'I May Not Be Able To Call': A Fauji Wife Recalls The Longest Nights Of Op Sindoor

A year has passed since Op Sindoor, but I still remember that night with painful clarity. The desert winds along the Western Front were unusually harsh – since May is the storm month, and even before the world got to know about it, I had a strange feeling in my chest. My husband, an army officer posted along the border – who usually calls me every two hours had not been in touch the entire day. Since he is posted in field area, I am not with him, and live thousands of kilometers away with our son. While I thought he would be busy with something urgent (a usual with the forces), suddenly I received a message on Whatsapp - “Take care, I may not be able to call.” As a fauji wife, you learn to read silence better than words. Very late in the night,

I was scrolling through the phone when breaking news flashed continuously. Social media then started flooding with rumours, a few videos, and a lot of speculation. I did not call or message him, as I knew it was time to take a backseat and just rely on the news for information. During such times, families like ours just sit frozen in front of screens, trying to understand what will happen next. The hardest part of being married to a soldier is not always the distance. It is the uncertainty. It is pretending to stay strong while your mind imagines the worst. People often speak about the bravery of soldiers, and rightly so, but very few understand the emotional battle fought quietly inside military homes. Around 4 am, there was a brief message I received from him: “I’m okay, don’t worry.” Just four words, but they felt like life itself.

In the days that followed, things became extremely tensed. On screens we could see convoys moving, security tightened, missiles fired. Army families checked in on one another like an extended family tied together by invisible threads of fear and resilience. We messaged each other to know how everyone was doing - smiled during the day, did home chores, attended work, children. Life did go on during the day, but nights were difficult. Sleep became impossible. My son – who has seen his father in continuous postings in field and along border areas, asked me, “Why does Papa have to go where there is danger?” and before I could say anything - he replied to himself, “Because Papa protects people.” That answer somehow comforted both of us. Op Sindoor changed me deeply. While I have been on tenterhooks - throughout the 21 years I have seen this life - through routine postings, farewells, festivals spent apart, sudden transfers and even days and nights of no contact - this operation showed me the true meaning of service. I realised that soldiers do not just protect borders; they carry the emotional weight of an entire nation’s safety on their shoulders. And their families carry them.

Throughout the next three to four days, there was barely any contact, mostly through messages or an occasional call, which was just meant to reassure - all is well. While there was a little fear, which perhaps never fully disappears, alongside comes immense pride. People often call us “strong women.” The truth is, we do not really have a choice. Strength becomes a habit. You learn to celebrate birthdays over patchy phone calls, manage homes alone, and smile through uncertainty because someone you love is standing guard somewhere tough while the nation sleeps peacefully. On the first anniversary of Op Sindoor, I do not remember headlines or political debates. I remember one silent night, a glowing phone screen at 4 am, and the overwhelming relief of knowing the man I loved - was alive!