Italian Indian, Bhai Bhai

 The similarities between the two countries are hard to miss

It was while standing in line to board an aircraft at an Italian airport that the thought first occurred to me. As the crowd built up behind me I could hear many raised voices having animated conversations on their cellphones without a care as to who was listening in. And in about 15 minutes what had been an orderly queue when we started out had turned into an amorphous mass of people. 

Honestly, I thought to myself, I could be back in India! There was the same lack of awareness that we were in a public space and that it wouldn’t do to disturb the peace of other people. And there was the same cheerful flouting of boring old rules like standing in a line while waiting. 

The more I thought I about it the more I became convinced that Indians and Italians are really the same people. And not just in terms of their common disregard for any kind of civic discipline (anyone who has driven in Delhi will feel right at home on the streets of Rome!) but in more positive ways as well. 

Take our attitudes to family. Both in Italy and India, the family is regarded as near sacred. There is respect for elders (and not just those who belong to your family), there is affection for young adults, and adoration of all children. You only have to dine in small Italian restaurants to see that multigenerational families are as common here as they are in India. And just like Indians, no Italian can resist the charms of a chubby baby. There will be much cooing and cuddling and cosseting — and that is just the wait staff. Nobody will give you dirty looks if your baby cries either; instead they will lining up to help quieten him or her down. 

The Italian attitude to food is much the same as the Indian one. There is the same love of carbs (pizza and paratha), the same affinity for deep-frying (arancini and pakoras), the same dependence on milk products (cheese and dahi), the same taste for intense sweetness when it comes to dessert (affogato and kheer). Indians have yet to develop the same devotion for a nice glass of Prosecco but I think we will get there eventually. 

When it comes to hospitality, there are the same parallels. The welcome you get in an Italian home is very similar to the one you can expect in an Indian one. The table will be laden with more dishes than you could possibly do justice do; the hosts will entreat you to have second or even third helpings; and the drinks will keep coming even when you are ready to give up. 

But the greatest similarity between Indians and Italians is this: never do they feel more Indian and Italian than when they are out of their respective countries. While in Italy, they may define themselves as being from Napoli or Venezia, they may differentiate between the north and the south. But the moment they leave their country, they became ‘Italians’. The same is true of Indians. All those differences between Gujaratis and Punjabis and north and south India collapse the moment we leave our borders. Then we are all Indians together. 

So, if you needed another reason to visit Italy, here it is: we really are the same people!

Neighbourhood watch

Not only are we not the same people, Pakistan and India seem to inhabit parallel universes these days

As a child (and grandchild) of refugees from what is now Pakistan, I was weaned on tales of the halcyon days of our  pre-Partition life. Needless to say, all these stories had a certain fairy-tale element to them, recounted as they were through the prism of nostalgia. 

My grandmother, who had grown up in the North Western Frontier Province, never tired of recounting the many military victories the men of her village had been part of, the reminiscing growing bloodier with each retelling. And my grandfather, without fail, would point out with a sneer that while these men may have been brave they were also rather stupid. 

Why? Because when the British granted them one wish after one such spectacular victory, guess what they asked for? 

No, they didn't think it was important to get drinking water to the village where women still had to trudge to the river to get supplies for their families. Oh no, that would have made too much sense. So instead they asked that a cannon be installed at the entrance of the village because then everyone would know what brave warriors they were!

My mother's memories revolved around large bungalows with sprawling gardens where she and her five siblings would run wild. They took particular pride in infiltrating the houses next door and stealing mangoes off their neighbours' trees without ever getting caught (a theme that resonates even now in the India-Pakistan story). And what do you know? The mangoes were always sweeter on the other side. 

Of them all, only my father managed to salvage something of his pre-Partition life. He stayed in touch with the best friend of his college days in Lahore. And every year, we kids would look forward to Masood Uncle's annual visit to Calcutta. He timed his visit around Eid so that his wife could spend time with her family in the city and his kids could get to know their Indian cousins. 

