by Nisha Giri, Wagah Border Point, India - Pakistan Border.
A white line, about twelve inches thick, ran from north to south, along the center of a stretch of concrete. As dusk fell, a light breeze blew gently through the trees. The leaves rustled softly. But across the line, the air seemed thicker, the trees stiller, and the land harder. Across the line lay Pakistan, ‘The Land of the Pure’. To me, then an impressionable sixteen-year-old, it was an oxymoron.
I stared at the line. It lay there, passive, blissfully unaware of its importance. This man-made boundary separated, for many, the good from the bad, the religious from the fanatical, the victim from the persecutor. What you were depended on which side you belonged to. India and Pakistan. Once a single entity. Now battling foes. Rival suitors fighting over beautiful Kashmir, scarring her for life in the process.
I wondered idly if the line ran along the entire length of the Indo-Pak border or if it abruptly gave way to the wilderness beyond. I had never been outside India till then. This was my first encounter with foreign soil, though I never technically set foot in it. However, the fact that it was Pakistan, the ‘Enemy’, that I was gazing upon, contributed considerably to my diminished enthusiasm
The Wagha Border is the most important gateway between India and Pakistan. Lying between the two great cities of Amritsar and Lahore, this check post on the Grand Trunk road, apart from being a tourist attraction, is also the center of legal crossing and trade (if any) between the two countries. The Indian Prime Minister, A B Vajpayee, once rode a bus across this border extending an olive branch. The then Prime Minister of Pakistan, Nawaz Sharif, welcomed and embraced him. Four months later, the two countries fought a bitter war in Kargil. This month, the Indian Cricket team visited this border from the Pakistan side. They were in Lahore, playing their first cricket series on Pakistani soil in 15 years. It was a ‘step towards restoring cordial relations’ between the two nations. Yet, the war of words between the Heads of the two countries rages on. Jihadi militants continue to attack civilians in Kashmir. But it has not turned into another open war of bullets. Not yet.
It was almost time for the famous flag-lowering ceremony performed every evening. The flags, one tricolored and displaying the Ashoka Chakra, the other sporting the Islamic Crescent, swayed lightly in the breeze. If flags could talk, they would have an interesting story to tell. There were two large gates on either side of the white line. An arch above the Indian gate proclaimed ‘Mera Bharat Mahaan’ (My India is Great) in Hindi. The Pakistani arch hailed its own country in Urdu. The trumpets sounded, announcing the commencement of the ceremony. The soldiers had lined up on both sides: the Indian army in khaki uniform, the Pakistani in green. A group of four from each side marched towards the gates and flung them open at the same instant. The Pakistani march was distinctly different. Their legs almost touched their chins as they strode in unison. Did they take conscious pains to be different from the Indians? The captains of the two sides formally shook hands over the border, their faces grim and taut. The flags began to be lowered. This was done with amazing precision. Both flags had to be lowered exactly together. Extreme care was taken so one would not go down quicker than the other. In a few minutes the whole procedure was over, and the gates once again stood closed.
A lot of tourists were having their pictures taken with the Indian soldiers. I strolled over to a dark young soldier, who stood slightly apart, watching his captain shake hands with the tourists. As it turned out, he hailed from the same southern state of Tamilnadu as I did. He instantly became familiar and chatty, speaking comfortably in Tamil. He had been at the Wagha Border for eight months, and missed his home, especially in winter, when he couldn’t bear the cold. He barely managed to understand the Hindi the other soldiers spoke. I was bemused as I realized that North Indians had more in common with Pakistanis than South Indians. Their languages sounded similar, the food was similar. Even the weather on both sides of the line was comparable, as against the vast difference (both cultural and climatic) between North and South India. A thought struck me.
“Do you ever talk to those guys across the border?” I asked, pointing to the Pakistani camp.
“No. We hardly look at them or cross the line. But we exchange sweets on Independence Day.”
I imagined the two groups of soldiers leading their parallel lives; ignoring each other’s existence, yet acutely aware of their presence.
Then I noticed the Pakistani civilians. Also tourists like me, they were lined up against their gate, trying to get a closer look at us Indians. I bid goodbye to my soldier friend and walked up to the Indian gate. I had never seen a Pakistani before, not counting the green-clad soldiers. All through my childhood and adolescence, Pakistan had been an entity, never a nation with people like me. The only ones I had seen on TV, the politicians and cricketers, were all part of that entity, as were the soldiers. But these people I was watching now were normal, regular citizens, like me. I stood with my hands on the iron gate. We were not allowed to cross it. They waved out to us. Many Indians waved back. They were trying to reach out to each other across fifty feet of unfathomable space. I gaped at them, awestruck. They didn’t look one bit like the ‘Enemy’ I had imagined. There was no trace of evil in their friendly faces. A young boy in a brown kurta and pajama grinned at me. I smiled at him and raised my hand in greeting.