Tomorrow you may not see Khaleequr Rehman Khan. But then you may. He’s one of the only nine passengers on the bus bound for Lahore—of the remaining 25, a few are bus staff and the rest all journalists, with notebooks or TV cameras, looking for the Great Indo-Pak Story. Searching for the substance behind the symbol. What you will certainly not see is what lies neatly arranged in Khan’s suitcase: shampoo, facewash, mehendi, rajma, cashew, chaat masala, Hajmola, kurkure. That’s what his wife Nuzhat had asked him to get from his neighbourhood store in the walled city. Besides, of course, a talking doll for daughter Faria and a musical toy for 18-month-old son Anas. If all goes well, there will be one happy family in Karachi this weekend. There you have it, many substances behind the symbol. But then there’s no escaping the symbol either: when Khaleequr Rehman Khan boards the bus to Lahore from Delhi’s Ambedkar terminal early Friday morning, his face by the window will be one face to the current thaw in Indo-Pak relations—an area where hope so far has been a four-letter word. Especially since December 13 when the Parliament attack stopped the bus service, the air service and a list of things too long to mention. But tomorrow, as he watches Punjab rush by until the bus reaches the border at Wagah and then slips into Lahore, Khan’s thoughts will be on his family. His wife holds a Pakistani passport. She and the children travelled to Karachi some months ago to be with her ailing father. ‘‘I had promised them I would fetch them back. But you know the airfare via Dubai? It’s Rs 28,000. Where would I’ve got all that money from? I was beginning to give up hope. But then Prime Minister Vajpayee made this dream announcement. The bus ride costs only Rs 800, I can keep my word,’’ says Khan. Ever since that ‘‘dream’’ announcement, he began making rounds of the Ambedkar terminal: why wait, he wanted to be on board the first bus to Lahore. July 1 came and passed but neither side made any formal announcement. That didn’t put him off: he was soon in the queue for a visa at the Pakistan High Commission, aware that his wife’s nationality gave him an edge over the others.Khaleeq’s house is typical of the Walled City dwellings. A long corridor, partitioned into several rooms, it overlooks a Delhi Metro construction site on the one side and the Hauz Kazi mosque on the other. There are many at home: mother, brother, cousins, more cousins. ‘‘You know Maulana Abul Kalam Azad stayed here long ago.’’ There’s no mistaking the pride. And then, a whisper: ‘‘But I miss my wife and children.’’ When chachi came with Nuzhat’s proposal seven years ago, there was an impassioned debate over her Pak nationality. ‘‘We thought matters would improve. Plus we had many relatives in Pakistan. My sister Farida too married a Karachi boy. So we decided I could go ahead. It all went wrong after the December 13 attack on Parliament.’’ Nuzhat’s application for an Indian citizenship has been pending with the Government. ‘‘Many from her family suggested that I shift across and join them in their business. But I refused. I can’t think of living elsewhere. We had plans to trade in dry fruits and foodstuff. But transport links were cut off and we had to shelve the idea. I hope I can get going soon,’’ says Khan. His brother Habeeb Khan’s a writer, a man who believes India and Pakistan can rise to great heights if they somehow sink their differences: ‘‘It was so difficult to get permission for Khaleeq’s children to go to Karachi with their mother. What harm could they have done? We had to work really hard. All this must change.’’ Khaleeq nods. But there are more pressing matters: he has to pack his suitcase, ensure the talking doll and musical toy don’t get left behind. ‘‘They will be so disappointed if I don’t carry these. After all, they don’t make toys like these there.’’ Careful, let’s hope that doesn’t spark off a diplomatic row.
