Showing posts with label Rawalpindi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rawalpindi. Show all posts

Sunday, 26 June 2011

My Train to Pakistan Part 4 - In and Around 'Pindi

Previously published at The Chowk . . . http://www.chowk.com/Views/India/Train-to-Pakistan-2004-In-and-Around-Pindi

And Outlook

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Prologue:- , and all that went with it. "The Emergency", 1975 through 1977 in , was a period in our multi-hued history which I saw up-close. I also saw the end of the Vietnam , live episodes of conflicts in Mozambique, Angola, Papua New Guinea and the evolution of East Timor. Ofcourse, we also sailed to the economically stronger parts of the world, Western Europe, North America, Persian Gulf, Far East, even South Africa. For some time I tried to study in Ireland. In Poland, during a strike in the docks, we sat with Lech Walesa. USSR was beginning to look shaky. South America was about discovering . Africa was about discovering wars.

These were my formative years, after a childhood spent listening to martial lore, where the enemy was respected for bravery. Late teen through early ’20s, when we who were lucky to sail saw the good and the bad that went with it. There was no internet, so exchanging notes on evolution of the human mind was restricted to those you sailed with or met, and learning was largely through books. I was lucky, I crossed the Pacific regularly before the term "Pacific Rim countries" was invented. And so I also met a lot of American people, in addition to those from the rest of the world. And I learnt why the size of maritime containers was linked to the size of the 24-can Coca-Cola crate, shipped by the boxload, to Vietnam.

I met black and white and Latino and Red Americans and rednecks and soldiers and draft evaders and hippies and junkies and whores and truck drivers and pimps and nighlife and discovered that they were also human, understood what a miserable life was, smoked gifts from , drank cheap plonk in brown paper bags, learnt philosophy on the real meaning of life. I also saw the evolution of the hard working ethos with the "average" North American that went towards well known icons like huge big cars and massive buildings with deep lawns on wide roads and immense meal servings but also lesser known qualities like supporting sustainable , bringing up the next generation through time spent on evolving youngsters through neighbourhood little league base-ball clubs and similar, community service through volunteer fire fighters or draw-bridge maintenance.

And I also understood how validation of truth as well as history were even then the prerogatives of those with fatter wallets. And how these fatter wallets came through a combination of agriculture and aggressive defence and humanities and economics and and property and showmanship and commerce and . . . power over communication. Individual or nation or or all points in between.

That’s when I figured, hey, this is America, a continent with soil as fertile as mine, so how come I am carrying shiploads of grain back to the starving millions while they seem to be getting there? One hell of a way to evolve an open mind, I tell you.

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Sentiment:- I am on a high, not tired. I have spent the previous night at a miserable ramschackle railway station, Wagah, my first interface with and therefore first impression of on this trip, which is probably the lowest point of my journey. Next, I have been introduced to through the doubtful joys of Mogulpura, and subjected to an assault on my lungs and senses in an ancient rotten train passing through untended slums and dusty terrain. I shall never forget this and not ever let any pompous Lahori-wannabe on both sides of the border as well as anywhere else in the world forget either. Then I have spent some quality time being torpedoed across in a 3-wheeler with 80 pounds tyre pressure, straight out of Octopussy, that was fun, in retrospect. Downside - all we got to eat in was chips, wafers, in plastic sacks. Finally, I spent the post midnight through dawn hours being driven in a snazzy and comfortable bus, on a superb motorway, dozing through a Sunny Deol-Preity Zinta movie. All this over land that my forefathers probably tilled. Or atleast, they walked or rode across. Or fought with invaders. Or ran from them. Or capitulated. Whatever. For some reason, I feel like I have been stranded in and around Lajpat Nagar, , circa 1975, for the night, except when I got on the bus. Once I was on the bus I felt like I was on the -Ludhiana air-con super-deluxe. Except that . . .

