Saturday 28 May 2011

My Train to Pakistan 2004 - Part 3 - Passage to 'Pindi


There are crowds and crowds of people waiting at Lahore to receive this train and the first loud words shouted over the top of the hullabulloo that I hear when I enter Lahore, are . . . . 'Ram Chander!! Ram Chander!?!'




previously published at The Chowk
http://www.chowk.com/Sports/Train-to-Pakistan-2004-Passage-To-Pindi

and in Outlook
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?223811

Prologue The salty brotherhood of seafarers is very strong, it oulasts the corrosive powers of two-thirds of the earth’s surface and often charts a course beyond the ultimate powers of nature. Early in life, people like us from all over the Tropics, including yours truly, learnt that above and below the latitudes of 40 degrees there are no laws and in the beauty of our world of shades of greys between black and white, beyond latitudes 50 degrees, there is no one , either. When the Force 10 hits you abeam and the word rock and roll implies 45 degreees each way twice a minute, then it is up to all the Gods, you, your truths, and nature. There are no enemies except your own fears, and you always, but always, double check and back up on each other while still working as a team. You wait till there is good weather again to win points.
Raghu works, looks after baggage and paperwork, I observe. That’s truth, that’s teamwork, father-son style.
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Sentiment Within a week of publishing the first part of my travelogue, I get many emails. Two are reproduced here, with permissions:-
a) Did you try to obtain your mother’s degree in ? My mom too hails from there. In  she and her other siblings and mother came to Ludhiana when the exodus had commenced but her father refused to leave his place of duty till his releiver came. He was Station Master of a Railway Station close to Pindi. People came to loot the station. He tried to defend but they were too many. He was slain. Gave his life defending property of a country which was not going to be his own in a day or two. He was a Thapar, first cousin of Sukhdev Thapar who was hanged with Bhagat Singh. My Grandfather’s name was Lala Amar Nath Thapar and he was Station Master of Abaspur (Near Lyallpur). (Rakesh Dhir, batchmate from the T.S. Rajendra)
b) Please remember me, I am Shahriyar, I was your cadet in 1980, I was glad to see your news. Please come to Turkey my Sir and I will give you my life for your news on Kurds and our long journeys. (Shahriyar Agighi, Kurdish cadet from Arya Lines/Iran)
Recent past Nitin Dhond of Belgaum, and I, sailed on the good ship, ultra large bulk carrier really, the mv SUMMIT, over 20 years ago. We did everything we should have, and much we shouldn’t have, too, together. Decades later, as part of this trip, while driving from Ooty towards Murree, my son and I are his guests at Wildernest, an upscale ecotel on property retrieved from degraded mining land, on the ocean facing side of the coastal mountains in Goa, that he conceptualised and built and now operates. Nitin’s  has been into politics for generations from the pre- days, and also publish one of the West Coast of ’s oldest and most influential Marathi vernacular newspapers, the Tarun Bharat. In the evening, floating about, quaffing "Summits" invented by me, (2 parts beer and one part fresh kokum juice, the colour of violent crimson blood-red South Pacific sunsets) in his infiniti pool with the Belt of Orion above and the Arabian Sea below, we are at  with the world. http://www.wildernest-goa.com gives you an idea.
The Belgaum Congress meeting of 1924 devised the outlines of the first tricolour flag for every Indian then, ir-respective of , creed or caste, under the Presidentship of Hakim Ajmal Khan. After a variety of evolutions, including a rejected demand for the gada (mace) of Vishnu, this tri-colour flag was then adopted by the Congress on the banks of the Ravi in  on the 29th December 1929. The ochre, saffron or geru colour was included specifically as it symbolised an ideal common to Hindu yogis and sanyasis, was close to the shade of yellow demanded by the Sikhs and symbolised the colour revered by Muslim faqirs and darveshes.
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Wagah  Hall, entry , hot and stuffy, loud, mainly full of poor people.
2200-midnight, 15th April’04 Shunty’s vodka and bidi are coming in very useful as I sit and day-dream while looking at the green  flag displayed on the side of the hall. The sub-Continental habit of jumping lines and crowding on top of each other are further complicated by the rather odd arrangement at the visa counters. There is one line where about three people can stand abreast, like sardines. It is hemmed in by rusty metal railings with sharp edges. People are crushed in like passengers in a crowded local train. First you have to do Indo versus Indo and Pak versus Pak battle, separately in adjacent lines, to reach the front. Then, work done, to exit, you have to push through all the others, Indians and Pakistanis mixed, waiting in the mob trying to move ahead. After that is done, you have to leapfrog all the huge baggage that the regular passengers/couriers/savaarees have stockpiled, where else, right at the door which leads from  towards the X-Ray machine room.
It is at times like this that I wish I was white. Somebody would have fetched me, I am sure. Since I am brown, and bearded to boot, I sit. A day’s worth of questions and visions comes back to me as I wait for the crowd to thin out.
