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The entire sky was covered with dark clouds. The morning was really cool. Any moment, the thirst of Amritsar was to be quenched by the Rain God. The yet-to-come smell of raindrops on dry soil and flaky walls of old houses made one glow within. Finally, the Rain God seemed happy. But it all changed suddenly. The wind was carrying the clouds further west. The sun peeped out and its ire was soon writ large all around. A thought came to mind, "It must be raining in Lahore." Someone like me who speaks the same language and must also be getting ready for the day and, before that, had the same breakfast of pranthas with dahi, makkhan and cool sweet lassi. And that too only at a distance of less than 50 km. But he is a stranger, in another country called Pakistan. Both of us belong to the same soil but a gap of 50 km and more than 50-odd years has made us live in two alien countries. This thought is foremost in mind after a recent visit to the India-Pakistan border at Wagah. Every evening, it is festive time there. The ceremonial flag-lowering process becomes an occasion of heightened nationalism. All effort is made to dim "Jeewe jeewe Pakistan" with loud calls of "Hindustan Zindabaad". Patriotic film songs sung Mahender Kapoor, Mohammad Rafi and "Aye mere watan ke logo, zara aankh mein bhar lo paani" by Lata Mangeshkar is vainly made to be subdued by "Ye mera Pakistan hai, ye tera Pakistan hai". Visitors raise national slogans. All this happens under the vigil of smart and elegantly uniformed sub-machine gun holding officers of the BSF and Pakistan rangers. This was not a maiden visit. But it was different this time. There was the pain of recently read Toba Tek Singh of Manto and many others in the heart. The biggest question from history was valid even today. Who was responsible for the Partition and so much of misery which has no parallel in terms of human suffering? The sheer, senseless carnage of those who, despite belonging to different faiths and creed, were together in life, happiness, grief, joy and sorrow, celebrations and mourning. The Partition was not only of the land but also at the human level. The pain of divided families, separation of lovers, parents, children, brothers, sisters … The atrocities played by the darkest psyche by the yet unheard of or thought of mental disorders, ignited by petty prospects of gain on both the sides. All the time these questions reverberated: What was there to celebrate? One could also feel the pain in the eyes of Jinnah and the Mahatma whose photos have been positioned right across the borders facing each other. Such juxtaposition is very stark. To an Indian, the smile on the face of Bapu looks more endearing than the stern gaze of Jinnah. But the perception on the other side must be different. We have still not learnt from history and are still fighting for more such 'istans'. Any day if these photographs came alive, by the quirk of fate or charisma of God, they would jump from the pillars and rush to hug each other. Another thought struck me, amid thinking about all this, Manto and the Punjabi short stories about the Partition — what if one day the public gathered on this side and a similar number gathered on the other and rush to each other at a time when the gates open for the gala flag-raising ceremony. Will the jawans fire on their own or join them in glee. Just imagine the scene. Hundreds and hundreds of human beings, hand in hand, hugging each other with moist eyes. Nobody would be able to point out which one of those humans is an Indian and which a Pakistani. Yet, we are different countries … always at each other's throats. The groups dancing to the tunes of patriotic songs.... there are the generation who have neither lived the pain of the Partition nor have read about that. Most of them are tourists from other parts of the country who are not aware even of the suffering that went into the creation of these two countries. For them it is a momentary excitement of Chakk De India or Rang De Basanti songs and a sudden rush of nationalism. Being patriotic is fine. But why this show, why this loud jingoism at Wagah. And then came a strong dust storm from the other side of the border. It brought the dust of the land which was so close to the hearts of our parents and grandparents. One could feel it in eyes and its taste in the mouth. Once again, I felt a twinge of pain in the heart. At least, there were no controls now, no custom clearance, no frisking on the import of this valuable material belonging as much to us as it does to the brethren sitting on the other side of the gates. And then there was the cool whiff of air as if another gift from India of the yore to soothe the mind. It seemed it was raining in Lahore. Thank you … one just could not bring oneself to say the word Pakistan.
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