Given these circumstances, it was only natural that I would grow up thinking of Pakistanis as people who were just like us. To me, they were not The Other. They were just like Masood Uncle who came to visit us laden with gifts and uncomplainingly ate the vegetarian food served by my grandmother's kitchen (which remained an onion and garlic free zone till she died). They spoke the same language (Punjabi) that we spoke at home. They wore the same kind of clothes. Hell, they even looked like us, if just a little bit fairer and prettier. 

After the Masoods departed, I would often daydream about the time when I would go to Pakistan. When I would get to walk down the street that bore my family name. When I would explore the rooms of the house we had left behind. When I would get to revisit all those haunts that my parents talked about incessantly: Shalimar Bagh and Lahore Fort (from where Maharaja Ranjit Singh ruled Punjab) to name just two. When I would be able to get in touch with my roots. 

Well, as it turned out, I did get to go to Pakistan once I had grown up, as part of the media party accompanying Prime Minister A.B. Vajpayee on his historic bus journey across the Wagah border to Lahore in 1999. But sadly, this was not the Pakistan of my dreams, the Pakistan in which I believed I would fit right in, the Pakistan that would have seemed a home away from home.

Instead, from the get go, I felt like an outsider. Yes, everyone did speak Punjabi. But it was littered with so many high-flown Urdu words that they may just as well have been speaking a foreign language. And when my colleagues were introduced to some of the Pakistani media corps, they were completely befuddled by their names, trying them out gingerly as if expecting them to explode in their mouths. You see, one of them explained to me, they had never heard these 'Hindu names' before (my name they had no problem with, because it was also a Muslim name). In fact, none of them had even met a Hindu before, so we were like an exotic species which provoked both curiosity and wariness in equal measure. 

This was not the Pakistan of Masood Uncle, who had had emotional and familial ties to India. This was a new Pakistan that had no fond memories of the pre-Partition days. This was a Pakistan that identified with the Islamic Middle-East rather than with 'Hindu' India. This was a Pakistan that regarded Indians (read Hindus) as The Other. This was the Pakistan that had been brought up to regard us as the enemy.

Clearly, we were no longer the same people. And frankly, looking back, I had been foolish to imagine that we would still be. 

But over the last couple of weeks, as the Uri attack has dominated the news cycle, and various Pakistani talking heads have popped up on prime time Indian news TV, I have come to realize that, far from being the same people, we actually occupy parallel universes. And while we live in a world in which Pakistan is a failed state which uses terror as an instrument of state policy, in their world-view India is an aggressive neighbour, who bullies and terrorizes its own people and then blames Pakistan for it.

No matter how much we try, it is hard to see how we can reconcile these two positions. And so we are doomed to conducting an eternal dialogue of the deaf, talking at, rather than to, each other.

Pakistan Diary

When I went across the border with Prime Minister A.B. Vajpayee in 1999…

It was billed as a historic visit. Prime Minister A.B. Vajpayee would board a bus and ride across the Wagah border into the welcoming arms of Pakistan’s Wazir-e-Azam, Mian Nawaz Sharif. After years of tension over Kashmir, the Pokhran blasts and Pakistan’s nuclear explosions in the Chagai Hills, the two Premiers would meet in an atmosphere of amity and try and resolve some of the differences between the two countries.

Documenting this unique event would be a nearly 200-strong contingent of Indian media. The hacks would be flown to Lahore a day in advance in a chartered Indian Airlines flight. And I was going to be on that plane.

Preparing for Pakistan

My first stop is the Pakistani High Commission in Delhi. Armed with a visa form, duly filled in, my passport and Rs 15, I arrive to apply for a visa.

The huge iron gates are closed but there is a small window open, behind which sits the receptionist. I try to attract his attention but he is busy on the phone. “Mufti Saab, eh tussi ki kar rahe ho?” he says in Punjabi. “Mere te saare pass mukk gaye ne, aur eh journalist te aye jaande ne.” (Mufti Saab, what are you doing? All my passes are over and these journalists keep coming.)

I can’t hear Mufti Saab’s response but clearly it doesn’t serve the purpose as the receptionist gets even more agitated. “Te hun main ki karein? Bina pass de bhej dayan?” (What do I do now? Send them in without a pass?)

As this altercation continues, I can’t help but smile. I’m nowhere near Lahore, but I am beginning to feel at home in Pakistan already.

