Wheels of Verse

Couplet Express

by Nirupama Dutt

THE romance of a train journey is hard to get over and it is an experience that I just cannot resist and the longer the distance the better it is. So I was not intimidated by the 48 hours the train would take from Nizamuddin to Madurai. I had to make this north-to- south journey to fetch my daughter home from her school near Kodaikanal in the Palni hills.
The ticket counter man looks up the computer and books me into a train that leaves Nizamuddin every Saturday. The train is called Thirukkural Express and I get into it early morning.
The plan is to get off at Madurai, see the Meenakshi Temple, spend a night there and head the next day by bus to Kodaikanal. In the train I get talking to a professor of English from Chennai. He advises me that instead of Madurai, I should get the ticket extended to Kanniyakumari. “If you have not been there then take the journey. The last halt of the train is Kanniyakumari,” he says. While I am still wondering if I should do so or not, it suddenly occurs to me that If Kanniyakumari is the last halt, then why is it called Thirukkural? The professor satiates my curiosity and tells me that “Thirukkural” is a two-line verse or couplet.
The journey suddenly takes a poetic turn and it feels very good to be a traveller of the Couplet Express. And then I learn that Thirukkural maxims were the work of the great Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar who is believed to have lived some time between 300 and 600 A.D. And it was his statue that was installed at Kanniyakumari in January 2000 by Dr. Mu. Karunanithi, the then Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu. Well, the same statue that caused some ripples for it had been done with parochial sentiments to have something southern juxtaposed against Vivekanand Memorial at the confluence of the three seas. But at that moment I was not thinking of the east-south divide or coming together. The magic of verse had been cast.
Poetry has its own ways of getting round one. Once it lays its snare, there is no getting away. So the ticket was extended to Kanniyakumari and six hours more from Madurai so it was to be 58 hours in the Couplet Express.
As the train moves on to reach the land’s end, it starts emptying out. There are a few passengers left and pantry car staff that had served delicious chilli bhaji, spicy chicken curry and masala vada during the long journey. One of the more friendly waiters tells me that they will spend the night at Nagercoil which is one stop before Kanniyakumari and Tuesday afternoon they will start their journey back to Delhi’s Nizamuddin. And I find myself humming my favourite train song, vintage Kanan Devi: Yeh duniya, yeh duniya Toofan Mail…
But once at Kanniyakumari, the mad race of life comes to a halt as does the rough and tumble of the journey. Just a handful of passengers, railway staff and the vendors who had got in at Tirunelveli to vend neatly-packed halwa by the kilogram are greeted at the beautiful railway station by the fresh sea breeze. Into an autorickshaw and then in a spic and span room of an inexpensive seaside lodge. I remain indoors only for a quick bath and a cup of coffee, and then I am out to experience the beautiful coming together of the three seas.
Waiting for the boat jetty, I see the horizontal and aesthetic contours of the Vivekanand Memorial and by its side the monumental statue, all of 95 feet, of poet Thiruvalluvar. Well, the detractors of this installation were right in that it alters the skyline and intrudes somewhat with what must have been the secluded serenity of the historical memorial. But a statue has been put at a pride of place. And then I suddenly get parochial too. What about our great poets back home? Punjab has a tradition of poets. The greatest of them all is perhaps Guru Nanak but now we know him more as the first sage of a religion well institutionalised. But the two Punjabs, on either side of the barbed wire, are linked by many other minstrels. The great Sufi poets: Waris Shah, Sultan Bahu, Bulle Shah and others who wrote verses that we call kaafi. And I wonder if one day I will travel to Lahore in a train called the Kaafi Express!

