Train to Pakistan 2004 - Heading Back

This time around, I choose to dispense with the philosophy. I need to build up the pace and get back to India, there are other travelogues waiting to be written.

Photographs for the next one are already up at the Gallery on The Chowk, if I may give it a plug? Gosaba, in the Sunderbans, is as much a part of the joint history of our diverse lands and countries as is Rawalpindi. I mean, it didn’t end when the Pakistan Air Force was forced to restrict operations in 1971 due to the difficulties caused by a large number of technicans being from East Pakistan.

In any case, over three months after my visit, we see new Prime Ministers in both countries, POWs being returned, and signs of sensible movements all around. Pakistani and Indian Army wives exchanging pleasantries at gatherings on the International Border, how much more normal does it get?

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2200-17th April’04 through early morning 0400-18th April’04

My visa says, specifically, "not valid for cantt areas." In English and Urdu. Uh-oh. At night, much of Islamabad and Rawalpindi looks like a cantonment. The signboards and unit markings are in the same format, style, fonts and colour codes as they are in non-civilian areas in India.

Up ahead, the barricades on the main street in ’Pindi have very bright flashing strobes signalling intentions which spell STOP in any language. For some reason, I go through an instant flashback to some unknown past, the memory recall of an automobile dealership on one side, it was either Sardar Motors or Chaudhary Motors, and I think to myself, this is where it becomes surreal. Why am I dreaming about unknown automobile dealerships, when all I can see in front of me are police cruisers and pick-ups which can only spell trouble for me?

Policemen at night all over the world look exactly the same. Their eyes are beady, slits. They do not have kind and paternal expressions on their faces. They manage to make you feel guilty about every minor omission you’ve been through in life. And here I am in the driver’s seat of my friend’s new Corolla, past midnight in ’Pindi, in a cantt area, without any documents to prove that I am legally allowed to drive in Pakistan, even the music has now changed to Peter Gabriel. I jump-start instant nightmares about Indians who have been locked, some for decades, in nearby Rawalpindi Central Jail, Barrack Number 8, and the tales I have heard therein. Next to me, LG sits, unconcerned. He knows who he is in Pakistan. I don’t have the faintest clue who I am, though.

The cop has a face with skin gnarled like a walnut, and it crinkles up even more, as he looks into the car. His double runs a strong flashlight through the rear seat. I pull the lever to open the boot from inside, on being instructed, and step out on being asked. At this juncture I feel exactly the way I felt a few years ago, driving while bearded and brown, in a rental car on Highway 17, near Scotts Valley, in California. I start to respond to the first question, which, by the way, is simply to know where we are coming from and where we are headed for. I have hardly gone past the first few words in decent Urdu (in my opinion) when the cop asks me, simply, if I am from India. So much for my spoken Urdu, and I nod a miserable "yes", sure that I have managed to put my friend in great trouble. The cop and his attitude spell problems.

How does this episode end? Like it ends everywhere on the sub-Continent. Lately. As an Indian visitor, it seems as though I can do no wrong. LG and I exchange seats, and we are allowed free passage with many broad grins.

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Re-assured and rejuvenated, LG and I drive all around ’Pindi, through the evening. More discussion on the subject that eludes a solution - where do the poor of Pakistan sleep at night, especially in the summers? I am taken past Army encampments, where tanks and armoured cars captured from the Indians decades ago form the gate guard symbols of pride at darkened sentry posts, much like a similar effort with captured Pakistani armour does in India. The difference is that while the captured mementoes lying in India have their original Pakistani insignia and numbers faithfully maintained in Urdu and English, the Indian ones lying in Pakistan are not carrying their insignia anymore. I wonder why, as I observe a very ancient Indian Shaktiman truck and an armoured car next to an unidentifiable Sherman Tank.

As a matter of interest, Sherman Tanks had been used in Burma and Iraq, amongst other places, during World War 2 by the then Royal Indian Army. They were subsequently, post-Partition, divided between the Pakistani and Indian Armies. Very soon thereafter, these same Sherman Tanks were then used by us against each other. These ones look like they have some strange guns mounted on them, later on I come to know that these were French guns improvised for the Shermans used by India. Wonder where they were captured? Somehow, this is one very sentimental occasion for me. I mean, here we are in 2004, looking at relics of 1971, 1965, 1948, when we were fighting each other with Sherman Tanks that we probably shared before 1947. Moreover, I have memories from my seafaring days of carrying scrapped and revitalised Sherman tanks picked up from a port in the West Asia region, loaded onto a ship with a FOC flag, and offloading them in West Africa.

