Anantha Padmanabhan
The year 1971, remains etched in my memory, not just as the year of the Indo-Pakistan War, but as a time when the simple act of being a ten-year-old schoolboy was punctuated by the unsettling realities of conflict.
Life in our defence establishment township transformed overnight. Instructions to shroud our windows with dark paper became the norm, a visual testament to the unseen threat looming beyond.
Even the headlights of vehicles underwent a rather strange metamorphosis, painted black to a sliver, casting a meagre beam on the road ahead.
The wail of air raid sirens became a frequent soundtrack to our days, often followed by the abrupt silence of power cuts, plunging our world into darkness.
One such evening, the familiar shriek of the siren sliced through the air as my school bus trundled along. The streetlights flickered and died, leaving us in an eerie twilight.
Abruptly, the driver instructed us to get off whilst the bus was still moving. My young legs tangled and I tumbled onto a rough patch of baby gravel, meant for extending the road, its sharp edges instantly stinging both my palms.
The driver, usually a bit gruff but not unkind, helped me up, offering a rather strange piece of advice about running a few steps after jumping off.
He then took me to the company dispensary, where my grazed palms were bandaged, throbbing with a dull ache.
Stepping out into the inky blackness, a wave of disorientation washed over me.
The familiar landmarks of my route home had vanished in the oppressive dark. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as I wandered, lost and increasingly frightened.
Perhaps two hours crawled by before the streetlights flickered back to life for a fleeting moment, only to be swallowed by darkness again as another siren wailed. The fear, a cold knot in my tummy, finally gave way to tears.
Just then, a figure emerged from the gloom, the distinct silhouette of a man in military uniform. He noticed my distress and with a reassuring voice, offered to guide me home.
We began our trek, a seemingly endless crisscrossing of shadowy lanes. In the blackout, every house looked identical, each a silent, indistinguishable form..
Just as despair began to creep in, a familiar voice cut through the darkness, calling my name, again and again.
It was my dad!
Guided by his anxious calls and the beam of his torch, we finally reached our house. Relief washed over me, quickly followed by a fresh wave of emotion as I saw my father’s panicked face. The sight of a military man escorting his bandaged son had clearly alarmed him. The officer patiently explained the circumstances and my father’s initial worry transformed into profuse gratitude.
That night, huddled safely at home, the pain in my palms was a dull echo compared to the vivid memory of being lost and the unexpected kindness of a stranger.
The blackout, meant to obscure us from an unseen enemy, inadvertently illuminated the fundamental goodness that resides within people.
The gruff bus driver’s unexpected care, the military man’s selfless act of guiding a lost child, and my father’s frantic relief – these moments, born out of a time of fear and uncertainty, underscored the enduring power of human connection.
Even in the darkest of times, the essence of our shared humanity can shine through, offering solace and a path back to safety and belonging.