Of people too poor to spend even 10 rupees on  waiting all day for the train to carry them to . These are Indians and Pakistanis, going to meet relatives on the other side, ostensibly, but actually also trying to cut expenses and make ends meet by taking part in commerce.
Of people who only want to know more about Filmfare and where the actresses and actors hang out in Mumbai.
Of authorities on the train in  who stop people from taking Indian magazines out and authorities on the same train when we enter  who grab what manages to get out.
Of why Pakistani trains are still crudely hand-painted, using brushes. Of the Urdu journalists from Multan and my own surprise at their fluency in Punjabi as well as their viewpoint on the good things about  which we take for granted. An their observations on the bad things in , too.
Of the sheer number of aged and inform people travelling by this train, or do they just look much older?
Of the flesh  plying on this route, young girls, young boys and even wistful, how do I know, I just do, I was a shippie, I ask directly.
Of the very pretty middle-aged Kashmiri woman who kept eating all the time at Attari. Of the Laughter Club members, walking about, cheering people up.
Of the paan patta (betel leaf, OK) and pineapple courier to  and his questions on sourcing Thailand vegetable for . Of the heat, dust, flies, mosquitoes, excreta.
And the final question - if not for sentimental reasons, then what am I doing here?
Raghu, getting impatient as well as hungry, moves on ahead, I just want to be last. He clears the crowd without any problems, pointing at me on being questioned, to a curious  man, and is off through the X-Ray room towards Customs. Half an hour later, I get up, stretch my aching body a bit, and move forward slowly, now that there is hardly anybody left. The  men here all seem to be overweight ex-Servicemen sporting paratroopers wings and insignia on their blue uniforms. The one closest to me has the smell of cheap booze on his perspiration.
My well-thumbed, multiple-world visaed and over-used machine readable passport seems to excite them a bit, and to add to the encounter, refuses to get itself read by their scanner. There is the faint hint of a touch, which I ignore. We go through the usual why what where series of questions, and I go through the standard  visa -Pindi-go-but-Jhung-no-go routine. We both agree that the Test, what is left of it, is a disaster. After trying to hit me for a bottle of booze that I don’t have, Larry stamps my passport and starts closing down what has, obviously, been a very long day for him.
Next, I sling my backpack on and roll my small suitcase onwards. And have a great get-back-into-form argument with a seedy looking rodent of a man trying to collect 10 rupees from everybody for the privilege of using or not using the station luggage trolleys. It is apparently the practice at Wagah to collect 10 rupees from everybody for using trolleys, even if they did not. I win my first argument in , but am deflated when I learn that Raghu has already paid up anyway. I still have the receipt.
The X-Ray room is, bliss, air-conditioned. Not for long, though. Not finding anything inside to excite him, the man-behind-the-machine who is dressed in civvies, with about three hanger-ons likewise, asks me if I am carrying any alcohol. My answer, anjeer and kaju burfee, disappoints him, too, and Joe puts some secret chalk marks on my bags and sends me on for "examination".
Here I meet yet another gentleman in this sport, the Greatest Hunt for Booze. When I present him too with a negative, he asks me if I want to buy any. This is a new one on me, so I ask him, for the sake of accurate reportage, the cost. He puts forth the contention that 2000 Rupees (Indian) may be a good price for a bottle of Royal Stag, which on a good day would cost about 200/- Rupees in  if turpentine was not available. I consider asking Curly Moe if he will organise Bacardi by the peg but think better of it and head for the relatively cool and fresh air of the platform.
Wagah platform has a bank currency exchange counter, but it is shut, please go to the PCO stall. It has a small bathroom for travelers, but it is shut, the man with the key went home, ask the PCO stall, they may have a spare. There is some sort of "official" stall which is shut, but you can go to the PCO stall who has a few small carts set up adjacent, selling an assortment of over-priced garbage. 10 rupees for one slim and stale samosa, 20 rupees for a weather beaten "Punjabi pizza", 20 rupees for a saucer of rice with some lentils in it, 20 rupees for a fake cola and 40 rupees for a litre of bottled water. Cash up front. I change some Indian money at an atrocious rate, and buy some rice and daal for some poor kids who have been on the train since , who are hanging around looking wistful.
Every now and then the PCO stall hands out meals and snacks and beverages without charge to the uniformed people around who demand it. Very nice.
Attari Station in  was bad, but at least there were a few taps, the stall there had prices published and a bottle of proper cold, water was for 10 rupees. Wagah Station in is one big rip-off, and the train staff have not switched the lights or fans on as yet either. Tap water is over, too. Luckily, formalities are over rapidly as everybody wants to go home, so by about 2315 hours, it is it is time to roll. People take positions in the train, and it moves towards , in the dark. Lights and fans operate sometimes on some sort of obscure and selective dim dynamo principle, relative to the speed of the train.