Pakistani visitors to India, if they are getting sentimental, are invited to take a look at the Indian Air Force Museum, right next to the Airport. Or the Battle Honours Mess, right opposite the Taj Palace Hotel. There is no anger or vanity here, there is just an invitation to try and seek joint answers.

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’Pindi past midnight is seemingly full of middle-class families in all sorts of middle-class cars out to do their thing. ’Pindi also shares one attribute with other parts of North India, in as much as it seems impossible to find even one small or old generation car that is not dented in at least half-a-dozen places. In India, years ago, if you scratched another person’s car, it was war. Now, you just sort of half-smile, half-wave, shrug, and drive on. And get along with life. I think it is the same in ’Pindi too. Life goes on.

Which, in many cases in post-prandial ’Pindi, means driving round and round with music on full blast and small children hanging out of windows. Like small children everywhere, eyes closed, hair flying and taking in the sounds as well as smells of the night.

We stop at what is obviously one of the better night spots in town, Rahat Bakery. Ice-creams first, who cares about the sequence in which a meal is to be had. Thick, full-fat milk, and flavours to kill for. Which is close to what it seems like, since the "cash only" system practiced there makes getting hold of an ice-cream quite an exercise in human close contact and co-operation. This is how it works, and the key to the whole process is to understand what a "scooper" is, and how he works.

a) You catch the eye of one of the many scoopers, guys who will fix the ice-cream the way you want. Once you’ve caught the eyes of a scooper, he follows your instructions. Since everybody present is instructing every scooper, and newcomers are instructing everybody else’s scooper, and everybody is doing this very loudly, this part can mean that your mango becomes butterscotch if you are not careful. I do not specifically remember if they were serving sitaphal, though I think they were, but it was called something else. If our Pakistani friends have not eaten sitaphal ice-cream, then they do not know what they are missing.

b) Next, the scooper moves from inside to the cash counter, so you move to the crowd hanging on outside the cash counter. This transmigration of population, like Partition, accompanied by last minute changes and fresh instructions to everybody who will listen and not listen, is more entertaining than a full season of "Friends". There are in the crowd of people waving currency notes at their scoopers, a sub-Class of smart alecs who are also trying to beat the system by waving at scoopers who are not their own. There are no women in the crowd or behind the counters.

c) Somehow, LG inspires loyalty and devotion within our personal scooper, so we are able to collect our ice-creams. And then we retreat to his car to gobble down these huge extra-sweet cones. All very safe and typical evening anywhere else, except for the number of private armed guards on duty around the place. Around us, full families are chugging away on their ice-creams inside parked cars.

Here there are also friendly elderly ladies trying to sell balloons and youngsters offering to clean bonnets with filthy rags. On the other side of the road, opposite Rahat, I spot a building that has some activity going on inside at this hour of night. The give-away is the number of taxies parked there. A cursory investigation, achieved by a short walk across the road, reveals that the same rules that prevail in Bombay apply here too. Whether it is gambling, ladies of the night or simply somewhere to get high, or all three, I will never know.

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We get back inside Rahat for a spot of take-away dinner. LG picks up some speciality breads and I wander around near the grille. Tandoori chicken by the crate, less all the red stuff we tend to apply in spades in India, each broiler looks like it is around 800 - 1000 grammes, dressed. We pick up a few, stand-bye options for Raghuveer, and tuck into some mystery meat rolls with onions and condiments. The food tastes superb, there is no secret about why either. Cooking in animal fat based mediums always brings out the best crackle and tang. And scents, if done correctly.

Never mind the cholestrol. We would like to do additional ice-creams at this juncture, but are simply too full. Besides, the crowds have only grown.

Whoever painted a picture of a desolate and disciplined Pakistan never went looking for ’Pindi honky town at night.

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From Rahat, we move towards Pearl Continental, or "PC", for a cup of coffee. This should be easy, I think. Who will be floating around in a 5-star hotel in Rawalpindi, late at night. Especially since the various cricket teams and followers have long checked out and departed. Think again.