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Aside:- For the curious reader who wrote in, and others, what I saw beneath the -Islamabad bus next to the luggage compartment was the "hidden" double bottom that many buses and trains and ships and planes all over the world have, for some amount of private commerce also known as "". That’s OK, I am not here to check on morals, I am sure people will recall a day and age when even grade-A airlines, some now sadly defunct alas, would come in and disembark seats for "repairs", stuffed with gold biscuits.

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0930-1400, 16th April ’04:- except that, where are the in this country? Makes me wonder at the logic the flesh traders gave me at Attari when I asked them what the driver, if not monetary, was - young Muslim girls would otherwise get sold to Hindu husbands, they said, when they tried to explain to me that they were doing it for their good and for The . I have been given this reasoning when I asked this question in other Muslim countries, too. Another version of the hard luck stories dished out by of the , who tell customers what they want to hear so that the size of their tip increases. It goes with what we as shippies learnt very early in life - anybody who wants anything from you will always tell you what a great (big) Dick you are (have).

We saw a few on the train. As we disembarked, they moved off, escorted. After that, agreed, it is midnight in , but there are none on the streets. None at the bus station. None in the bus. Early in the morning, none at Skyways/Pindi. None at the hotel. None seen along the way or walking with the crowds. And now, in the fairly upscale 2000/- rupee Javed Miandad stands, right next to the balcony leading to the Pakistani team dressing room, barring a few obvious Indian in Indian colours, none. What is the male-female ratio in this country, anyway? I am not going to get a straight answer to this question during my stay in .

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Chacha Green reaches into a big paper sack and passes me one half of an oily but tasty "kachori", the other half goes to Raghu. He says something in gruff Urdu to me which is a brief welcome as well as simultaneous instruction to his camp-followers to look after us. He asks me my name, I give it to him with the surname, it goes like this:- "Malik Veeresh _____ of Jhung, now of , ." He stares at me, obviously recognises the surname, and I get a huge bear hug in return. An assortment of excited young men, meanwhile, orchestraed by Chacha’s nephew (who is unfortunately dumb, but manages sounds in a way that others seem to be able to understand) are piling Raghu with lemon tea and cola and more chips. We are now going through the complete "Welcome to " experience that has been top of mindspace for the last few weeks. This is more like it.

The Pakistani team, out in the middle, is kind of collapsing. Chacha and company are going through the drill, with additional slogans on Indo-Pak amity and joy and brotherhood interspersed every now and then. Since I do not follow , I spend my time walking around the stand and introducing myself, talking with anybody who will. Raghu watches the game.

I strike a conversation with an intense young boy, must be 16 years old or so, is very obviously a great fan and club level player. He was selected for some training in South Africa, but was not permitted to go by his parents. Study hard. Has now therefore decided to concentrate on his studies, so did not get a position as a ball-boy, but has bunked to see the match anyway. Has a world view on every Pakistani cricketer.

Bored unidentified Pakistani security man in t-shirt and slacks, young, and sitting with equally bored unidentified Indian security man in safari suit, also young. I think I see weapons under their belts. After a few guarded minutes both let slip that they are happy that the match is getting over early, at least they can now rest. There is a fluid synchronisation in their movements, low on wastage of any but alert as a pair all the time, which I marvel at. What a team they would have made against other real bad guys.

Young boys working for one of the cola or soap MNCs, I forget which, walking around making people fill coupons for some sort of market research on best movie, best actor, best actress, best serial and stuff like that. One side is in Urdu and the other in English. Fill the forms on random basis with my address, and they are thrilled. I ask them what they want to be when they grow up, and both of them say "fighter pilots". I tell them they are going to have to learn good English if they want to, they look at me doubtfully.

