Showing posts with label Indo-Pak border. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indo-Pak border. Show all posts
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Mohali bonhomie
FEATURES » SUNDAY MAGAZINE
CHENNAI, April 9, 2011
Updated: April 9, 2011 19:34 IS
Pix: AP
If a sport like cricket can bind and ease tensions between the two countries, why can't we channelise this energy into a more constructive form, asks Brinda Suri after watching the high-energy clash in Mohali.
THE Indian cricket lexicon just got a few worthy additions: Dhoni's Devils, Wankhede, April 2, 2011. It was 28 years ago when the first few entries had appeared, on a magical June 25, 1983. The ICC World Cup win has unveiled a new set of champions but there's no stealing the thunder from the Original XI, a certain rough-diamond Kapil Dev and his Daredevils, those magnificent men in white whose acts of bravado have found immortal space in the tote bag of sporting legends. Who dared to go where no Indian had been before, to forever change the fortune of cricket in the country.
A political tool?
Since that incredible triumph at Lord's cricket in India has seen a metamorphosis to divine status, has a few gods to boast about and is a potent tool in many a money-spinning formulae. That it can play a role in political diplomacy as well was seen during the India-Pakistan semifinal, an encounter which in many ways was the juiciest in this edition.
Even as the country revels in the Mumbai win, the high-voltage Mohali clash remains of special significance. It should be of interest to rewind and take a look at some of the subtle moments connected with it that contributed to its now-famous bonhomie, the emotion of which managed to draw a tad-romanticised statement from India Foreign Secretary Nirupama Rao who said, “It would be appropriate to say that this time a ‘Mohali spirit' pervaded the Indo-Pak relationship.” On-field the ‘Mohali spirit' showed itself in heartwarming gestures…when Pakistan skipper Shahid Afridi had a buddy handshake with his Indian counterpart before the toss or when he grinned and patted Sachin Tendulkar on the shoulder just after failing to take his wicket owing to a dropped catch. It was instances like these that made the much-touted ‘war' just another game between two professional sides. Off-field there was much more.
Replete with ingredients of a thriller, the March 30 tie was a sell-out. Besides the high-profile guests — a cheerful veneered Pakistan PM Yosuf Raza Gilani, an expectedly unanimated Indian PM Manmohan Singh and a surprisingly animated Sonia Gandhi; there was a bevy of familiar faces from the Bombay film fraternity, sundry ministers and corporate honchos. Private jets were supposed be ferrying the A-list, for the aam aadmi the Indian Railways ran a special train from Delhi to Chandigarh, and hotels were booked to capacity. It was Mohali's day in the sun. I was not scheduled to be at this mother of all matches, its tickets having sold out almost as soon as they were announced. As news of an India-Pakistan tie got confirmed the little piece of paper was the hottest property, with reports of it being crookedly traded for five figure amounts. Luck came my way when a cousin couldn't make it and grudgingly handed me the coveted terrace-block ticket.
Setting the mood
The air was fragrant with that lovely balminess of Punjab's pre-spring, the turf was a verdant carpet and in the packed PCA Stadium stands there was palpable energy, all crackling and electric. Making it more of a party were bhangra-pop songs booming on the microphone and dhol players drumming up the beat at regular intervals. The feisty crowd was here to watch a high-quality game and have a good time. Amongst them were 100-odd, men, women and children, who had walked across the Wagah border to cheer their Men in Green. And confidently raising its head time and again amidst the sea of Tricolour was the fluttering Green-White crescent-star. Every time it went up a hurrah erupted from some corner of the 26,000-plus crowd. The Pakistani was not an enemy here. He was a fair contender and the sporting Mohali crowd applauded a fine shot whichever side it came from.
The opponent and its supporters were the cynosure of all eyes. Afridi received the biggest round of applause when his playing XI was announced, Wahab Riaz got an ovation for his succulent five-wicket haul and sitting-in-the-pavilion Shoaib Akhtar's autograph was most sought- after. In the stands their beautiful women, bespoke for the fashion ramp, stood out for their stylish attire — near-ankle length kurta, trouser and flowing dupatta — which made them worthy of a pictorial spread in the next day's newspapers. Hogging the limelight separately and obliging enthusiastic Indians with a photo a minute was Cricket Chacha or white- bearded Abdul Jalil, Pakistan's 61-year-old lucky mascot from Sialkot dressed in his trademark green, for whom this was “the biggest match” he was witnessing.
Punjabi by nature
This was Punjab and the multitude had its brand of zest in tact. Mukesh Ambani may be amongst India's richest but when he appeared at earshot distance from the crowd he was greeted the bum-chum way: "Oye Ambani! Wadhiya…all is well?" His wife Nita, though, was respectfully called “Bhabhiji”! Comic irreverence is part of the Punjabi fabric, but there was no room for the offensive here. A group of college boys occupying seats alongside mine were typically vivacious and happy-go-lucky. They had been wildly cheering but hadn't attracted the television cameras yet. “And that's a big shame,” they felt. The situation was being gravely pondered over till one of them said “We need to make the right noises. Let's flay them." No sooner than had he mouthed it that a volley of voices berated him: “Khabardaar, mehmaan ne saade… Don't you dare, they are our guests.”
No one had drilled the Ps and Qs into those young, cheeky heads, it was a natural response. Similarly, no one told the people of Punjab to open their homes to those from across the border as hotels were booked. No one told Raju, the little boy who was painting flags on cheeks of spectators, not to charge the Pakistanis. No one told restaurateurs in Chandigarh to request the guests not to ask for a bill. No one told the grand old Punjabi lady to approach a group of Lahore women, whom she spotted in the market a day after the match, with, “Aao, ghar charan pao… Come, grace my home.” It's a hospitable temperament not uncommon at a people-to-people level, which can ease relationships and let the two countries channelise their energies into more constructive issues. If only there's a political will… Cricket diplomacy has once again set the ball rolling. Will it get converted into valuable partnerships or as usual be stumped?