The Train moves, lurches actually, on its last legs, in more ways than one. The dust it kicks up is amazing and all-pervading, and I shall invite all Lahoris especially to please investigate this grand introduction to their city further. The reasons for this dust are, apparently, a total lack of social forestry, compaction of ballast below the rail tracks and some sort of chalk industries in the vicinity. Whenever we spot trees in the dark, we know we are moving next to yet another Army area. A few local Pakistanis point out the bridge over the canal till where the Indian Army had reached in . Another one tells me that captured tanks are on display along the route, I am sure there are, but we can’t see much at night.
An assortment of minor "authorities" rummage up and down the train, looking for the people they have spotted and marked earlier. Wearing uniforms with name tags and insignia removed, they stride the train like demons or Gods. They help themselves to whatever their heart desires, the poorer the passenger, the more vicious the grab. This sector, the Wagah to  and return, is going to be the lowest point of my complete trip, from a social perspective. Some things do not change, across borders, it seems.
It is now just about midnight  time, and the bright lights of the outskirts of are on us. As are the smells, which are like approaching any crowded city. We trundle past a level crossing which is backed up for almost a kilometre, if not more, and I note that organised chaos is the order of the day here, too. A shiny fully air-conditioned train, a gift from  we are told, is parked on the washing lines as we are slowly switching over the points entering the station. The platform has that typical dark feel about it. It is also clean. There are crowds and crowds of people waiting at to receive this train and the first loud words shouted over the top of the hullabulloo that I hear when I enter , are . . . . "Ram Chander!! Ram Chander!?!"
A group of very rural looking men in white dhoties with big ear-rings and some also with big metal rings around their necks are bawling the Lord Ram Chander’s name at every carriage as it rolls past. I will never know if they found him, I presume this is a Hindu visiting or returning, but somehow, this is symbolic. Later on I am told that the ring around the neck symbolises bonded labour. I do not see men with rings around their neck again during my stay.
Midnight-0045, 16th April’04 We move with the dispersing crowd from the train to the platform to the overhead pedestrian bridge to the concourse off Platform 2 of Railway Station. I am keen to see this station from the outside. I leave Raghu with our new friends, grabbing a cold Coke while I walk out, ignoring the variety of taxi and three-wheeler drivers. I soak in the station and its appearance, somehow that satisfies me. On the way back, I see some policemen round up a couple of junkies doing their stuff and throw them, unprotesting, into the back of some sort of a Black Maria. Other than that, this is by aura and smell and sixth sense, a clean and safe place. I know I shall find my way about this burg without problems.  Station at night is what Amritsar would be like if it was cleaner and less crowded. Any comparision by  is totally misplaced.
But where are the street people, the pavement dwellers?
Raghu’s Bahai friends and the girls he has met are, obviously, Some Bodies. They have 3 huge big SUVs waiting for them at  Station to take them across to Islamabad with their luggage. We, on the other hand, want to grab a quick look at by night and move on, because we do want to hit Rawalpindi in time to see some  atleast. Our train friends suggest that Skyline or Niazi are amongst the better buses on the route, via Motorway. Daewoo, now Tata, is the preferred choice, but the Daewoo/Tata stand is supposed to be far away and not "through town". Skyways/Niazi win hands down. Our Multan friends help us negotiate with a chain elderly Punjabi gentleman, who settles for 80 rupees, we up the ante to a hundred for a guided tour, as well as assistance in securing good seats on the bus to Pindi, and off we go on the roller coaster that is a midnight 3-wheeler ride through. We bid farewell to all the people who have been part of our lives for the past 30 hours and scramble our separate ways. Our Multan friends insist on paying for the snacks, and the three-wheeler.
We are now in the 3-wheeler. Bargaining over, the driver is now our best buddy as well as saviour, and has handed over controls to a younger version. Younger version is told with a smart cuff to his ears that he is to look after honoured visitors, otherwise. We now roll. And how. After a few minutes of terror, I gather my wits and ask him what he thinks he is doing. In Punjabi it sounds better, something like this . . . "oye pencho maadercho fakir dee fudee dee aulad, tu phosdee de kur kee ryaa hai, tainoo malang dee tharrak chad gayee hai?
I am informed by the acrobat at the steering rod in a disparaging voice they reserve for people from , it seems, after more than a few suicidal attacks at entities bigger than him, that 3-wheeler drivers in  do "dravery", and that this is "dravery". This game called "dravery", is a combination of driving and bravery, which I lack because I am from  it seems? Raghu is sitting in front with the driver, grabbing a look at whatever the driver is telling him to look at between blowing on a horn suited more for barges on the Mississippi, I am busy back-seat driving and keeping my back teeth from floating. Raghu is salivating at the  stalls as they rush past, I am aiming for the 0030 bus towards Pindi, promising him all he can eat at the bus station, and the driver is breaking all land speed records and aiming for more human sacrifices from the bus station to go back to the railway station to aim for the Shalimar which is due at at 0100 or something like that.
