I have a day to spare in Lahore so I think the best way to spend it is to take a 24-hour trip to Amritsar. Thanks to a multiple entry visa, I cross the border on foot for the third time in two years.
“If you want to meet Sharmila Tagore stay here for an hour she will cross the border soon,” says an excited customs officer on the Pakistani side. “No, thanks. I met her yesterday at the Lahore Literary Festival. Right now, I am keen to cross the border.”
“Well then please take this copy of Dawn and give it to anyone in Indian customs,” he says. I learn that every day a copy of an Indian paper is sent through a passenger in return for Dawn.
A big disappointment is in store as I approach the no man’s land. The huge age old tree, whose trunk was in India while its branches and leaves had cast their soothing shade on both sides, is no more. It was uprooted mercilessly to make more sitting room for the people who come to watch the jingoistic drama at the lowering of the flags in the evening.
The No Man’s Land looks barren. The huge age old tree, with its trunk a yard inside the Indian territory, was chopped a couple of months ago. It used to cast its soothing shade on both sides of the border.
A short trip across the border brings quite a few pleasant surprises
Pyarelal, the driver of Aurora Travels, is waiting for me. He drives me first to the clean but low budget Blue Moon hotel. On the way I take photographs of the bird-shaped water tanks on top of some houses.
The road from Wagha-Attari border to the city of Amritsar has bird-shaped water tanks on many houses
Dropping my handbag in the hotel room, I decide to take lunch in the next door American fastfood joint. “Sorry, no chicken or mutton today, because it is the birth anniversary of Guru Ramdas,” the Sikh lad manning the counter says politely. I settle for a vegetarian burger. Sitting on the next table are a couple of young ladies who teach HR in a business school. One of them is a recently married Sikh girl, with rich patterns of henna fresh on her arms and the other a charming Hindu girl. When I inform them that I am a Pakistani they tell me excitedly how avidly their families watch Pakistani TV serials on Zindagi channel. “They are not theatrical like our serials,” one of them opines.
After an hour’s rest I am back in the company of Pyarelal, whose skills as a guide are as impressive as his ability to drive through congested streets. I was under the impression that the mosques in Amritsar had all been demolished during Partition riots, but mercifully that’s not so. Pyarelal takes me to two beautiful and well maintained mosques, both on the narrow Hall Bazaar. The first, called Masjid Khairuddin, also houses a madrassah.
A couple of Kashmiri families had spent the night there because the bus service in Haryana has been disrupted by the Jats as a protest against the non-acceptance of their demands. Even rail service through Haryana has been affected.
More seats are being built on the Indian side of the border for the increasing number of people who come to watch the jingoistic flag-lowering ceremony.
The second mosque, also restored by the Punjab Government, has a pesh imam, who offers amulets and ‘sacred’ water for those in trouble. I see a young Sikh couple waiting for their turn. The husband has lost his job and is not able to find one. Suddenly the quietude is broken by the shrieking of a young man who, I am told, is ‘possessed’ by an evil spirit. It’s with a great difficulty that his parents, both Hindus, manage to take him out of the masjid.
I ask a young man who studies IT and lives on the premises if the mosque is meant for Shias or Sunnis. “It is open to all those who wish to offer their prayers and observe its sanctity. Even some non-Muslims come and sit quietly here. We don’t stop anyone. That is in line with the true spirit of Islam,” he says, as I wish the management of mosques in Pakistan could learn a lesson from them. “Masjid Jaan Mohammed was built in 1289 Hijri. It is ten years older than Masjid Khairuddin,” he adds as I take leave of him.
Pyarelal then drives me to Jalianwala Bagh, the historical site where in 1919, the British colonial army, on the order of Brigadier General Dyer, opened fire on men, women and children, who had assembled there for a peaceful meeting, killing and injuring about 1500, Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs. Those interested in the history of the Jalianwala Bagh can get a lot of information on Google. As for me, I am unable to read the wealth of information displayed in the museum because the people have come in very large numbers due to the local holiday.
The memorial built at the Jallianwala Bagh to commemorate the victims of the massacre that took place there in 1919
As Pyarelal parks his car in a private parking place, I feel more at home because the road to the Golden Temple like many roads back home in Karachi has been dug up. Only one half is open to the traffic and the pedestrians, who jostle for space to walk. There are all kinds of vendors, the most raucous are the ones who are selling rickshaw tickets to the Attari border to watch the chauvinistic flag lowering ceremony. I am more interested in a number of shops that are selling what they called ‘Punjabi jooti’.
Cycle rickshaw drivers waiting for passengers on The Mall
The most sacred sites for the Sikhs, the Harmandir Sahib, nicknamed the Golden Temple, is a truly memorable place. It’s one of the most unforgettable places I ever visited and there is so much to it that I strongly feel it merits a separate article to go with some fine pictures that I took with my newly acquired camera.
Women driving two-wheelers is a normal sight all over India but lady cops controlling the traffic is something I don’t remember seeing anywhere else in the country.
Women riding two-wheelers are common all over India; the lady in the picture is driving a scooter made exclusively for women
Back in the hotel, I find interesting company in the owner Randip Singh. We talk about the riots in the Punjab during Partition. He offers to serve me his hotel’s speciality, but my tummy, I regret, is not in a very good shape. Much to my pleasant surprise, my host orders easily digestible khichdi from his home. It is bland but does me my digestion a lot of good.
As we retrace our steps the next morning, Pyarelal takes me to Ballay Ballay restaurant where the masala chai is superb but the toilet is filthy. A stop in the bazaar of the border village of Attari helps me compare the prices of food stuffs with the ones prevailing in Karachi. I am astounded to learn that ginger is being sold at Rs 30 a kilo. Even if you convert the currency into Pakistani currency it would mean Rs 50, which is a world of difference from the price of ginger in Karachi, where you can get barely 125 grams for the same amount.
A pleasant surprise lies merely one and a half km from the border. Named Sarhad, it is a food and cultural joint. Parked at the entrance are two vans, which have the same design as those you see on trucks in Pakistan. “I commissioned Hyder Ali, the leading truck practitioner,” says the friendly owner, Aman Jaspal. In keeping with his name he is a lover of peace. He shows me several items on display, which include copies of the Tribune dated July 1947. The daily was then published from Lahore but after Partition it moved to Ambala.
Barely a kilometre and a half from the border is Sarhad, a food and cultural park, run by Aman Jaspal. On display are vans painted by Pakistani exponent of truck art
The food court offers Amritsari thali, which is for vegetarians and Lahori thali that has chicken and mutton dishes.
A section of Sarhad displays a wide variety of lawn dresses, imported from Pakistan. “Ladies from Amritsar now buy lovely clothes without having to go to Lahore,” enthuses Aman.
A bazaar in the old city looks very much like the Walled City of Lahore.
What interest me most are the walls which are painted to highlight the need for peace between the countries on both sides of the Great Divide.
The officer in charge of Immigration at Attari, a man called Pawan Kumar, recognises me. “How come you are returning so soon?” he enquires, only to add after a short pause “I guess home is where the heart is.”
“What heart? I left mine behind in Amritsar,” is my reply.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of it,” comes the answer. The man is quick on the uptake.
Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, March 13th, 2016
