written by Bilquees Daud & Peeyush Prakash Shrivastav
edited by Vasatika Saraswat and Vaisnavi Chillal Editorial Board (CAS) Growing up in Afghanistan, Bollywood was more than just entertainment—a thread that wove our family together. Every Friday night, we gathered in our grandparents’ house in old Kabul, eagerly awaiting the broadcast of a Bollywood movie on the government-run TV channel. These evenings were the happiest moments of our week, filled with joy, songs, and the fascination of a world far from our reality.
In the 1980s, Hindi and/or Urdu were foreign languages to most of my family members, but my uncle, a passionate admirer of Indian culture and cinema, bridged the gap. Having had some knowledge of Hindi and/or Urdu, he would sit with us, expertly translating the dialogues in real-time. It was a remarkable skill, especially in an era without pause or rewind buttons. His live narrations turned these movie nights into something magical, making memories that would last a lifetime.
The late ’80s and early ’90s were our golden years of Bollywood. My siblings and I idolised films like “Saajan,” “Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak,” “Tezaab,” and “Maine Pyar Kiya.” At school, we recreated the scenes, sang the songs, and swapped postcards of the heroes and heroines of these movies. But in April 1992, amidst the chaos of a deteriorating political regime, those innocent fantasies struck with a harsh reality.
That Friday, like every other, we eagerly waited for the clock to strike at 9:00 PM to watch “Dil Hai Ke Manta Nahin.” Yet, this night was different. The atmosphere in Kabul was heavy with tension as the communist regime was on the brink of collapse. The reports say that the seven Mujahedeen parties who declared Jihad against the Communists were to have a share in the future government. My father, an army general, was clearly disturbed as we watched the movie this time in the living room of our Mackrorayan flat—one of the many modern homes built by the Russians for army officers.
Mackrorayan was considered a posh and very liberal area of Kabul where girls attended school in skirts; co-education was very normal, and women worked in government offices without veils. In addition, Hindus and Sikhs ran bustling shops in the markets, and families celebrated Nowruz, Eid, Guru Nanak’s birthday, and any other festivals without restrictions. But the looming arrival of the Mujahideen cast a shadow over this freedom. The whispers of change were frightening, especially for those who cherished equality, freedom, and education. Despite the turmoil outside, we clung to our movie night, desperate for an illusion of normalcy. As the opening scenes played, the songs captivated us, and we sang along:
“Dil hai ke manta nahin
Yeh beqaraari kyoon ho rahi hai
Yeh jaanta hi nahin…”
But then came the first interruption, a breaking news: the news announcer declared that the communist president had resigned and the Mujahideen were advancing into Kabul. My father’sface was tense as he asked us to lower the volume. Minutes later, another bulletin announced that the Mujahideen had entered the capital, violating peace agreements. Panic rippled through our home as we watched soldiers in front of our building handing over their weapons to armed men with wild beards and grim faces.
Yet, we clung to the movie, mesmerised by its beauty, as if it could shield us from the chaos. When the melodious strains of “O mere sapno ke saudagar” filled the room, I dreamed of a world where I could return to school, share my excitement with friends, and collect postcards of Amira Khan and Pooja Bhatt, the stars of the movie. But our dreams unravelled as quickly as the world outside. My parents left the room to make some phone calls. From the window, we saw armed men breaking into the home of a high-ranking officer nearby. By morning, he was dead. My father’s voice cut through the tension, telling us to switch off the TV. We muted the TV but continued watching.
The next morning, we fled. Women in our family covered their heads and left on foot, walking through streets now unrecognisably littered with blood and debris. Gunfire echoed in every direction, and survival became our only goal. As we ran, the songs from the previous night lingered in my mind, battling with the images of destruction around me. Those melodies, once a source of joy, now carried a deep ache. Even today, when I hear them, they take me back to that fearful night—a poignant reminder of innocence lost and the fragility of life.
