirations of millions. A stubborn hope for light amid darkness drives them forward.

Humanity must learn from its history: war is never the answer; it only breeds more questions. Peace, dialogue, and cooperation are the paths that sustain us. The flame of peace must be ignited in every heart, across every border. Only by sowing seeds of compassion can this blood-soaked earth bloom with peace. Otherwise, future generations will continue to grapple with the haunting question of where humanity has gone.

Humanity’s true victory lies not in the clamor of war but in the silence of peace. In that silence, the voice of love will be heard, the touch of compassion felt, and the true meaning of humanity revealed. We must fight for that silence, and our efforts must endure.

Will the people’s call for peace reach the leaders? Will peace efforts succeed? Will the rivers of blood dry up, and paths of peace blossom? Can we achieve true victory with the weapons of peace, love, and empathy?

Let us see what tomorrow brings...