My Friend From Islamabad

Last Sunday, I met a few of my friends for brunch at the Hi-rise bakery. All of them were desis.Considering that I am Indian and some others in the bunch Pakistani, this description would not be strictlyaccurate, but most people from the Indian subcontinent who happen to be abroad, refer to each other thus.Never mind the fact that we would be technically crossing national boundaries in doing so. Most of us don'tthink it is that much of a stretch, though someseem to tie themselves into knots over it.

The topic of our conversation moved to the current hostilities along the Indo-Pak border. It has been thefocus of unusually high media attention for the last couple of weeks, something we in America are not used to.At work, I have been answering questions about the same.

Pakistan would never attack New Delhi or Bombay, would it, given their sizable Muslim populations?

I don't know if I managed to convey the fact that there are no walled cities -- everyone lives everywherein the metros and parallels with Palestine would not really hold here.

It is no longer about religion even. It is all about keeping some ancient hatred alive. As the Kashmirissue became National Public Radio's Talk of the Nation, one of my friends finally verbalised the questioneveryone is now asking: "Jang hogi key nahin?".

Will there be war this time?

To most of us it is just another academic discussion, but one of us has a brother who is an army officerstationed at the border. I am sure he feels differently.

Some among us can actually call General Musharraf, Pervez Uncle. This is again a desi tradition ofaddressing older family friends -- this Uncle and that Aunty as opposed to American Uncle thisand Aunt that. I think though they use it mainly for real relatives which would explain why a Yankeefriend of mine who saw The Joy Luck Club thought it was about bonding between four female cousins as opposedto just friends.

Anyway, coming back to the point, despite the media's extensive coverage and analysis, we think we knowsomething more. Not that we are privy to any special information - it is just a collective, deep-rooted beliefthat all this is merely bluster and neither side would actually start a nuclear war.

Sipping on my lemonade my thoughts wandered back to several summers back. Summer vacation did not mean daysoff for graduate students in the United States. Particularly not for the international ones who cannot affordthe fare home in any case, and so we stayed on campus.

I was a teaching assistant that summer and I was hoping one of my friends would get lucky. Maybe aprofessor with a nice poolside house would ask us to watch his pets over those oppressively hot weeks. Therewere no classes to take though research-wise there was plenty of work to do in the lab. The only good thingwas we could take longer-than-usual coffee breaks without feeling too guilty.

Pocket Park, our campus coffee shop, was a little glass house wedged into the farthest corner of a smalland now nearly deserted open-air hangout. Tables, chairs, benches, stairs, the steps of a wooden stage -- wecould seat ourselves anywhere with a mugful of strong coffee.

We picked a table under the trees. Another person occupied the table a little distance away. She wasyounger, dressed comfortably in a pastel kameez. Her shalwar was wide at the bottom, likesomething a Chinese girl would wear in a martial arts movie, not the shackling pants I wore in India. I didn'tknow if that was that latest fashion.

"Look," I said to my fellow student Abraham, "Is she desi?"

"Don't know," Abraham said but he was already looking in that direction. I could see he was dyingto make her acquaintance. He did not want to ponder over her nationality. A pretty girl is a pretty girl.

At that moment she looked up and smiled. We waved and gestured to her to join us. Introductions were madequickly.

"I am here to do research in the mathematics department," she said. "I am originally fromIslamabad. I study in Texas. Your university offers summer grants to undergrads from other schools "

That was the first time Abraham and I met someone from across the border. I was amazed at the incredibleease with which we could communicate with each other. I mentioned that I did not have a chance to learn Urdu,though my dad was posted in Hyderabad. She quickly grabbed a paper napkin and started writing out thealphabets for me. The language we spoke, though, sounded exactly the same.

An hour into this conversation we realized we had to be getting back to our labs. Our friend mentioned shemissed her good old daal chaawal, as her dorm did not have any kitchen facilities. We said we wouldstop by the math department on our way home and make dinner plans.

By the time we got home we were thoroughly drenched by a sudden downpour. I pulled out a spare salwarkameez for her to change into. My housemate walked in with his friend from the business school. Theyprobably mistook her for some visiting cousin of mine.

"Know what? Pakistan lost today! They are not going any further in this tournament," the friendsaid and they proceeded to exchange another high-five. Normally I would have joined in, but I remembered mymanners.

"My friend, from Islamabad," I introduced. My housemate and his friend looked decidedlyembarrassed.

"Well, we celebrate much the same things in Pakistan," my guest admitted sportingly. That clearedthe air, a bit.

Later we went out to a falafel dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant. Our friend from the business schoolquietly picked up the check. He was trying to make amends for that gaffe. We knew that.

Pakistan had lost to some other country. India most certainly did not profit by their defeat, for we hadalready lost a match. It only meant both our teams were out of contention now. The kind of thing we celebrateon both sides of the border, typically.

I snapped back to the present when they called out my name. As I walked over to pick up my order, Ishuddered.

Yes, we know a thing or two about the region which escapes the news analysts. That's the whole trouble.