Time To Walk Away

Ramanjit Singh

As we read through the Partition stories, the decision to part ways was all encompassing and painful, probably the most critical decision individuals and families made as they evaluated the deteriorating situation unfolding in Punjab.

When does one decide that it is time to walk away? Leave everything, leave their homes, their livelihood, everything they possessed and depart to some other distant place. How does one take that momentous decision and step out of one’s home knowing full well this would be the last time they would ever see it.

The decision was momentous as this was not just putting their own individual lives at risk but that of the entire family, especially the children and women. Decision was like a sword hanging over their heads, not knowing what calamity would befall on them as they left their homes and hearth.

As the families ventured out to the unknown, they witnessed the worst of what humanity had to offer. Abduction of women, killings in the open fields, fratricide to protect the honor of the women. The heat, the misery, the unrelenting rains, the floods, the unforgiving marauders, this was what they faced when they ventured out of their homes.

In the Partition saga, the time to walk away is probably the most painful decision families had to make. The impending attack, the trickling of news of the murders taking place in nearby villages and towns, all created a sense of panic. Logic was thrown out the window, all that mattered was how to stay alive. Survival mattered more than anything else. Survival trumped safeguarding physical belongings or wealth or property.

The forces in play back then are tragically in play today as well. Back then we were hitting each other with swords, arrows and bullets. Today we are hitting each other with drones and missiles. When will we collectively learn to live with each other, be able to understand and make peace with each other. Probably my wish for a lasting peace among the two nations would never be fulfilled but somewhere deep down in my heart that hope is still alive, although its flame is about to die out.

I have read so much about Lahore, its history, about its people and what it means to Punjabiyat as a whole, that I wish one day I could travel there and experience the greatness of this city with my own eyes.

Although I have not visited Lahore… Lahore lives in me.

But that wish of visiting Lahore is also now in doubt. What will I say to them, should I tell them that I came from the land that they just went to war with? What would I hear in exchange. The back and forth, the finger pointing, the pleas and the hand holdings, the feeling of distrust, vainglorious boast of our infallibility, the truths and the half truths, the blame and the victimhood, vanity of our false distinctions, the oppressors versus the liberated, my history versus theirs.

I’m exhausted now. I can’t fight anymore, I can’t find a way out, and I can’t convince anyone that what I feel or say holds more truth than what they already believe in. Truth has many meanings and contexts. Truth that is wrapped in history is open to interpretation.  I have made peace with my history and how I interpret it.

Lahore calls to me with the weight of its glorious history — its poetry, its resilience, its soul carved into every stone and street. It should feel like home.

But now, amid the storm of today’s reality, I hesitate. The Lahore which I have read through history books and countless Partition stories still lives in memory, but the Lahore of today—shaped by recent events — feels like a stranger wearing a familiar face.

I long to walk its streets, to reconnect with the city that I have read so much about. Yet, I’m haunted by uncertainty… Will it recognize me? Will I recognize it? What will that first interaction feel like — when nostalgia meets the unfamiliar? It’s not easy to face a city you love when it, too, is trying to survive. Still, it beckons. And I ache.

Lahore doesn’t just beckons — it embraces. With its soulful food and timeless art, it opens its arms through the warmth of its people and the echoes of its history. It is not just a place — it’s a feeling, a deep, familiar pull of belonging.

If I walk its streets… If I walk its streets,

I can feel the pulse of what once was the heart of united Punjab. Lahore, radiant in its pre-Partition glory, stood unmatched—where art wasn’t just created, it was lived. The cinema, the poetry, the music, the vibrant heartbeat of a culture in full bloom.

Strolling through the narrow alleys of Anarkali bazaar, past tiny shops and worn stalls, I can almost touch the soul of old Lahore. Every turn whispers stories — Mosques standing beside Temples, vendors calling out, spices hanging in the air, lives unfolding in real time.

Each corner is a memory. Each brick holds a story. And in all of it, there is a quiet reminder:

This is not just a city. This is my home too. This is Lahore!

This year changed everything. The air grew heavier as the two nations—bound by blood, divided by history, once again stood on the edge of something irreparable. Words were flung like weapons. The hate louder than any bomb.

And now, I return to a question I once whispered quietly in despair: Is it time for me to walk away? Have we crossed the point of no return, where friendship is no longer possible, and respect has been lost to rage? Can we still imagine a future where we reconnect—not as enemies or strangers, but as people who once shared dreams?

Or is it too late? Should we, heartbroken but honest, accept that our paths have diverged forever?

Maybe it is time. Time to stop trying.

Time for both sides to quietly walk away, carrying the weight of what could have been.