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 An
afternoon at the circus
Author: Luke Brown
Cross late in the afternoon from Pakistan into India through the
Wagah border point, complete immigration and customs formalities,
walk a further couple of hundred metres down the road and you'll
find crowds of people, predominantly Indians, assembled outside
a large closed gate. They are not touts awaiting tourists leaving
Pakistan; you'll find them a few metres further along the road,
near the food stalls and tables and chairs adjacent to a few convenience
stores. Rather, these are tourists waiting to witness the famous
flag lowering ceremony that takes place less than an hour's drive
west through green countryside from Amritsar, a major tourist destination
in western India, most legendary for its (Sikh) Golden Temple.
After being let through
a small side gate, and with a couple of hours to spare before sunset,
I made my way to the food stalls and took a seat, grabbing a bite
to eat as well as changing my Pakistani rupees with eager moneychangers.
With the dearth of tourists entering and leaving Pakistan, the main
business of the shop owners is aimed at the aforementioned Indian
tourists milling around, champing at the bit for the show to begin,
as well as chomping on samousas and sipping soft drinks, all the
time battling the incessant flies. There was a contagious electricity
in the air, as families and friends, variously decked out in saris,
turbans, western-style clothes and baseball caps, chatted amongst
themselves. Hindi music pumped out from a sound system nearby. The
excitement picked up a little later on as people began to wander
over to, and gather around, a couple of television sets set up above
the sandy ground, exhibiting a DVD available for purchase; a patriotic-documentary
on the upcoming ceremony, plus other popular tourist attractions
in the region. A man high on the occasion, and clearly having imbibed
too many Hindi music videos, took centre stage, blocking my view
of the television, and began to bump, grind and writhe to some Hindi
pop classic, his stomach catching up half a second later. Beads
of sweat quickly appeared on his forehead. Another man joined him,
to the roaring approval of the crowd. The spectators began to clap,
slowly at first, but then with a sense of coordination. Those who
were seated got up out of their chairs, nodding approvingly. The
Wagah Fever Dancers, taking this as a signal to up the tempo, rocked
on, sweat by now swimming all over their faces and snaking around
their ears, singing out to all. The crowd then joined in the vocal
extravaganza, building up to the climatic chorus. The dancers had
reached their zenith but continued to push their tiring bodies.
Hoarse from shouting my approval, I sipped my drink. Alas, it had
to come to an end; I ordered another one. Finally, the song faded
and the spectators, after much effusive applause, drifted away,
just in time for me to see the end of the DVD as the camera zoomed
in for a close-up of the Indian flag swirling in the breeze on top
of a flag pole.
The rattle of opening gates an hour later was the signal for us
to make our way down towards the ceremony's waiting area, first
passing through security checks, then standing around on either
side of the road. A border guard, dressed in khaki uniform with
a beret on his head, took a whistle from a shirt pocket and placed
it in his mouth to organise the sprawling crowd into a group. But
what is the point when standing in a queue in these parts is a sign
of weakness; the whistle was not to see the inside of his pocket
again. The order was then given to make our way to the arena near
the border gates. The chase was on for the best seats. A mass of
people roared around a bend to the right, transforming into a running
queue, Indian style, and then turned left towards the spectator
stands specially built for the occasion.
Across on the Pakistan
side could be seen the Pakistan stands, holding hundreds rather
than the thousands that can be accommodated on the Indian side.
There are in fact two separate stands, segregating males and females,
divided by a cream coloured fort-like structure with domes on either
side, a mural portraying the founder of Pakistan, President Jinnah,
in its centre, with the Pakistan flag towering over it. Some spectators,
unable to find a seat, leaned over white railings, flags in hand.
Music pumped out from
large speakers across the road from us, as we sat and waited. Border
guards, some with huge moustaches, directed those people who continued
to throng along the road below the stands. Several men and the occasional
woman, danced on the road with large Indian flags in their hands.
The guards stepped in when the right balance between order and crowd
excitement in the stands was disturbed.
The stands soon began
to fill up. The result of India's movement towards a free market
economy, with its attending burgeoning middle class, was highlighted
by the ubiquitous display of newly acquired digital cameras, as
friends and family posed for photos, with huge Indian flags their
backdrop, swirling onto the heads of spectators nearby. Others chatted
amongst themselves. If I was on the Pakistani side I would certainly
have by now been flooded with questions along with much pumping
of hands, yet there was no acknowledgment of my presence from the
Indians around me who are much more used to western tourists than
their neighbours. I felt the same way towards this new anonymity
as I did to the steaming hot summer that had enveloped me ever since
I had left those cooler parts of northern Pakistan; when it was
cold I wished it was warm, but when I reached the warmer climes,
I wished it was cold again. The assembled spectators soon became
restless. A hefty and boisterous man seated in the row in front,
who had earlier berated an older married couple next to him to move
along and make some room for him and his friend, only to mock them
afterwards for doing so, joined in the party atmosphere, shouting
his encouragement to its vanguard down by the border gate.
As the sun began to set,
the guards hurried up the latecomers with a fortunate few being
allowed to stand on the other side of the road opposite the VIP
stands. Ritualistic cries in Hindi of "Long live Hindustan…Long
live Hindustan…Death to Pakistan" continued to echo out
intermittently from various spots in the stands. The assembled crowd
responded emphatically, more with effervescence than belligerence,
which belied the frequent strong feelings of animosity and distrust
that many Indians hold towards Pakistan and its people, although
it is not as manifest as the rhetoric emanating from their government.
I had the feeling that this day the assembled crowd, on balance,
was more interested in exultations of being Indian, than an overt
release of antagonism.
At last a small group
of Indian Border Security Forces lined up on the road. They were
strikingly attired in khaki uniforms, complete with black shoes,
wide belts, multi-coloured cravats, black turbans with multi coloured
striped headbands supporting gold tassels that tickled their left
ears, peacock-like red fans rising imperiously from the tops of
their heads, with medals attached to their shirts over their left
pockets, name badges pinned on the right. After a signal they proceeded
to march, with a mixture of pomposity, goosestepping and high kicks
that ended in thuds on the ground so forceful that I instinctively
did stretching exercises. Their opposite numbers, the Pakistani
Rangers (who were similarly attired with the exception of their
black hue), expertly mirrored these pouting and provocative manoeuvres,
with their air of hostility and condescension towards the other
side. A guard revved up the crowd from the front of the stands.
After a bout of this synchronised taunting, they made their way
to the massive metal grilled gates with much gesticulation and fuss,
and flung them open. Opposing officers briefly shook hands and then
the flags were slowly lowered in theatrical fashion. The flags were
carried away and the officers then returned to shake hands ever
so briefly and aggressively, as if each other's hand was burning
hot. The gates were slammed shut.
I had heard that usually,
after the ceremony was over, crowds would swarm towards the gate,
shouting and waving their fists towards the opposing side, less
than demonstrative spectators being whistled at to increase their
intensity. That didn't happen the day I was there, with the spectators
clearing the stands, some milling around below, and others wandering
back towards the buses and cars, satisfied at the just completed
show. While it doesn't take one long to surmise that the Indian
and Pakistani governments have been inefficient at providing bread
for their citizens, they sure know how to put on a circus.
Author: Luke Brown
Contact: coolishhandluke@yahoo.com
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