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WE met this beautiful woman from Lahore on a visit to Chandigarh. When she spoke in Punjabi, my heart just stopped. I hadn’t heard this Punjabi spoken in years. It brought a lump to my throat. I had not heard this accent in years. For a young person to speak thus seemed strange. Before leaving the usual courtesies were exchanged. What was unusual was the bond we both felt. She went back to Pakistan. I wanted to visit to Lahore during the Indo-Pak Test series. My niece and I were booked in Hotel Pearl Continental, Lahore. I mentioned this to Fiza (the beautiful Pakistani lady) that we might be visiting Lahore. Just a few days before our departure to Lahore, I got this call. The same sing-song voice: "Hi, Fiza here. Weren’t you supposed to be coming for the match?" I informed her that we were coming but would be staying at Hotel Pearl Continental and would definitely meet her. But she insisted we stay with her and she would receive us from the border. I told her not to worry. ‘Pakistan’ didn’t sound very friendly to my ears. On a cold wintry morning we left Chandigarh at 6 am with some friends who were also going by road, and at 10.30 we were at Wagah. Formalities over, we crossed the Radcliffe Line and were in Pakistan. Not so far away, I saw this tall stately beauty waiting for us. What a welcome! The warmth and the hugs and a strange pull. I felt I was amongst friends. It was the beginning of an emotional journey that I am not likely to forget for a long time. The same terrain, similar roads (stupid that I should think even otherwise) and 25 minutes later we were in Lahore. The excitement started welling up. Lahore, the place where my father had studied, had his clinic, our house, the fashion capital of North India. The word Pakistan kept slipping. It was being replaced by home. Our host’s house was like that of any senior officer’s in India. Tents of armed security guards were lined outside. The door opened to an elegantly kept home. Within minutes, a simple woman in a salwar-kameez, with her head covered, appeared with fresh juice, sandwiches and kebabs served in an impeccable style. Our host made us feel completely at home. My eyes darted from Fiza to her husband to see if she treated her husband with any more respect than we did ours. Was he the lord and master like the husband from the book My Feudal lord? No way. He seemed (like men we had left back home) thoughtful, caring, ready to please his wife and welcome her friends. Our hostess’ two teenage daughters were at home. We were their masis from that day onwards. Their young son Muhammad was a seven-year-old full of energy but would not greet us with a kiss because he did not like girls. The house had a battery of servants who quietly slipped in and out. Kauser, the maid, took over and saw to it that every wish of ours was fulfilled. Visiting Shalimar Gardens, Aitchison College, Medical College, the High Court, Punjab University and several other facinating old buildings was the experience of a lifetime. Nights in Lahore just never end. The famous Food Street buzzes with activity throughout the night. The nights turn into mornings with people still arriving for breakfast. Tall ancient houses line cobbled streets with rows of tables where the most delicious food is served. Just as amazing is Cafe Cocco’s Den. Situated in the red light area of Lahore, it was once the house of a nautch girl, whose artist son converted it into a cafe but kept the character intact. While we enjoyed the food, songs from Umrao Jaan, Pakeezah and the latest Murder numbers kept playing in the background. Indian songs are played everywhere—from music shops, beauty parlours to restaurants. Indian soap operas have touched life in Pakistan. They are as intrigued by the Virani family being so wonderfully decked up even while going to bed or working in the kitchen as we are but while we know what the reality is, they in Pakistan think that maybe that’s true for most houses in India. How they love our sarees, bangles and bindis. Our hostess had a temple bell outside her house. One day she found her daughter, draped in a dupatta, ringing the bell, and with folded hands saying to her astonished mother: Mein prarthna kar rahi hoon ki mein exam mein pass ho jaaon. Prarthna, Hindi for prayer, is hardly ever used in Pakistan. Thanks, Ekta Kapoor. I wanted to visit Nankana Sahib, the birthplace of Guru Nanak Dev ji. An hour and a half’s journey from Lahore, this beautiful gurdwara was very well kept. It is being managed by a few Sikh priests who consider themselves Pakistanis but wanted us to pray so that one day that they could set their feet on Indian soil. I request the Bhaiji that I wanted to take out a vaak i.e. reading a few lines from Guru Granth Sahib. I opened the page, and with my heart beating fast, read the following lines: Prabh ki saran sagal bhe lathe dukh binse sukh paya, meaning in the Lord’s refuge all fears depart, pains disappear and peace is obtained. Nothing could stop the trickle of tears that just flowed. The journey back was very quiet. I didn’t want the peace inside me disturbed. The feeling of oneness that I felt with the Almighty stayed with me for a long time. There could not have been a better ending to this trip. The last night in Lahore was spent huddled in Fiza’s family room. She did every thing to make it a memorable night. Over cups of kawah served non-stop by Kauser well into the morning, Fiza sang every conceivable song for us. Songs of Lata and Noor Jehan filled the night air with nostalgia. Our memorable night ended with Pakistani singer Roshani’s amazing song. Boohey barian, inha lai kandan tup ke, aawan gi hawa banke (I shall cross all barriers, even become the breeze to meet you all). The next day we were
driven back to Wagah. Partings are always sad and this was no
different. The land on the other side of the border seemed no less of
a home. Standing there, I saluted the love and warmth we got there. |
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