Farewell To Shillong

By Nirupama Dutt

SHILLONG has always been a very special place to me. Its waterfalls, the silent lake, long walks, busy bazaars and shabby cinema halls continued to haunt my thoughts long after I had left the place in the first flush of youth.
I would never tire of telling my friends of this hilly splendour. The notes of music coming from crowded fetes, the colourful overalls of the petite Khasi women, white lace curtains on the tiny windows of the villas and the blind beggar strumming his guitar in the dirty Bara Bazar. These were the images of Shillong and of course tales of schoolgirl crushes and those two good-looking boys forever chased by girls, made bold by the matriarchal status of the Meghalaya Hills. Well, the nostalgia had to linger, for it was a city of those lovely growing-up years. So much had been discovered then.
Then after more than a decade, I made it back. While on a holiday, at my brother’s tea-garden in upper Assam, I determinedly took a night-bus to Gauhati, and then to Shillong.
I checked into a hotel, for hardly any of the old schoolgirls were there except one who was still unmarried and working on a thesis. I wanted to surprise her, coming as a phantom of our silvery youth.
A nice breakfast and a change and I started off for my friend’s house, carrying the gifts I had brought her. I took the route of the old days, some four kilometres of sharp descent and climb. I forgot I was many hears older and many pounds heavier. Panting, I reached the house! A happy sight, indeed, but the happiness was short-lived. A stranger opened the door. My friend, I learnt, was now teaching in Arunachal.
So I returned to the hotel in a taxi, stopping briefly at my school. A concrete structure had replaced our lovely wood hall. The old hall had been burnt down. I found a nun of my days – Sister Christopher. I had been one of her favourites – but now she couldn’t place me!
Back in the hotel I planned out a busy evening, for I was feeling much like a lost lonely spinster. I would go to the ramshackle cinema hall and then have a plate of noodles at the restaurant, where we had celebrated our I.S.C. first divisions. But the short afternoon nap turned into sleep courtesy the long walk, so it was a plate of noodles in bed, because the hotel dining hall was under repair.
Next morning, a pretty young Khasi maid came to dust the room. Packing my bag, I forced some of my memories on her and she listened with patient disinterest. I rewarded her for her patience with the lipstick and purse, meant for my friends. She happily carried my bat to the taxi and as it started, she shouted: Khub Le! Khub Le is a curious Khasi phrase for a greeting and a farewell. This time, it was farewell to Shillong!
~ ~ ~

The Killing Fields

Peasant suicides were unheard of. The peasant had the strength to bear famine and floods. If he lost his land, he would migrate and work as a labourer in the city. But he would never think of taking his life. These suicides are a part of life after the Green Revolution. The graph of the peasant's life has gone from poverty to some prosperity and then on to death, says Nirupama Dutt from Punjab

The conversation keeps reverting to the Neem tree. No, we are not in one of the Uttar Pradesh villages that Nida Fazli sings of. We are in the heart of the country's breadbasket –Punjab, of Green Revolution fame. We are in the home of Balkar Singh, a middle-class farmer and peasant leader, in Dakaonda village in Patiala district. ``The neem tree stood proudly in the middle of the compound, somewhere near the gate which now leads to my brother's house,'' says Balkar. It is difficult to visualize it now. The old house has been divided up by the brothers. New cemented paths, new gates and new rooms have been added by each of the three families. It's cement and concrete all the way in Punjab's villages these days, without, of course, benefit of an urban planner, architect or even an overseer.
``In the summer months, the women of the villag3e would come and sit under the neem and spin with my mother and grandmother. He women would talk and share their stories as they spun yarn,'' recalls Balkar. This was called Trimjan—an occasion for womenfolk to get together and spin. And in the centre of the village there was a big
peepul tree under which the village elders sat to talk and share jokes. Their conclave was known as Sathh. The old men would call out to younger passersby, and everyone kept in touch. The deep social ties which once held village society together have been wiped out. The joint family, too, is history. Punjab's villages have gone the way of the towns, touched by the despondency of urban life without, of course, the opportunities and advantages that towns and cities offer. Balkar's mother, who once ruled the big house, now walks with the help of her stick from the house of one son to that of another, not quite sure where she actually belongs.
``Peasant suicides were unheard of. The peasant had the strength to bear famine and floods. If he lost his land, he would migrate and work as a labourer in the city. But he would never think of taking his life,'' says Balkar. ``These suicides are a part of life after the Green Revolution. The graph of the peasant's life has gone from poverty to some prosperity and then on to death.'' Suicides in this state of plenty and prosperity are indeed difficult to accept. Surely no one could be hungry here? People in Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka or even in Maharashtra could be hungry. But no one can ever be hungry in Punjab.If anyone is, then they only have to go to the nearest gurdwara to eat their fill of dal, roti, vegetables and even halwa, then have a cup of tea. Such fare is freely given in langars that are held twice a day.
But the path from the unlit stove at home to the humiliation of charity is paved with suicide. Suicides by farmers in Punjab have assumed alarming proportions. `Seeds of Suicide: The Ecological and Human Costs of Globalisation of Agriculture', is a study by Vandana Shiva, Afsar H. Jafri, Ashok Emani and Manish Pande, published by the Research Foundation for scoence, Technology and ecology, New Delhi. The writers came to Punjab via Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka and Maharashtra, and they were taken aback -- ``Punjab, the biggest contributor of grain to the national pool, now has the notorious distinction of having the highest rate of farmers' suicides among all the stares.'' The farmers' suicides among all the states.'' The farmers' suicides started in the 1990s. I recall visiting a small village in Sangrur district in 1993 where 26 men had committed suicide by consuming pesticides. By 1997-98, the number of suicides had risen alarmingly. Today, Punjab has overtaken the suicide rate of Andhra Pradesh.

