Where does one begin when trying to put down in words the unemotional but true rendition of what could well be the journey of a lifetime?
Previously published at The Chowk . . .
and Outlook
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?223698
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?223698
Tribute
Dad passed away on the 16th of February, earlier this year. I am now 47, had more than 70 countries under my belt before I was 27, but this trip with my 18 year old son was going to be different, like nothing else before.
PROLOGUE
Where does one begin when trying to put down in words the unemotional but true rendition of what could well be the journey of a lifetime? I am now 47, had more than 70 countries under my belt before I was 27, but this trip with my 18 year old son was going to be different, like nothing else before.
SENTIMENTS
My parents, along with a few truckloads of relatives, migrated from West Punjab, district Jhung, to a variety of places within India in 1947. Mom`s family was from the judiciary, Dad`s were feudal landlords. They were neighbours, and from different communities. The crossing was not easy, material goods were of course left behind, properties were burnt, people were misplaced, and lives were also lost. Dad was in the army so he had at least a salary, and naturally took charge of, at a modest estimate, about 150 people from his as well as my mother`s family . At the same time he had to relocate into new regiments, move with the troops in what was emerging as the 1948 conflict, and re-assemble family members scattered across the country in locations as diverse as Calcutta, Dhanbad, Ujjain, Delhi, Jalaandhar, Bombay, Ambala, Panipat, Poona, Roorkee, Shimla, Patiala . . . as well as try to work on the agricultural land alloted in exchange in Rohtak.
The one thing my mother asks all my Pakistani friends when they come visiting is to ask them if they can get her a copy of her degree certificate. That`s all.
RECENT PAST
Dad passed away on the 16th of February, earlier this year. He led a very full life, and by the time he left us, had squared up his accounts and made his peace with his Maker. The stories he had for those of his grandchildren who would listen were about the days of his youth and tales of Jhung, Lahore, Amritsar, Karachi, Multan, Murree, Shimla, Burma, Ceylon, Singapore, Chitagong, Alwar, Baluchistan, Peshawar, Kandahar, Bombay, Roorkee, Ramgarh, Nagaland, Hyderabad-Sindh, Sargodha, Rawalpindi, Srinagar, Leh, Gilgit, Manali, Poona, Danapur, Sitamarhi, Shillong, Gujranwalla . . . Syals, Maliks, Kuraras, Sufi lore, rivers and fields, temples, mosques, gurudwaras and churches, teachers and principals, first motorcycles and first cars and subsequent . . . All fulfilling stories.
The only responsibility he left us was that we were to look after my mother. When, after his final rites, on the way back from the final release of his ashes into the rapid flow of the Neeldhara at Hardwar, I broached the subject with my mother of my visiting Pakistan soon with my son--her grandson. She readily agreed, and in fact told me to get a move on. (Our daughter had already been to Pakistan about 5 years ago)
A few years ago, a source who does not wish to be identified here, told us that my father was the oldest and therefore senior-most surviving officer from his Baluch Regiment.
End-February, 2004A few days later, I saw a news article about open ended cricket visas for Indians. Uncle Google and a few keystrokes later, I look at the calendar, figure out dates, workloads, Raghuveer`s 12th Board exams, and buy on the web two tickets for the final Test at Rawalpindi. Forty pounds sterling for two seats in the Javed Miandad Stands of the Pindi stadium. The wonders of plastic and web.
A very very dear friend from Pakistan, currently in the US, is a fanatical fan of Javed Miandad`s. I am really, really looking forward to meeting up with him in Pindi. I have no wish to sit and watch cricket, I just want to meet my friend in his country, for a change.
I have not had a proper juicy meat kabab in a long, long time.
March and early-April, 2004I take the printout, send it to my son who is by now in the final laps for his 12th Board exams at faraway Lawrence School, Ooty, and make him a rash promise - after his exams are over in end March 2004, we shall drive from Lawrence/Ooty to Lawrence/Murree.