Perhaps an explanation is in order here. I am a Punjabi, whose family came from Jhelum (a mere two hours ride away from Lahore, as I am to discover subsequently). Punjabi is the first language I ever spoke and any country that converses in my tongue can’t be half-bad, I think.

Off to Lahore

When I check in at the airport, I find groups of journalists huddled around, deep in conversation. But only a few of them are discussing the political ramifications of the visit. The rest are talking about what they can buy in Pakistan, and where they can buy it from.

Sadia Dehlvi is, therefore, much in demand. Not because she is a shopaholic but because, being married to a Pakistani, she knows Lahore well. But Sadia’s presence in our party is significant for another reason as well. She lives in India with her young son, while her husband is based in Karachi. About four years ago, when she arrived in Pakistan with her baby son, she was sent back to India from the airport itself.

Wild accusations of her being some sort of spy were flung around – though never officially – and ever since she has not been given a visa by the Pakistani authorities. Her husband visits her in India and is allowed to stay for a couple of months at a time, but Sadia has always been persona non grata in Pakistan.

This is the first time she has got a visa to visit Pakistan – and then only because she is part of the media delegation accompanying A.B. Vajpayee. So, there is already one positive fall-out of this visit, whatever the next few days bring.

Friendly Neighbourhood?

A 40-minute flight brings us to Lahore. We land at the Haj Terminal, where special counters have been set up for us to clear immigration and customs. As we ride to the Avari Hotel, where the media party is staying, Lahore looks incredibly clean and antiseptic. But this, we are told, is the cantonment area; the old city is quite different.

A quick change into a churidar-kurta to blend in and I head down to join the press party. We are going to be bussed to Anarkali Bazar, chaperoned by two Pakistani volunteers.

We reach Anarkali and disembark. But before we can advance even a couple of yards, we are stopped by a police jeep. When they find out that we are Indian journalists, they say we cannot venture into the market without a police escort. The Jamaat-e-Islami has called for an agitation against Vajpayee’s visit and they can’t take responsibility for our safety if we venture forth on our own.

Disconsolate, we turn back. But I am not ready to give up just yet. I rustle up three other members of our party and we head out on our own.

Just outside the hotel, there are a couple of hefty Pathan suit-clad types hanging around. Could they be Pakistani intelligence officers, keeping an eye on our party? No, we are probably being paranoid.

We walk up to them and Ashwini Kumar, editor of Punjab Kesri, asks if they can direct us to Anarkali. This is the equivalent of asking someone in Khan Market to direct us to Lodhi Gardens. But the men look around vaguely and mutter something about being new to the city.

As we look around for a cab, we find the men following us at a safe distance. This is like something out of John Le Carre novel and we are beginning to enjoy ourselves immensely. We hop on to the cab and direct the cab to Anarkali.

In the manner of journalists all over the world, we begin pumping the taxi driver for information. Both Ashwini and I speak Punjabi so the conversation goes pretty well. Is there is a good reaction to Vajpayee’s visit, we ask. “Eh te sab theek hai pur jad tain Kashmir da masla hal nahi honda, kuch nai ho sakda.” (This is all very well, but until you solve the Kashmir issue nothing can happen.)

We ask him to drop us at Anarkali. But he demurs. There are many demonstrations today. Maybe we should wait till tomorrow. We are willing to risk it, we say. After all, we look like locals and speak the language. But one member of our party is looking frightened out of his wits, so we take pity on him and decide to turn back.

At the hotel, we ask the cabbie how much the ride came to. I sit back, waiting for him to say that it is free; that’s the least he can do for visitors from across the border. Isn’t that the stuff of that famed Pakistani hospitality?

But no, he asks for Rs 500. Given that the ride would have come to about a 100 rupees, we are appalled, but manage to haggle him down to Rs 200.

Clearly, even 50 years after Partition, in some ways India and Pakistan are very alike indeed.

Socialite Evenings

The highlight of the evening is a reception hosted by the Indian High Commissioner to Islamabad, G. Parthasarthy. Here, I meet Taimur Bandey, a young Pakistani who is putting a programme together for PTV World. He has been to India recently, where he saw the Delhi Test match between India and Pakistan and heard Abida Parveen sing at Madhu Trehan’s place, so we have a lot to talk about.