By now I have a fan club. A group of young men are convinced that ’s forthcoming in to does not really mean much because 4 of the Indian players are actually "ours". They have the standard view on the of Muslims in . I spend a lot of time trying to explain status of Muslims in and as Indians, it just seems to go over them, I would give anything for an affluent South Indian Muslim at this juncture. Don’t these guys watch Kamalahassan’s Tamil dubbed back in English? The conversation overtakes the match and moves on to equalising the fight for as a revenge for East . It goes on, I feel like I am at The . Much of the next few hours are spent in reaching a point in every discussion which inevitably veers towards , then changes track to watching the match, joining in shouting all sorts of slogans, and exchanging 10 rupee notes. For every one of them, we are the first Hindus they have ever met. None of them recognise the "Om" symbol across my t-shirt. I wish I had a ponytail and wore caste marks.

Want a smoke? Walk up to any policeman. Want to walk into the restricted enclosures? Walk up with a senior policeman. Want to avoid paying for a ticket? Walk in as escort to families of very senior policeman. I learn that they are called "thullaa" and "mamu" here too. Some bored young boys try to enact the scene from Dil Se, where Shah Rukh Khan’s radio jockey hero is being dragged away in the backlanes of Old by the bad Muslim terrorists, and poor SRK desperately tries to attract the attention of some cops on a goof off by shouting the words "oye thullai, thullai" at them. This has the local constabulary down on them very rapidly, but considering the mixed nature of the crowd and my request-cum-apology on their behalf, they are not thrown out but let off without much fanfare.

I see a few familiar faces from the Indian establishment, their hangerons and , strutting around. They all look very important with bunches of badges hanging around their necks. As a matter of fact, I see a lot of important looking faces and over-weight bodies from both countries strutting around trying to look Very Important.

For lunch, we Indians and selected Pakistanis are invited by a few people walking around the stadium with a megaphone to assemble at a point near the next enclosure, and then marched off in a large hungry mixed group towards a small hotel nearby. I smuggle the 16 year old Pindi youngster who could not go for training to South Africa because of his folks and a few other young Pakistanis with me, since it is not fair to feed only selected Indians and "official" Pakistanis, and I feel that they are like hungry every two hours kind of youngsters anywhere anyways, besides this is what I would do when a free meal beckons me because of my dispensation at that moment.

The Rawalpindi Lovers Association are an obviously intense and enthusiastic lot, and they have an Indo-Pak chapter with many impressive names on it. We are all invited to listen to speeches from a variety of lovers from , while lunch awaits appetisingly in the hall next door. Not to be out-done, a clutch of Indians get up to make their speeches. Then there are joint songs. After that, there are more slogans and speeches. Everybody wants to say how much they everybody else.

Luckily, there are some more young people, engineers who have completed their MBAs from one of the better IIMs in (Bangalore), who are sitting next to us. They have been here longer and wise us up to some of the essentials, like taxi rates and . And the fact that this can go on all evening, if we don’t start heading for the . Since they have been living in hostels long enough, they just get up and move towards the . This starts a trend. Now you know what an MBA is good for.

One thing I want to state here - as and when gets back to being a , it will have no problems finding long winded speech makers. Just go to the lovers. After everybody else has gone for , they are still busy making speeches at each other, which are recorded for television. Later in the evening, the same speeches are played back, cut with shots of the crowd pre- exodus. So, on to the .

Lunch is, well, tasty as well as appearing to be immense. Pakistani hospitality towards all Indians and those who look like Indians, is at full throttle again. Lines form for , and others jump the line for faster servings. Meanwhile, the joint Indo-Pak lovers ask us back to get photographed. Many do, carrying huge dishes full of roast chicken pieces, mystery dry keema, oversized corrugated naans, buttery peas pulaos, a very heavy semi-wet semi-dry kind of daal that I have never had before, salads, vegetables almost al dente instead of the gravied brown mash that goes for "Punjabi " in , double heavy phirni, colas in bottles with paper straws, and tea. And lots of butter. Surprisingly, no lassi.

Those photographs have to be somewhere. People are saying cheese with their mouths full of chicken-keema-daal-rice-curry. I wish I had my camera along for the n’th time.

