The Passage To Pindi

Continued from Part 2

PROLOGUE

The salty brotherhood of seafarers is very strong, it outlasts the corrosive powers of two-thirds of the earth's surface and often charts a course beyond the ultimate powers of nature. Early in life, people like us from all over the Tropics, including yours truly, learnt that above and below the latitudes of 40 degrees there are no laws and in the beauty of our world, of shades of greys, between black and white, beyond latitudes 50 degrees, there is no one God, either. When the Force 10 hits you abeam and the term "rock and roll" implies 45 degrees each way twice a minute, then it is up to all the gods, you, your truths, and nature. There are no enemies except your own fears, and you always, but always, double check and back up on each other while still working as a team. You wait till there is good weather again to win points.

Raghu works, looks after baggage and paperwork; I observe. That's truth, that's teamwork, father-son style.

+++

SENTIMENT

Within a week of publishing the first part of my travelogue, I get many emails. Two are reproduced here, with permission:

a) Did you try to obtain your mother's degree in Pakistan? My mom too hails from there. In 1947 she and her other siblings and mother came to Ludhiana when the exodus had commenced but her father refused to leave his place of duty till his reliever had reached. He was the Station Master of a Railway Station close to Pindi. People came to loot the station. He tried to defend but they were too many. He was slain. Gave his life defending property of a country which was not going to be his own in a day or two. He was a Thapar, first cousin of Sukhdev Thapar who was hanged with Bhagat Singh. My Grandfather's name was Lala Amar Nath Thapar and he was Station Master of Abaspur (Near Lyallpur). 

-- Rakesh Dhir, batchmate from the T.S. Rajendra

b) Please remember me, I am Shahriyar, I was your cadet in 1980, I was glad to see your news. Please come to Turkey my Sir and I will give you my life for your news on Kurds and our long journeys. 

-- Shahriyar Agighi, Kurdish cadet from Arya Lines/Iran

RECENT PAST

Nitin Dhond of Belgaum, and I, sailed on the good ship, ultra large bulk carrier really, the MV Summit, over 20 years ago. We did everything we should have, and much we shouldn't have too, together. Decades later, as part of this trip, while driving from Ooty towards Murree, my son and I are his guests at Wildernest, an upscale ecotel on property retrieved from degraded mining land, on the ocean facing side of the coastal mountains in Goa, that he conceptualised and built and now operates. Nitin's family has been into politics for generations from the pre-1947 days, and also publish one of the West Coast of India's oldest and most influential Marathi vernacular newspapers, the Tarun Bharat.

In the evening, floating about, quaffing "Summits" invented by me, (two parts beer and one part fresh kokum juice, the colour of violent crimson blood-red South Pacific sunsets) in his infiniti pool with the Belt of Orion above and the Arabian Sea below, we are at peace with the world.Wildernest-goa.com would give you an idea.

The Belgaum Congress meeting of 1924 devised the outlines of the first tricolour flag for every Indian then, irrespective of religion, creed or caste, under the Presidentship of Hakim Ajmal Khan. After a variety of evolutions, including a rejected demand for the gada (mace) of Vishnu, this tri-colour flag was then adopted by the Congress on the banks of the Ravi in Lahore on the 29th December 1929. The ochre, saffron or geru colour included specifically as it symbolised an ideal common to Hindu yogis and sanyasis, was close to the shade of yellow demanded by the Sikhs and symbolised the colour revered by Muslim faqirs and dervishes.

+++

Wagah Immigration Hall, entry Pakistan, hot and stuffy, loud, mainly full of poor people.

2200-midnight, 15th April, 2004
Shunty's vodka and bidi are coming in very useful as I sit and day-dream while looking at the green Pakistan flag displayed on the side of the immigration hall. The sub-continental habit of jumping queues and crowding on top of each other are further complicated by the rather odd arrangement at the visa counters. There is one line where about three people can stand abreast, like sardines. It is hemmed in by rusty metal railings with sharp edges. People are crushed in like passengers in a crowded local train. 

First you have to do Indo versus Indo and Pak versus Pak battle, separately in adjacent lines, to reach the front. Then, work done, to exit, you have to push through all the others, Indians and Pakistanis mixed, waiting in the mob trying to move ahead. After that is done, you have to leapfrog all the huge baggage that the regular passengers/couriers/savaarees have stockpiled, where else, right at the door which leads from Immigration towards the X-Ray machine room.

It is at times like this that I wish I were white. Somebody would have taken care of me, I am sure. Since I am brown, and bearded to boot, I sit. A day's worth of questions and visions comes back to me as I wait for the crowd to thin out.

Of people too poor to spend even 10 rupees on food waiting all day for the train to carry them to Pakistan.These are Indians and Pakistanis, going to meet relatives on the other side, ostensibly, but actually also trying to cut expenses and make ends meet by taking part in commerce.

Of people who only want to know more about Filmfare and where the actresses and actors hang out in Mumbai.

Of authorities on the train in India who stop people from taking Indian magazines out and authorities on the same train, when we enter Pakistan, who grab what manages to get out.

Of why Pakistani trains are still crudely hand/brush painted.

