The Girl Next Door

My fascination with Pakistan began early with countless stories of large farmlands and a peaceful idyllic existence; of British rule and zamindars, or maaliks, which is how my family got its surname. Stories of lassi brimming with malai and asli ghee ke paranthay, interspersed with stories of Hindu-Muslim brotherhood. There were some stories that I was never told, but overheard: the story of how my grandfather crossed the border with a truck full of family, leaving everything he had ever known for an alien land in the name of God. Of how he was held at gunpoint at the border and told that the only way his family would be allowed across alive would be if the next truck from the Indian side carried no dead bodies. I vowed to myself that I would go back once, to see for my grandparents, what had become of the land they had left. I found myself wondering if the fields of Jhang really were golden, and whether the land was as beautiful as my grandfather remembered.

My first visit to Pakistan was as part of a college trip soon after the Kargil conflict. Many warned us that it was not the best time to go, but off we went, on Mr. Vajpayee’s much touted Delhi-Lahore bus, on a cold winter morning, accompanied by a slightly less enthusiastic, but extremely encouraging faculty member. After having our luggage thoroughly searched on both sides of the border (Attari -Wagah), we were finally in Pakistan.

Our first mission upon reaching Lahore was to find a suitable place to eat. Being the excited tourists we were, we set off for Anarkali bazaar, which was walking distance from the hotel. That was when we noted the first significant difference: vegetarians are a severe minority in Pakistan. If you want to be vegetarian and a tourist, better be prepared to eat bread and butter.

It felt a bit strange to be out in a supposedly hostile country and not know what the next step was. But just as we began to succumb to that sinking feeling of “where-the-hell-are-we?” we met a photographer, who willingly drove all eleven of us around the city in his Maruti Omni (or whatever it’s called in Pakistan). Later, he took us for lunch to a dhaba and refused to let us pay. Suffice to say, we were all was astounded by his hospitality. Later on in the day, we met Nusrat Jamil — our sole contact in Lahore — where we were, once again, assailed by Lahori hospitality.

Our trip to Islamabad began on the famous Daewoo motorway, which bypasses all cities, settlements and signs of human life, save the immaculately clean Daewoo rest stops on the way. The road was a dream to travel on — smooth and unfamiliarly un -bumpy; this did not feel like a third world country. We were told later that most trucks continue to use the old Grand Trunk Road, on account of the high tolls required on the motorway. As we trundled along in our super luxury buses, I missed the hustle and bustle back in Lahore. But I was soon distracted by the drive through the neatly harvested fields of the Punjab and subsequently, the breathtaking Salt Ranges. I kept an eye out for Sargodha, where some of my family was born and which is the closest one passes by Jhang. I caught myself wishing that the Pakistani embassy had not denied my request for an individual visa to Jhang.

Upon arriving in Islamabad, I found it unlike any city I have seen in the Sub-Continent. As an Indian, one instantly envies the urban picture-perfection, not to be found in our own country. There are rows upon rows of official buildings and offices, all very aesthetically pleasing and opulent. Islamabad was clearly a city planned for visiting politicians and the urban elite. But at the same time, I found the city almost over sanitised and disquieting, and longed for zigzag, cluttered streets, and the discordant sounds of life. From Islamabad, we travelled to the ruins at Taxila. In Taxila, I got talking with the tour guide and asked him how the people of Pakistan managed to live under what is ostensibly military rule. He told me of the ills that had plagued the nation under the former Prime Minister, Nawaz Sharif, and how most people were happy that the corrupt were being brought to book.

Back in Lahore, we took to exploring Anarkali bazaar with a vengeance. Our “agents” duly followed us, one pair on a bike, and another group in a Gypsy. Our churidars instantly gave us away as Indians and led to some amazing bargains, zillions of cups of chai and invitations for lunch. It seems like every shopkeeper had a story, a relative back in India, a shop in Chandni Chowk in Delhi, which they wanted to know about; a house, a childhood memory, a link however tenuous, even if it was just mere curiosity.

All too soon, the trip came to end, and I was left with a whirl of memories and events. Fed with grandiose theories on “conflict resolution” and “how to understand the other,” I had made the journey with preconceived notions. I left tinged with a warm sense of belonging and a sense of empathy for the common problems and sufferring on both sides of the border. On the face of it, Pakistan has several trappings that India seems to lack. The roads have fewer potholes, and the cars are snazzier. In particular, public transport is remarkably convenient. The rickshaws are cheap and buses are bright and clean. As complete strangers, we were able to negotiate our way with ease — which is more than I can say about making it to college back in Delhi. But, as a woman on the streets, I felt a sense of isolation. It’s not that people conspicuously stare or leer. It’s just that there are not enough women on the streets giving off the feeling of a male bastion. Of course, one only has to hit the shops in Anarkali, or even in PACE, to put that feeling of isolation to rest — all the same, it felt good to walk the streets upon getting home.

A father's description:- Shauravi is 20, going straight on 28, currently in her final year at St. Stephens in Delhi, allegedly pursuing a degree in Economics, but I think there are too many boys hanging around her at our home and eating everything including the fridge. As her father, I am simply glad that she can drive a car better than most of the guys her age. Genes jump generations is the best way to describe matters in perspective.