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Thursday March 28, 2024

Border notes

By Murtaza Shibli
December 22, 2018

Every time I cross between India and Pakistan, I feel a strong urge to recount my experiences at the border. Although they haven’t changed for over a decade of my travels, they are always diametrically different.

One thing that has positively changed on the Pakistani side following the deadly suicide bombing in November 2014 at Wagah is improved security arrangements. The deaths of more than 50 civilians in that gruesome attack led to better regulated movements, security posts and better checking mechanisms. But the arrangement is still yards away from the Indian side – always professional, alert and efficient, and of course sometimes irritating just because as Kashmiris we might have to occasionally offer bite-size explanations about complex political situation back home.

Earlier this week was no different. At the initial check post and the roadblock, the sentry did not allow my family to go past for they were not travelling.

When I reached the disembarking area – where the passengers are collected and transported in what resembles a hastily crafted shuttle car for onward journey – I saw a few non-passengers locked in prolonged valedictory chatter and occasional public display of affection. This left me furious for I was unable to avail the courtesy, but I have grown accustomed to the miracles of Pakistani sifarish in uncanny places, from accessing public washrooms to availing graveyard spaces. I easily found a place for both myself and my luggage on the shuttle but it did not move for another twenty minutes.

Finally, when we arrived at customs, the person in-charge was caught unawares. It took him another ten minutes to start his vintage computer set that looked pregnant with decades of dust. After getting my baggage through the x-ray machine that is uniquely placed in the wrong direction for those leaving the country, I rushed towards immigration. There was no one at the desk, and as usual, I had to call for help. A gentleman with a slightly short countenance commenced his unwilling stroll from outside the building where a group of them seemed busy in some sort of informal sunbathing. It is usually rare to find immigration desks manned, and if they are, the officers are often busy talking or sipping tea, without much care for passengers. On a rare occasion, I overheard interesting details about a wedding amid a lot of giggles that thankfully redacted some of the details that might have been little hard for me to negotiate while on a lonesome trip.

The passage to India is greeted by a recently-constructed grand and aesthetically pleasing coliseum-like public stand that hosts the daily ritual of the flag ceremony – an exercise of mutually inclusive bellicose insanity that is marketed as patriotism to the gullible masses. The Indian side – from immigration to customs – was, as usual, quick and efficient. Its staff is also always professional and usually courteous.

Before boarding the bus that takes passengers to customs and immigration, we were subjected to what I strongly believe was a loyalty test through a middle-aged dog; only once it approved our odour were we allowed to board. As we entered, we were greeted, as always, by the blasting sounds of the latest Punjabi music. Thankfully, the ride is conveniently short but it can still lead to an occasional but momentary delirium. As we disembarked and collected our baggage, we were again subjected to an inspection from a dog that I overheard was named Lisa. She looked so pampered and well-manicured that I was tempted to call her Mona Lisa, but sadly our interface was too fleeting to even contemplate proposing it.

During check out, I was subjected to two brief interventions by the men in mufti; they just scanned the passport through their vigilantly trained eyes, smiled and hand-gestured to proceed on – only to be again put to a smelling test by a slightly ghoulish canine. I registered a feeble protest via an awful grin but luckily it went unnoticed to provoke a reaction.

For the first time I hadn’t advance booked my cab. I took one from the stand – a battered Tata Indica hatchback that produced a constant revving that sounded like the signature snores of a distant relative who had passed away a few years back. During my journey towards the airport, I constantly tried to pray for the departed soul, only to be regularly interrupted by the driver. Much like a primetime ‘tajziya kar’, Surrinder Pal Singh Warraich tried to grab my attention as he talked about the ills of the politics that blights the two countries. While I ignored most of his rant, I couldn’t discount his creative delivery of Punjabi swear words which he was able to fit in almost every sentence, and so effortlessly.

Between the twaddle, I could hear him speak well about Imran Khan but lament the latter’s lack of experience, and fete Navjot Singh Sidhu yet call him a ‘drama baaz’. He was also proud that there are a growing number of Sikh politicians around the world – from the UK to Canada and America to Australia – but he showed little excitement as I told him that his cousins in Pakistan were also on the move and getting noticed.

At Srinagar Airport, Khurshid Wani, an old journalist chum, was waiting just to catch up since the restrictions that are so often in place had frustrated our plans to meet for more than six months. In the cold weather, the tarmac looked drab an there were a lot of army men around. Everyone else – from the passengers to the staff – looked sad with sullen faces and incoherent steps. My heart could not stop to join the mourning that was hanging thick in the air.

Twitter: @murtaza_shibli