Crossing The Line New

The strange thing is that when I walked out of Allama Iqbal airport into Lahore city in November 2005, it gave me the same feeling as when I secretly crossed over for a late night game of hide and seek into the other colony, ‘It’s really not that different here after all.’
Rachel D’souza travels to Pakistan as a performer and experiences the power of the arts to bring people together – however high the walls and armed the borders that are meant to keep them apart.

“And whatever you do, you are not to leave the colony. You’re in big trouble if you step outside that gate. You have enough friends here; you don’t need them.”

Crestfallen and dejected, I’d go stand at the gate and watch my friends in the other colony playing through the spaces between vehicles that whizzed past on the busy road separating my housing society and the one across the street. Of course, my mother was worried for my safety. The street was busy and road-crossing was not yet my strong point. But it was not just that; she always emphasized that it was enough to have friends in my own colony, that we didn’t know those children well enough or their parents

 I often wondered where these unfounded biases against the other (almost identical!) colony emerged from. I think they came from the strong wall built around my colony of 21 buildings that did more than protect us from thieves and burglars. It separated us from what automatically became, by a simple matter of physical design, ‘the big, bad world’ outside, which then had to be examined and scrutinized by a meticulous and careful lens. I eventually learned to cross the road, but only to learn of many more different kinds of fences, gates and walls. More lines of demarcation that divide, more physical boundaries that make their mark as much on the psyche as on the ground upon which they stand.

“Please step back. Stand behind that line. Can’t you see it?”

“Please look here. Don’t smile,” she said pointing at a tiny camera on her desk as I stood in the line for immigration, trying very hard to not grin. But it was difficult, I was ecstatic. I had stepped outside the gate and crossed the line. The strange thing is that when I walked out of Allama Iqbal airport into Lahore city in November 2005, it gave me the same feeling as when I secretly crossed over for a late night game of hide and seek into the other colony, ‘It’s really not that different here after all.’

I traveled to Pakistan along with all my preconceived notions of the country and its inhabitants – a place where the militant’s word is the last word, where the law of the Qur’an and religion govern ways of life and thought entirely, where non-believers or kafirs would always be judged by harsher parameters and where an Indian might not be easily embraced with open arms.

Although I never saw the Pakistan beyond Lahore, what I found was this: a vibrant city that wakes up as the sun sets, Dunkin Donuts and a steak parlor with waiters in cowboy attire trained in cowboy manners, swish sets that partied in swish pubs late into the night, a large fan following for rock music and growing a number of youth rock bands, local bazaars, mandis and food streets that came to life only under the night sky. And, most unexpectedly, a prostitute colony where the tradition of Mujra still continues (although I don’t know how traditional it is)

But of all things, the first to attack my speculative presumptions was the warmth and the welcome. My being Indian was paramount. It entitled me to unquestioned affection and camaraderie. Among other things, auto-rickshaw drivers often refused to take any fare. Stores owners and restaurateurs insisted on throwing in a gift or dessert before I left. Strangers I met on the road insisted that I come home and have dinner with their families or simply wanted to show me around the city.

I met more and more people who refused to draw the line. More and more people who wanted to come closer, who wanted to talk about the things we shared, ranging from history to food ingredients. Of all these little binding commonalities, what surprised me most was the love and concern for the Virani family courtesy Kyunki Saas bhi . . ., the title song of which could be heard drifting out of many a household at prime time. A member of our performing team (I was in Lahore to participate in the theatre segment of the World Performing Arts Festival) who was part of the serial’s cast found an unanticipated fan following in the food streets, by-lanes and cafes of Lahore. People would come up to her excitedly, (addressing her only by her screen name suffixed with a respectful ‘ji’ and sometimes not even asking her real name!), requesting a picture with her to show other family members.

With most older people, I discovered an India consisting of either a nani or buaa or chachi or some gully or chabootara on the other side of the border that still had an iron grip on their memory. With the younger generation, most discussions of India traveled through Bombay to Bollywood and rested with some Bollywood badshah or begum. I had little or none of that nostalgic tie handed down to me by a brief education in Hindustani literature or blockbusters like Gadar – ek prem katha. But whatever the connect, whether history or memories or popular culture, it was clear that Lahore keeps India very close to its heart. And I returned home in the winter of 2005 with Lahore very close to mine.

November 2007

Once again, I find myself behind that very same line trying not to smile at the security camera. But this time, there’s a state of Emergency in the country. And since we didn’t know what the mood would be like in Lahore, we automatically wore a somewhat guarded and somber manner, befitting our impression of an appropriate attitude towards a country under Emergency.

But within a day in the city, we realized Lahore was more or less unperturbed. Public life seemed to continue normally. Bazaars, cafes, malls and restaurants went about everyday business unaffected. People were everywhere, talking, laughing, eating and shopping.

Once again, I was with my theatre troupe to perform at the World Performing Arts Festival. An event that, I was amazed was happening at all in the midst of growing unrest and instability in the country. Although many performers from several countries had opted out, the audiences at the festival had not waned significantly.

One of the few places where any difference could be felt was at dinner tables, where political issues dominated most conversations. And more visibly, in the increased number of gun-toting army personnel who stood in almost every nook and corner. Although we witnessed no violence, their constant presence everywhere was a reminder of its possibility. The largest numbers of them we encountered were deployed at the site of the festival itself – the colossal Gaddafi stadium.

And since they, thankfully, never had to put their combat skills to use, they had another task at hand - to find ways to while away time at an international festival of dance, music, theatre and cinema. And so at many performances, as the house lights came on for a curtain call, performers were applauded by an unusual audience of civilians and militia together. I returned having experienced something altogether new - a time when art and artillery had to share worlds.

Rachel D' Souza is a student of performance culture who works for the theatre in various capacities including writing, production, performance and technical aspects. She currently edits a monthly theatre e-newsletter for The Company Theatre's youth wing, Evam Youth Forum.