The government refused to acknowledge these suicides, and the glossies relentlessly featured rich farmers who live in plush farmhouses, holiday in Europe, send their children to exclusive schools in the hills and grow strawberries, broccoli and flowers. However, the media – especially the Punjab newspapers and correspondents of national newspapers in Punjab –have played a significant role in bringing these suicides to light. In nearly all the cases, it is reported, the farmers were heavily in dept and had daughters to marry off. The mechanization of agriculture, rising costs of production and growing consumerism, which has increased dowry demands, all contributed to their deaths.
The government has chosen to cover up the issue. Punjab's chief minister is a peasant leader and the Akalis came to power with the overwhelming support of the peasants. It is interesting to refer to a news story in The Hindu of April 21, 1998, that reads: ``About 80 cases of suicides by farmers and agricultural labourers, reported from five villages in Sangrur district in the last four or five years, could be only the tip of the iceberg. Death stalks the rural areas of the Lehra and Andana blocks in this otherwise prosperous district. According to former sarpanch Jarnail Singh and jathedar Mastan Singh, about 33 persons were driven to suicide in Balaran village, while the figure was zero in the official records since 1994.''
However, farmers' groups, non-governmental organizations and mediapersons have achieved little even after proving the official records to be wrong. Inderjit Singh Jaijee, convenor of the Forum against State Repression, has been keeping up the pressure on the authorities with a mail campaign. His letters have not been acknowledged, but the forum scored when the Union Department of Agriculture and the Reserve Bank of India conducted a survey of the unprecedented suicides. However, Jaijee says, ``Although the report was written out and submitted, no relief of any kind has been given to the farmers, who are weighed down by bank loans.''

Times have changed. Traditionally, farmers have organized cattle fairs. Today, they have tractor fairs. They take loans to buy tractors, but are forced to sell them to deal with financial crises in their homes. There is also a parallel fair of Maruti 800 and Zen cars that are given as dowry, and are sold just like the tractors. A maruti car is an essential element of a girl's dowry, even among small farmers. And farmers who have no way of raising money for a Maruti for their daughter's wedding are killing themselves with pesticides. It is difficult to break this vicious cycle. The farmer has his back to the wall, facing more demands than he can possibly fulfil.
The first year of the 21st century had ended in a winter of discontent, with the agrarian crisis at its height. There was a paddy crisis in 2000, when the crop could not fetch support prices. And then farmers were forced to spill their potato harvest on the roads because there were no takers. There's an interesting example here. When Pepsi came to India, the farmers of the Punjab Doaba hoped that their potatoes would be bought by the company for the potato-chip factories. But this year, the company told them that their potatoes were of poor quality. And now, the sons of the soil are being asked to compete in the international market, exposed to the impersonal forces of the WTO. An unreasonable demand, when their own government does not even wish to acknowledge their plight.
Gurdial Singh, the Jnanpith award-winning writer whose novels are set in the backdrop of agrarian society, lives in Zira Mandi, a small agricultural market town. ``It is no longer a secret that farmers come to the labour chowks of small towns in search of work,'' he says. ``They walk or cycle some `5 kilometers to get there. They often return home empty-handed.;;

