When there is love, there is life When there is love, there is light - Mahatma Gandhi An old man woke up from his bed and slowly walked to slid the curtains aside. From his window, the border between India and Pakistan was visible in the far distance. Every time he saw it, his mind went back to the days of Partition when he was just a young boy. It was August 1947. While much of the country was rejoicing the freedom, a region was gripped by panic and fear. Families were hastily packing whatever they could carry, preparing for a journey with no known destination. He, as a young boy, was checking through the drawers in his living room, searching for something. His mother’s voice called out from the kitchen, “Are you ready?” She was packing a supply of food and water, with no idea how far they would have to go or how long it would last. At last, he found what he was looking for. He tucked into one of the luggages and joined his mother, their two bags over their shoulders. As they stepped outside to walk, he saw their neighbour, his friend’s father, loading a bullock cart tirelessly. He missed his father more than ever, especially in moments like this, when the weight of responsibility felt too heavy to bear. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he started walking with his mother. The road ahead seemed endless and many people couldn’t even make it halfway to wherever they were going. As he walked, his mind raced him with questions: Why couldn’t people of different faiths live together? How did religion become the force that decided where they should belong? In the midst of his thoughts, his mother suddenly collapsed. People rushed to help, trying to wake her, but she remained still. He knelt beside her, shaking her gently, but there was no response. With two bags at his feet and no one left to guide him, he felt utterly lost. Surrounded by a crowd of a hundred thousand people, he had never felt so alone. He sat down, sobbing uncontrollably, not knowing where to go or what to do. After a few moments, an elderly man approached him. The man understood the grief without needing to ask. Finally, the man spoke softly, “Son, no one can carry this weight alone.” placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But together, we can keep walking.” The memory was as vivid now as it had been back then, but time had healed some wounds. He had survived, found a new life, and built a family. Yet, on mornings like this, staring out at the border, the past felt very close He turned away from the window and saw the framed family photo on the wall, the same one he had saved preciously all those years. In the picture, he stood with his mother, who was Hindu, and his father, who was Muslim. He walked towards the photo and gently touched it, remembering the moments they spent together. warmth filled his heart, and tears filled his wrinkled eyes. The photo hung there silently as a proof of love that is stronger than religion, borders and hate. <I leave it to the readers to imagine his name and decide which side of the border he calls home> Hereby, Gowtham