Starting around the third week of March, with enough mid-point peeling off by air by me to touch base with work in Delhi and Poona, I drive Poona to Ooty solo, pick him up, and then we drive Ooty to Bangalore to Belgaum to Goa, backtrack a bit up and down the West Coast, Mangalore, Karwar, Chiplun, Panvel, and reach Poona by early April, drive on to Bombay, from where we decide to fly to Delhi as we are already behind schedule.
The third Test is scheduled to start on the 13th of April, and it is already Friday the 9th of April. We are nowhere near getting visas ready or making bookings for travel or stay. Besides, I have not seen my wife for almost a month, since she has been busy travelling elsewhere too.
And summer has arrived, delightful roads have changed to shimmering tarmac in fields of white sand. Many people, I would say around 90%, are "warning" me against going.
It is going to be impossible to get a carnet for my car, so we hope to try for a "foot crossing" visa, which means we drive Delhi to Amritsar/Attari border, leave our India car there, and pick up a Pakistani car somehow from the Wagah/Lahore border. No sweat, I am also a motoring columnist, and there are cars lying in Delhi that need to be exercised.
Saturday 10th through Monday 12th April, 2004
Arrive in Delhi, recce Pakistan High Commission, discuss with friends who have already been to Pakistan on a "cricket visa", get inputs from friends in the media: the best way seems to be the "foot crossing" visa. Airline and bus is choc-a-bloc full, sold out. Train is terrible, miserable.
Reality, however, hits us when we land up at the visa counter on Monday the 12th, along with another few score loud, singing, joyous, Indians. The real Indians, the sort we all know have simply decided to have a great time, regardless. Most of them look like they do not know a fine leg from a chicken tangri--but never mind, what a silly point to make when love is in the air?
Forms properly filled, double checked, and the obnoxious surly man at the visa counter having a really bad hair day forcibly issues rail entry/exit visas to everybody. No foot-visa. No argument, no discussion. The reason, as much as I can tell, is because he is a sarkari babu and is used to Indians of a different sort--the absolutely poor variety (96%) who bow and cringe and beg and beseech for visas, and the absolutely rich and powerful (4%) whose visa forms come straight from inside anyway. So, now, who are these democratic, vocal and easily roused middle-class Indians making a fuss outside his little puddle, saying "tum" instead of "huzoor", talking loudly, arguing? Dikhao salon ko, go by rail.
Petty babus are the same everywhere. Why should those in the Pakistani High Commission at Delhi be different?
By evening, our Pakistan cricket visas (No Police Reporting, hurrah!) dated the 12th of April, valid for entry within 3 days from date of issue, and further valid for 8 days in Pakistan, are issued. Mine gives me all options (air/road/rail/foot) but Raghuveer`s visa is marked "rail only".
Tuesday 13th April, 2004
The next train for Attari/Wagah/Lahore leaves on Wednesday the 14th, at 8pm, from Old Delhi. Tickets will be sold from 8am onwards on the same date only. There is no air-conditioned class--options are 2nd Class 3-tier sleeper for Rs 250/- and 2nd Class unreserved for no idea how much, probably a hundred rupees lesser.
We pack clothes, follow up on last minute addresses and phone numbers, organise money, inform invisible plastic women hidden behind credit card phone numbers that we may use their plastic in Pakistan, try for hotel bookings over the internet and fail, and get more dire warnings about all things Pakistani from those who have not been there. Those who have been there, on the other hand, are full of encouragement.
We shop for kaju barfi, anjeer barfi, hand made paper products, small gifts for people we may meet on the way, copies of magazines including those that I write for. We top up on basic medicines, the Sualins, the Hajmolas, the Brufens, the Pudin Haras and the deodarants. Toothpaste, toothbrush, lots of shirts and t-shirts. [What, no razors? No shaving cream? Ha! - Ed] And, of course, the separate list of official contacts in Pakistan, should we run into problems. Medical insurance? No time.
