The Journey Of A Lifetime

PROLOGUE
Where does one begin when trying to put down in words the unemotional but true rendition of whatcould well be the journey of a lifetime? I am now 47, had more than 70 countries under my belt before I was27, but this trip with my 18 year old son was going to be different, like nothing else before.

SENTIMENTS
My parents, along with a few truckloads of relatives, migrated from West Punjab, district Jhung,to a variety of places within India in 1947. Mom`s family was from the judiciary, Dad`s were feudal landlords.They were neighbours, and from different communities. The crossing was not easy, material goods were of courseleft behind, properties were burnt, people were misplaced, and lives were also lost. Dad was in the army so hehad at least a salary, and naturally took charge of, at a modest estimate, about 150 people from his as well asmy mother`s family . At the same time he had to relocate into new regiments, move with the troops in whatwas emerging as the 1948 conflict, and re-assemble family members scattered across the country in locations asdiverse as Calcutta, Dhanbad, Ujjain, Delhi, Jalaandhar, Bombay, Ambala, Panipat, Poona, Roorkee, Shimla,Patiala . . . as well as try to work on the agricultural land alloted in exchange in Rohtak.

The one thing my mother asks all my Pakistani friends when they come visiting is to ask them if they can gether a copy of her degree certificate. That`s all.

RECENT PAST
Dad passed away on the 16th of February, earlier this year. He led a very full life,and by the time he left us, had squared up his accounts and made his peace with his Maker. The stories he hadfor those of his grandchildren who would listen were about the days of his youth and tales of Jhung, Lahore,Amritsar, Karachi, Multan, Murree, Shimla, Burma, Ceylon, Singapore, Chitagong, Alwar, Baluchistan, Peshawar,Kandahar, Bombay, Roorkee, Ramgarh, Nagaland, Hyderabad-Sindh, Sargodha, Rawalpindi, Srinagar, Leh, Gilgit,Manali, Poona, Danapur, Sitamarhi, Shillong, Gujranwalla . . . Syals, Maliks, Kuraras, Sufi lore, rivers andfields, temples, mosques, gurudwaras and churches, teachers and principals, first motorcycles and first carsand subsequent . . . All fulfilling stories.

The only responsibility he left us was that we were to look after mymother. When, after his final rites, on the way back from the final release of his ashes into the rapid flowof the Neeldhara at Hardwar, I broached the subject with my mother of my visiting Pakistan soon with my son--hergrandson. She readily agreed, and in fact told me to get a move on. (Our daughter had already been toPakistan about 5 years ago)

A few years ago, a source who does not wish to be identified here, told us that my father was the oldest andtherefore senior-most surviving officer from his Baluch Regiment.

End-February, 2004
A few days later, I saw a news article about open ended cricket visas for Indians. Uncle Google and a few keystrokes later,I look at the calendar, figure out dates, workloads, Raghuveer`s 12th Boardexams, and buy on the web two tickets for the final Test at Rawalpindi. Forty pounds sterling fortwo seats in the Javed Miandad Stands of the Pindi stadium. The wonders of plastic and web.

A very very dearfriend from Pakistan, currently in the US, is a fanatical fan of Javed Miandad`s. I am really, really lookingforward to meeting up with him in Pindi.I have no wish to sit and watch cricket, I just want to meet my friend in his country, for a change.

I havenot had a proper juicy meat kabab in a long, long time.

March and early-April, 2004
I take the printout, send it to my son who is by now in the final laps for his12th Board exams at faraway Lawrence School, Ooty, and make him a rash promise - after his exams are over inend March 2004, we shall drive from Lawrence/Ooty to Lawrence/Murree.

Starting around the third week of March,with enough mid-point peeling off by air by me to touch base with work in Delhi and Poona, I drive Poona toOoty solo, pick him up, and then we drive Ooty to Bangalore to Belgaum to Goa, backtrack a bit up and down theWest Coast, Mangalore, Karwar, Chiplun, Panvel, and reach Poona by early April, drive on to Bombay, from wherewe decide to fly to Delhi as we are already behind schedule.

