Wahgah Crossing
Along
Indo-Pakistani frontier in the Punjab: It was with
much anticipation that I approach the only land
crossing between India and Pakistan at Wahgah. This
crossing is a short 15-mile drive east of Lahore,
the cultural capital of Pakistan. Beyond the border
crossing the Indian city of Amritsar is another
15 miles.
The Pakistani customs and immigration offices are
in small barrack-like old structures not unlike
the Colonial offices of a bygone era. The personnel
match the facilities by their reserved and suspicious
demeanor. I am spared lengthy questioning partly
because of my American passport and because of a
Pushtun ranger from the frontier highlands who happened
to be on duty at the gate. Languages have the capacity
to bring total strangers together and help open
close doors. The ranger declares me his guest and
insists on helping me through the immigration and
customs. My name is entered into the computer and
mercifully no terrorist with a similar sounding
name is on the watch list today and I am waved through
after minimum formalities. There are however many
others who had been waiting much longer; poor people
making the journey to visit relatives in India.
They will eventually move also but not before some
palms are greased.
From Pakistani side to the Indian side one walks
in a straight line on asphalt pavement towards Indian
immigration and customs offices. A white straight
line painted in the middle of the pavement shows
the way until the line comes face to face with another
line coming from the opposite direction. Both lines
end in arrowheads staring at each other. This is
the point where both countries have stared at each
other since the division of Indian Subcontinent
into a Muslim Pakistan and a predominantly Hindu
India 59 years ago. From this point going both north
and south the border is heavily fortified. One can
see the steel fortification snaking its way through
the fertile landscape for as long as the eye can
see.
The Partition, as the division of the subcontinent
is commonly referred to, applies to the partition
of the Punjab and Bengal into the eastern Indian
part and the western Pakistani part. While there
were communal disturbances in Bengal 1000 miles
to the east of here, the killings and destruction
in Bengal dwarfed in comparison to what was unleashed
in the Punjab. Out of four million people fleeing
across the newly created border to the relative
safety of their new homeland one million did not
make it. In a frenzy of religious and political
fanaticism and bloodletting one million men women
and children were put to sword as they fled across
this fertile land. Trainloads of refugees arrived
at their destination with not a single living soul
on board. It was one of the darkest chapters in
human history.
So as I walk across the half-mile stretch I cannot
help but be overwhelmed with the suffocating weight
of history. The irony is that people in both countries
have their own version of history. Naturally each
version blames the other side of wanton killing
and committing atrocities. Sixty years after the
partition we still cannot come to terms with what
we did to each other. Instead of hanging our heads
in shame we take refuge in circuitous reasoning
and hide behind the tattered fig leaf of national
and religious pride.
Instead we should all hang our heads down in shame
for what we did to each other. Perhaps there should
be a monument at the crossing where the arrowheads
stare at each other. This should comprise of a statue
of a Muslim, a Hindu and a Sikh, instead of pointing
fingers at each other, stand in shame with their
heads bowed down in accepting the blame for writing
one of the darkest chapters in human history. It
will not be politically correct but it will be the
only morally correct thing to do. It will, I believe,
go a long way to bury the ghosts of the partition.
But if we, the subcontinent Muslims, Hindus and
Sikhs, are so wrapped up in our towering egos, and
we definitely are, then we should erect the statue
of a character in a Partition-related short story
by the famous writer Saadat Hasan Manto. In that
story the governments of India and Pakistan decide
to exchange mental patients where Muslim lunatics
from India were to be brought to Pakistan and Hindu
and Sikh lunatics were to be sent to India.
One such lunatic was Bashan Singh who in his 15-years
of confinement in the asylum in Lahore never lied
down and even took catnaps standing up. He could
not comprehend the exchange of people across the
border and wanted to go to Toba Tek Singh, his birth
village in Pakistan. But being a Sikh he had to
be sent to India. In this confusion the man went
to the narrow strip of land between two countries
and stands there muttering incomprehensive words
to himself that made no sense to those around him
just as the exchange of human cargo across the border
did not make sense to the insane man. That lunatic
was as sober or as crazy as the rest of the people
around him. He died there on the barrow strip of
land with his face down. In death he was on the
narrow ribbon of a line that was neither India nor
Pakistan. Perhaps a statue of disheveled man lying
face down over the narrow strip would be an apt
reminder of those awful times.
Every afternoon at precisely 4:30 in the afternoon
the border is officially sealed in a choreographed
ceremony with considerable military pomp and circumstance.
Smartly dressed soldiers march briskly towards the
gates separating India from Pakistan. Their serious
and stern looks exude unmistakable contempt for
each other. Even the customary handshake before
lowering of the national flags is curt and fleeting.
Bugles are sounded as two soldiers from each side
goose-step towards the gates. They simultaneously
lower their national flags to the wild cheering
of partisan crowds on both sides. Then in a visible
disdain and dislike of each other the gate is shut
with a loud bang that reverberates across the fertile
landscape. Even though their obvious contempt for
each other is thoroughly rehearsed and choreographed,
things have at times flared to fist fights. But
still like actors on a stage the soldiers play their
parts with determination and precision.
I cross the gates well before the ceremony and arrive
at the Indian immigration and customs building,
a rather modern and comfortable facility. The officers
are polite and courteous and offer me cold bottled
water, a welcome treat in the suffocating Punjab
heat. After minimum formalities they wave me through.
Another short walk and I am now in India and the
city of Amritsar is barely 15 miles away to the
east.
(Link columnist S. Amjad Hussain is an emeritus
professor of surgery at the Medical University of
Ohio. He was recently in India as a visiting professor
of surgery at the Government Medical College Amritsar.)
