Cafe on the border

At any time of the year it is a Godforsaken place. But in summer, Ferozepur is one of the hottest and most inhospitable terrains to ventu...

At any time of the year it is a Godforsaken place. But in summer, Ferozepur is one of the hottest and most inhospitable terrains to venture into, probably the least scenic area in Punjab. In this arid landscape, the Hussainiwala barrage is the only cool spot and the sole tourist attraction. The memorial to Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev has been almost cast into oblivion. But the adjoining joint checkpost of India and Pakistan attracts a fair amount of crowds eager to witness the Retreat ceremony held every evening at 7 pm. Half of the lure is to peek at the Pakistani8217;s themselves, almost as though they were some alien species.

After driving around the border in the blistering heat and peering through binoculars for a glimpse of the Pakistani army, who we were told were walking around in mufti on the other side, we gratefully collapsed at Hussainiwala. To return to Chandigarh without watching the Retreat would have been sacrilege, so we stayed on. Even a cursory glance made us conscious of the differencebetween the Pakistani side and ours. They have built a towering white gate flanked by Islamic cupolas. It is larger and more ornate than the much publicised one at Wagah. Ours is an ordinary gate, though we have much more to commemorate. And even from a distance we could spy a lush green garden made colourful with a profusion of exotic plants and even a large rockery christened the Karakoram Pass. Tables and chairs are arranged under colourful garden umbrellas and are occupied by tourists enjoying a leisurely snack. The ambience is very much that of a French cafe. Our side presents quite a contrast. Tourists stand around in an untidy bunch far from the gate. There is not even a pretense of a garden.

I was keen to walk across and examine the garden closely, but was restrained by the formidable barred gate. No, insisted the BSF jawans, I could not do so, especially in the prevailing situation. I persisted and approached the young Pakistani Ranger standing guard outside. He and a BSF guard stood on oppositesides, facing each other with deadpan expressions.

Much to my surprise, the young Ranger8217;s face broke into a dimpled grin and he hurried off to consult his superiors. After a hurried confabulation, I was told that I could seek the commandant8217;s permission after the ceremony. The ceremony began with a record number of spectators. There were loud whispers from a herd of young Indians, exclaiming that fashions in Pakistan were the same as in India. But once the ceremony began, all good-natured gossip came to an end. The crowd seemed to feel there was serious business to be done. Every time one of our troops performed the rather long-drawn-out drill, the Indians burst into hysterical applause. Soon the quiet Pakistani audience on the other side felt they should reciprocate, and the solemn ceremony fast deteriorated into a raucous clapping competition. One of our troops stamped his feet with so much force and ferocity that his spur flew off. The Rangers, in contrast, were quite lackadaisical. In fact, theircommandant took the salute casually turned out in T-shirt and jeans tucked into knee-length boots.

After the ceremony, I asked if I could look at his garden. He immediately consented with great courtesy and ushered me into the other side, explaining that it was his own keen interest in horticulture that had led to the greening of the area, making it a popular tourist spot.

As though Kargil had not happened, he continued to make polite conversation with the BSF guards, even enquiring after their commandant8217;s welfare. The only give-away were his cold, cruel eyes. No wonder then that when he offered me refreshments, I hastily refused. When I returned to the comparatively barren Indian side, a BSF official informed me that the officer I had just been talking to belonged to a Pakistani royal family and was earlier a member of the omnipresent ISI. Even if this was untrue, I could well imagine it.