The third Test is scheduled to start on the 13th ofApril, and it is already Friday the 9th of April. We are nowhere near getting visas ready or making bookingsfor travel or stay. Besides, I have not seen my wife for almost a month, since she has been busy travellingelsewhere too.

And summer has arrived, delightful roads have changed to shimmering tarmac in fields of whitesand. Many people, I would say around 90%, are "warning" me against going.

It is going to be impossible to get a carnet for my car, so we hope to try for a "foot crossing"visa, which means we drive Delhi to Amritsar/Attari border, leave our India car there, and pick up a Pakistanicar somehow from the Wagah/Lahore border. No sweat, I am also a motoring columnist, and there are cars lyingin Delhi that need to be exercised.

Saturday 10th through Monday 12th April, 2004
Arrive in Delhi, recce Pakistan High Commission,discuss with friends who have already been to Pakistan on a "cricket visa", get inputs from friends in themedia: the best way seems to be the "foot crossing" visa. Airline and bus is choc-a-bloc full, soldout. Train is terrible, miserable.

Reality, however, hits us when we land up at the visa counter on Monday the12th, along with another few score loud, singing, joyous, Indians. The real Indians, the sort we all know havesimply decided to have a great time, regardless. Most of them look like they do not know a fine leg from achicken tangri--but never mind, what a silly point to make when love is in the air?

Forms properly filled,double checked, and the obnoxious surly man at the visa counter having a really bad hair day forciblyissues rail entry/exit visas to everybody. No foot-visa. No argument, no discussion. The reason, as much as I cantell, is because he is a sarkari babu and is used to Indians of a different sort--the absolutely poor variety(96%) who bow and cringe and beg and beseech for visas, and the absolutely rich and powerful (4%) whose visaforms come straight from inside anyway. So, now, who are these democratic, vocal and easily rousedmiddle-class Indians making a fuss outside his little puddle, saying "tum" instead of "huzoor",talking loudly, arguing? Dikhao salon ko, go by rail.

Petty babus are the same everywhere. Why shouldthose in the Pakistani High Commission at Delhi be different?

By evening, our Pakistan cricket visas (No Police Reporting, hurrah!) dated the 12th of April, valid forentry within 3 days from date of issue, and further valid for 8 days in Pakistan, are issued. Mine gives me alloptions (air/road/rail/foot) but Raghuveer`s visa is marked "rail only".

Tuesday 13th April, 2004

The next train for Attari/Wagah/Lahore leaves on Wednesday the 14th, at 8pm, from OldDelhi. Tickets will be sold from 8am onwards on the same date only. There is no air-conditioned class--options are 2nd Class 3-tier sleeper for Rs 250/- and 2nd Class unreserved for no idea how much, probably ahundred rupees lesser.

We pack clothes, follow up on last minute addresses and phone numbers, organise money,inform invisible plastic women hidden behind credit card phone numbers that we may use their plastic inPakistan, try for hotel bookings over the internet and fail, and get more dire warnings about all thingsPakistani from those who have not been there. Those who have been there, on the other hand, are full ofencouragement.

We shop for kaju barfi, anjeer barfi, hand made paper products, small gifts for people we maymeet on the way, copies of magazines including those that I write for. We top up on basic medicines, theSualins, the Hajmolas, the Brufens, the Pudin Haras and the deodarants. Toothpaste, toothbrush, lots of shirts andt-shirts. [What, no razors? No shaving cream? Ha! - Ed] And, of course, the separate list of official contacts in Pakistan, should we run into problems. Medicalinsurance? No time.

The best piece of advice I get from an old mate who went for the one-day party-time trips is to simply board thetrain, go with the flow, and worry about things when we reach Pindi. We also find out that the surly man hasbeen replaced, and a nicer dude is issuing "foot crossing" visas to all who applied on Tuesday the 13th.

Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Home
We learn that our neighbours, who have gone to Panja Sahib with a group of Sikh pilgrims in jathas of about 3000 strong, are expected back in a day or two. Maybe wewould meet them in Pindi? Thethought of 3000 Sikhs running around in Rawalpindi is very intensely moving, for some reason.

The day goes by. More advice, courtesy relatives and friends and general well wishers: reach the station at least 3 hours early, there is boundto be a rush. So we finally leave home for Old Delhi Station, at about 6pm. By taxi, not by car,because the old Sikh drivers from the stand in front of our house are mostly from the Frontier areathemselves, and will have it no other way.

Who cares about what is happening with cricket? Ten-sports is all about advertisements anyway.

Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Station, Evening
We are there in 45 minutes. As usual, I have a what is politely called a difference ofopinion with the parking lot attendant, who insists on charging us for the privilege of unloading anddisembarking. I promise him divine retribution and revenge when I return; he threatens me with his SPO card; Iflash my media credentials; he sulks. Victory. I am feeling good. But on the way out, he hits the taxi driverfor 10 rupees anyway. Now this taxi driver is in his 70s, has in my youth taught me how to clean carbs andtake engines out as well as get extra performance from sleepy-slow-sluggish-lousy-gearbox-fistful-of-neutrals-dog- Ambassador cars. I run back towards the exit gate,take the parking receipt and pay for it. Obviously Ihave the upper hand, so the parking attendant withdraws again. Very Punjabi thing this: give a threat, and if itdoesn't work, then run like hell. The parking attendant, who is a true Punjabi, does exactly that, and in hisanger, starts harassing the poorer passengers by forcing their rickshaws outside.

Something happens at this point. I suddenly get this flash that this is not going to be yet another sentimental "Iwent to Pakistan and met all these lovely people in their drawing rooms and had booze and made love to theiramazing poodle and/or carpet and came back" kind of gush-gush trip. I want this to be a purelyobservational trip, no sentiments. Mark Tully would have been proud. [What, he? No sentiments? Oh, well -Ed]

Wednesday 14th April, 2004. Station, 19:44 hours
The pride of the Indian Railways, its only "internationaltrain". The Delhi-Attari stretch will be on its "blue outside and one inch thick dust inside"wagons. As usual, the platform lights go off at this instant, the charts have not been put up, cries of"which is S-1 or S-2" rend the air like plaintive bleats from sheep about to become wolves as weboard and argue about my seat, your luggage, wrong chart, adjust with my cousin who is 9 carriages awayplease, don't forget the soda oye, Shunty (says Bunty), where are Tinkoo and Pinky? (All four of them, Shunty,Bunty, Tinkoo and Pinky are huge hulks, so we don`t hang around to find out.)

Instead, we end up making friends with some very decent Bahais who hail from Islamabad and are returning fromAustralia, and for some reason, find themselves on the same train.

The train leaves Old Delhi a few minutes late, around 8:15pm and gathers momentum outside while a state of inertiasettles in inside. Passengers settle down for the night, luggage gets adjusted and people who were atwar a few minutes earlier for territorial rights are now exchanging that old Indian train staple--thecontinuous night snack, sourced from that other railway wonder: the bottomless airbag.

We are on our way to Pakistan, this train runs or rather ambles non-stop from Old Delhi to Attari border,without a single halt in Punjab and just one technical halt at Ambala. About 500 kms in 8 hours, through thenight.

MIDDLE EPILOGUE

I look out of the window as we race past the brightly lit refinery at Karnal, and wonder what happened on this same railway track, 57years ago. At that very moment, the wheels scream like dervishes inanguish as they fight the bogies taking a high speed switchover. I get my answer.

My son is fast asleep on the upper berth, the innocence of youth heading for the joys of adulthood. For himand me, it is about bonding on a trip back to the land we have only heard about, a foreign land of myforefathers.