Punjab's Green Revolution has greyed and the nation has long forgotten the slogan of Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan. We live in the time of scams in the purchase of coffins for war heroes, and farmers who must take their own lives. In essence, we are saying, after the manner of Marie Antoinette, if the potatoes are not doing well, let them grow strawberries.
Not long ago, a harvest song of Asa Singh Mastana was particularly popular in Punjab – Meri khet-kidhi bahar, kurhe (my fields are blossoming, my girl). Today, these are no songs on the lips of the people and Bhangra, the harvest dance, has been appropriated by MTV.
Back in Balkar Singh's home, where the neem tree that the women gathered under was chopped down many years ago, I see all the urban trappings: a telephone, a television set, a refrigerator, a sofa, a dining table, box beds and some gaudy prints of the Sikh Gurus on the walls. And he is telling the story of Paramjit Singh, a small but successful grower of chillies for a decade and a half. Over the years, the cost of production increased and in recent times, the yield had fallen. ``What did not decrease were the electricity bills, the hand-pump charges, children's school fees and the dowry for the daughter. Some moneylenders got him to sign blank papers when they gave him a loan. He lost his land and finally committed suicide. So you may say there is no hunger in Punjab, but there is death,'' says Balkar. A leader of the Ekta group of the Bharati Kisan Union, Balkar and his comrades are trying to keep farmers away from moneylenders. But it isn't easy.
I recall my young niece and nephew, who were at a boarding school in Darjeeling in the Seventies. Home for the holidays in a tea garden in Assam, they had asked their parents which state they were from. Punjab, they were told, and my nephew, who was in Class III, said ``I have read in my school books that people from Punjab are farmers and that they are very hardworking.'' And traveling through Punjab for so many years, very often on journalistic assignments, I was often reminded of Richard Llewellyn's book, How Green Was My Valley. But the image I brought back with me this summer from yet another journey through Punjab was of blazing fields, as farmers set fire to the stubble of the harvested wheat crop to quickly prepare for the paddy season, without regard for what it does to the soil. This is what the sons of the soil have come to. The earth is no longer their mother.

Punjab as a state of Mind

I am an echoing sky just the size of an umbrella
I am a strange tree
Translating the rustling of the wind
Into Punjabi
--Surjit Pattar
These lines are from the sixth River of Punjab – the river of poetry. Into this river flow the love-legends of the Sufi poets, the verses of the Gurus and the anonymous folk songs. This river runs deep. Deeper even than the five rivers which traverse this land: the Sutlej, the Ravi, the Beas , the Chenab and the Jhelum. No water disputes here. No duping the census with linguistic untruths. For in these waters flow verses in Punjabi, Urdu, Hindi and at times, even Pinglish. No geographical boundaries here and no barbed-wire borders. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's Jogi needs no visa and jagjit singh's Kagaz ki Kishti is free to float where it will.
So, it is with two lines snatched out of context of a long poem that I begin my billet doux to Punjab. My Punjab. These lines by a contemporary are dear to me for in them he is a tree translating for me even the rustling of the wind into Punjabi. Where is this Punjab of mine? Where I a student of geography, I would promptly answer that this Punjab is a small state, covering only 1.6 per cent of India's land area.

