India-Pakistan Cricket Match? Koi Masla Nahin!

One ardent fan once told me “Kashmir le lo, Dravid de do. Baki koi masla nahin!!”

The Indian cricket team is gearing up for the crucial match on Sunday. (Photo: PTI)

Pakistan always seemed so far away – a distant neighbour. An oxymoronic reality Indians of my generation have grown up with, thanks to the incessant propaganda of the state, the jingoistic loud mouthing of Bollywood, and the passionate war cry of the Indian cricket fan on one end, and the historical prejudices packed into reams of media coverage and history books over the years on the other.

Everybody between these two ends of the spectrum, enjoyed and brandished this anti-Pakistan badge of honour proudly on their shoulders. Almost as if it was the only proof of their Indianness, and an infallible stamp on their patriotism. Clearly, as a young man in India visiting Pakistan for the first time, it was tough to be removed from such cultural and historical baggage. Some of it emotional, some psychological, and some factual. But as time will prove, mostly illogical.

Going “Us Taraf”

Mine wasn’t a train to Pakistan. It was a bus. But no less significant. Clearly, as I prepared to board it on that March morning, there were armies of media persons. Suddenly, I felt a simple personal visit for a cricket match turning into something more. I didn’t feel like an ambassador, but was definitely aware of the how special this visit was, as compared to any other place in the world.

My experience of Pakistan had already started off in Chanakyapuri a few days earlier, when I queued outside the embassy. People thronged, waited patiently for hours for their turn – a sight you would normally reserve for the US embassy. You could see the expectant excitement of watching their men in blue become gladiators in flannels and fight it out against ‘them’. There were many others, the non-cricket visa wallahs, who just longed to see their relatives and friends across the border, or their original homeland.

Anyway, the bus journey was long and arduous. Ten hours to be exact. Wagah was the last frontier before we went “us taraf”. As we waded through the bureaucracy of the Indian customs, and struggled against all the heat and chaos, we reminded ourselves of the larger goal of getting to Gaddafi stadium on match day.

(Photo Courtesy: Saket Saurabh)

Suddenly, every trouble seemed worthwhile. The physical exhaustion of the journey and the mental trauma of the paperwork seemed trivial. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity awaited us. Finally, after three hours, we made it. Those moments as we drove into Pakistan were unforgettable. Through the bus windows, we glimpsed the Pakistani rangers. Belligerence struck out in our minds.

There was an uneasy silence in the bus. Not one of nervousness or anxiety but one of absorbing the moment. But all self-inflicted illusions of protestors, or angry-looking people lining up the roads to welcome us, faded away as we crossed Wagah. It gave way too many sights of common folk, men and children, waving vigorously at our bus as it made its way through the Pakistani countryside into Lahore, which was an hour away.

They offered only smiles. That overwhelming feeling was slowly creeping up into our systems, much to our surprise. “Isn’t this supposed to be Pakistan, the country we love to hate?!”

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“The Way to a Country’s Heart Lies Through Its Food Street!”

The shops, huts and roads all looked starkly similar. Even the people looked indistinguishable, but for the occasional spotting of Pathan-suited men or cute children running around in their sherwanis.

Anyway, as we unloaded at Lahore, we met with scores of Pakistani journalists trying to capture the first reactions of Indians as they got off the bus. As microphones and dictaphones were thrust in our faces, most of us could only blurt out “Achcha Lag raha hai, bahut khushi hai…”. Though, I think, none of us really knew what we meant at that time. Welcomed by our tour operators, we set off for our hotel.

Naturally, this is where we faced Lahore for the first time. Wide, tree-lined roads, fountains at cross sections, and slightly more variety in cars than in ‘sada dilli’ was the first thing that came to mind. Huge hoardings for the world’s best-known brands, with Urdu slogans at the bottom, kind of communicated that this is a country in transition. Much like ours, where accepting the West and retaining the East is a part of everybody’s life.

Our hotel was called ‘Liberty’ and was named after a major commercial district of Lahore. After some rest, our Pakistan experience started off in the Liberty market. After some sightseeing and small talk with shopkeepers, we headed off to Bundu Khan restaurant. And then started off on a culinary experience I will probably never recover from. I finally understood what “mouth watering” meant in the context of delicacies. Lahore, as I was told and then later experienced myself, is a haven for foodies.

But, if you are the greenie or veggie kind, then it’s hell uninterrupted. Every possible kind of kebab or meat on the Lahori plate, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, all comprise the same unabashed flavour of beef and chicken. A walk down the legendary Anarkali market of Lahore in the wee hours of the morning awoke my senses to the reality that “the way to a country’s heart lies through its food street!”

Our Pakistani hosts joined us in the restaurant. As we worked our way through what seemed like our last supper, we felt a dose of good, new Pakistani hospitality we are still smitten by. Dinner done, two issues came up.

Predictably, we couldn’t walk, and secondly our hosts just wouldn’t let us pay. The bill was longer than the Radcliffe line that separates India-Pakistan, and we were embarrassed by our gluttony. But our hosts were unmoved. Anyway, we made our way back to the hotel, and ignored the payment fiasco at dinner as an aberration.

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Meeting Long-Lost “Brothers”

Next day, we came into contact with the ordinary citizens of Lahore as we walked the markets and the streets. Everybody from a taxi driver to a shopkeeper to a student to a professional, belonging to every conceivable economic and social strata, came up and in no uncertain terms, professed how happy they were to see us and welcomed us.