I ask him what he makes of the Jamaat-e-Islami agitation that is threatening to shut down Lahore. Taimur dismisses it as one of those things. Just as we have our Bal Thackerays on this side of the border, they have their Jamaat-e-Islamis.

A few of us leave early, as we have been invited to dinner by Iqbal Z. Ahmed, a prominent Pakistani businessman. I ask Taimur if he would like to join us, and soon a party of five Indian journalists and one local is making its way to Ahmed’s residence.

We settle down with our glasses of freshly-squeezed orange and carrot juice and small talk ensues. What does Mr Ahmed, who has been close to both Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif, make of this visit?

Ahmed is cautiously optimistic. But he believes trade is the key to normalizing relationships. “We have so many power plants that have been closed down because there is not enough demand in the country. And yet, across the border in Punjab, there is a shortage of electricity. So, why can’t we have an agreement to supply power to India?”

So far, so good. But then, that familiar bugbear of Kashmir raises its head again. Ahmed’s father, a venerable old man who spends several months of the year with his Indian friends in Delhi, says that the Kashmir problem will have to be solved before relations can improve.

But, says one member of our party, what the Kashmiris want is independence. What does that have to do with Pakistan? And in any case, how can any solution come about as long as the ISI continues to train terrorists and send them across the border?

That is enough to set Ashwini off. He begins to tell our Pakistani hosts that two generations of his family have been wiped out by the ISI. Kumar’s father, Ramesh Chander, and grandfather, Lala Jagat Narain, had been assassinated by Punjab militants at the height of the Khalistan agitation. And, says Ashwini, given that these militants had been trained by the ISI, the latter is wholly responsible for his loss.

Ahmed is beginning to look a little uncomfortable but Ashwini is not through yet. “And what is all this nonsense about Kashmir?” he asks. “We are in control and we will not give it up. In fact, I write in my paper (an Urdu publication that sells in the Valley) every day that Kashmir is ours.”

This is too much for Ahmed. “Par aap aisa kyon likhte hain? (Why do you write like that?)” he asks, in anguished tones. Before Ashwini can drop another brick, one of us intercedes with a question about Bibi’s (Benazir Bhutto) prospects and Ahmed thankfully turns away from his guest from hell.

But Ashwini is not done for the night. As dinner is served, he corners Mrs Ahmed, whose mother is from Jalandhar. “Aap to hamare taraf ke ho, (You are from our side),” he begins, as the lady smiles uncertainly in response. “Aap Ramayan to jaante honge (You must know about the Ramayan)?”

“Haan, naam to sunaa hai (Yes, I have heard the name),” says Mrs Ahmed. That is encouragement enough for Ashwini to begin reciting chaupais (couplets) from the Ramayan to her. The lady doesn’t know quite what to make of this; and nor, for that matter, do we. Thankfully, by then dessert has been served and we can wrestle Ashwini into the car and back to the hotel.

On the way, Taimur suggests that we drop by at Café Zouk, a trendy nightspot where the yuppies of Lahore drop in for dinner or a late-night cappuccino. We are game, needing to wind down after Ashwini’s little dinner performance.

Café Zouk may be in Lahore, but it wouldn’t be out of place in Manhattan. The walls are painted an interesting orange, there are zebra-striped sofas and steel frame chairs, and completing the New York ambience is the presence of several PYTs. The only incongruous touch is the loud Hindi film music blaring from the sound system.

The girls are in regulation black – all in Western clothes – and made up to the nines, while the boys all look like Imran Khan in his younger days, with their figure-hugging T-shirts.

Who would have thought that I would feel out of place in a salwar kameez in the heart of Lahore?

In Tourist Land

Early next morning we set off to do the rounds of the tourist spots. First on the list is Gurudwara Dera Saheb, the historic spot where Guru Arjun Dev was martyred. There is a huge police presence outside; the site has to be sanitized as Vajpayee will be dropping in later.

The gurudwara is about two centuries old and history drips from its very patina. But despite its age, it is incredibly well maintained by its small, in-residence staff. The granthi (priest) hurries out to greet us and does an ardaas (special prayer) for us. He then opens the Guru Granth Sahib and takes a hukum (that is, reads out a verse at random, which is taken as a message from God).

