Beyond the boundary

An Indian journalist fondly remembers witnessing two one-day matches between Pakistan and India in Lahore in March 2004

Rajesh Kalra Delhi
My friend Ajeet Bajaj's father is a fascinating storyteller. The octogenarian remembers incidents far after the national archives would normally care and if ever he feels he may forget, he would note them down in his well-maintained diary. I had just returned from Lahore after witnessing the last two one-dayers against Pakistan in March 2004, but more than cricket, I was smitten by the city itself — its warmth, its orderliness. The elder Mr Bajaj though was unimpressed. He had been there, done that. 'Jine Lahore Nai wekhya, o jamya hi nai' (If you haven't seen Lahore, you are yet to be born), he said in a matter of fact way. 'I am glad you have reached an exalted status now,' he added before letting go. 'Do you know, when India was being partitioned, some of us used to feel we should give them Amritsar and keep Lahore.' I don't mean any disrespect for Amritsar, but how I wished he and his ilk had succeeded.

My week-long trip to Lahore was an eye-opener in more ways than one. You don't get to see the difference till you are well clear of the Wagah border towards the Pakistani side. The immigration and customs counters on our side are decidedly better equipped. But that is where the game changes. The warmth that oozes out of our western neighbours is infectious. Against the 'Chalo line mein', 'Abhi counter band ho gaya hai' of our brusque and rude Indian compatriots, the less-equipped officials from across were a picture of poise and humility, and culture, should I say. 'Aap cricket dekhne aaye hain? Yeh system thora tang kar raha hai. Baithye do minute. Thanda lenge kya?' I did not take him on his thanda offer but was filled nevertheless with tremendous solicitude for the immigration officer.

The drive from the border to Lahore itself is different. The road was better than the one that brought us from Amritsar to the border (two-way instead of the single lane from our side). We checked into our hotel to see Indian and Pakistani flags tied together with a banner proclaiming 'Warm welcome to our Indian friends for the friendship series!'

Early next morning, we had to go to a different hotel to pick the tickets purchased over the internet. We reached the hotel in time. A hall had been earmarked for the purpose and at the appointed time, two well mannered gentlemen came on stage and started calling us one by one and handed over our tickets with military precision. The first match was to take place the next day and my friend Vikas and I decided to go on to the stadium. We had both attended enough games in Delhi to be apprehensive and wanted to be sure of everything, especially in a foreign land.

The stadium was about 20 minutes from there, by an auto. And just as we sat marvelling at the orderly manner in which traffic moved, our driver decided to take a shortcut. Out of nowhere emerged a cop and flagged us down. That's it. A great beginning to cricket, we thought, before the auto driver uttered the magic words: 'I have Indian guests with me.' The cop's anger evaporated. He peeped inside the auto and greeted us lustily and instructed the driver to go on, not break any more rules, with a final, 'Guests da dhyan rakho' (Look after the guests) order. The auto driver dropped us right next to the cricket stadium, which itself was next to the Pakistan hockey association's beautiful hockey stadium. And as we dug into our pocket to pay him, he gestured. 'Choro ji, aap hamare mehmaan ho' and despite our protests, he just drove off. As chronicled by numerous articles of the trip all over, this was not a one-off incident. Not once did we feel that anyone tried to swindle us. I am told that this reciprocity was missing when the Pakistani guests visited us last year for the home series. Not that I am surprised.