Published in The Hindu, April 2011
http://www.thehindu.com/arts/magazine/article1608082.eceSaturday, October 6, 2007
Edging on Sentiment
Khushwant Singh’s novel acts as a point of reference to undertake a trip to search and seek ‘roots’
"The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in
It is the summer of 2007 and as I’m driving towards Wagah, in the distance grey clouds are swelling. An early monsoon has been predicted. Much though I enjoy the rain, the prospect of the skies opening up during my short visit to the international border isn’t such a welcoming idea. On the flip side I wryly think this might deter some among the hundreds who arrive here daily to witness the lowering of the flags ceremony.
I couldn’t have been more mistaken. By the time I reached, the stands were packed to capacity, the evening retreat yet a while away. Smart soldiers of the BSF, tall and lean, strictly manned the area. I took my place among the jostling crowd. From my position I could view the
Beside me sat a silver-grey haired, fair complexioned gentleman. He had West-Asian looks and I took him to be a tourist. I was lost in thoughts when he surprised me by asking in chaste Punjabi, “Where does your family hail from?”
“
“You’ve come to seek it seems,” he continued.
“Yes,” I said.
“Me too. I’m Ardeshir,” he smilingly introduced himself. My questioning glance must have said it all. “Yes, there used to be a number of Parsi families settled in
“The bullet is neutral. It hits the good and the bad, the important and the insignificant, without distinction.” (Character Iqbal’s musings in Train to
Ardeshir was the first time I had heard a non-Punjabi speak about a torment that had affected millions. Nevertheless the pain he had suffered, the poignancy in his voice had similar tenor. Partition had regrouped people. It was still grouping people. Both of us were here to peep into a territory where we had once belonged; both had a yearning to cross over to a land where some dead roots still breathed. He was born there; I had heard tales from those born across. Yet our emotions fused at a certain plane.
I wondered about the many like us who were here at Wagah to get a glimpse of a bygone land. How many of us were searching for our own Mano Majra, the fictional village in Train to Pakistan, a microcosm for any town, city during those days, which reflected the story of societal torture—the fallout of political misendeavours.
Mano Majra was modelled on Hadali (now in
A slim novel, with a simple plot but immensely multi-layered, it’s through his few characters—like Hukum Chand, the regional magistrate; foreign-educated Iqbal; Juggut Singh or Jugga, the village gangster; and his Muslim love Nooran, for whom he makes the ultimate sacrifice, in the act redeeming himself—that Khushwant fluently brings out the individual and human element of a social suffering, and pertinently asks the questions of right versus wrong or how bad is good and how good is bad, without touching upon the politics involved.
Country Cousins
The train got closer and closer… The man (Jugga) was still stretched on the rope…He slashed away at it in frantic haste…Somebody fired another shot…The man’s body slid off the rope but he clung to it with his hands and chin… The rope had been cut in shreds. Only a thin tough strand remained. He went at it with the knife and then with his teeth. The engine was almost on him. There was a volley of shots. The man shivered and collapsed. The rope snapped in the centre as he fell. The train went over him, and went on to Pakistan. (Closing lines of Train to Pakistan)
Wagah today is about the point of division of two nations, the Radcliff line, and whipping of jingoistic passions at the lowering of flags ceremony. I was a witness to it that evening. Patriotic songs blared. People hummed. Some sang along. Others whistled. Children squealed. As sunset approached, soldiers on both sides carried out their regular drill, showing faux animosity towards each other, much to the delight of the crowd on either end who excitedly applauded the theatrics.
Clank! The gates shut and the national anthem was played. The crowd sang along. Many wept. Profusely. Ardeshir was an unashamed pool of tears. I wasn’t too far behind. I prayed for rain. It didn’t oblige.
As the ceremony got over there was a surge for the gate. On both sides the crowd gaped at each other. Two people, two countries, once again one emotion. I felt like going forward too. But somehow it seemed as if we were two people caged in our lands. The iron grille gates accentuating our fetters. I turned away.
Ardeshir was waiting to say goodbye. All these years he hadn’t been able to make his pilgrimage across the border. In the dusk of his life, I felt, he had settled for the second best. We nodded farewell. Words felt too choked.
There is something about the call of roots. Only those displaced shall know. Ask author Alex Hailey. The quest to get acquainted with the land he belonged, lead him to tracing his origin back two centuries, the mission resulting in his brilliant magnum opus ‘Roots’.
I’ve tried going across a couple of times, the plans always getting scuttled. Each time I fill in the visa form, in the ‘mode of transport’ section I write ‘On foot’, and get an unclassified thrill in doing so. My pilgrimage too has yet to take off. Maybe next time I will book myself a ticket on the train to Pakistan. Hopefully then and in the times to come the two nations would not need a Jugga to do a heroic deed of seeing the train cross the border peacefully.
Factfile
Air: Amritsar is linked by air to Delhi
Rail: Well-connected by rail with all metros and cities through Ambala cantt junction. From Delhi the Amritsar Shatabdi is a preferred mode.
Road: Distances from the city: Jammu 216 km, Chandigarh 235 km, Delhi 435 km. Luxury coaches are available from all these destinations.
Wagah border: 29 km from town. Local cabs do the up-down from town frequently.
Published in Jetwings
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