Well, even if I were a student of geography, this answer would simply not do. Even though it is quite true. My Punjab with its pride, prejudice and fabled prosperity spreads for and wide. Something like the billowing skirt of some unknown woman sho sang: Mainu ambar the ghaghra suva de, Utte dharat di laon lava de (Get me a skirt stitched of the sky; and have it trimmed with the earth.) Ah, don't read territorial and space ambitions here! It is just the state of mind.
Now that you are reading this open letter of love. I might as well tell you that this too is in line with the Punjabi tradition. For us to love in secrecy is to not love at all. There is an exhibitionist even in the best among us. If you've got it, flaunt it. This may be the truth for others. But for the Punjabis, it is a case of even if you don't have it, flaunt it. This would range from the bank balance to the jewel box, from harmony at home to talent at work. Such show-offs these Punjabis! If that's what you are exclaiming, I can't quite discredit it for we are forever in a race to keep us with the Junejas or the Jakhars. But this trait has also meant survival even in the worst of times.
Call me prejudiced if you must in favour of my own land and people. Here is a little story told to me by a Maharashtrian mathematician about the folks back home, dating back to the saddest of years in the passing century:1947. It was related to him by a colleague of his at Panjab University whose family had to migrate from their home in West Punjab, leaving their property and business behind. No time was to be lost and business had to be started. The only thing that the family had somehow brought along was a sewing machine. So, some money was invested and a big tailor's board put outside the house. The man took upon himself the task of taking measurements. And the wife was to do the sewing. The very first day, they got an order for tailoring a shirt. In the excitement, they forget to take the measurement. When the customer returned the next day to give measurements, the shirt was ready. He tried it on and it fitted well. How was this done? The woman asked her husband what size was the customer and his reply was that around his size. This was the beginning of a roaring tailoring business. ``Such is the entrepreneurial spirit of the Punjabis,'' the Maharashtrian said in awe. ``But we lose out on thought,'' I mumbled. ``Well, you can't have it all!'' was his reply. But, that's what it is about us. We would certainly like to have it all. And if we know we cannot have it, then we choose not to even acknowledge it. Of course, the refrain of our land being the bread basket and on the border facing aggression is heard common enough, when our people from states with a geographical situation more protected mock at us and say, ``The only culture in Punjab is agriculture.''

The mobility and adaptability of the Punjabis is only too well known: from Toronto to New York; from Singapore to Melbourne; from Paris to Amsterdam. And UK is our very own vilait with Balle Balle Birmingham and Saada sohna Southall. Let folks mock at the Punjabis' lack of culture but wherever these people from the land of the five rivers have gone, they have managed to popularize their dress, food, song and dance. The salwar kameez has made it to the international fashion scene.
Want to knowa little more about Punjab, then just eavesdrop on what they are singing or laughing about. Soe time ago at a Sanatani Kirtan in a Chandigarh home, Isaw joyful women playing the dholak and joyously singing. Their song was: Assee Krishan diyan salian, Assee sithnian devan aayian; Assee vekhea tera Sudama, Jihda Phatea hoyea Pajama, Oh! Kahana wah-wah terian yaarian ( we're your sisters-in-law, Lord Krishna, we are here to tease you; Haven't we seen your Sudama! With his torn pyjama; O'Krishna what kind of friends you have!). ``Just like the Punjabis to dress Sudama in a pyjama even though needle and thread were unknown to the Krishna times,'' the News Editor from the Hindi heartland blurted out. What he did not say was that in this entire myth full of love and bonding, what struck the Punjabis were the shabby clothes of Sudama, Clothes maketh the man or the woman more in Punjab than anywhere else. The more flashy and gaudy, the better. This holds true for jewellery, interiors or what have you. And it is this consumerism which has spread from the towns to the villages, leading to epidemics like suicide and bride-burning. But Punjabis take death in their stride for the state has faced many invasions and strife. The dark days of terrorism took a heavy toll on human life. But the song that Punjab burst into soon after and had the whole world tapping its feet was :
Ho gayi teri Balle Balle; Ho jayegi Balle Balle.
Call this forgetfulness but it is this which makes the people of this land bounce back with a bang. Punjabi pragmatism can turn a disadvantage into advantage and a catastrophe into enterprise. If the finer sensibilities suffer, it can't be helped. Our friends in Kerala and Bengal know that we have always responded to any call for change they have made. Be it the revolutionary movement against Imperial rule which was echoed in Punjab with supreme sacrifice coming with the martyrdom of Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru or the Spring Thunder of 1967.
When the call is for romance, adventure, sacrifice or martyrdom, Punjab has never been a-lacking. For such are the calls that the Punjabi heart responds to in a big way. When it is a matter of the heart, there will be mistakes. But a Punjabi knows how to admit that it was a mistake and even laugh it away. Theirs is a rare to laugh, sometimes at others but mostly at themselves. So laughing, sometimes through tears, Punjab and Punabis move with their pride, prejudices and prosperity to the next millennium: Jee aayean nu

