Both my wife and I were born in Pakistan. So when recently a business delegation to that country was announced, we signed up. We started with many mixed feelings – of curiosity, adventure and nostalgia. An important item on the agenda was the visit to our old houses, hoping that they were still there and, more important, that we would find them. Being part of a delegation, we were spared the usual ‘hassles’ a visitor would face in a developing country - a ‘hostile’ one at that. We should not have worried. We were given an affectionate reception right from the Lahore airport – where we had to change flights. There was much garlanding and back slapping, and then we were whisked through passport control, someone took charge of our baggage, refreshments were offered at the elegant CIP lounges, and a fleet of cars drove up, just as we were being besieged by a bunch of inquisitive press reporters. Nothing seemed much different from back home! So, given the predictable delays and the sub-continental habit of not valuing time, we finally made it to our hotel room in Islamabad only at midnight – 8 hours after the PIA reporting time at Delhi airport. Transiting thru Islamabad, late at night, was a sheer pleasure. There were wide smooth roads, lovely boulevards, artistically lit up beautiful buildings, bold clear signages, and well-informed and talkative drivers. It all looked so different, especially from the image we had in mind - of a poverty ridden, underdeveloped nation, housing mute people suppressed by army rule. Here was an ultra modern, well maintained city, with open hearted, proud but warm and hospitable people. A very pleasant surprise indeed. The next evening we were very willingly escorted to my wife’s ancestral house in the narrow winding lanes of Rawalpindi – Islamabad’s twin city. It is quite a contrast to its new avatar, and yet has wide main roads and a total absence of encroachments – ensured with the help of a few municipal bulldozers. My wife’s family’s house is still there – but crumbling. Even though my better half was all of 3 years at the time of Partition, she had heard enough from her parents to be able to recognise every room, staircase, courtyard, and even the floor tiles. She was like a little girl, running all over, eyes moist - with me in tow, clicking pictures of every nook and corner. All through this the present occupants were patient and even offered to serve us tea. It was a most worthwhile trip.
Thereafter, official meetings and receptions, quick trips to the ancient city of Taxila and the famous ‘Punja Saheb’ gurudwara, and the cute little hill stations of Murree and Bhurban, rounded off our two days and three nights in Pakistan’s capital city. Early the third morning we left, by road, for Sargodha – enroute to Lahore. M2, the 4-lane motorway between Islamabad and Lahore, is every bit as good as the ones in Europe or U.S.A. Built, operated and maintained by Daewoo of Korea, it could well be the much-needed kick off for Pakistan’s industrialisation. Well-designed exits and traffic joining zones, well-managed toll plazas, motorway patrol cars ensuring the speed limit of 120 kmph, SOS phones at every kilometre, tastefully built highway stations for food and drink, comfortably air-conditioned quick snack shops, gas stations … it has all the essentials of a modern motorway. It took just 3 1/2 hours for the entire journey of nearly 380 kms. However, what was perplexing was that there were very few vehicles on the road. It’s either the (high) toll fee or the absence of CNG filling stations. Of course we took a detour for Sargodha - my place of birth! Sargodha is only 2 hours from Lahore – an hour on the motorway upto Pindi-Bhatiyan and an hour’s detour on inner roads. The trip down memory lane continued at Sargodha, a small town where I was born in 1940. Unlike in Rawalpindi, we didn’t have the house number. Helpful shopkeepers located an old centurion – a retired ‘girdavar’ - who was only too keen to connect up the old ‘khasra’ numbers to guide us. Despite ‘our’ house’s division into several shops and dwelling units, it hadn’t changed much. The occupants very sweetly showed us around the place. As we were leaving, the old man insisted on giving five rupees to my wife, saying that she was like a ‘beti’ come home! Both of us couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in our eyes.
Lahore turned out to be very different from Islamabad. Very much the old city, with graceful bungalows along the canal bank, shopping malls – old and new – teeming with people, newly created food street at Gwala Mandi, Mughal period Shalimar Garden … the place is full of life, very different from the ‘antiseptic’ beauty of Islamabad. We felt the heart of Pakistan is in Lahore. Soon it was our last day. We were trying out some sandals at one of the hotel shops when a group of young girls entered. “Have you come from India?” asked one of them. “Yes, but how did you know?” answered my wife. “The great Bindi divide, Aunty”, she said pointing to the vermillion circle on my wife’s forehead. “It is perhaps the only thing that distinguishes Hindu and Muslim women. Apart from that, we look alike, our clothes are identical, we speak the same language, and eat similar food. But for the Bindi, I could well be your daughter! And, by the way, Aunty, just remove your Bindi for a while when you go shopping. You won’t have to pay foreigners’ prices!” she added mischievously. The Great Bindi Divide indeed. How I wish our politicians could understand this ‘simplicity’. Or am I dreaming?!
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