How two siblings in Jammu and Pathankot survived the night Pakistan rained hundreds of drones on India: A first-person account

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We sleep early in our home. The kind of early where silence wraps the neighbourhood by 8, and the only sound is the hum of ceiling fans and distant temple bells. That night, I was upstairs with my son, trying to get him to settle down with a cartoon. Just as the credits rolled on the screen, the power snapped off. Just like that — darkness.

It wasn’t new — in Jammu, we’re used to the occasional blackout. But this… this felt different. The silence that followed wasn’t stillness — it was suspense. Just the day before, India had struck terror camps across the border under Operation Sindoor. We knew tensions were rising, we just didn’t expect them to arrive at our doorstep. My wife rushed to the window and shouted — “It’s pitch black outside!” Not a bulb, not a flicker. Even the air felt heavier, like it had braced itself.

And then came the sound.

Not the sharp staccato of gunfire. Not the distant boom of a mortar. This was deeper — elemental. A vibration from the earth itself — ghammm... ghammm… Our windowpanes trembled. So did I.

I ran downstairs where my elderly parents sat, stunned. In the courtyard, our joint family — uncles, aunts, cousins — had gathered outside. Everyone was whispering, scanning the sky. One of the kids shouted, pointing — and we saw it. A red tail streaking overhead. A drone. Maybe many.

I froze. These weren’t practice drills. These weren’t routine.

My niece, who lives near the Jammu airport, sent me a WhatsApp video — blurry flashes in the distance, muffled bangs. Her voice crackled on the call — I couldn’t hear much. Maybe jammers were active. But just seeing her message gave me a flicker of relief. At least she was safe. For now.

Because the noise wasn’t stopping. And fear had begun to spread like fire through dry grass.

WhatsApp groups went mad — messages about debris falling near the university, gunfire at the airport, missiles in the air, the army mobilising. One message simply read: “This is war. Get ready.” I didn’t know what was real. But panic doesn’t need proof.

I called my sister in Pathankot. Just to hear her voice. Just to make sure she was still on the other end.

A few days ago, families staying in border areas had been moved. Some took shelter in a government school nearby. I’d assumed it was temporary — maybe shelling. We’d heard about mock drills, troop movement. But no one told us this was coming. No alert. No siren. Just the dark. Just the dread.

Outside, in that ghosted street, I saw trucks with headlights off, silently moving. One car had luggage roped to the roof. Like someone was trying to leave before morning. Like someone knew more than we did.

The electricity came back around midnight. But no one turned on the lights. Not a single flicker from our lane. The old ones remembered Kargil. They remembered the blackouts. And this time, we listened.

We sat in the dark, whispering theories, calming children, praying. And just when we thought we could breathe again — around 4 AM — it started all over. The same distant thunder. But by then, I was too drained to even react. I just lay there. Listening.

The next morning felt unreal. Like the world had been scrubbed clean overnight. Markets opened. Banks, government offices. People resumed errands like nothing happened. But my body hadn’t forgotten. My breath was still shallow. My pulse still high.

At the sabzi mandi (vegetable market), someone said proudly, “Maharaj, S-400 hai na… ghabrane di koi lod nahi.” I nodded, but my doubt lingered.

Later I read that India’s air defence had intercepted over 20 drones and missiles — loitering munitions aimed at both military and civilian zones. Maybe that explained the red tails. Maybe that explained the shivers underfoot.

I haven’t packed a bag. Haven’t made a plan. I just keep telling myself — missiles are expensive. They won’t waste them. But what if I’m wrong?

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It was around 8:30. I’d just finished dinner and was walking toward the sink with the plates when, in a second, the world went dark. No warning. Just — gone. I screamed for my children — “Neha! Vikram!” (names changed). My husband had the younger one in his arms. My mother-in-law called out from another room: “We’re here.”

This wasn’t your average power cut. Usually, there’s some halo of light — a streetlamp, the neighbour’s inverter glow. But this? Nothing. The kind of darkness that makes you forget the shape of your own home.

In the back of my mind, I remembered my brother’s earlier call. He hadn’t said much. But I could hear it in his voice — something was wrong.

I said out loud, “The blackout was supposed to be at 9…” And before I could finish the sentence — a siren sliced through the silence, followed by a sound so loud it made the walls tremble. Glass shook. My 10-year-old daughter cried. I just screamed — “Has the attack started?”

We all huddled in the lobby. I kept asking, “Do we run? But where? What if the border’s sealed?” My husband said, “Wait. Let’s see.” But my body wouldn’t stop shaking.

We stepped outside for a second — and there it was. The red tail, burning through the sky. The same one my brother had described. A streak of fear.

I called him again. “Is this it? Are we under attack?” He tried to calm me. “The army’s intercepting everything. No casualties. Civilians are safe.” His voice was steady. But mine cracked.

I pushed my kids into the room with my mother-in-law. Then ran to lock the gate. Don’t ask me why. I think the panic needed somewhere to go. I turned off the gas. Looked at our car. “If something happens, we’ll run,” I told my husband. And then I broke down.

Calls kept coming. My sister-in-law in Delhi was crying on the phone: “Don’t lie to me. What’s happening? I’m coming right now.” But what could I say? I didn’t know myself.

We climbed to the terrace, trying to understand what was happening. But the sky offered no answers. Just more smoke, more silence. I whispered, “Not here. Not our home.”

We moved into the basement — a cramped storeroom. It didn’t feel any safer. My brother later called: “Basements aren’t safe. Just stay alert and let the night pass.”

But how do you just let a night like that pass?

I stayed up, my heart racing, ears tuned to every creak and gust of wind. I haven’t felt that scared since childhood — only this time, I was the adult expected to be brave.

Morning came, but fear didn’t leave. I went to the bank, quietly took out a few valuables. The border (that connects Punjab and Himachal Pradesh) hadn’t been closed yet. There was still time. Or so I hoped.

Some neighbours had already left. Packed bags. Driven off at dawn. I don’t blame them. We might go too. Maybe Dalhousie. Just for a few days. But how do you decide what to pack, what to leave behind? Kaun chhodta hai apna ghar?

When I look at my children, I ache. They didn’t choose this. They shouldn’t even know this exists. And yet, last night, they lived it.

Tonight will come again. I’m scared. But somehow, I still hope it will pass — and this time, without sound.