The Cancer Train

Passage to Life

The Abohar-Bathinda Passenger ferries a large number of cancer patients from the cotton belt of Punjab to Bikaner, a 350-km overnight journey, for specialised treatment. Nirupama Dutt journeys from darkness to light on the wheels of hope

Indians love train journeys. Well, who wouldn’t in a land so vast and with a population as large with very meagre means? So if you want to catch a slice of true Indian life at the very grassroots, the best place would be a 24-hour journey in an unreserved coach of a train in any direction that may catch one’s fancy. I have known journalists who do this arduous task during election time and come back with sparkling stories about what the people are saying and which way the wind is blowing.A train journey any day or night, and one has had a fair share of it when required and sometimes even when it was not even required, but one had not thought that one would shiver through a journey of ten long hours in the coldest February in the past 35 years, in a passenger train from Bathinda to Bikaner. For someone living in Chandigarh, Bathinda is remote enough as it is on the Rajasthan border of Punjab and Bikaner is even more remote. But this train has earned quite a reputation for itself and not for the happiest reasons and has also been given the nomenclature of the ‘Cancer Train’ back home in Punjab. The cotton belt of Punjab in the Malwa region has an abnormally high rate of cancer. The excessive use of pesticides and ground water contamination are the suspected culprits. The specialised institute for cancer treatment and research in the government-run Prince Bijay Singh Memorial Hospital has come to the rescue of the lower middle class and poor people of Punjab because it gives quality treatment at very low rates.Never mind the name the train has earned for itself; one is still sceptical about finding cancer patients on the journey because after all cancer is no epidemic so there cannot be patients travelling everyday. But the Bathindawalas assure you that there will be many. They prove true and hours before the train arrives, patients and their attendants start trooping into the station. There are old men, women and even children who have come from villages close to Bathinda but there are others who have come from places as far as Raikot near Ludhiana. As we sit on a bench sipping hot cardamom tea to keep the chill at bay because the train is an hour and fifteen minutes late, Sukhbir, a 24-year-old woman of Alluwala village on the Punjab-Sirsa border, joins us. Her husband and an elderly neighbour from the village are accompanying her. She is suffering from breast cancer that was discovered recently and is going to the Bikaner hospital for the first time. Balvinder Singh, the older man in the group, says: “My wife had breast cancer but she overcame it with medicine from the Bikaner hospital.”Gurpreet Singh, a resident of Mansa, tells us: “Cancer has become so common in our parts that now people talk of it as they would of influenza and the only hope is medicine and treatment from Bikaner.” Non governmental organisations and the media have been raising the cancer alarm for quite some time but the Punjab government has been apathetic to it. The cotton-growing Malwa region comprising the southwestern districts of Bathinda, Muktsar, Faridkot and Mansa has shown a high incidence of various kinds of cancer. This is also the region that consumes three-fourths of all pesticides used in Punjab. However, there has been no systematic study of cancer and pesticides.

