The crisp morning air in Quetta crackled with excitement. For several days, rumours had been circulating among the army children that their fathers would soon be deployed on board a mammoth C-130 cargo plane.
Their mothers, however, did not seem to share their enthusiasm.
In fact, the children noted that they were all behaving rather oddly, and many of them had hidden their faces behind large, dark sunglasses to keep their husbands from seeing their tears.
One of them, a 30-year-old woman, battled conflicting emotions as she put on a brave face for her husband despite knowing his chances of returning were slim. This woman was my dadi.
Among the children gathered were my father, then six years old, and my two aunts who were five and seven. The year was 1965 and, unbeknownst to most kids at the airport, their country was on the brink of a major war.
Most of the smartly suited men they had come to see off would return in coffins.
At that point, my father and his siblings were used to my grandfather’s routine deployments. Any prospects of missing their father’s company were diminished by regular communication through written letters.
It was only later that they discovered my grandfather had written one letter for each day he thought he would be away, well in advance, to give the impression that he was still alive and well.
Otherwise, their lives carried on as usual; the only difference was that schools closed early. Their boredom was often alleviated by racing each other to the trenches when the air raid sirens rang. Childhood bliss meant they were ignorant of the fact that the sirens signalled the looming threat of being bombed.
On the other hand, army wives found themselves struggling, as previously their daily routines had revolved around their husbands. Nights that were previously spent dolled up on the arms of their husbands at gala dinners in the mess hall were now spent huddled around the radio with other army wives. They waited with bated breath to hear news from the frontlines.
During this time, the battle-hardened wives of senior officers became a pillar of strength for the younger women. Duas were prescribed by them like medicine and passed around like contraband.
‘Shaheed’ was a word my father often heard in hushed whispers during those days, but he did not fully comprehend the weight that title carried. One night, the 9pm radio broadcast mentioned the name of someone familiar: his neighbour Major Ziauddin Abbasi (after whom Karachi’s Abbasi Shaheed Hospital is named).
The transmission was interrupted by a wail that arose from their neighbouring bungalow. His young wife had become a widow not even a year into her marriage.
At the tender age of six, my father realised that there was a very real possibility that his father might not return and, as custom dictated, he would become responsible for the wellbeing of his mother and sisters.