The parking lot inside "PC" is absolutely full. Wave a few currency notes, and a "reserved" slot opens up.

We walk in, and seems like it is boomtown wedding season. Brightly dressed women on the top of the sartorial charts looking amazingly dazzling and with skin like porcelain encased . . . set off by huge men with weather beaten faces wearing ill-fitting suits prevailing. There are three wedding functions listed on the boards in the lobby; two of them carry Army ranks and the third one an Air Force rank. The smell of alcohol is thick in the air, and I can swear that I can get the unmistakeable aroma of Old Monk. I would kill for one at this stage, I think. With lime and unsweetened fresh orange juice, topped with a dash of tonic water or soda, preferably. (Note - you know who you are, try it tonight.)

The coffee shop has no room, a crowd awaits outside, and we are encouraged to take a number. It looks like we will get a table around dawn. At the reception desk, the manager wrings his hands like managers at hotels do worldwide when walk-ins have to be turned away. There is no room even at the Pearl in Lahore for the next night, we just asked. We grab some ’saunf’ from the standard paan-wallah in the lobby, and decide to check out the facilities.

The ground level lobby toilet is occupied by young boys engaged in the age old game of flinging wet towels through the door of the ladies room next door at equally defiant young girls flinging them right back. Every now and then a venerable dear comes along and tries to chase them away. We whizz at our own peril and depart. Outside, the line of cars waiting for a parking slot has only gone up.

"LG" and I head back for the Islamabad Regency, where Raghu has just returned from a night on the town with his young friends. He has had a great time, and may one day write about it. For now, he is very glad to see the tandoori chicken and bakery stuff we have brought along, which he presumes is for him. Since "LG" is still up to it, we then head out for another night drive to a spot above Islamabad, from where we look down on the lights of the city. Very pretty, like all cities at night. On the way back, Raghu dozes. It is close to dawn when we return, and we have not been stopped by the cops at any of the many check-posts along the way.

I do not know when I am going to meet "LG" again in this life. He reaches into the back seat of his car and hands me a present for my wife. It is a huge packet, extremely well packed. I can only tell him that I can only pray to my Gods that I am in a position to reciprocate some day when he comes to my country. "LG" tells me that this is as much my country as his, and leaves.

I should have taken up that bus-driver’s offer to head for Kashmir. I am not feeling sleepy, so I sit down on the bed with a ballpen and pad, and take down notes. Outside, it is almost dawn, I hear a call to the Faithful. Pleasantly rendered, almost musical.

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0800 - 1430, 18th April’04

Time to say goodbye to our friends at the Islamabad Regency, and they insist on our having one last breakfast with them. Parathas and eggs again, what else. We exchange addresses, we present them with some more sweets, they present us lovingly with a packed and sealed present, fabric for a suit-piece for my wife. The complete staff of the Islamabad Regency is there to see us off. I would like to think that this is not only because "LG" and I have been tipping heavily. We leave our suitcases in the lobby, and head for Islamabad one last time.

We take a taxi to Abparra for one last walk-about, and also to get a quick shot at our e-Mail. While Raghu does his stuff in front of a monitor at a web-cafe, I decide to take a quick spin around the car dealers, intending to pick up as many price lists as possible. We need to reach the home of a senior Government person for brunch and a promised vodka with fresh lime, we are already short on time, so I do not know how I shall achieve this.

At the very first showroom, I am accosted by the heavily armed guard , and asked to declare my purpose of visit. Apparently it is still too early in the day for serious buyers who walk up to be let in, so I go through the "I am an Indian from Delhi" song a which I am getting quite good at, and then stand-bye for the big bear-hug that always follows. This time is again no exception, and for the second time in the course of this visit I am told how Indira Gandhi had once apparently said after the 1971 war that Indian officers and Pakistani soldiers would have ruled the fair Earth if given a chance. I do not know if Indira Gandhi had ever met the surrendered Pakistani soldiers, but I was not about to argue with a man holding a machine gun, either.

The guard then escorts me inside, and straight into the manager’s cubicle. In very quick measure, "Malik from Islamabad" grasps the situation, pulls out the file with the price list of every car being sold in Pakistan, and sends it for photo-copying. While his minions are getting that organised, "Malik from Delhi" is given another guided tour of the premises and the next-door workshop. A huge big Parsi gentleman who drops in to discuss repairs on his car, and has great connections in Bombay, is also called across to join us. We discover that we have common friends in India.

