The India I had read about in novels stretched well beyond its current borders. I learned of a country that was referenced to include places that were now in Pakistan and Bangladesh.
On my first visit to India, I arrived within its present-day political boundaries, but I felt a need to adventure further afield in order to fulfil my curiosities about a wider Hindustan.
Here, Rudyard Kipling had travelled freely and regularly between Delhi and Lahore, working unrestrained amongst different peoples who managed to live together, but in the end were divided.
He did not have to endure the tedious bureaucracy of borders to the west, and borders to the east. Unfortunately, I had to. My first adventure was to set out and cross the border into Pakistan with pre-determined forbearance.
Its border with India is 3,323km long, and there is only one crossing point. It lies between the cities of Amritsar in India, and Lahore in Pakistan. And so began my logistical search to find a way of getting between those two cities.
Upon reaching Amritsar, my first challenge was to get to Attari on the Indian side of the border, without paying inflated taxi rates. It was 7.30am, and the refreshment rooms at Amritsar Cantonment railway station had set me up with a fine helping of porridge in my stomach. I paid a visit to the wash room, where a sign above the hand basin issued me with the instruction: ‘Do not make nuisance. Do not spit. Do not comb’. It amused me, and I complied. It put me in a good mood before I stepped onto the concourse. That frame of mind was immediately tested when I was assaulted by a predatory pack of taxi drivers. Unanimously they told me that there was no form of public conveyance for the 24km journey to the border, other than seated in their very comfortable taxi. ‘Cheapest and best’ was the common slogan used to tempt customers.
There was a damp, misty chill in the air and white smoke swirled from burning piles of swept-up leaves. I was a prime target, a walking source of easy rupees, so I was mobbed. As the cabbies jostled me I shrugged them off, but they tugged at me with their lies, trying to entice me into their cabs.
I walked purposefully away with an exaggerated stride that suggested that I might know where I was going, or what I was doing. In truth I had no idea. I could only hope that I wasn’t giving myself away by striding out towards a coal depot, or a marshalling yard.
Through the smoke, on a patch of waste ground, I could make out a Dodge pick-up truck. I had a slight inkling that it could be my transport to the border.
With the line of taxis now behind me, I inspected the truck, considering it a delight. It had dirt sprayed onto every grim surface by passing traffic, and its tyres were as smooth as billiard balls, except where chunks of rubber had been gouged out of their walls. It was battered and beaten to hell. It ran on diesel, laced with cheap kerosene, explaining the belch of white clouds of eye-watering, choking fumes. It looked like it had just returned from armed combat. That patch of waste ground was the terminus from which it plied the route from Amritsar to Attari, back and forth, all day long.
There was nobody else present, but the taxi drivers left me alone. I was growing confident that I had called their bluff, and patiently hung around the truck waiting to see what might happen. Within minutes, a few men with scarves around their heads, turned up smoking beedis, and it only took a short while before 25 male passengers were cramming themselves alongside me onto bench seats in the back, transforming the Dodge into a makeshift open-air minibus. The charabanc set off with two men hanging onto the open door. Another stood on the running-board, hanging on to one of the men who was hanging on to the door.
This Dodge truck, with its throaty exhaust, thundered past the university, then through the pleasant, open suburban landscape of the cantonment, with its neat rows of military buildings. The passengers were dressed to a man in heavy brown or grey djellabas reeking of garlic, woollen scarves wrapped around their heads, bandana-style. I felt like part of an invasion force – only the machine guns were missing.
We rudely disturbed the bucolic landscape with a deafening roar. After 45 minutes my face had become pitted by the cold wind, as we announced our arrival at Attari on the Indian side of this most famous of border crossings, half an hour before opening. Apart from a group of six Mauritians, I was the only person there, alien to the two countries on either side of the border.
I do not like border force officials in this part of the world. My tension rises. I think that is something they enjoy – wielding their power in whatever way they can, making you wait unnecessarily was a favourite tactic. This makes the procedure of passing through, painfully slow. Eventually I was allowed to walk beyond a gate marked ‘India’ without any serious hitch.
From there I progressed on foot, and I fantasised stepping over that infamous dotted red boundary line, drawn up by Sir Cyril Radcliffe at the time of partition. I reached the next gate, which was marked ‘Pakistan’. As expected, but with mild disappointment, I came across no such line.
Little attention was paid to me, and for that I was grateful. The same could not be said of the indigenous travellers who were being thoroughly searched. As I passed through surprisingly easily, I was silenced by my thoughts of the recent, atrocious history of the ground I was standing on. I thanked God that I lived in a different time, whilst also envying Kipling the experience of his time too.
Passing through the second gate, also without hindrance, I was now in Pakistan.
I paused to look around me. There was a difference in the way each country expressed itself on either side of the border. The old country of India didn’t seem to have bothered trying to impress at all, but the new country of Pakistan was ostentatiously tidy, with closely mown lawns edged in black and white painted kerbstones. There was a strong sense of military order.
