Wagah border and patriotism!

Last weekend, my friends and I visited Amritsar. The Partition Museum just before the Jallianwalla Bagh was beautiful, interestingly it was also the least populated landmark in an otherwise overflowing city. The pain of Indians and Pakistanis, Hindus and Muslims was documented with dignity and humanity. It was touching to see how exhibits belonging to victims seldom reeked of any hatred whatsoever, there were sadness and pain but no anger or violence in their letters and interviews.

Later that day we made a customary trip to Wagah border. A 45 min drive on a 30 kms stretch on one broad, limitless road, with lush fields on both sides. It felt surreal to see a signboard saying "Lahore - 22 KMS, Islamabad - 220 KMS". As we parked, braved the sea of people and traders and joined the security queue at the entrance to the stadium, I couldn't help feel weird within, possibly even teary eyed. For the first time in my life, my eyes were about to look into a place where there was so much history, so many connotations and connections with my life and my country. As I waited amongst the many people waiting to get in, I could see the other side of the border, I don't know why it felt so strange that that land looked just like my own. I yearned to just be able to walk in and see what all the fuss was about but thick barbed wire, tall concrete walls and several gun-wielding men stood in-between.

The queue was crazy, a few hundred people on all four sides and me caught between all of them in one of the many male-only lines. The women who had already entered inside via a separate, much shorter line stood staring at the men's queues waiting for their men to come in. A lot of men were laughing, most seemed excited, there were lots of selfies, especially by those who had Indian flags drawn on their cheeks, there was incredible pushing and shoving, we were all too close for comfort, almost breathing into each other.

One man started shouting with a wide grin: "BHARAT MATA KIIIIIII......" and instinctively many more yelled back: "JAIIIIIII". Another man in a different part of this sea of humanity screamed: "VANDEEEEEEEE....", everyone replied: "MATARAMMMM". Most men laughed while screaming. I couldn't get myself to scream for it didn't feel organic, in fact I also felt scared, I have seen many instances in my life where such situations have turned violent instantaneously. Another roar of "BHARAT MATA KI..." came, this time when it ended, a man next to me turned to a random kid behind him, bent down, held the kid by his shoulders and shook him hard "BETAAA BADA HOKE SOLDIER BANEGA NAAA! BOL BANEGAAAA, BOLLL!" his lips vibrating with passion, the kid seemed scared, pressured, painfully nodding his head, pleading to be let go. The roars continued. After about five-six roars, this time a kid sitting on a man's shoulder just ahead screamed: "Bharat Mata ki..." in a lovely voice with a smiling face, people responded: "JAIIIIII". The kid went a second time, seeming to enjoy this newfound power, then a third until he stopped after the fourth.

By now, the queue had advanced to the last portion. There was a rope separating the rest of the queue from the frisking area. An Indian soldier stood guarding the rope. When these men were making their chants, they invariably ended up moving and pushing this rope. The soldier yelled firmly: "YEH ROPE NEECHE RAKHO, KOI AAGE NAHI AAYEGA, SEEDHE KHADE RAHO". All the grins turned to frowns, a few men around me cursed him in muted whispers, some just glared, then two men waited for the solider to turn and as soon as he did, immediately slid under the rope and ran to the frisking area feigning ignorance.

After this, no one chanted anything!