This is the one part of the trip where I feel this deja vu kind of thing. Squash your eyes, and you can almost imagine that you are back in the ’70s in Lajpat Nagar, , at the gents only section of a reception for a new-rich type of Punjabi wedding, without the booze. An elderly person is giving a speech in a corner, and getting agitated that people are not concentrating on it. Other elderly person are listening to him, grumbling, just awaiting their turn. The mike squeaks and groans every now and then. Other people are cracking wierd jokes. More than that is the Punjabi "eat more or we will feel bad and then we shall have to kill you" approach to hospitality. In the distance, youngsters are drinking colas as though there is no tommorrow. The only missing entities are Shunty-equivalents serving liquor disguised in stainless steel glasses.

I have an old formula here, ignore the main , go straight for the pudding, hold a dessert plate with something in it, and then abandon it after some time to revert to the main in when the crush is over. The youngsters are eating energetically, and Raghu seems to have evolved into a natural team leader, with stories on Indian starlets I never knew he had any idea about.

We hear some roaring in the distance, and realise that the match has resumed. We burp gratefully, abandon semi-finished plates on chairs, bow to the speechmakers, and join the crowds running back to the stadium. We go through the complete physical examination bit again, half these soldiers must be gay by the way they fondle everybody, and find that post-lunch the complete stadium and their cousins have moved into our Westerly enclosures. The PAF airplane circling overhead has now been replaced by two helicopters, and rumour has it that the President shall be arriving himself. The real reason, however, for the emptying of the Easterly stands is that apart from the shade Javed Miandad Stand provides, it seems as though the sponsors and the Board and their multiple Uncles have already decided the outcome of the match, and so the complete bag of tricks for the post-Match ceremonies, the stands, the stage, the banners, the boards, the preening pretenders, the sponsors, even the cup and the over-size prize cheque, have all been lined up and kept ready. Visible best from Javed Miandad stand. Trust the wily fox.

Shoaib Akhtar is the one spark in a bit of a dismal parade, with his big hits getting Chacha Green and company dancing in joy. But there is a tension in the air, the margin of victory is too huge and conspiracy theories are doing the rounds.

The cops are over-cautious, the profile of the crowd in the enclosure has changed, and they too sense that there is some tension in the air. The cops walk around to ask the Indians in the crowd to move over to a separate enclosure on the other side, closer to the Indian dressing room. Some of us who have been in this enclosure all day look at Chacha Green, he looks back at us with a stoic, solid and simple look in his face, and so we Indians in the Javed Miandad look quietly at each other, and we stay put. Cops shrug shoulders. Simple as that. I would vote for Chacha Green anyday. Anywhere.

The match is almost over. Camera men and an assortment of other off-field people are taking positions to run towards the pitch. Chacha and I are talking, and I jokingly ask him how come Chachi doesn’t come to see the match, he says laconically that she doesn’t like the game but usually comes on the last day, only this time the game is over before the last day. Somebody else from behind, a Pakistani who is obviously not from his inner circle, asks him crudely how many chachis there are. He turns around, gives him a glare that reduces the unfortunate question raiser to low self-esteem and abject penury for life, provides him with a solid dirty stare, and says "there is always same only one Chachi". We then get a short lecture on why he is loyal to , loyal to one same chachi, loyal to true which is brotherhood, and actually prefers his men to have only one wife at a time. And a short funny on why it is more practical to be with only one wife too with much mutual thigh slapping.

Match over, somebody has taken a catch for the unfortunate last wicket. I am concentrating on the way one particular Ten Sports cameraman with a steady-cam on front harness balanced on his paunch is keeping pace with the running, dancing, hugging Indian players. Later on in the evening I see the same frames again. Inspite of so many cops, crowds invade the pitch. The teams retire to their dressing rooms. There is a sullen silence around us, more because of the one-sided result than due to the . We bid farewell to Chacha Green who is almost in tears as he waves his flag, and cross over to the Indian enclosure, where cameramen are having a great time trying to rev up the Indians to sing and dance and wave flags. The wonder of the television camera, and yes, it is time to sing and dance and then subseuqently call people back home to ask them to put their televisions on, we are on .