Facing Shoaib Akhtar may have been easier. We reach Niazi. We reach Skyline. We reach lurid honkytown in shades of pink and green and other violent colours of the night. I have never seen such brightly lit and decorated buses in my life. The only thing brighter I have seen, actually, were the Pachinko parlours in Japan. Many of these buses still carry the markings of whatever Japanese hotel or resort they originally belonged to. We buy our tickets without the usual push-pull that goes with such transactions in . Some of our luggage goes into the cargo hold below the bus, where I see something - a portable jack is pressed up tight between the ladder chassis at the bottom and a double bottom below the seats, and the false bulkhead to hide it has come down. Having seen such things before in life, I know what they are there for, and just keep my mouth very very tightly shut. I think I now also know why the bus ticket is so cheap on this route, all of 180/- rupees per head, all inclusive, on a snazzy 2x2 air-conditioned luxury coach for almost 400 kilometres.
Raghu is disappointed at the quality of  available. Most of it is of the chips-colas-wafers variety. We sit down, and in due course the bus fills up and then starts moving, only to stop again right outside the bay. A couple of very angry looking men with long beards board the bus to provide us with benedictions for our safety and then launch into a long tirade about the sad  awaiting Muslims. A collection box is passed around, and everybody seems to part with about 10 or 20 rupees. So do I. Nobody wants to be the odd person out.
0045-0530, 16th April’04 the bus moves along the outskirts of  and then enters the access ramp for the motorway. It picks up some passengers from points near toll booths or other exits, who move in to sit on the folding fifth seat incorporated between the 2x2. A Sunny Deol-Preity Zinta potboiler, "Hero-The Spy", is scrolling through the credits on the television screen up front, and the audio is set to high, both volume and tone, with many people singing along as well as lip-synching the dialogues. From what I could make out, the movie has an anti-Pakistani pro-good Muslim theme, a storyline set in Canada with a lot of bare legs and huge bosoms, and action of the front stall kind.
A young man sitting across is moaning how his bottle of lemon-lime soda  is fake and tastes like medicine. Said in chaste Punjabi, it sounds even funnier, and we have a conversation going soon. Another young man introduces himself to me as the Secretary for an Asociation of Blind cricketers. Everybody, almost, wants to talk with us about . The air-conditioned bus cuts us off from reality, we doze off, and next thing I know, we are at some rest stop half-way. Raghu gets off to investigate, I keep snoozing.
Early morning, and we are off the Motorway, heading in towards Pindi. At this juncture, we have no idea of what we shall do next, once we get off the bus.
0530-0630, 16th April’04 disembark the bus at the Skyways stand outside Pindi, and we are surrounded by taxi drivers. Old tactic, ignore drivers, head for the vehicles, and select therein. We locate a fairly decent Maruti-800 equivalent and the driver, Maqsood, seems to be a decent sort. He uses a term, "baunee", which means first customer of the day in  too. We do a "baunee" rate of flat 100 rupees for a morning driving and speaking tour of Islamabad as well as hotel drop.
We head for the Marriot. Entry into the hotel is difficult, because the  teams are staying there, as are some Americans and other foreigners in town. At the counter we are told that they have no idea about our reservations, in any case they are full. Serena, likewise. Maqsood drives us past the big Mosque. He explains what Blue Area means, and takes us past Super,  and  Super. Cuts across to Ambassador, likewise, full of Indian  crew it seems. Best Western next, also full. But the Best Western manager helps us set up a good rate at the neighbouring Islamabad Regency, 2000 rupees per night with breakfast and no extra charge for the early check-in.
We tip Maqsood an extra 50/-, he has been a thorough gentleman throughout. If anybody wants his mobile number, ask me, I shall surely use his services the next time I am there.
0630-0930, 16th April’04 I am racing through this part because it has now been over 36 hours since I last saw a proper restaurant, a decent clean room with a shower, and a bed. But the 3rd Test is about to reach its early demise a few hours away too, so with great regret we decide that while we are still moving, we might as well continue. A bath and change and freshen up and a short power nap later, we are down at the restaurant, which is occupied largely by Gulf-labour kind of people who have had their flight to Muscat delayed.
The management of the hotel, meanwhile, is on full  hospitality alert. The is Punjabi with English. More photocopies of passports and visas. We are given the best table, with a view of the Club Road as well as edge of the Rawal Lake. A steward is assigned to us, even though there is a buffet where we can see cornflakes, milk and other staples. We ask him to suggest a good, better, breakfast, he goes into conference with the chef who comes up to meet us. We ask him to make anything, the way his mother did. He suggests a simple omlette with parathas, pickles, and fresh curd. We ask for coffee, he suggests tea. We are in mutual seventh heaven.
A few minutes later we are presented with parathas and omlettes the way my mother cooks them. This is one of the high points of our trip. Decades later, paratha making skills remain the same, it seems. Raghu has multiple breakfasts.
