The Wagah border, often called the "Berlin wall of Asia", is a ceremonial border on the India–Pakistan Border where each evening there is a retreat ceremony called 'lowering of the flags', which has been held since 1959. At that time there is an energetic parade by the Border Security Force (B.S.F) of India and the Pakistan Rangers soldiers. Troops of each country put on a show in their uniforms with their colorful turbans. The happenings at this border post have been a barometer of the India-Pakistan relations over the years. ~ Wikipedia
We are late to recognize we are late. For a little less than 60 is all we have to get to Wagah. Google Maps would reliably inform us it’s a mere 39 minutes away. Our unreliable network would prevent us from posing the question to begin with. Mild panic induces a curious neurotic ballet within my now tired cerebrum. I’m too absorbed in my ritual of dragging my knee guards against gravity to notice that an entire police squad now watches us intently. Several fingers ahead, Aman speaks with the chief who, at present, engages in frantic arm-waving and finger pointing. Aman returns and engages in a little bit of finger pointing himself. “That’s the direction we take to get to Wagah.”, he says. Asking the force for directions almost always attracts a million queries from the force; friendly banter for the most part, unless you stutter over basic queries and arouse their suspicion. Thankfully, we have nothing to hide.
As I align my stance for forward momentum, a policeman huddles up close, as if to share a secret. “Don’t you feel hot wearing all this stuff?”, is all he desires to know. This would be my third encounter with that very query today. The last occurred several spans ago, when a jubilant gentleman risked limb and bone to catch up with us on his scooter executing this very same ritual – a lean-in, a concerned expression, a baritone voice and a “Don’t you feel hot wearing all this stuff?” inquiry. The fact that it was made at 30kmph made it oddly funny. How curious do you have to be to ride up to someone only to ask him the specifics of his thermal reading? In each situation, my response was “Better hot and safe than comfortable and dead.” In each situation I was subjected to the thunder of an open-hearted and vociferous Punjabi laughter that tickled my senses and made me lose my balance a fair bit, all in good spirit.
My comrades ride off into the distance, even as I turn to take one last look at the Golden Temple. “I’ll be back”, I think to myself. A deep throttle, a wave to the courteous and curious policemen, an engine roar and I’m riding alongside the pack once more.
There is a mild trepidation in our motored-stride. The flag-lowering ceremony at Wagah will begin any moment now. Aman and I stop briefly for directions while Spiderweb and Motorbreath make their own inquiries a hair further. A blind corner prevents us from realizing that the two have been directed left, while we are directed right – and while all roads thence lead to Wagah, we will lose sight of them. Taking comfort in the fact that they had each other for company, Aman and I decide to plough on. Ten minutes out, I stop briefly to check my phone. No calls. They must be en route. We keep pushing our steeds. “The ceremony, the ceremony! We can’t be late for the ceremony!” my mind sings. It’s the stuff of B-grade nursery rhymes. But I let it be for I’ve enjoyed an epiphany today; my mind can rhyme if it so prefers.
Our path is linear. NH-1 says the writing on the wall. Several endless minutes later, we arrive at the Wagah/Attari border. We are greeted with pandemonium. Trucks, tourist vehicles and two wheelers hasten to occupy a little piece of the Indian soil tagged as “Parking”.
And then, there were the people. Hundreds and hundreds of denizens eager to renew their patriotic spirit. As I park my steed, I run a visual experiment and take off my glasses. Almost immediately, the universe dissolves around me. All I see now are oval colored blobs attempting the Brownian motion. I experience an audio-visual orgy as I wade my way through atoms of human particle. The experiment ends abruptly as I bump into a non-descript – you know, the ones you wouldn’t want to see staring into your window on a rainy day against the backdrop of thunder and lightning? The glasses come on and I take Aman’s side in haste.
We connect with Spiderweb and Motorbreath over our cell phones and are informed that they are parked a few meters away outside of a stall. The stall owner notifies us that our baggage will not be allowed beyond the security check point. He is kind, for he agrees to provide us space to park our bags and our bikes if we so need. We gladly accept, even though I have my concerns on leaving our bags unattended. Lacking options, we leave our bags with him, thank him and rush towards the security check point. Moments away, I realize that I have forgotten to remove my knee guards – an unfamiliar contraption that often leads to investigation and inquisitive inquiries from security personnel. I plough on hoping they would let me through for I do not want to find my way back to the stall. They let me in but not without a thorough examination of the innards of my knee guards that lasts for all of 60 seconds. And while that might not seem like much, it feels like eternity under the watchful eye of guns.
I had expected the border to be devoid of construction, witnessed only by barren barbed wires running across the length of that which divided us from them. To my surprise, I find elaborate constructions – stylized gates that allow for guards to take strategic positions at their pinnacle. Adjoining staircases that serve as makeshift observation points for patrons and a small row of offices brimming with army personnel engaged in the day-to-day affairs. I push my way through wades of patriotic fervor, up the staircase and into a dense mass of skin and bone. Down below, perched on rows of wooden benches are several more screaming souls that want their pound of flesh – if only metaphorically.
And so the ceremony begins.
“Hooooooooooooooooooooooo”, belches out the Indian jawaan in a startling display of eternal, unending breath. The crowd goes wild, cheering him on.
“Bharaaaaaaatttttttttt Mataaaaaa Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii”, hollers another as he works up the crowd.
“Jaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii”, a positively charged crowd responds.
“Hindustaaaaaan”
“Jindabaaaad”
“Hindustaaaaaan”
“Jindabaaaad”
“Hindustaaaaaan”
“Jindabaaaad”
“Vandeeeeeeeeeee”
“Mataram”
“Vandeeeeeeeeeee”
“Mataram”
“Vandeeeeeeeeeee”
“Mataram”
The energy is palpable. A jawaan marches up to the gate and takes a confrontational stance, displaying power and agression, taunting the other side. The crowd resonates their support and cheer him on. Precision marching, foot stomping and choreographed hostility between the two sides flare emotions. Mild bursts of abuse are quickly silenced by liberal by-standers.
Several minutes of chanting, of solidarity and patriotic ferver, the ceremony draws to an end as flags lower in unison and the gates close. I make my way back to the stall realizing only now that I had lost my mates in the crowd. My camera lacks battery power; the lowly iPhone is put to use. I do not claim to be a professional shutter bug, but I live to learn...
I learn that if I move the iPhone while taking a picture, I can create some very lucid effects.
And just like that, my tryst with Wagah draws to a close. I let my mind idle into thoughts of idealism; of a world without war and borders; of being able to ride into Pakistan through to Afghanistan via Europe to the United States, circling through to Asia - all without questions, without permissions, without papers, without fear. Alas, I will not live to see this happen. But for the sake of future generations, I can only hope that this dream will someday befriend reality. Until then, I feel blessed for being born and raised under the protective wings of the Indian Army. May the Universe conspire to protect them at all times.
We rest our tired bodies. I rest my tired mind. Its taken me places I've never been before...