I ask him if a lot of people come to the gurudwara for prayers. No, he says, there are no Sikh families in Lahore; he himself is from a 100-strong Sikh community in Peshawar. But people do come from across the border on occasion. Nonetheless, he and his wife do kirtan every day – even if there is no one to listen to them – and keep a langar in readiness for any visitor.

Next stop is the Samadhi of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. This borders the Lahore Fort, which houses the Shahi Kila, the Badshahi Masjid and the poet Iqbal’s maqbara.

On the way back, we decide to stop at Urdu Bazar, near Anarkali, where Ashwini’s old house is situated. Given that this building houses the first Congress Party office in Lahore, the rest of us are easy to visit it too.

But as our car turns in that general direction, there is a sudden commotion in the streets. A 40-strong group of young men in white Pathani suits – presumably from the Jamaat-e-Islami – is advancing rapidly towards us, throwing stones at a five-strong contingent of police. Our driver shows considerable presence of mind and reverses before our windscreen is shattered and drives away at breakneck space.

We are all badly shaken. But we comfort ourselves with the thought that these are, probably, just guns for hire. After all, we have them in India too, don’t we?

Wagah, At Last

We are in our positions a couple of hours before Vajpayee’s scheduled arrival. Just when the ennui is getting unbearable, the bus finally trundles across the border. Vajpayee waves at the waiting crowd as do the other celebrities – Dev Anand, Javed Akhtar, Shatrughan Sinha, Kapil Dev, Mallika Sarabhai, to name only a few – accompanying him on the bus.

The PM alights and is greeted by Nawaz Sharif. The two men hug and the photographers go mad. The reporters exhort them to say a few words but they prefer to just smile instead.

This silence is obviously too much for Dev Anand to bear. So, he bounds across, elbows the Prime Ministers aside, and proceeds to hold his own press conference. His noises about this being a ‘historic occasion’ are interrupted by a Pakistani photographer who shouts, “Aap ki Des Pardes bahut achchi lagi (Loved your movie, Des Pardes).”

Dev extends his arm and wags a finger. “Aap ne kahan dekhi? (Where did you see it?)” The reply comes fast: on the video (which is how most Pakistanis watch Hindi movies).

By then Vajpayee and Sharif have moved on – refusing, probably, to be upstaged by a mere actor – but Anand continues to hold the fort for a little longer. A foreign correspondent is later heard to enquire if he is a comedian; which says it all about Anand’s little roadshow.

Ten minutes later, Vajpayee examines a guard of honour, as members of his delegation, his foster daughter, Namita Kaul Bhattacharya, her husband Ranjan and their daughter, Niharika, and about 500 reporters and photographers look on. He then boards a helicopter to make the short journey to Lahore.

As we ride back to our hotel, we are driven past a small contingent of Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front (JKLF) demonstrators who are holding up placards advocating independence for Kashmir. But since Vajpayee is doing this bit by helicopter, he doesn’t have to face this.

But there is worst in store for our Prime Minister. The banquet held in his honour at Lahore Fort has to be delayed because Jamaat-e-Islami agitators are holding a demonstration in that area. They manage to stone the cars of various ambassadors who are attending the function and tear gas has to be used before they disperse.

That evening, all the press corps can talk about is whether this demonstration shows that the Pakistani government lacks the will to deal with the Jamaat-e-Islami. Or is the administration just incompetent rather than misguided? The jury is still out when we retire for the night.

A Whiff of Nostalgia

Minar-e-Pakistan is first on the agenda the next day. Prime Minister Vajpayee is scheduled to visit. But this is more a symbolic gesture (and a photo-opportunity) than anything else and after signing the visitor’s book the PM flies off in a chopper.

We have rather more important business to conduct. We are going to resume our abortive search for Ashwini’s ancestral home. We pile into two cars along with our three Pakistani escorts, Bibi Gul, Bilaal Malik, and a pretty young fashion designer called Maleeha.

After a few false starts, we finally trace the Gyan Vyapi Mandir which Ashwini’s uncle has given to him as a landmark. Of course, this has long since ceased to be a mandir. Various families have taken it over and the room where the shrine was located has been converted into a godown.

