Post 1962, people playing tambola would say, “6 and 2—62, Chinese aggression”. For me, it was not only an invasion, it was the annihilation of my life, the life of my mother and that of my little kid sister, who was all of 5. A few days ago, I saw the picture of Col Santosh Babu’s young son salute his father’s lifeless body, draped in the tricolor, and memories flooded my mind’s eye. China remains the perpetrator and young children are still thrown into trauma. Their fathers will always stay in their veins, alive in the tales of valour. But what is going to happen to those lonely days, those nights filled with fear? This feeling of cold dread grips my heart when I see video grabs of the Galwan battle casualties--young Satnam Singh, newly-married Sepoy Ankur, Havildar Palani’s bodies arriving home to weeping, wailing mothers, wives and sisters. I see myself standing, a little lost child, not really understanding what is going on. “Where is my dad? This can’t be my dad who I sent to war, waving and smiling, telling me that next month he shall be back and buy me my new frock and the doll I wanted so much!” My little child’s eyes watch as army officers, state government representatives all descend on the villages and homes of these warriors. ‘Wow, isn’t that army truck looking lovely with flowers?’ Such is how children caught in the moment think. They do not have any idea of what lies ahead. They know nothing about white clothes their mothers will be made to wear; maybe cut her hair, as mine had done; or the smiles and joy that had forever been burnt in those flames that I see now, mercilessly licking away at their dad’s remains.