We paid our visits to the temples, including the famed Golden Temple during a warm active day of honking, cows, donkeys, aggressive rickshaws with much a swear phrase for the unheeding bus, and amidst the dust and commotion, we thought we had seen it all in town. Tired as we were, we stopped and "chai-ed" up, headed out again to see the town only to edge closer to the holy grail: The retreat of guards at the Wagha Border.
The fuss? Think a cricket showdown between India and Pakistan. Throw in some masala music blaring from worn speakers on both sides, youths springing up and down the strip with their national flags, and lots of people just cheering patriotic slogans, in all colours imaginable. Oh yes, popcorn included and DVDs of the show, should you be so inclined.
As I sat next to hubby, nonchalantly guarding our little precious feet space, I breathed in the last warm light of the day looking over at the Pakistani border. Its little "stadium" was filled barely a 10% of what India had (and boy was it a turnout on India's side!) consisting mainly of women and children. What they lacked in numbers they made up loud and clear in their songs and chants "La illaha Illallah!". My thoughts drifted away above the loudness and noise to think for a minute, here I was, 50m away from Pakistan, breathing in the same dusky air yet it went beyond comprehension the difference in the level of economic wellness between both countries that had seen similar bloodshed and inflicted likeness on each other especially since the days of separation. Trains loaded with bodies that never made it alive, arriving in stations in Amritsar and Lahore like decaying unloved parcels. Here at the border, what was about to happen almost shamed such atrocity of the past with its pompous display of gaiety and celebration. Yes, the main stars were definitely the peacock parade of tall, gallant strappy guards.
And I meant the hours of training, the legend built behind the face, the strides, the turns, the puffed up chests, the adoration of the nation from their fellow men (after all, not all had the luxury of being blessed so well anatomically) and the women (dream, dream, dream...). Children cheered, grandmothers whooped, feet stamping and hands in the air. It was like watching a national wedding party in full bloom. Both sides had guards racing up and eye-balling each other, making more than a sombre affair of bringing down their flags on respective sides to retire for the day.
Funny, yes. New for me, definitely. But as most men tend to do with their off the cuff statements, hubby summed up the day very acutely with his sudden sharing of "how many soldiers do you know that walk over to a border and shake each other's hand every evening?".
I couldn't have said it better nor do I think I could. I was too swept away with the flair of such occasion repeated daily, rain, sun or storm. For all the world made of the border relationship, I saw with my own eyes, that Pakistan and India, shook hands and played together in one of the best assembled of national resources that I was honoured to witness. So much for doom and gloom, issues prevail but never forget that hands were shaken in earnest.
That to me, represents there is still hope. Leave them alone to sort it out.