Naturally we start discussing Pakistani automobiles. Since most of the "foreign" models sold in Pakistan are related to the ones sold in India, we are on common ground. The increase in availability of sub-assemblies, components and spare-parts from India, both via the legitimate Dubai route and the grey "over border" route, is discussed. The increase in availability of spurious parts from India is also discussed. This is a big problem in India also, the spurious parts often land up in the market before the genuine can! We discover that we have similar views on rating various Indian tyre brands, but differ on cars. (Our favourite brand of tyres has a rather unfortunate set of initials, JK, given the circumstances.) But then, such a comparision is really not fair because the manufacturers seem to sell lower quality cars of one make and higher quality of another make in Pakistan.

I learn a lot about the Pakistani stolen car industry and its linkages to India from the Parsi gent. "Malik from Islamabad", meanwhile, is rapidly pencilling in details of approximate discounts and waiting periods. I could have spent the day at the garage in Islamabad, but sadly, it is now time to go.

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Our senior diplomat friend in Islamabad has a big house with many guards and a very high gate. The connection is through yoga classes and a shared interest in matters Indo-Pak. Discretion demands that I refrain from disclosing more.

We are very warmly received, and introduced to his wife and teenaged daughter. On to business straight away, and settled in with our vodka-lime-soda, present for this home was very welcome Indian magazines and, ofcourse, sweets. Also some handicrafts we have carried with us. Fortified with two huge pre-noon vodkas, we proceed for brunch carrying a third. On the table is a very welcome surprise, something we are getting used to in Pakistan - a vast mountain of a meal. Dosas, parathas, daal chutney, sambar, scrambled eggs, mince, toast, strawberries, preserves, the works.

I have a great time regaling him with stories about the Indo-Pak train, and he promises to try to get something done about it. A posting on the Indo-Pak railway border is, apparently, one of the most sought after positions that a Customs or Immigration person can aspire to. From his side, episodes of Indo-Pak foibles over the decades make for handy memory beating sticks. Are we, as countries, destined to have our external relationships impacted by long term sparring classmates from debating societies in the older Universities abroad? Or even neighbours and relatives from the Lahore lot, with animosities going back generations?

Very soon, it is time to leave this happy home too. We still have some exploring to do, so we graciously decline the repeated offer of a car and driver. Huge gates are clanged open once again. As we start walking towards the Main street, we observe hanging limply in the still weather inside a neglected house nearby the faded flag of one of the once-powerful political parties of Pakistan dangling from a forlorn flagpole.

We have hardly covered a few metres when a very smart and young gentleman with good English, wearing a crisp and well-ironed grey-blue shalwar-kameez and a very sharp dark-blue beret without any badge on it, trots up behind us in silent sneakers, identifies himself as being from "Intelligence", and asks of us our identity in a rather brusque manner. The two elderly soldiers coming up from behind him at a slower pace do not look menacing, but fact remains, their guns seem to be cocked, there is nobody else on the street, and the gates to our friend’s house have been shut. We tell him that we are Indians, so he asks to see our passports. He inspects the cricket visa, and declares that we are in violation of its terms, since it was specifically for cricket, and we should have been out of Islamabad by now, towards India. We tell him that we know, the only way we can leave is by the twice-weekly train ex-Lahore the next morning, and towards that we are already booked out on the Rawalpindi-Lahore bus, for a 2:30pm departure.

The soldiers take positions around us, the gent from Intelligence retains our passports and moves a small distance away to confer with somebody else on his walkie-talkie, and suddenly this is not looking too good. Especially with three large vodkas down the hatch. But, nothing ventured, nothing lost, so I take the opportunity to grab a few deep breaths and figure out strategy.

A few minutes later he returns, and asks me if I am journalist from India? I tell him that yes, I write. On motoring, which is partially true. He asks me if I have been taking photographs, if I have visited any cantonment areas, and I tell him that while I have driven past military areas, I have not brought a camera along. He wants to know what we were talking about with the diplomat, and I retort back slightly sharply that he is at liberty to ask the diplomat that. He once again says that this was a visa for cricket, not for journalism. I shrug my shoulders.

