India-Pakistan Wars: Is Everything (Really) Fair in Love and War?

"Everything is fair in love and war."
But who decides what’s fair — the one who fires the bullet, or the one who buries the body?

War is often romanticized — as a battlefield of heroes, a test of courage, a defining moment in history. But beyond the triumphs and victories, there lies a darker truth: war is never fair. It doesn’t just claim soldiers; it ravages families, destroys communities, and leaves a trail of unimaginable suffering that stretches far beyond the frontlines.

As India faces another round of conflict with its neighbor, the question arises — is it truly fair for the civilians, the innocent lives, to pay the price? The soldiers’ families, who mourn loved ones lost to the cause? And what about the millions whose lives are turned upside down by decisions made in the halls of power, far removed from the pain and destruction below?

Below are not just arguments — they are wounds. Old and new. From Partition to present. From graveyards of 1947 to the silent tears of today’s martyrs.
Partition wasn't just a division of land, it was the disintegration of families, cultures, and lives.

In the chaos, even families turned on their own. Fathers killed their daughters to "preserve their honour." Brothers betrayed brothers. In Lahore, women jumped into wells to escape dishonour, while men burned their homes, leaving behind nothing but ashes and memories.

Trains from Lahore arrived in Amritsar full of bodies, not passengers. Neighbours slaughtered neighbours. Children were left orphaned in an instant. The night of Partition was a massacre that carved a scar so deep, it still echoes across generations.

What did we gain? A border? Or the irreparable loss of humanity?
In 1965, India defended her territory again. In 1971, she helped birth Bangladesh.
Both wars were declared victories. But at what cost?

The 1971 victory is celebrated. But even today, in families across Punjab, Rajasthan, Bengal — there are widows who never remarried, children who grew up on pension letters, and fathers who waited for news that never came.

Was the victory loud enough to silence their grief?
The Kargil War lasted 60 days. But its grief still hasn’t ended.

One name still echoes through that frozen silence:
Captain Vikram Batra.
At just 24, he led the recapture of Point 4875.
His code words: “Yeh dil maange more!”
His last act: saving a wounded comrade under heavy fire.

He never returned.

But he left behind more than medals. He left behind Dimple Cheema — the woman he was engaged to. She never married.
She still signs her name as Mrs. Vikram Batra.
She once said, “For me, he is not a memory. He is my present, and he will remain my future.”For every name on the memorial, there’s a mother sitting by the window every morning, staring at the gate — waiting for footsteps that never return.

India has fought five full-fledged wars since 1947. In total, more than 20,000 Indian soldiers have laid down their lives. That’s not a number. That’s 20,000 stories unfinished.
Weddings that never happened. Children never born. Parents who didn’t get a final goodbye.

A wife once said,
"He died a hero. But I didn’t want a hero. I just wanted my husband back."

Can we call this fair — to salute a coffin and call it closure?In love, we’re taught to forgive. In war, we’re trained to forget — to move on quickly, to cheer louder than we mourn.

But is this strength or emotional blindness?

The 1999 Kargil War lasted just over two months. But its emotional fallout lasted decades. Many of the soldiers' children were too young to remember them. Today, those children serve in the army themselves — some dying on the same mountains their fathers once defended.

War creates a cycle. Not of honour, but of inherited grief.

Can we truly call that fair?
War doesn’t just claim soldiers. It erases entire lives, leaving families to bear silent scars.

In Kashmir, especially in border villages like Kupwara, Rajouri, and Baramulla, life has never been "normal." Since 1947, Kashmiris have lived under the constant shadow of conflict. Over 40,000 civilians have died in the region, many caught in cross-border violence and militancy.

The Kashmiri Pandits — once an integral part of the valley’s fabric — were forced to flee in 1990, driven from their ancestral homes by violence and threats. An estimated 300,000 Pandits became refugees in their own land, scattered across India, carrying with them the memories of homes left behind. Their pain is often overlooked in the narrative of conflict, yet their exile remains one of the most heartbreaking chapters.

In 2020, an 8-year-old girl lost her leg in a cross-border mortar attack in Poonch. She doesn’t understand the LOC, but she’ll carry its consequences for life.

While Delhi and Islamabad debate strategy, it’s the civilians — the Kashmiri Pandits, the families, the children — who continue to suffer, hidden in bunkers or scattered across the country.

Is this collateral damage? Or the endless cruelty of a divided land?Every war leaves behind something more dangerous than death — hatred.

Generations are raised on the trauma of conflict. Films, textbooks, news — they all carry subtle (and not-so-subtle) reminders of who the “enemy” is. But what if the real enemy isn’t across the border — but inside us?

What if it’s the inability to see another mother’s pain? Another child’s tears?

If war never ends in the heart, it never ends at all.

Is it fair to raise children on inherited anger?War is often hailed as a means to an end, a necessary sacrifice for victory. But the real price is hidden in the lives lost, the families torn apart, and the generations scarred. From the Partition of 1947 to the Kargil War, and the ongoing conflict in Kashmir, the story of India’s wars is not just one of strategy and borders. It is a story of humanity — lost, broken, and forever altered.

The civilians of conflict, whether in the border villages of Jammu and Kashmir or the exiled Pandit community, are the ones who carry the heaviest burden. Thousands of innocent lives have been lost, and countless others live in the shadow of war’s destruction. The suffering of families, the pain of losing loved ones, and the trauma of displacement are costs that go beyond any battlefield victory.

War is never fair. It takes more than soldiers; it claims the soul of a nation, leaving behind not just rubble, but an indelible ache in the heart of every person touched by it. Victory may be celebrated in speeches, but it is always built on the lives lost — and for what?

Is peace really possible, or do we simply forget the price we paid for it?

No, not everything is fair in love and war.

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