The best piece of advice I get from an old mate who went for the one-day party-time trips is to simply board the train, go with the flow, and worry about things when we reach Pindi. We also find out that the surly man has been replaced, and a nicer dude is issuing "foot crossing" visas to all who applied on Tuesday the 13th.
Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Home
We learn that our neighbours, who have gone to Panja Sahib with a group of Sikh pilgrims in jathas of about 3000 strong, are expected back in a day or two. Maybe we would meet them in Pindi? The thought of 3000 Sikhs running around in Rawalpindi is very intensely moving, for some reason.
The day goes by. More advice, courtesy relatives and friends and general well wishers: reach the station at least 3 hours early, there is bound to be a rush. So we finally leave home for Old Delhi Station, at about 6pm. By taxi, not by car, because the old Sikh drivers from the stand in front of our house are mostly from the Frontier area themselves, and will have it no other way.
Who cares about what is happening with cricket? Ten-sports is all about advertisements anyway.
Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Station, EveningWe are there in 45 minutes. As usual, I have a what is politely called a difference of opinion with the parking lot attendant, who insists on charging us for the privilege of unloading and disembarking. I promise him divine retribution and revenge when I return; he threatens me with his SPO card; I flash my media credentials; he sulks. Victory. I am feeling good. But on the way out, he hits the taxi driver for 10 rupees anyway. Now this taxi driver is in his 70s, has in my youth taught me how to clean carbs and take engines out as well as get extra performance from sleepy-slow-sluggish-lousy-gearbox-fistful-of-neutrals-dog- Ambassador cars. I run back towards the exit gate, take the parking receipt and pay for it. Obviously I have the upper hand, so the parking attendant withdraws again. Very Punjabi thing this: give a threat, and if it doesn't work, then run like hell. The parking attendant, who is a true Punjabi, does exactly that, and in his anger, starts harassing the poorer passengers by forcing their rickshaws outside.
Something happens at this point. I suddenly get this flash that this is not going to be yet another sentimental "I went to Pakistan and met all these lovely people in their drawing rooms and had booze and made love to their amazing poodle and/or carpet and came back" kind of gush-gush trip. I want this to be a purely observational trip, no sentiments. Mark Tully would have been proud. [What, he? No sentiments? Oh, well - Ed]
Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Station, 19:44 hoursThe pride of the Indian Railways, its only "international train". The Delhi-Attari stretch will be on its "blue outside and one inch thick dust inside" wagons. As usual, the platform lights go off at this instant, the charts have not been put up, cries of "which is S-1 or S-2" rend the air like plaintive bleats from sheep about to become wolves as we board and argue about my seat, your luggage, wrong chart, adjust with my cousin who is 9 carriages away please, don't forget the soda oye, Shunty (says Bunty), where are Tinkoo and Pinky? (All four of them, Shunty, Bunty, Tinkoo and Pinky are huge hulks, so we don`t hang around to find out.)
Instead, we end up making friends with some very decent Bahais who hail from Islamabad and are returning from Australia, and for some reason, find themselves on the same train.
The train leaves Old Delhi a few minutes late, around 8:15pm and gathers momentum outside while a state of inertia settles in inside. Passengers settle down for the night, luggage gets adjusted and people who were at war a few minutes earlier for territorial rights are now exchanging that old Indian train staple--the continuous night snack, sourced from that other railway wonder: the bottomless airbag.
We are on our way to Pakistan, this train runs or rather ambles non-stop from Old Delhi to Attari border, without a single halt in Punjab and just one technical halt at Ambala. About 500 kms in 8 hours, through the night.
MIDDLE EPILOGUE
I look out of the window as we race past the brightly lit refinery at Karnal, and wonder what happened on this same railway track, 57 years ago. At that very moment, the wheels scream like dervishes in anguish as they fight the bogies taking a high speed switchover. I get my answer.
