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But four hours later, as he waded through the evening crowd at Falettis Hotel in Lahore, Khan spotted Umar. ‘‘I told you he would show up,’’ he shouted, embracing his cousin.

As for Umar, it was like old times: ‘‘I’m sure he told you that I was a dur ka cousin and probably won’t come to fetch him. Sarhad ne hamein door kar diya, par rishtedar to ham phir bhi huey (The border made us distant, but we are still cousins).’’

Lahore roared as the bus from Delhi rolled in but there were countless on both sides, not on board, who kept cheering: a positive straw in the positive wind.

You could see the hope, excitement in Khan’s eyes long before he boarded the bus in Delhi this morning. He posed for cameras each time he was told, among the last to board the Sada-e-Sarhad. Even the rain-drenched morning couldn’t dampen his spirits. So much so that he took a swipe at all of us: ‘‘I suddenly feel very important. I’m no ordinary passenger, but a messenger of peace. Nobody took me seriously when I spoke at home on Indo-Pak relations but today all of you want to air my views. I must make full use of this.’’

Like most young men, he grew up cheering for the Indian cricket team, he said. He still remembers that dreadful day when Javed Miandad hit a last-ball six off Chetan Sharma. Then came his marriage to Nuzhat. ‘‘We were on the bus together the last time. We thought this bus was a wonderful idea to send our daughter more frequently to her grandparents. But it was all cut short.’’

As we sipped tea at Pipli in Haryana, he told me: ‘‘It’s very easy to snap diplomatic ties. But ask people like us who have blood relatives living in Pakistan. There was a time when we could plan our travel to Pakistan casually over a meal. But today that has gone. And for no fault of ours.’’

The bus veered towards Sirhind. We saw some 100 policemen around Sirhind’s floating restaurant because the All India Anti-Terrorist Front was opposed to the revival of the bus service. So was the Shiv Sena, we heard. But these voices were a mere distraction today.

As was the Bhakra canal. ‘‘Isn’t it beautiful?’’ said Khan, ‘‘even Pakistan is like this.’’

We stopped at Kartarpur for lunch. Zahoor Saba, a fellow passenger, near us didn’t join. She sat in the bus, cuddling four-month-old Abdullah who was still recovering from a bad bout of brain fever.

‘‘His father’s in Pakistan and can’t come to fetch us. I have so much to do,’’ she fretted.

Finally, when we reached Wagah, Khan pointed ahead: ‘‘Do you see that gate? The last time I was here, I had to see off my wife and children here. I couldn’t go. I was an Indian, so I didn’t get a visa. Was that fair? Yet now that I have crossed over, I feel more attached to home.’’