India , Pakistan and everything in between

Every morning these days, I wake up with a certain nervousness in my chest. I check the news—not because I want something to have happened, but because I don't. It's the kind of anxiety that builds up when the threat of something catastrophic hangs over everyday life like an invisible fog. Today was one such day. The recent tensions between India and Pakistan have left me unsettled.

Military conflict of any kind doesn’t just disrupt borders or governments. It disrupts livelihoods, daily routines, children going to school, markets opening, people commuting to work. It seeps into the smallest corners of civilian life. And no matter who claims the moral high ground, war always has second-order consequences—consequences that fall, unfairly and disproportionately, on innocent people. For that reason, I don't endorse any country—mine included—when they march towards war.

A few weeks ago, I was watching the chaos unfold as Sam Altman was ousted as CEO of OpenAI. What seemed like a boardroom drama on the surface was a reminder of something deeper: someone on Twitter rightly said that while technology has been around for 500 years, human emotions like ego, pride, and envy have existed for thousands. Wars, after all, aren’t fought because we lack the tools for peace. They’re fought because we haven’t outgrown the need to dominate.

History is a long scroll of people repeating the same mistakes. One might argue that what India did in this instance isn’t surprising. Power always finds a reason to assert itself. But just because history repeats itself doesn’t mean it should be applauded.

I’ll admit: growing up in India, I never had a reason to question how I felt about Pakistan. We’re taught, conditioned almost, to believe they are the enemy. It’s in our media, our movies, our cricket. The India–Pakistan match isn't a game; it’s portrayed as a mini war. And like most people, I never paused to interrogate that narrative—until I moved to London.

Here, thousands of miles from the noise, I’ve met some of the kindest, warmest people from Pakistan. Friends. Not enemies. Not terrorists. Students, dreamers, migrants—people with families, just like me. And today, when I hear about airstrikes or military operations, I don’t picture vague figures in uniforms or sensationalist news headlines. I think of their homes, their loved ones. I think of their parents and children. It is their faces that come to mind—not those of an imagined enemy.

That’s the thing about narratives. India says it targeted a terrorist camp. Pakistan says innocent civilians were killed. The truth, as always, is caught in the crossfire—and so are lives. Tens, maybe more. And my deepest fear is that it won’t stop there.

In moments like this, I find myself thinking about Gaza. About Ukraine. About how easily we become the villain in someone else’s story. I’ve stood in solidarity with Palestine, angered by the brutality against its civilians. And now, as I watch my own country toe a similar line, it makes me deeply uncomfortable. Are we becoming what we once condemned?

I don’t know what will happen next—none of us do. But what I do know is this: peace matters. People matter. The human cost of war is far too high, and we need to keep reminding ourselves of that before it's too late.

And then there's religion. Of course, there’s always religion. As if things weren’t complicated enough, there’s a rising wave of Islamophobia in India. During moments of conflict, this hatred becomes sharper. More visible. And Muslims, Kashmiris—anyone who looks or sounds "other"—are made the scapegoats. Let’s be honest: this isn’t about Kashmir or terrorism or security. It’s about power and fear, dressed up as patriotism.

And let me say it loud: India is a secular country.

(You know, just like how Coca-Cola is a health drink.)

Our secularism seems to be hanging on the edge of a punchline these days. A nation built on the ideals of diversity and inclusion now seems determined to reduce itself to religious binaries. We can’t let that happen. We mustn’t let that happen.

So here’s my quiet prayer, my loud scream, my stubborn hope:

To my Pakistani friends, to my Muslim friends, to those in Kashmir, and to every citizen trying to hold onto dignity amidst this noise—my love, my strength, and my solidarity. May peace prevail. May humanity prevail.

Because at the end of it all, that’s what matters most.