My son is fast asleep on the upper berth, the innocence of youth heading for the joys of adulthood. For him and me, it is about bonding on a trip back to the land we have only heard about, a foreign land of my forefathers.
I pat my Indian passport reassuringly, wrapped in polythene and secured.
Where does one begin when trying to put down in words the unemotional but true rendition of what could well be the journey of a lifetime? I am now 47, had more than 70 countries under my belt before I was 27, but this trip with my 18 year old son was going to be different, like nothing else before.
SENTIMENTS
My parents, along with a few truckloads of relatives, migrated from West Punjab, district Jhung, to a variety of places within India in 1947. Mom`s family was from the judiciary, Dad`s were feudal landlords. They were neighbours, and from different communities. The crossing was not easy, material goods were of course left behind, properties were burnt, people were misplaced, and lives were also lost. Dad was in the army so he had at least a salary, and naturally took charge of, at a modest estimate, about 150 people from his as well as my mother`s family . At the same time he had to relocate into new regiments, move with the troops in what was emerging as the 1948 conflict, and re-assemble family members scattered across the country in locations as diverse as Calcutta, Dhanbad, Ujjain, Delhi, Jalaandhar, Bombay, Ambala, Panipat, Poona, Roorkee, Shimla, Patiala . . . as well as try to work on the agricultural land alloted in exchange in Rohtak.
The one thing my mother asks all my Pakistani friends when they come visiting is to ask them if they can get her a copy of her degree certificate. That`s all.
RECENT PAST
Dad passed away on the 16th of February, earlier this year. He led a very full life, and by the time he left us, had squared up his accounts and made his peace with his Maker. The stories he had for those of his grandchildren who would listen were about the days of his youth and tales of Jhung, Lahore, Amritsar, Karachi, Multan, Murree, Shimla, Burma, Ceylon, Singapore, Chitagong, Alwar, Baluchistan, Peshawar, Kandahar, Bombay, Roorkee, Ramgarh, Nagaland, Hyderabad-Sindh, Sargodha, Rawalpindi, Srinagar, Leh, Gilgit, Manali, Poona, Danapur, Sitamarhi, Shillong, Gujranwalla . . . Syals, Maliks, Kuraras, Sufi lore, rivers and fields, temples, mosques, gurudwaras and churches, teachers and principals, first motorcycles and first cars and subsequent . . . All fulfilling stories.
The only responsibility he left us was that we were to look after my mother. When, after his final rites, on the way back from the final release of his ashes into the rapid flow of the Neeldhara at Hardwar, I broached the subject with my mother of my visiting Pakistan soon with my son--her grandson. She readily agreed, and in fact told me to get a move on. (Our daughter had already been to Pakistan about 5 years ago)
A few years ago, a source who does not wish to be identified here, told us that my father was the oldest and therefore senior-most surviving officer from his Baluch Regiment.
End-February, 2004A few days later, I saw a news article about open ended cricket visas for Indians. Uncle Google and a few keystrokes later, I look at the calendar, figure out dates, workloads, Raghuveer`s 12th Board exams, and buy on the web two tickets for the final Test at Rawalpindi. Forty pounds sterling for two seats in the Javed Miandad Stands of the Pindi stadium. The wonders of plastic and web.
A very very dear friend from Pakistan, currently in the US, is a fanatical fan of Javed Miandad`s. I am really, really looking forward to meeting up with him in Pindi. I have no wish to sit and watch cricket, I just want to meet my friend in his country, for a change.
I have not had a proper juicy meat kabab in a long, long time.
March and early-April, 2004I take the printout, send it to my son who is by now in the final laps for his 12th Board exams at faraway Lawrence School, Ooty, and make him a rash promise - after his exams are over in end March 2004, we shall drive from Lawrence/Ooty to Lawrence/Murree.
