Barbed wire, not silk

The historic Nathu La Pass on the Silk Route is a frontier that resonates with a violent past and speaks of an uneasy truce in the present. Out here, Hindi-Chini is not so bhai bhai

Nishi Malhotra Chandigarh

Man-made boundaries are like lines in wet sand, drawn with a heavy hand, but vulnerable to the sweeping tides of history. I went to the Indo-China border at Nathu La Pass recently, hot on the trail of two arch rivals’ sudden desire to increase trade and shake hands across a border that once opened onto countries called Sikkim and Tibet. What I found, instead, was a frontier that resonates with a violent past and speaks only of an uneasy truce in the present—made in the interests of the new realities of globalisation, perhaps.

The international boundary between India and China at Nathu La Pass is a paradox. The two strands of barbed wire without a no man’s land that mark this ‘friendly’ border are put to the lie by the heavy stone fortifications still intact on each side. The Chinese appear to have built miniature replicas of the Great Wall that descend from the snowy heights both to the left and right of the border, complete with tunnels and a tower, from which a CCTV records, 24 hours a day, all movement (including that of tourists’) on the Indian side. The Pass itself is not obstructed, however, and tourists can gape at a very worthy view of what was once Tibet.

High on the mountain ridges that are under Indian control, and clearly visible in the near and far distance, are what at first appear to be several random piles of stones partially covered with snow. These are the bunkers inside which our frontline soldiers live, breathe (in extremely rarified air) and wake up. Despite the border now being open to trade and tourists, it is hard to find many private vehicles on the 56 km route from Gangtok to Nathu La. What you do see, instead, is a lot of army green: checkposts, tin-roofed clusters of makeshift cantonments, convoys of trucks ferrying supplies, diesel-spewing jeeps (I travelled in one) and artillery that startles you with the boom of its shells ricocheting off the inner ranges.   

An army colonel in Gangtok, in answer to my query about whether he would characterise the atmosphere at the Nathu La border as friendly, said, “Let’s just say there is no hostility at present.” In fact, the Friendship Gate, erected to mark the opening of the Pass, looks out of place next to the poignant signage extolling the fallen heroes of 1962 and the war memorial commemorating them. Indian soldiers patrolling the boundary keep their distance from the Chinese —it is easy to see why.

Even as the Chinese soldiers reach out across the barbed wire to shake hands and pose for pictures with tourists, some of them are not averse to stealing goods from unsuspecting Indians. I was witness to two unseemly (for any army, anywhere) incidents in the one hour we spent at the border —a student had a Rs 100 note snatched right out of her hand by a soldier, who ran off back to his checkpost, laughing at her distress; another tourist managed to save her camera from being grabbed just in the nick of time. No one can help the tourists because the two strands of wire, easy enough to cross, constitute an international boundary that cannot be violated.