Next, we head for the stadium. Most people, including us, are stopped way outside, but some cars and people are allowed through. We head for the  Board mobile counter, where we are to exchange our printouts for our tickets. On the way, I spot the -familiar face of a Retired officer from , one of the known players on the  theatre of operations in , being driven through in a very big car accompanied by Pakistani brass with Pakistani  escort.
We have a seamless experience with tickets, multiple episodes of physical checking, tired smiles, there are uniforms and guns all over the place. Most place us as Indians before we open our mouths, and the welcome is visibly heartfelt. I spend some time exhanging greetings with all. So by the time we get in, the match has already begun, and when we finally walk into the Javed Miandad stands, the third wicket for the 2nd innings has just fallen. We can hear the "khatak-crack" sound as we enter.
As we move in kind of diffidently, looking like lost tourists, towards some seats, we are grabbed by some very rough looking bearded young men wearing green and dragged towards a young giant waving a big  flag. The young giant screams at us loudly in what sounds like gibberish, and propels us forward towards an even bigger and older man who is obviously the ring leader. We can see no more uniforms, it seems this stand has been taken over by the Jolly Green Giants with Huge Flags of brigade, and the sound is deafening. Have we been kidnapped by fundoos out to avenge?
We have just been introduced to Chacha Green  and his gang, the Barmy Army of . Next to Chacha Green  is an urbane Sikh and a very noisy Tamilian gentleman with a tri-colour cap on his head. Everybody is screaming loudly, and the television cameras are suddenly in our face.
"Balaji hun jaan do, saadee vaaree aan do".
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My Train to Pakistan 2004 - Part 2 - The Journey Outbound



Attari International Railway Stationn attracts more flies than all the Punjabs put together could have.




Previously published at The Chowk:-
http://www.chowk.com/Views/India/Train-to-Pakistan-2004-The-Journey-Outbound

and Outlook:-
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?223744

Condensed extract from an Indian Railway (IR) and Pakistani Railway (PR) joint announcement, issued on 15th of January 2004:-
The special train no. 4001 (-Attari non-stop) will depart from  Jn. on every Wednesday and Sunday at 9.00 p.m. to reach Attari at 4.40 a.m. the next day of its departure. In return direction the special train no. 4002 (Attari- non-stop) will run from Attari station from 15.1.2004 on every Thursday and Monday at 8.05 p.m. to reach Jn. at 3.35 a.m. the next day of its departure.
The 4607Attari- Samjhota Express will depart from Attari at 1.30 p.m. on every Thursday and Monday from 15-1-2004. In the return direction the 4608 -Attari Samjhota Express will depart from  at 8.00 a.m. on every Thursday and Monday from 15-1-2004 to and reach Attari at 12.30 p.m.
The Attari special Express train will have four second sleeper class, ten general second class and two brake vans coaches. The Samjhota Express will have one second sleeper, seven general second class and two luggage van coaches.
Midnight 14th/15th April’04
Prologoue do you  trains too? I could never sleep on them. When I was young, and growing up in the Raj railway town of Jamalpur on Eastern Railway, all full of King’s Road and Queen’s Street and Gymkhanas, high points were when we would manage to ride on foot-plates. Memorizing time-tables was the equivalent of an addictive video game for us then. My dear friend Deepak Banerjee, who will come into this report towards the end again, can, till today, have long and insightful arguments with me about the subject, as well as our respective ancestors, and we both enjoy them as much as we do our Old Monk and fresh lime.
There is more than one route by train from  to Amritsar. And all Airbus-320 aircraft have single axle bogeys, except those with Indian Airlines.
Sentiments the old Frontier Mail, which used to go all the way from Peshawar to, is now renamed Golden Temple Express. It crosses the Yamuna River at, heads for Saharanpur/Jagadhri through Western U.P., crosses the Yamuna again at, where else, Yamuna Nagar, then joins the Calcutta-Moradabad Northern line to re-connect at Ambala. Other trains, like the Punjab Mail, break off from  to go via Rohtak, Jind, Dhuri. Indian Punjab has this spiders web of train tracks and good roads which makes for fascinating route planning. The pre-partition optional route through Bhatinda-Faridkot and Firozpur Cantt. loses its old connection at the international border via Khem Karan thanks to the Hussainiwala chicken neck of sticking into . The fastest route, rail and road, which we are swishing on, is along the old Grand Trunk Road/Sher Shah Suri Marg axis.
The -Attari/Wagah train is not permitted by bilateral treaty to stop anywhere in Punjab, so after a technical halt at Ambala (Haryana), it is non-stop for the next 300 kms or so along one of the busiest tracks in the country.
Recent past the rail tracks on this route are of the new high-speed "long welded" kind, so there is hardly any of the usual clackety-clack for minutes at a time. -Panipat-Karnal-Kurukshetra-Sha hb ad Markanda-Ambala-Rajpura-Sirhind-Ludhiana-Jullundur-Beas-Amri tsar is under 6 hours by the swanky fully air-con Shatabdi Express, but the more down to earth international train we are on has open windows with higher drag, so we shall take about 7 hours including the extra hour or so for the last bit, Amritsar to Attari.