Tracing our way back from there – and with some help from the locals – we finally find the house. As we walk in, Ashwini is beside himself with excitement, rushing from room to room as he tries to recreate the image of his family home as it must have existed half a century ago.

Then the hunt begins for the Sheetla mandir. My mother, who lived in Lahore as a young girl, used to worship there and has told me many stories about it. We ask around and are finally led to a small gate, which apparently leads to the mandir. The statue of a lion on the gate – though in a state of disrepair – is enough to convince me that we are in the right place.

We enter the gate and step into a rabbit warren of small rooms, in a dilapidated condition and overrun by dozens of children. One man steps forth and offers to lead me to the shrine, stopping only to point to faded sign on which is written – in both Hindi and Urdu – ‘Sheetla Ma ka Mandir’.

My guide takes me into a little room where a young woman is making tea on a stove and asks if I can be led inside. She has no objection and so I enter her house and am led to the little alcove where the murti used to be kept. This alcove, where Ma Sheetla’s idol was once placed, is now used to store suitcases and other household stuff of the family.

My guide informs me that this room has been partitioned since then and the other side of the wall has the little iron grill through which devotees would give their offerings. He takes me across to this room, which belongs to his own family.
The Sheetla Mandir complex, it turns out, has been taken over by refugee families from across the border who settled down here and made it their home. My guide and his wife are from Mewar in Rajasthan and came to Lahore after Partition. His wife insists that I have a cup of tea before I go but I am in a bit of hurry and have to refuse. As I leave, several young girls, ranging in age between four and 14, run behind me and tug on my dupatta. When I turn around, they shyly hold out their hands to be shaken.

I am touched. This is the first sign of genuine affection that I have been shown since arriving in Pakistan. And somehow it seems fitting that it should come from people who came from across the border.

Highs and Lows

Vajpayee’s finest hour comes at the civic reception that evening. Speaking without notes and straight from the heart, the PM makes us all proud of being Indians. Vajpayee begins by saying that some people would question the wisdom of his visiting Minar-e-Pakistan, where the resolution to form Pakistan was moved. This could be interpreted as putting his seal of approval on Pakistan.

But, asks Vajpayee, “Kya Pakistan meri mohur se chalta hai? Uski apni mohur uske liye kaafi hai (Does Pakistan need my seal of approval? Its own seal is quite enough for it.)”

After that, the Indian PM has the largely Pakistani gathering eating out of his hand. They laugh at all his gentle sallies, clap at the rhetorical flourishes and listen in rapt attention.

My attention, however, is half-focused on a man a few tables ahead of me, who pointedly failed to stand up while the Indian national anthem was being played. After the speeches are over, I walk up to him and introduce myself. It turns out that he is a Pakistani journalist, Nasrullah Ghilzai, who works for the weekly Taqbeer, which is based in Karachi.

Why didn’t you stand up when the Indian national anthem was played, I ask him outright. He smiles and says, “Well, you may not agree with my views.”

“I probably won’t,” I reply, “but I’d still like to know why you did that.”

“In my view,” he says, “India is an enemy country. All this (he points to the guests milling around at the reception) is just protocol. This doesn’t mean anything to me. India has done certain things to Pakistan that I can never respect it for. And not to respect the national anthem is not to respect India.”

The viciousness of the sentiment prompts me to probe further. Where is he from?

From Lahore. Well, yes, he lives here now, but where is he from originally? Ghilzai looks uncomfortable. “My family is originally from Hoshiarpur, Punjab (on the Indian side of the border).”

Did he come over during the Partition? Yes, says Ghilzai, he came across as a five year old on the shoulders of his grandfather.

And did he lose anybody during those dark days? Yes, he lost nine members of his family.

In the context of memories like these, his decision to disrespect the Indian national anthem is more understandable – though, to my mind, it is still indefensible. More importantly, if memories like this still linger on, how much hope can we hold out of a India-Pakistan entente?

But, as Vajpayee said in his speech, we have tried to be enemies for 50 years; why not try to be friends now? After all, we can change our history but not our geography. And given that we have to live as neighbours, why not give peace a chance?