How different that was to become. After decades more of tensions, both countries have invested in trying to outdo the other in the bizarre ‘Beating Retreat’ ceremony. It takes place each sundown, when the border closes for the night, in a show of chest-puffing bravado, attracting hundreds of spectators.
Although I was now on the other side of that imaginary red line at Wagha, I did not consider myself fully in Pakistan until reaching nearby Lahore.
Back to square one, I returned to a state of confusion, wondering how I might transport myself from this border crossing to the city of Lahore, more than 2 hours away.
The prissy landscape around the buildings at the border post, soon morphed into waste ground strewn with rubbish. Groups of men rushed over towards carelessly parked vehicles, fit for the scrapyard.
Although these vehicles looked abandoned, I felt confident that most of them would be going to Lahore. I optimistically strolled over to them. There was some activity around a Toyota pickup, so I selected it as a good candidate. I climbed from out of a puddle, half-filled with broken bricks, and into the back of the pick-up. Others followed, they too wearing the favoured reeking djellabas.
It was a dull day, and the vehicle ploughed its way through mud and slurry, passing drab markets. This was a different country. Full length carcasses of animals, and cages of live chickens were more prevalent this side of the border. Mosques replaced temples and gurudwaras. Giant hoardings reminded me of the global products of which I had felt no deprivation in India. Western goods were freely available here. Coca cola, Fuji film, Pepsi and Canon replaced Campa cola, Bollywood movies and Lipton tea. Rough roads were a common factor, as the speeding pick-up dissected the fields of arable crops. There was a wholesome, earthy smell in the cool breeze. After 2 hours on the open road, my recovering flesh was pitted once again.
At the impressive Lahore Junction railway station, I stumbled from the roller-coaster. There had to be more suitable modes of transport if I was to see much more of Pakistan.
A watery sun was beginning to make weak shadows. I relieved my joints with a massage from a bent-over, standing position. With an appetite I stumbled, on trembling legs, to the shiny wooden plank of a restaurant seat. With relish, I ate my first Pakistani lunch.
I had crossed the border, from one splendid railway station to another, but not a mile of operational track in between! A chaotic rigmarole of a journey, replacing a first-rate transport infrastructure.
Three months later, I was ready to tackle bureaucracy once again, to step over Sir Cyril Radcliffe’s other red dotted line – the even longer one of the two. It divides India from what was once East Pakistan, and is now Bangladesh. It stirred a renewed interest. Would these two countries that also once lived within their differences feel so absolutely separate from each other, in the way that India and Pakistan do?
Ultimately, I wished to journey between Calcutta and Dhaka, but for this day, crossing the border and reaching the town of Jessore in Bangladesh, before sundown would suffice.
I stepped down from the Calcutta train at the border town of Bangaon in searing April heat. My grubby clothes were sticking to me. How did the group of schoolgirls, who had shared my dirty train carriage, manage to look as fresh as newly-plucked jasmine at the end of a roasting journey? I was yet to master that particular skill. I hoped that the journey across Bengal might be easier on the joints, than the one I took across the Punjab.
A line of cycle rickshaws was available, clearly waiting to take travellers onto the border at Benapole, suggesting that it was not very far.
I offloaded my last Indian rupees at the abundant fresh fruit stalls. It was a risk taking a daysack of oranges, cucumbers and water melon through Bangladeshi customs, hoping that
thirsty border officials would not be tempted into considering them a menace to the country’s agricultural economy.
I agreed a price, and jumped into a rickshaw. Sharing a whole seat with my rucksack, the driver took me along an avenue of majestic acacia trees, its pinnate leaves quivering in the bright, harsh sunlight, to the border check-post at Benapole. The breeze had cooled me down. I was comfortable, and feeling optimistic.
The border crossing was very crowded, and I began to re-assess my optimistic state. Folk were gathering in their hundreds. Congestion was compounded by piles of luggage; bags outnumbering people by about 5 to 1.
There was only one other alien attempting to make the crossing, a young Japanese man who was quickly pounced upon by the customs official ahead of me. Standing close behind the conversation, I listened in, enabling me to assess the mood.
The young man looked a little timid. He was scrutinised. ‘Are you Japanese?’ said the official, as he looked at his Japanese passport.
‘Yes, I am Japanese’ said the traveller, applying a short bow to his response.
‘How many cassettes do you have?’
‘None’, was the reply.
The interrogation continued.
‘How many watches, not including the one you are wearing?’ said the Bangladeshi. This caused great confusion, as the Japanese’s first answer was, ‘One’, meaning he had only one watch in total, but the official then wanted to see the other watch. ‘What other watch?’ the traveller said.
‘You said you have another watch’, the official continued.
‘I have not another watch’. The Japanese replied nervously. This accusation and denial continued for a while, before it was finally established that there was only one watch.
‘How many cameras do you have?’ was the next question.
‘I don’t have camera’ was the response.
