We are the offspring of once a one nation divided by a line of border to separate us. Though we have never met, I always feel I have. There's a sense of nostalgia I feel every time I walk in the lanes of Old Delhi or Old Lucknow — the old buildings, mosques — reflect to me how similar it would have been for you as well. I always wonder: do you feel the same when you walk in the lanes of Androon Lahore? Do you also get a sense of nostalgia, a sense of wonder, how similar it is to a twin city residing a little far but very alike?
Through years we have seen the hostility, hatred, then a trial of negotiation, communication to make it better, but have you ever wondered how the hate is limited to political figures? How they are the ones who somehow create this sense of dislike, through their policies, through their talk? How it never starts from our conscience...how it's rather seeded, then grown on its own?
Recently, after the attack, we saw horrible journalism, attacks on each other. It started from a press conference and escalated to digital attacks on Twitter...but that never helps, does it?
The people of your country died, and so did ours. Along the border, families on both sides prayed for peace. Mothers everywhere prayed for their sons in uniform. Students from Kashmir and Punjab — no matter which side — lived in silent anguish, dying a little each day with the fear of losing their loved ones back home.
I know what worries me worries you too.
We are the youth of this land; the floods that strike you strike us too. The disasters you endure are ours as well. The struggle to break free from the colonial mindset is not only ours to face, but yours too.
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| Illustration by Ajitesh Vishwanath |
We once shared the same land, same suffering, same pain, same food, same history, same cotton, same culture — so how are we different? Why is there so much hate?
The way we want to reflect on our pride, on our shared South Asian identity, I know you do too.
Balakot, Mumbai, Pahalgam — every attack is an attack on humanity. On both sides, people bled the same blood red. All of them were human.
And so I know... you wish for a bright future. I do too.
I know you laugh at Salman Khan's comedies, just as I do. I fall asleep to Coke Studio songs, just as you do to our Bollywood tunes. While you may admire Lahore, I admire Amritsar, and within us both lives the same curiosity to see beyond. We are alike, and we need to stand together.
Let's look past the political discourse that divides us. Let's build a space where we can speak to one another directly. The media may not show it, but I saw how you stood in solidarity with us.
We were not born to inherit this rivalry. We were born to end it. Politicians and media profit from our division; they did before, and they do now. Meanwhile, we suffer, as our grandparents once did at Partition, and as we continue to do today.
But maybe one day, we'll meet. Over chai in Karachi or Amritsar, or while studying together in a faraway land. Until then, I want you to know: I don't hate you. I hope for you.
For us both.
With peace and hope,
Aradhya
This letter is a part of the inaugural issue of The India Way- 'Unquiet Neighbourhood: What is the future of South Asia?
About the Author: Aradhya Sinha
Pursuing a Bachelor’s in History and Political Science at Gargi College, University of Delhi, she is specializing in Political Science. Her research interests span international relations, diplomacy, feminist studies, cultural dynamics, and cross-border peace narratives.
Read Unquiet Neighbourhood: What is the Future of South Asia