There was an interesting article recently about how an over one century old bridge on this route was being repaired. With wooden beams used for scantling and keeping the bricks in position after grouting.
2300, 14th April’04:- A typical IR 3-tier sleeper carriage has 76 berths. Each "compartment" has a group of 8 berths, 2 along the side running fore-and-aft and 3 each athwartships, aligned facing each other.
Raghu and I are lucky enough to bag the side seats in our 8-some, and he is fast asleep on the upper berth. Of the other 6 berths, two are occupied by an elderly Ismaili couple, returning after visiting relatives in Mumbai. They have been in the business of bridal wear in  for decades now, but to hear them speak, it would appear as though they have not moved out of Bandra (East). Sweet and contented looking bird-like lady and sharp pointed beard refined gentleman  Marlboro Lights. Across them are four Hindus from a larger contingent bearing eternal allegiance to the Sheikh Sarai/Panchsheel Colony Laughter Club, headed for the 3rd  Test at Pindi like us, two elderly gentlemen and a middle aged couple. The elderly men are being referred to as "Swami" by the others, but that only means that they get their whisky served, and in turn keep offering some to the Ismaili gent, who keeps declining till his wife falls asleep, wherupon he astounds all of us with his speed and capacity.
In the compartnent on one side are 8 young people from a loud and noisy extended Muslim  from  going to  to meet up with  but travelling on visas, the young men are all in extremely tight trousers with body hugging t-shirts and the young ladies are not of the shy retiring type at all either. They are providing the rest of us with antakshri entertainment which goes haywire more every now than then. In the compartment on the other side are Bunty, Shunty, Tinkoo and Pinky, progressively getting rapidly wasted in dark and efficient silence, and some other random people who have been sleeping ever since they boarded.
This is one contented train whistling North. Even the variety of cops who pass through every now and then smile indulgently. I stroll around the vestibuled train, plenty of space available.
0100 15th April’04 "Mushtaq" is a Pakistani journalist with an Urdu newspaper and a worldview, returning after a few weeks in  as part of a sponsored group. We have made polite conversation, but then retreated into our own worlds, for he seems to smoke a lot too. His  migrated from Ludhiana to Multan, and he is sitting quietly on his window seat as I walk across to point out the 24x7 industrial area near Ludhiana, Dhandari Kalan, where I have worked in the past at the Inland Container Depot.
Suddenly, the diesel headed train, with that metal-on-metal sound and oscillating sway signalling a rapid drop in speed so beloved to those of us who grew up with gentler steam but fell in  with the abruptness of newer technologies, slows down outside Ludhiana. Mushtaq’s is visibly emotional as the train grinds to a sudden halt right bang on the main platform, where it says Ludhiana in English, Hindi, Gurumukhi and Urdu, black lettering on yellow board in even more yellow sodium vapour lamps. The policemen on duty seem to be prepared for this, as they have cleared the area of the usual night-vendors and accompanying railway noises. It is stark and ghostly as official type people on the platform watch this train and the few souls awake inside watch them in return. Nobody knows why we have stopped and by now other people are making waking up noises all across the train.
A very smart, tough looking and crisply dressed 3-star Punjab Police Inspector ambles past with his walkie-talkie on high static and low RF control, supplemented by a retinue of followers. I signal him with an amount of respect I am unaware that I can summon, identify myself as an Indian from , and ask him in my best Queen’s English if a Pakistani on board who has ancestors from Ludhiana can just step on the platform for a few seconds. Something happens to this tough cop, and Mushtaqgets his few moments in life of connecting back. His subsequent emotions are too private to be reproduced here. Spring high tide water marks in life are made of these fleeting moments that we can grab through coincidences and other good people. Mushtaq’s grandfather was one of the few male members of his  to get out alive during the bloodbaths, he has heard tales that some of the rest converted and stayed back.
0100-0430 15th April’04 some of the most affluent parts of , the vibrancy and wealth both agricultural and industrial, pass us by in the course of the night on this route. Smells vary a lot here, from clear wet mud to trees to molasses to drains to sugar factories to fields to chemicals to fuel dump vapours to dust to city  to waste. The satsangis at Beas obviously wake up early, we can see lights on when we pelt past this amazingly clean and sylvan area around 0315. Amritsar is also awake and bustling when we cross at about 0345. It is breaking dawn at about 0445 in the morning, and most of the train is fast asleep, when we quite suddenly roll on to Platform 2 of Attari International Station. I was expecting fanfares, but am not prepared for what follows next.
There are these infernal mynahs making an end-of-the-world is nigh kind of racket, they roost in their thousands under the steel roof of the station. That, and the railway guards walking past the train, banging on windows with their night sticks, has all of us out like startled mice, as the IR rake is inspected and readied to move out to the idle line. Where the devil are we? All we can see are rows upon rows of unmanned cabins and customs counters, with not a soul on the station except other passengers.