All eyes are on the Indian balcony. Wadekar is standing there. Nehra looks out, Nehra goes back in. Sehwag looks out, ditto. Balaji looks out, the crowd goes berserk. The rest of the Indian team come out for a short time, crowd goes silent again. I think Pakistanis would vote for Balaji. In Rawalpindi. That is saying something.

1400-1530, 16th April’04:- there is a Pakistani Master of Ceremonies, an ex-cricketer with a lot of hair done in a retro-puff kind of style. First he talks with the Pakistani Captain in patronising Urdu. Then he talks with the Indian Captain in patronising English. Then he talks some more, with names of sponsors rolling off his oily lips. Somewhere towards the end he comes up once again with Virender Sehwag, who has got one of the big cardboard cheque kind of prizes. He asks Virender Sehwag what he thinks about defeating on their home ground, and Virender answers him back, saying that it is all about putting up a good show for the fans everytime, that is all that matters to him, tht they bless him to be able to give them joy. The crowd erupts in a huge roar when they hear this. Next he asks Virender some more inane questions, to which Sehwag provides apt smart responses. The beauty of this exchange is that when the Pakistani MC asks in English, he gets a reply in Hindi. So he switches to Urdu, and gets a reply in English. Sehwag has class. And lip. I don’t know if much of this which happened as some sort of an "aside" came on or not.

There are all sorts of sponsor related photo op sessions still going on mid-field when we decide to leave with the crowd. Traffic has been "regulated", and in any case getting hold of a taxi right at the stadium gates is not feasible. Also, there is a particular Army building that I want to walk past, it is part of history of the sort that would be buried in some archives somewhere, but has to do with explosions at armouries. So Raghu and I start heading in the general direction of Islamabad by foot. The shops are all closed, we are also looking for an Internet cafe, but seems everything is shut down, siesta or ?

We walk past this heavily fortified Army building on the left, friends of mine who were keen observors of the American-Afghan covert ops days in have asked me to salute this building. The cover ops for this building is a "Survey of " outlet. The route is lined with heavily armed soldiers and I ask one of them, "bhaiya, what building is this?" The soldier fixes me with a very beady eyed stare, and says "I don’t know", so I know I am at the right place. I salute the building, sticking my navy beret on my head, which I have brought all the way here, along, just for this reason. At that moment a few cars with sundry groupies aka officials whiz past, and the Pakistani soldier looks away to do his job. It is all so symbolic. How many readers here know what I am talking about, then?

We loiter aimlessly around this part of Rawalpindi, till we get tired. Eventually we find ourselves back at the Stadium. Raghu and I head for the big square up ahead, from where we take a taxi. He gets off at Melody, heads for an internet cafe, and I move on, back to the hotel, towards keeping an appointment of a personal nature. 1

530-1930, 16th April’04: - the personal movements here, courtesy frontier taxi driver contacts that span personal loyalties, continents, generations and decades, with shabby looking cars that pack a punch beneath the bonnet you would not believe, involves risk taking and directs me towards points Shakarparian/Margalla. I learn some truths about Americans in , as well as Afghan refugees up front. These are absolute ground level people, my contacts, and once again, it just proves that at the end of the day, it is the money trail that sustains any strife. As people from one sub-Continent, my observation here is that I think the Pakistanis had better get their acts together very soon and very fast, otherwise somebody shall have East John Company commanding officers again in some parts of , playing tribes off against tribes, this is all I am willing to say about what I learnt here about the land of my forefathers.