‘No camera? Are you sure you are Japanese?’ A look of incredulity swept over the official’s face.
The Japanese chap seemed perplexed by this cultural stereotyping, and replied, ‘Yes, I am sure’.
‘Then why do you not have any cameras?’ said the official, maintaining his look of disbelief.
‘I do not have one’, the young man said, sounding accused.
The Bangladeshi customs official was not impressed with this explanation, so decided to inspect the entire contents of his rucksack.
Spilling everything onto the table in front of him, the traveller stood back.
‘What is this?’ said the official, taking out a small parcel wrapped in newspaper.
‘They are books’, said the traveller. The official opened his eyes widely, ‘Oh, books?’, and then rolling his eyes, he continued, ‘Are they obscene?’
‘What?’ said the traveller.
‘Are they obscene? Are they explicit?’ There was a glimmer of hope in the official’s eyes, but only a look of puzzlement on the young man’s face. The official leant over his table into the Japanese face and whispered loudly, ‘Are they sexual, filthy, yes filthy?’
‘Ahh, no!’ the young man exclaimed, ‘Not sexual’.
I contained my inclination to snigger, but the young man didn’t see any funny side to the situation.
There was a look of disappointment on the Bangladeshi’s face, but he continued the line of questioning. Radios? Calculators? Videos? Each received a negative reply. The traveller was having to prove his replies by justifying the entire contents of his rucksack, down to its most mundane contents, including his soiled clothes. This was beginning to worry me. I was expecting the same treatment, and began thinking of what I had that might be of interest to them. The deep sighing official, allowed the young Japanese man to repack his bag.
The customs man then looked at me. To my astonishment, he apologised for the delay and allowed me to pass. My feeling of joy was short lived. I was soon approached by another man in uniform, carrying a rifle across his shoulder. His voice was ominous as he instructed me to follow him. He led me through the enormous customs hall, the scene of an explosion of bags and suitcases, clothes, TV sets, cassette players, rolls of fabric, pressure cookers, bags of spices, jewellery, medicines; everything was being thoroughly searched. All travellers were either Indian or Bangladeshi, and some were having their dhotis, or the crotch of their pants felt by officials, much to their dismay.
Why had I, the one British citizen, been singled out? With worry engraved upon my face, I was led into a separate office.
The rifle-carrying official offered me an armchair. He asked me to wait. Five tense minutes passed. My increasing concern stalled on his return, whereupon he matter-of-factly placed a glass of sweet chai in front of me.
The offering was welcome, but five minutes of inertia ensured further tension. A rather noble-looking immigration officer in a grey suit, white shirt and navy-blue tie, entered the room. He sat behind his desk. There was silence. With a narrow smile he asked me if I had read today’s newspaper. This brought me out in a sweat. Just what could have occurred between our two countries for me to be singled out like this? What were they going to do to me?
I told him that I had not read today’s newspaper, adding that I had no interest in politics. A copy of the ‘Bangladesh Observer’ was passed over to me. Taking it from him, I asked if there was anything in particular that I should read. ‘It is only for your pleasure’, he replied, and got on with processing my passport.
When he had finished he handed it over, saying, ‘I would like to thank you for coming to visit my country sir, I am very honoured’. He shook my hand and smiled a broader smile, holding out his arm to guide me from his office, so that I could continue into Bangladesh.
I felt a little dazed, and wondered if he had mistaken me for Prince Charles. Not wishing to look a gift horse in the mouth, I told him that I was very pleased to be here and looking forward to my tour of Bangladesh.
The crossing of the border was complete, but I was still in no-man’s land. Another leg of the journey was required to feel properly in Bangladesh, and that saw me sitting on the roof of a bus that made the Dodge truck to Pakistan look like super de-luxe travel.
I climbed the ladder at the back of the bus, settling down on the roof to avoid the inevitable chaos of everyone boarding. Crunching into first gear, it set off for the nearest large town, Jessore. The bus was in a shocking state, but I had the best seat. Shock absorbing sacks of pulses and vegetables incurred no extra premium charge, neither did the warm breeze. It was heavenly.
The chlorophyll-packed landscape had no gradient. Hardly a mole hill in sight. The excitement of a new country slowly turned to tedium. The engine remained in fourth gear, yet progress seemed slow in my search for some visual change. I had been looking in the wrong place, for it came not in the landscape, but in the sky. It was sudden, and it was dramatic.
Nearing Jessore, the sky turned a heavy slate grey. A tumultuous display of forked lightening on the horizon unnerved me. The strikes increased. The bus carried on relentlessly, with six rooftop passengers hoping for a puncture.
The driver had called it correctly. At the first sign of a shanty settlement on the outskirts of town, the first large drops of rain fell. It initiated, just two minutes later, the frantic scramble for cover, as the bus reached its destination. A deluge of Biblical proportion followed.
I have crossed these borders many times since. Moving smoothly, drinking wine and eating complimentary peanuts from a reclining seat. They went by unnoticed.