0430-0830 15th April’04 pakoda and chole-puri vendors appear, so do flies. The toilet on the North end of the platform gets clogged up fairly rapidly and the fetid aroma mixes with the stench of stale  being re-fried. We find another set of toilets at the Southern end of the platform, available for the business and custom of selected users for a small consideration to the railway staff hanging around. Bath and change, motivate the railway stalls to rustle up some very decent omlettes with fresh parathas, and passable tea. Wait for the Customs and  staff to appear. And wait. And fill forms for illiterate travellers. And wait. And fill more forms for more illiterate travellers.
There is more bird shit on this platform than on any other platform in all of Indian Punjab. There are more flies on this platform than on any other platform in Punjab and its territories anywhere, including all of England, the Bay Area and Seattle/British Columbia. There are as many illiterate people travelling between  and , percentagewise, as their were half a century ago.
0830-2230 15th April’04 Work starts, khaki and blue uniforms abound. At the counter, all of us Indians with  visas issued on the 12th of April run into a technical flaw - seems that the operative word with the Pakistani visa is that we were supposed to enter  within 3 days of issue, date of issue included. We are asked to stand aside. The number of people asked to stand aside grows, so do the protests. A while later, consultations with a higher authority somewhere having taken place obviously, we are told that the Indian authorities at Attari have no problems letting us go, but if the Pakistanis don’t let us in, and keep us at Wagah, then we should not blame the Indians as the next train back is only after 4 days, on Monday the 19th. No, we can not return by road or "foot crossing", the bilateral treaty prohibits changing the mode of crossing.
Customs is also fairly painless, here again, partly because of our middle-class educated appearance, partly because all that most of us  visa sorts are carrying is clothes and a few gifts, and mostly because the travellers with goods in commercial quantities that the Customs are really after are easy to spot, thanks to their huge sacks. Those are the people who are held back for negotiations. It is very interesting to observe these "negotiations", it is the only entertainment on offer anyway, carried out loudly in the open and without any trace of coyness by Customs staff as well as travellers. The range of goods, being moved in huge sacks, varies, and includes medical supplies, syringes, anti-mosquito machines, cheap toys, readymade shirts and trousers, proprietory creams, betel leaves, pineapples, film magazines, paints, sanitary fittings, copy-books, and other stuff we can not see.  visitors are allowed to take alcohol through, regular travellers not.
By about 1330, all deals have been closed satisfactorily, latecomers (smarter Indians) who have skipped the -Attari IR train and arrived directly by road have been seamlessly integrated, and all passengers bound for  moved to the North end of a segregated Platform 3. Brilliantly, this is also the side which gets the sun for the rest of the afternoon. An IR inspector moves around amidst the crowd, collecting her pound of flesh for excess baggage at this stage. It is all commerce and transacted with bravado and elan, without receipts in most cases. Two persons from an unknown agency take me aside for a chat thinking that I am a Pakistani, and then treat Raghu and me to coffee when they realise I am not.
Raghu is busy making friends and trying vainly to find a television or radio to catch the 3rd day of the 3rd Test at Pindi, therefore he peels off at this point towards some pretty Pakistani young ladies headed back for Islamabad with their wilting mother. The platform is getting progressively dirtier, and the flies are doubling in number every 30 minutes, calling in back-up forces from far and wide. The Punjabi journalists from Multan are rapidly reviewing their impressions of . I have found salvation in the form of a devotee of Shiv-Shamboo and am getting increasingly mellow. The sun is baking all of us into little pieces of fired clay.
Another Middle Epilogue The Two (or Three?) Nation Theory falls flat as far as trains are concerned. Bring the two Nations together, and see what they do to the trains?
At about 1430, the much awaited and delayed PR rake arrives on the now vacated Platform 2, to loud cheers from all of us waiting  bound passengers on Platform 3, and disgorges what seems to be a vast sea of  in all colours and men in blue, white and saffron turbans, with a few nihangs in their finery for effect. The first of the returning Sikh jatha from Hassan Abdal/Panja Sahib/Pindi has arrived in all its glory and noise and demands, insists, that the same PR rake take them right up to Amritsar. They will not take no for an answer, and while the bilateral treaty does not permit Indian trains to move North of Wagah, and Pakistani trains to move South of Attari, it is obvious that the jatha is not in the mood to let some late Lateef thing as fanciful as a bilateral treaty come in their way.
Kirtan is hurriedly organised over the PA system. A , or worse, is averted. The Will of the Akal prevails. An additional Indian diesel engine is summoned urgently, and the reddish-orange IR loco marked "Katni" (a town in Madhya Pradesh), is coupled on to the green PR rake. Before we  bound passengers can realise it, "our" PR rake has moved off southwards towards Amritsar packed with Sikh pilgrims, under command of a delighted mixed PR/IR crew who are obviously looking forward to Pritam da Hotel or Kesar da Dhaba or Guru da Langar at the Golden Temple, preferably all three.
