I was born in 2005, but I have witnessed the harrowing atrocities of my country’s partition through the remnants left behind—posters, books, hymns, poems, slogans, articles, letters, and countless other echoes from that era. “The partition of India and Pakistan under British rule is not just history; it is a deep, unhealed wound that continues to haunt the soul of the subcontinent.”

Each time I read about or see the visuals of the filthy politics that shaped this divide, my mind is thrown into turmoil. “The rapes, the murders, the betrayal of trust between communities—these events stand as a dark stain on the cliff of humanity.” Mothers being violated in front of their children, daughters killed by their own families to protect their “honor”—these disgusting acts pierce my heart, flow into my veins like poison, and reach my brain, compelling me to pour out this grief in harsh, unfiltered words.

When I stand on the sacred soil of India, the so-called land of destiny, all I can see is regret. “Regret for the broken promises made by those who led this nation.” I hear the cries of children near the lifeless bodies of their siblings, their parents, their kin. I see not just the cost of freedom but the price of division—a price too steep, too unbearable to pay.

“I see no lines dividing the land when I walk it.” Those borders were drawn in blood, but they are invisible to the earth itself. And yet, no leader truly tried to safeguard this fragile community, instead creating nations whose foundations were soaked in death, anguish, and betrayal.

“Did they ever pause to think about the land beneath their feet—the very earth that knew no religion, no caste, no borders?” Did they ever wonder how the rivers flowing through these lands would carry not just water but the blood of their people? Every blade of grass, every grain of soil cries out with the memories of the lives it witnessed being destroyed.

“My message to Mr. Jinnah, Mr. Nehru, and Mr. Gandhi: witness the darkness your decisions gifted to generations.” Witness the love torn apart, the prosperity traded for violence, the charm of unity replaced by the curse of division. How could you agree to partition—not of just a piece of land but of lives, dreams, and hearts?

A united India was, and remains, the silent yearning of all who call this land home. “For me, India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh died the moment they were born.” Their souls departed the day independence came drenched in blood, and unity was ripped apart like an old, discarded fabric.

If I could travel back in time, I would stand in the halls of history where those leaders argued over dreams:

1. “The dream of a land that embraced every religion equally.”
2. “The dream of non-violence and peace.”
3. “The dream of freedom from over two centuries of oppression.”
4. “The dream of living together, cooking and sharing meals as one family.”
5. “The dream of celebrating diverse festivals without barriers.”
6. “The dream of teaching the next generation the values of brotherhood and unity.”
7. “The dream of ensuring that every voice was heard, no matter how small.”
8. “The dream of wiping away oppression, not humanity itself.”

But what emerged was no fulfillment of these dreams. Instead, it was a partition that divided not just land but souls from bodies, humanity from humans, and tears from my eyes. “In the same way, the people of this nation shed tears they could not hold back—tears of despair, betrayal, and heartbreak over a decision that altered their destiny forever.” These tears were not just droplets of sorrow; they were the unspoken anguish of a million hearts, mourning a future stolen from them. “The decision of partition was not just a political act; it was an emotional scar etched onto the soul of this subcontinent, a wound that continues to bleed with every memory of what was lost.”

Each drop symbolized stories of separation—of families ripped apart, of friendships burned in the flames of hate, of homes abandoned in the pursuit of survival. “Every orphaned child, every widow, every graveyard filled with unknown names stands as a testament to that monstrous decision.” And just as those tears dried on their faces, this nation, too, wiped them away, burying the pain deep within. But the stain of those decisions, of those lost lives, remains—etched forever, like a shadow that time cannot erase.

“If only we could have rejected hate with the same passion that divided us.” If only we could have realized that true freedom meant liberation for everyone, not the chains of fractured humanity.

If I were ever blessed with a single wish, I would wish for this partition never to have happened. “I would beg for a world where this tragedy remained a nightmare rather than reality.” I would rewrite history with the ink of unity, binding hearts and lives as one, where no child cries over the lifeless body of a loved one, and no mother mourns a dignity lost to violence.

“I dream of a day when no land carries the burden of borders drawn in blood.” I dream of a day when communities rise above differences and reclaim their shared humanity. I dream of a day when the stories of hate are replaced by stories of love, when instead of tearing down, we rebuild a future together.
“I dream of a day when we don’t mourn the death of our shared humanity—because, in truth, it isn’t just India or Pakistan or Bangladesh that died that day.” It is all of us who continue to carry the weight of a fractured soul. It is a lesson written in grief—a reminder of how quickly dreams can turn into nightmares when hearts are divided by hate.

“And yet, somewhere within this grief, there is a faint hope—that perhaps, someday, the scars will heal, the tears will dry, and the rivers will no longer run red.”