1930-midnight, 16th April’04:- quick shower later, my friend and host for the evening, LG, is a prominent and elegant Pathan from a renown , has worked in many good positions within and all over the world and is now making an entry into Pakistani politics as well as big business. We connect, grab a cup of tea at the hotel, exchange gifts, and move on a sight seeing tour of Islamabad by night in his huge new German SUV. Wide streets, ultra clean buildings, and an orderliness which sanitises. Just about the time when I am getting a bit edgy about the pristine driving habits being displayed by LG, he pulls what we call a " Lefty", which means that when approaching a crossroads to go left with at a red light, all lanes blocked with traffic in the same direction ahead of you, you get to the extreme right, jump the central divider, face oncoming traffic, and then perform a wide left turn from in front of all the stopped vehicles. The trick here is to do it before your light turns green, in which case you lose points since you have to keep going straight. This has to be done with nonchalance and elan. Pathans can drive, yes.

We enter the Marriot just as the Indian team is leaving for dinner. The security arrangement at the Marriot is much stricter at night, the guards log the car number, run a quick video camera shot of the occupants, and only then release the barrier. The rush is absolutely amazing, but LG knows the right moves, parks bang in front of the tour bus, and a valet who recognises him as well as his generous tipping habits comes running to take charge of his SUV as well as clear the route. We meet up with LG’s friend, a banker, and head for the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor. The lobby is packed solid, and so is the restaurant where, naturally, LG has advance reservations for the best table. Next to us is a Minister from the Pakistani , a very OxBridge lady, and we go through the introductions. The lady minister knows the college my daughter goes to, and happens to have a youngster from her there too. It is all so . . . correct society?

The meal is what I would call 5-star hotel Chinese. Means none of the hot ketchup and lukewarm garlic sauces with "tadkaa" that make for the headier and tastier Punjabi Chink in . I mean, come on, there is no chopped onion with lime? I do not wish to embarrass LG, and Raghu kicks me from under the table, but I always ask for chopped onions with lime for my Chinese in . Service is unobtrusive and conversation flows along fairly urbane lines. LG picks up what is obviously a very stiff tab, and on the way out I am surprised to see that the paanwallah has Indian "Pan Parag - with tobacco" on sale in the lobby, this has been banned in for some time now. Actually I am surprised to see a proper paan-wallah in the lobby. There is a line in front of the paanwallah. I ask the paanwallah if he makes a palang-tod with genuine pearls crushed in it, and he says, yes, but it costs 10000/- rupees and will take an hour to deliver. Home delivery can be arranged. Raghu asks me what a "palang tod" is. We don’t order.

Close to midnight, LG drops us back to our hotel on Club Road by the long route, driving through most of Islamabad before accessing the outskirts. There are some huge weddings on at the hotels in the vicinity, apparently they do serve booze at the banquets here, and the cops on barricade duty are having a field day checking cars. When they really check a car, they get into the car on the driver’s side, sit next to him to literally squeeze him, and then get out looking happy. We see one group of cars coming into the road by driving the wrong way up the exit. I feel so much at home now. Except for the chooped onion, that is. I mean, sorry about this, but even our Chinese is better than yours.

But LG has not had enough. We head for the Big Mosque again, and he points out the oddity there, the grave and memorial of a man much hated today as a symbol of much that was wrong in ’ yesterday. It is a fact, Zia ul Haq’s grave does spoil the frontage and serenity as well as aura of the Shah Faisal Mosque. Too many lives were lost, and not just during my formative years but as a cause-effect, subsequently too, were because of this unfortunate man who died do violently in an air crash, never yet explained sufficiently, whose pathetic remains lie buried there.

The mosque itself is airy, brightly lit, and so clean that it reminds me of the Bahai Temple in . I wonder if it is on the flight path, and how it would look from the air?

LG and I are very silent on our drive back. Raghu, all six foot of him, sprawls in the rear seat like a baby with the sleep of the innocent. LG and I, loyal to our respective flags, but friends through strong ties between dear and respected people in our extended families, pray for good sense in our generation to provide for the serenity of his generation.

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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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