This repeats itself a total of three times. Each time a PR rake loaded to the brim with Sikh pilgrims arrives from , the pilgrims clear inwards  and customs into , and then vanish with great despatch on the single line towards Amritsar in our PR rake under IR engine power, Tughlagabad-() and Bhagat ki Kothi-(Jodhpur), respectively, and do not return. There must be a big well somewhere in Amritsar where these trains are being parked, obviously. Each time we go back to the omlette and paratha guy who is fast becoming a wealthy and dear old friend. And nobody has the faintest idea about what, if anything, is happening at Rawalpindi with the  Test beyond the odd update.
Shunty and company, who were looking sad all day, have now perked up as the evening closes in, and started round two of what is obviously their main  in life along with an enhancement in the number of troops. My two friends from Multan are busy designing missiles.
At sunset, 24 hours after I have left a comfortable home with running hot water and an adoring dog and a barman who knows what I want, in , an eighth wonder kind of thing happens. All the flies get converted, morphed, into very small and very sharp mosquitoes. The mynahs come back happily, in pairs and  groups, singing joyous farming songs of successful harvests, in formation, with a day’s load of shit saved up. They assemble and take positions on the human flotsam and jetsam, already weary and totally broken regardless of  or nationality on Platform No. 3 of Attari International, pride of IIR.
We are machine gunned from all around and bombarded from on top, I am ready to call it an evening and become a Sikh myself, if only to get back to the Grand Hotel at Amritsar on the next PR rake. At this stage, to add another set of variables to this increasingly Kafkaesque scenario, we are also informed that the Indian BSF and Pakistani Rangers do not operate the gate across the Railway line after sunset, till 0900 the next morning. However, permission is being sought, and we shall be informed, though it is also informed that it is unlikely that another train will come from tonight. Of the PR rakes that went to Amritsar, ofcourse, there is absolutely no news. Even Ahmed Shah Abdali could not have done better.
Next. Like with all things on the sub-Continent, around 2030, without any information. A non-jatha standard PR rake steams in on Platform 2 at Attari, full of standard issue tired passengers as well as happy  fans whose visas have expired. The passengers coming in to  have spent the whole day at Wagah, giving way to the Sikh jatha, and are eminently disgusted. They tell us that the Pakistani authorities waiting for us at the other end are at the end of their fuses. The Indian  and Customs staff at Attari have spent the whole day clearing the Skih jathas, and are equally annoyed. The Northern Railway staff from  who have been waiting to take their IR train back to  are upset because their schedule and path has been shot out of all possible shape. The PR staff are obviously disappointed that the greatly appreciated trend of taking PR train rakes on a one-way ride to Amritsar for a grand bada khaana-egg-peg-leg--angrezi-soda session has been reversed and therefore switch off all the fans and lights. The passengers bound for  are beyond any reasonable emotions and are wandering around, gibbering like the lunatics in the famous Hollywood movie, One S(h)at under the Cuckoo’s Nest.
The mosquitoes and mynahs are full of joy, this must be their biggest feast day ever, and the station resounds to everybody’s babble.
Around 2115 IST, we are all given something like 7 minutes to sprint to the dark carriages of what is obviously a collection of the most condemned wagons from, maybe the PR guys got really worried after reaching a 3-0 score for the day and did not want to take any more chances. The Attari-Wagah train has a few sealed cargo wagons (8-wheelers) hooked on in front with export goods from . It then gives a series of wild hoots which send the mynahs into yet another frenzied rhapsody, the omlette and paratha vallah is busy opening a new bank account, and we finally leave  for the border a couple of kilometers or so away. Along the way we are accompanied by BSF riders on horses that obviously have night vision as they evade barbed wire.
The Train meanders past a level crossing, then through fields. The Train crawls as it crosses the fully lit up fence on the Indian side. The Train then jerks and fumbles through no-man’s land till the engine reaches the marker stone which signifies the middle, where it stops forever while some sort of exchange ceremony takes place. The Train then moves on, over what are obviously badly maintained tracks and weak culverts, and 57 years later, my son and I with my father’s spirit, we are in .
Adjust wrist watches for new time zones.
Middle Epilogue 2200 PST on the 15th of April’04, welcome to Wagah Station,. No shouting, no slogans, no zindabad/murdabad. Just tired humanity. Ahead there is segregation, Pakistanis enter to the right, Indians (and others) to the left.
The PR train from Wagah onwards to  is not going to leave till the last passenger is cleared. I decide to sit down and people-watch, be the last person in. Let me see what will happen if the clock crosses 15th and my entry visa expires? It is now 10pm at night,  time, and it has taken us 18 hours to cross 3 kilometres, and we are not done yet. Shunty offers me a vodka disguised as mineral water, straight shots. I accept.





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