This is obviously getting nowhere, so he moves out of audible range again and goes back to his walkie-talkie. When he comes back this time, he is looking grim and unhappy, but hands us back our passports anyway. He wants to know where we are headed next, we tell him that we are looking at going back to Jinnah Super, after which we are taking the 2:30 bus to Lahore from Skyline, so he offers to summon a taxi.

While we are waiting, his manner softens in the way of all good Intelligence personnel worldwide, and he asks me once again what do I really do, what am I really doing in Pakistan. This time there is also a different tone in his question, something like innocent curiosity, after all, he could be at best not more than 7-8 years older than Raghu. So I drop my guard too, and tell him that I was in the Merchant Navy, this is the shippie beret I carry and wear, the badge is common to seafarers from India and Pakistan even today, I have been to Pakistan before on a ship to Karachi, and I am out on the streets of Punjab in Pakistan doing with my son what I would have wanted to do with my late father who was a Indian Army officer originally from the Baluch Regiment, and who passed away just a couple of months ago.

Something happens to him at that instant, a range of emotions flicker through his alert young face, and he just reaches out and shakes Raghu’s hand, gives him a big hug. And then, he salutes me. For the ’nth time, I wish I had brought a camera with me.

The taxi, when it comes, is very obviously not the usual street Suzuki-800. This one is ultra clean, almost new, and just seems to scream out from every clean hinge and interior a very "military specification", none of the usual glitter and garish decorations that are SOP for taxies here. The driver, too, looks as though he has just come from a morning parade. Our new friend from "Intelligence" tells the driver that we are to be taken wherever we want to, and then placed on the 2:30 bus to Lahore. We drive off into a sunny Islamabad, song on our lips, surprisingly feeling like birds freed from captivity. We ask the driver if he is an armyman, and he just grins back.

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We have one last appointment in Islamabad. A senior Pakistani journalist, English media. We have set up an appointment to meet her at an ice-cream shop, famous for advertising its 42 flavours, of which when we get down to it, they have only 39. She is already there, and wants us to visit the offices nearby of a South Asian media group. We let her know that we have acquired a spook as our taxi-driver for the rest of the day in Islamabad, and she simply laughs it off. We drive off in her car, while Raghu follows.

At the media group, I meet some young people from Pakistan as well as some neighbouring countries, and learn some more about Pakistani media and its intricacies. More on that another time.

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Soon enough, it is time to leave for the Hotel Islamabad Regency to pick up our bags, freshen up, and then head for the Bus Terminus. At Skyline, our taxi driver obviously pulls some muscle, he is able to get us better seats in the front of the bus. Since there is still some time for departure, Raghu and the driver walk out towards the shops on the road to pick up some bottles of water and victuals, while I grab a quick smoke. The bus is a proper Japanese Hino 2x2 this time, imported second-hand, with the name of the Japanese resort in Okinawa it did duty at still painted on.

Raghu gets back, we pay off the driver of the taxi, and take our seats. The driver, a middle-aged Punjabi with a very gentle attitude towards his job, starts rolling slowly towards the slip road which connects to the Highway leading towards the Motorway. The video is already on, running a "best Hindi songs" kind of tape. For reasons connected with local laws or bunking tolls, the bus can not take the main road in front of the terminus a few metres away, but has to bounce over an unpaved back road for a kilometre or so, before heading on to the highway leading South.

We leave Islamabad and Rawalpindi behind us, and head out in a Southerly direction. Traffic is heavy, all over the place, but not chaotic. For some time we go past clean houses. Next, we drive through an area taken over by floriculture and nurseries, complemented by pavement sales of pottery products. The bus driver stops to pick up some plant saplings, and since Raghu is sleeping, I step out to take a look. The flower pots on sale here have been fired in such a way that the lower portions are coloured and the upper portions are in the traditional brown.

We then move through an industrial area, which looks quite well demarcated but not too busy. Traffic is thinning out as we head for the Motorway, but there is one last farewell to Islamabad still left. At the toll booth, as we enter, we are boarded by a bored looking young man wielding a video camera. He has already shot the front of the bus, now he moves down the aisle in a very efficient manner, grabbing a quick frame of all the passengers. Nobody objects, not even the women.

We settle down for the drive. For, we have another appointment to keep before reaching Lahore.

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