Dr. D.P. Punia, director of the regional cancer institute in the Bikaner hospital, says: “We do not have any scientific study that can link the use of pesticides with cancer. However, a large number of patients come from the cotton belt of Punjab. On an average 30-plus patients are from that region. The hospital, besides the state of Rajasthan, caters to Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand. Its standing has improved steadily over the years on the back of the quality, yet inexpensive, service that it has been providing.The mood in this passenger train is, quite understandably, sombre and compassionate. Gauri Shankar, the ticket checker, goes around from compartment to compartment making sure the windows are shut and no one catches cold from the draught. “This train is primarily for the sick and the ailing. We try our best to make the journey easy for those who are in so much of pain.” The night’s journey done, the train crawls into Bikaner Junction and anyone in the Punjabi rural attire is plagued by crowds of auto-rickshawalas wanting to be the first to bag all the people heading for the ‘Cancer Hospital’. Kartar Singh, a patient who has come from Faridkot, says: “The train is cheap and it reaches us in time for the hospital. The out patients get themselves examined, take the prescribed medicine and return home by the same train in the night.” There are several dharamshalas around the hospital and attendants can board and lodge there for Rs 20 to 40. The ticket of the train is just Rs 50 from Bathinda. The hospital is well-equipped.However, what strikes one the most is the very humane attitude of the hospital staff. There is no waiting time and treatment is started at once. The sight of a small child receiving radiation can be unnerving but Dr. V.K. Gupta, who is showing us the hospital, smiles and says: “With the treatment the child is going to be completely all right and live a normal life.” Even when the staff is short, patients are treated well and allowed their dignity in the hour of pain. The statistics reveal that a tremendous job is being done at the Institute. In 2007, 6516 new patients received treatment, 51,676 was the number of follow-up patients and the indoor patients were 184,64. As many as 10,961 patients were given chemotherapy in the wards and 15, 753 patients in the outdoor wards and cottages. The day’s job has been done. The patients who had to take the night train back are already there by evening, well before the scheduled departure time. But the train is late as always but sick men and women huddled on benches with blankets covering them wait as they would for a truant child because this train is their partner in the journey of hope from Bathinda Junction to Bikaner Junction.

At the Wagah-Atari Border

Smuggled Salaams At Wagah

Nirupama Dutt


Till 50 years ago, Wagah was just another village in the Majah region of Punjab, located between the historic cities of Amritsar and Lahore. Today, the very mention of Wagah conjures up a different image. The image is one of locked gates, barbed wire and armed guards. It spells the finality of a parting. For, it is here that the ceremonial India-Pakistan border is situated. The two iron gates stand firmly on either side of the narrow stretch of the no-man's land. It was on this stretch of land that Saadat Hasan Manto's Bishan Singh breathed his his last looking for his village called Tobah Tek Singh. The act of dying on the no-man's land was the refusal to accept the Radeliffe Line, which cut one country into Hindustan and Pakistan.

But Wagah still has its share of stories, some written and many others unwritten. Only some days ago, an 85-year-old woman approached the border. Security Force (BSF) jawans with the request that she be allowed to meet her sister who was left behind in Pakistan in 1947 and had been traced only recently. The sister met the Pakistan Rangers with a similar request. Both sides granted the request and the two sisters, one a Hindu woman and the other a Muslim, met for four minutes. Recalling the meeting, BSF Commandant H S Rai says: ``Of those four minutes, the two old ladies spent over a minute just weeping, and in the rest they exchanged a few worlds.''

That's Wagah for you, the last border village of Pakistan. The village this side is called Atari. For some time it was called the Wagah-Atari border. But Wagah was closer to the border than Atari. So why name the divide after two villages? Wagah alone would do. And there is a very interesting side of Wagah. It is not just relatives who reach here to meet. Nor the messiahs of peace and brotherhood bearing torches and candles, and led by Kuldip Nayar and other secular Punjabis as was done last year on August 14, the day of Pakistan's independence – and is being done again this year with an equal participation from across the fence unlike last year.

Nor just the tribe of writers and poets who chose to go sentimental here on the night of December 31 last year. The venue was chosen for the Raja Porus Mela. Yes, the same Porus of Sikandar ne Porus se ki hi ladai fame. Well, Porus was defeated a second time, thanks to the lack of coordination among the Indian hosts, so the Pakistani delegation reached a bit too soon and moved into Calcutta.