Of the Urdu journalists from Multan and my own surprise at their fluency in Punjabi as well as their viewpoint on the good things about India which we take for granted. And their observations on the bad things in India, too.

Of the sheer number of aged and infirm people travelling by this train (or do they just look much older?

Of the flesh trade plying on this route--young girls, young boys and even wistful children. How do I know? I just do. I was a shippie; I ask directly.

Of the very pretty middle-aged Kashmiri woman who kept eating all the time at Attari. Of the Laughter Club members, walking about, cheering people up. Of the paan patta (betel leaf, OK?) and pineapple courier to Karachi and his questions on sourcing Thailand vegetable for Lahore. 

Of the heat, dust, flies, mosquitoes, excreta.

And the final question: If not for sentimental reasons, then what am I doing here?

Raghu, getting impatient as well as hungry, moves on ahead; I just want to be the last. He clears the crowd without any problems, pointing at me on being questioned, to a curious Immigration man, and is off through the X-Ray room towards Customs. Half an hour later, I get up, stretch my aching body a bit, and move forward slowly, now that there is hardly anybody left. The Immigration men here all seem to be overweight ex-servicemen sporting paratroopers' wings and insignia on their blue uniforms. The one closest to me has the smell of cheap booze on his perspiration.

My well-thumbed, multiple-world visaed and over-used machine readable passport seems to excite them a bit, and to add to the encounter, refuses to get itself read by their scanner.There is the faint hint of a touch, which I ignore. We go through the usual "why, what, where" series of questions, and I go through the standard cricket visa "Pakistan Lahore-Pindi-go-but-Jhung-no-go" routine. We both agree that the Test, what is left of it, is a disaster. After trying to hit me for a bottle of booze that I don't have, Larry stamps my passport and starts closing down what has, obviously, been a very long day for him.

Next, I sling my backpack on and roll my small suitcase onwards. And have a great get-back-into-form argument with a seedy looking rodent of a man trying to collect 10 rupees from everybody for the privilege of using or not using the station luggage trolleys. It is apparently the practice at Wagah to collect 10 rupees from everybody for using trolleys, even if they did not. I win my first argument in Pakistan, but am deflated when I learn that Raghu has already paid up anyway. 

I still have the receipt.

The X-Ray room is--bliss--air-conditioned. Not for long, though. Not finding anything inside to excite him, the man behind the machine, who is dressed in civvies, with about three hanger-ons likewise, asks me if I am carrying any alcohol. My answer, anjeer and kaju burfee, disappoints him, too, and Joe puts some secret chalk marks on my bags and sends me on for "examination".

Here I meet yet another gentleman in this sport, the Greatest Hunt for Booze. When I present him too with a negative, he asks me if I want to buy any. This is a new one on me; so I ask him, for the sake of accurate reportage, the cost. He puts forth the contention that 2,000 Rupees (Indian) may be a good price for a bottle of Royal Stag, which on a good day would cost about 200/- Rupees in India if turpentine was not available. I consider asking Curly Moe if he could organise Bacardi by the peg but think better of it and head for the relatively cool and fresh air of the platform.

Wagah platform has a bank currency exchange counter but it is shut: 'Please go to the PCO stall'. It has a small bathroom for travellers, but it is shut too:  'The man with the key went home, ask the PCO stall, they may have a spare'. There is some sort of "official" food stall which is shut, as well, but: 'You can go to the PCO stall', which has a few small carts set up adjacent, selling an assortment of over-priced garbage.10 rupees for one slim and stale samosa, 20 rupees for a weather beaten "Punjabi pizza", 20 rupees for a saucer of rice with some lentils in it, 20 rupees for a fake cola and 40 rupees for a litre of bottled water. Cash up front. I change some Indian money at an atrocious rate, and buy some rice and daal for some poor kids who have been on the train since Delhi, hanging around looking wistful.

Every now and then the PCO stall hands out meals and snacks and beverages without charge to the uniformed people around who demand it. 

Very nice.

Attari Station in India was bad, but at least there were a few taps, the stall there had prices published and a bottle of proper cold water was for 10 rupees. Wagah Station in Pakistan is one big rip-off, and the train staff have not switched the lights or fans on as yet either. Tap water has run out. Luckily, formalities are over rapidly as everybody wants to go home, so by about 2315 hours, it is it is time to roll. 

People take positions in the train, and it moves towards Lahore, in the dark. Lights and fans operate sometimes on some sort of obscure and selective dim dynamo principle relative to the speed of the train.

The Train moves--lurches, actually--on its last legs, in more ways than one. The dust it kicks up is amazing and all-pervading, and I shall invite all Lahoris especially to please investigate this grand introduction to their city further. The reasons for this dust are, apparently, a total lack of social forestry, compaction of ballast below the rail tracks and some sort of chalk industry in the vicinity. Whenever we spot trees in the dark, we know we are moving next to yet another Army area. A few local Pakistanis point out the bridge over the canal till which the Indian Army had reached in 1971. Another one tells me that captured tanks are on display along the route. I am sure there are, but we can't see much at night.

An assortment of minor "authorities" rummage up and down the train, looking for the people they have spotted and marked earlier.