Starting around the third week of March, with enough mid-point peeling off by air by me to touch base with work in Delhi and Poona, I drive Poona to Ooty solo, pick him up, and then we drive Ooty to Bangalore to Belgaum to Goa, backtrack a bit up and down the West Coast, Mangalore, Karwar, Chiplun, Panvel, and reach Poona by early April, drive on to Bombay, from where we decide to fly to Delhi as we are already behind schedule.
The third Test is scheduled to start on the 13th of April, and it is already Friday the 9th of April. We are nowhere near getting visas ready or making bookings for travel or stay. Besides, I have not seen my wife for almost a month, since she has been busy travelling elsewhere too.
And summer has arrived, delightful roads have changed to shimmering tarmac in fields of white sand. Many people, I would say around 90%, are "warning" me against going.
It is going to be impossible to get a carnet for my car, so we hope to try for a "foot crossing" visa, which means we drive Delhi to Amritsar/Attari border, leave our India car there, and pick up a Pakistani car somehow from the Wagah/Lahore border. No sweat, I am also a motoring columnist, and there are cars lying in Delhi that need to be exercised.
Saturday 10th through Monday 12th April, 2004
Arrive in Delhi, recce Pakistan High Commission, discuss with friends who have already been to Pakistan on a "cricket visa", get inputs from friends in the media: the best way seems to be the "foot crossing" visa. Airline and bus is choc-a-bloc full, sold out. Train is terrible, miserable.
Reality, however, hits us when we land up at the visa counter on Monday the 12th, along with another few score loud, singing, joyous, Indians. The real Indians, the sort we all know have simply decided to have a great time, regardless. Most of them look like they do not know a fine leg from a chicken tangri--but never mind, what a silly point to make when love is in the air?
Forms properly filled, double checked, and the obnoxious surly man at the visa counter having a really bad hair day forcibly issues rail entry/exit visas to everybody. No foot-visa. No argument, no discussion. The reason, as much as I can tell, is because he is a sarkari babu and is used to Indians of a different sort--the absolutely poor variety (96%) who bow and cringe and beg and beseech for visas, and the absolutely rich and powerful (4%) whose visa forms come straight from inside anyway. So, now, who are these democratic, vocal and easily roused middle-class Indians making a fuss outside his little puddle, saying "tum" instead of "huzoor", talking loudly, arguing? Dikhao salon ko, go by rail.
Petty babus are the same everywhere. Why should those in the Pakistani High Commission at Delhi be different?
By evening, our Pakistan cricket visas (No Police Reporting, hurrah!) dated the 12th of April, valid for entry within 3 days from date of issue, and further valid for 8 days in Pakistan, are issued. Mine gives me all options (air/road/rail/foot) but Raghuveer`s visa is marked "rail only".
Tuesday 13th April, 2004
The next train for Attari/Wagah/Lahore leaves on Wednesday the 14th, at 8pm, from Old Delhi. Tickets will be sold from 8am onwards on the same date only. There is no air-conditioned class--options are 2nd Class 3-tier sleeper for Rs 250/- and 2nd Class unreserved for no idea how much, probably a hundred rupees lesser. We pack clothes, follow up on last minute addresses and phone numbers, organise money, inform invisible plastic women hidden behind credit card phone numbers that we may use their plastic in Pakistan, try for hotel bookings over the internet and fail, and get more dire warnings about all things Pakistani from those who have not been there. Those who have been there, on the other hand, are full of encouragement.
We shop for kaju barfi, anjeer barfi, hand made paper products, small gifts for people we may meet on the way, copies of magazines including those that I write for. We top up on basic medicines, the Sualins, the Hajmolas, the Brufens, the Pudin Haras and the deodarants. Toothpaste, toothbrush, lots of shirts and t-shirts. [What, no razors? No shaving cream? Ha! - Ed] And, of course, the separate list of official contacts in Pakistan, should we run into problems. Medical insurance? No time.
The best piece of advice I get from an old mate who went for the one-day party-time trips is to simply board the train, go with the flow, and worry about things when we reach Pindi. We also find out that the surly man has been replaced, and a nicer dude is issuing "foot crossing" visas to all who applied on Tuesday the 13th.
Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Home
We learn that our neighbours, who have gone to Panja Sahib with a group of Sikh pilgrims in jathas of about 3000 strong, are expected back in a day or two. Maybe we would meet them in Pindi? The thought of 3000 Sikhs running around in Rawalpindi is very intensely moving, for some reason.
The day goes by. More advice, courtesy relatives and friends and general well wishers: reach the station at least 3 hours early, there is bound to be a rush. So we finally leave home for Old Delhi Station, at about 6pm. By taxi, not by car, because the old Sikh drivers from the stand in front of our house are mostly from the Frontier area themselves, and will have it no other way.
Who cares about what is happening with cricket? Ten-sports is all about advertisements anyway.
Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Station, EveningWe are there in 45 minutes. As usual, I have a what is politely called a difference of opinion with the parking lot attendant, who insists on charging us for the privilege of unloading and disembarking. I promise him divine retribution and revenge when I return; he threatens me with his SPO card; I flash my media credentials; he sulks. Victory. I am feeling good. But on the way out, he hits the taxi driver for 10 rupees anyway. Now this taxi driver is in his 70s, has in my youth taught me how to clean carbs and take engines out as well as get extra performance from sleepy-slow-sluggish-lousy-gearbox-fistful-of-neutrals-dog- Ambassador cars. I run back towards the exit gate, take the parking receipt and pay for it. Obviously I have the upper hand, so the parking attendant withdraws again. Very Punjabi thing this: give a threat, and if it doesn't work, then run like hell. The parking attendant, who is a true Punjabi, does exactly that, and in his anger, starts harassing the poorer passengers by forcing their rickshaws outside.
Something happens at this point. I suddenly get this flash that this is not going to be yet another sentimental "I went to Pakistan and met all these lovely people in their drawing rooms and had booze and made love to their amazing poodle and/or carpet and came back" kind of gush-gush trip. I want this to be a purely observational trip, no sentiments. Mark Tully would have been proud. [What, he? No sentiments? Oh, well - Ed]
Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Station, 19:44 hoursThe pride of the Indian Railways, its only "international train". The Delhi-Attari stretch will be on its "blue outside and one inch thick dust inside" wagons. As usual, the platform lights go off at this instant, the charts have not been put up, cries of "which is S-1 or S-2" rend the air like plaintive bleats from sheep about to become wolves as we board and argue about my seat, your luggage, wrong chart, adjust with my cousin who is 9 carriages away please, don't forget the soda oye, Shunty (says Bunty), where are Tinkoo and Pinky? (All four of them, Shunty, Bunty, Tinkoo and Pinky are huge hulks, so we don`t hang around to find out.)
Instead, we end up making friends with some very decent Bahais who hail from Islamabad and are returning from Australia, and for some reason, find themselves on the same train.
The train leaves Old Delhi a few minutes late, around 8:15pm and gathers momentum outside while a state of inertia settles in inside. Passengers settle down for the night, luggage gets adjusted and people who were at war a few minutes earlier for territorial rights are now exchanging that old Indian train staple--the continuous night snack, sourced from that other railway wonder: the bottomless airbag.
We are on our way to Pakistan, this train runs or rather ambles non-stop from Old Delhi to Attari border, without a single halt in Punjab and just one technical halt at Ambala. About 500 kms in 8 hours, through the night.
MIDDLE EPILOGUE
I look out of the window as we race past the brightly lit refinery at Karnal, and wonder what happened on this same railway track, 57 years ago. At that very moment, the wheels scream like dervishes in anguish as they fight the bogies taking a high speed switchover. I get my answer.
My son is fast asleep on the upper berth, the innocence of youth heading for the joys of adulthood. For him and me, it is about bonding on a trip back to the land we have only heard about, a foreign land of my forefathers.
I pat my Indian passport reassuringly, wrapped in polythene and secured.
No comments:
Post a Comment