Neverthless, the result of the one-sided Mela was the setting up of a memorial, still half-built, which comprises a large marble slab inscribed with two celebrated Partition poems. On one side, there's Amrita Pritam calling out to Waris Shah, the Sufi poet who put in verse the story of Heer, one of Punajb's greatest love legends,in ``Ajj akhan waris shah nu kite kabran vichon bol'' ( I call out to Waris Shah to speak from the grave); on the other, it's Faiz Ahmad Faiz speaking on those who died on the road to history in ``Hum jo tarik rahon mein mare gaye''.

What makes Wagah special is that every evening at sunset there assemble thousands of anonymous Indians and Pakistanis on both sides of the border to watch the beating retreat ceremonials, which for the past many decades, but for the unhappy times of war, are held jointly, in complete harmony, right from the march past, the blowing of the bugle and lowering of the two respective flags. The ceremony over, people on both sides are allowed to stand at the gates and simply look at each other.

It is for the glimpse of the other that people come with children in their arms and stand there looking at each other in silence and smiles. For, if anyone tries to wave or speak, the guards cry out, ``No waving, no talking. Just stand and look at each other.'' BSF officials explain: ``Smugglers use the waving of hands for a code indicating whether their goods are reaching or not. So, we do not allow the gesture.'' Incidentally, Amristar is known for its smuggled goods market. Pakistani dupattas and scarves, which are particularly popular here, are supplied all over Punjab.

The crowds start gathering there much before sunset and the time is spent over a cold drink and coffee listening to patriotic songs being piped on our side. A popular number that BSF officials like to play is Mohammad Iqbal's Saare jahan se achha Hindustan hamara. One wonders if the other side is playing a latter-day composition of Iqbal's: Cheen-o-Arab hamara.

On a recent visit to Wagah, though, I came across another kind of music. No longer the patriotic songs. The popular numbers in this the golden jubilee year of the parting are Pardesi, pardesi, jaana nahin from the blockbuster Raja Hindustani and Chappa chappa charkha chale from Gulzar's Maachis. But what's behind the popularity of this speck on India's map? To this query, Commandant Rai answers with a smile: ``For one thing, Wagah is included in the Punjab Tourism package. We have at least one honeymoon couple a day. The other reason is the curiosity the people of the two countries have for each other.''

Regular visitors to the border say the atmosphere is very relaxed and the vibes friendly. Says writer Prem Avtar Raina: ``It has to be. The berlin Wall has crumbled and the barbed wire too will melt. The whole world is moving into an era of ethnic states. And it is good that there is a Punjabi for a prime minister here, and there.'' There are others, too, who like to do such wishful thinking. Gurdip Singh, an aged farmer from Bhullar village, stands there muttering: ``It was one Punjab which was cut into two. People on either side speak the same language.''

As the ceremony is taking place, one hears cries of Pakistan Payamdabad from the other side and soon enough people this side cry out, Bharat Mata Ki Jai, with an occasional Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal thrown in. But these are not war cries of death and destruction as they were in 1947, but a hail-fellow-well-met kind of exchange.

``Ladies and children first,'' cry the guards soon after the beating retreat ceremonials. Women and children run to the gates on both sides to stand and just gaze at each other. ``Look at the Pakistani children, they're just like us,'' cries a child from our side.

Standing in the midst of the crowd my eyes meet those of a young Pakistani woman. I smile and she returns the smile, raising her hand in a salam. I too raise my hand in the return greeting of wahlekum salam. The guards do not notice and the thrill is of having smuggled a salam there on the border. Until the barbed wire sprouts folwers, as a Punjabi poet hopes, it will have to be a salam smuggled across the Wagah border.



The border outpost of Wagah today is a honeymoon destination, its greatest attraction being the daily beating retreat ceremonials watched by thousands from both sides of the divide. Swept by the bonhomie. Nirupama Dutt wonders whether Partition was worth the bloodshed.



``ladies and children first,'' cry the guards soon after the beating retreat ceremonials. Women and children run to the gates on both sides. ``Look at the Pakistani children, they're just like us,'' cries a child from our side.