Some recounted their lineage back to India, some were curious about their neighbors, and some just were happy to see their “brothers”. We were overwhelmed. Of course, it must be added here that that our recognition as an Indian group was helped by a Sikh friend who was with us. In due course, he was unanimously adjudged the leader of the group!

There was a watchman in a Pathan suit, whom I will never forget. With a lot of emotion, he said “India aur Pakistan ek maa ke do bete. Bichchar gaye to kya hua.”. I was awed by the simplicity, and yet the profoundness of his statement. Every single Pakistani we met after that, including the last Pakistani ranger we met at Wagah before we hopped across to India, epitomised the same sentiment in some way or the other.

For me, that simple statement symbolised everything about the trip. We played our own cricket match as well. Getting together with our Pakistani friends, we played a couple of games in Muslim town, a colony of Lahore. It was a superb feeling. The result in this case was slightly different from the actual ODI. We got creamed, to put it bluntly. But we have never had so much fun losing.

What needs a mention here are the taped tennis balls that Pakistanis learn their cricket on. No wonder Pakistan has produced a legendary line up of fast bowlers over the years. And must mention the 7-year-old boys playing next to us, who bowled yorkers as if that’s what they were born to do! Really, we realised that complete lack of infrastructure and environment does not deter the average from Pakistani striving to enjoy their cricket.

Also Read: Why ‘India Beat Pakistan’ Has Become a Boring Headline

Cricket is Just a Game

After a tiring but an inspiring defeat, what good dilliwalas usually need is a drink. As you would expect, public sale and consumption of alcohol is banned. But notice that I say “Public!”. In came our ever-gracious hosts, Omar and Shehzaad bhai, and with them another gesture of their impeccable hospitality. This is because they somehow managed to treat us to some good old Pakistani scotch. Befittingly so, the whisky was called Vintage and was specially brewed at Muree, a hill station resort of Pakistan.

(Photo Courtesy: Saket Saurabh)

Needless to say, we allowed ourselves generous helpings, and had more than one for the road… On match day, we quickly got ready in our India t-shirts and headed off to the Gaddafi stadium, which was a short walk away. The atmosphere was festive and the excitement was palpable. All of us realised the enormity of the moment.

Till a few months ago, it was sacrilege to even imagine an India-Pakistan encounter. And now, here we were, in Pakistan, about to witness a rivalry which makes the Ashes look like a mohallah duel. It’s amazing to know what public will, political expediency, American pressure, and a little bit of destiny can do in such a short time. Let me not get into what happened in the match. Everybody knows that. In the Imran Khan enclosure in Gaddafi stadium, fans packed themselves in.

There was a sea of green and orange. The sloganeering and flag-raising had started. But even though a minority, we never felt any discomfort or dominance.

For some of us, the match was a success even before it started. Quite simply because we stood witness to images of ‘people to people’ contact, to use diplomatic parlance, no one could have imagined. Indians and Pakistanis ran around the stands together, draped in their respective flags, smiling and shouting. Gradually, Indians held together Pakistani flags and vice versa, and everybody sang and ran together. That, for me, was one giant leap for mankind.

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Cricket is a great game. There were no Indians and Pakistanis in that stand at that time. Just passionate lovers of the game, oblivious to any boundaries. To see the renowned supporter of Pakistani cricket “Chachcha”, as he is called, waving the Indian flag, while fans of both countries cheered him on, was very inspiring. As the match twisted and turned, there was an occasion when India was knocking on the doors of defeat. The Indian fans stood silent.

All that effort to reach Lahore was suddenly visible on each one’s face. At that time, the only cries of encouragement to Dravid and Kaif, as they soldiered on, were from a handful of Pakistani schoolgirls! They literally took India through the slump, and once things looked up, everybody joined in… The match ended. We won. We were ecstatic to say the least. But somewhere, each one of us felt a little bad for Pakistan losing.

That is a very strange feeling. The Pakistanis did acknowledge the might of the men in blue. Let me summarise it by referring to what one ardent fan told me “Kashmir le lo, Dravid de do. Baki koi masla nahin!!”

A Grand Finale

The Indian fans suddenly decided to celebrate the victory by singing the national anthem as a grand finale. Can you imaging the high of singing the national anthem on the soil of a nation which has been a sworn enemy for half a century?

Barring, of course, the occasional diplomatic infatuations of both sides every one or two years. But then occurred the most poignant moment of the entire trip. Straight out of a dream Bollywood or Lollywood script.

Our Pakistani hosts joined in and clapped while we sang “Jana Gana”. We of course returned the compliment, as they sang out theirs. All this could easily be branded as jingoistic and sentimental outpourings, quite divested from reality.

Maybe... but then again, maybe not. That’s because all this did not happen in the glare of cameras or supervised by politicians. Strangers got together and became friends in that beautiful moment. Without any self-interest or incentive.

The next day, we left for home. While we had entered Pakistan on a bus, we were fortunate enough to return on foot. Our walk across Wagah was a beautiful end to what had been the most memorable 72 hours of our lives. After we cleared through Pakistani customs, we made our way to the gate.

Before we crossed over, we helped ourselves to a refreshing drink and a small discussion about sub-continental history. It’s difficult to not get a strong sense of history when you stand at Wagah.

The sight of a regal-looking Pakistani ranger and an emotionless yet magnetic BSF jawan staring at each other’s throats, dressed in all their finery and in a setting befitting of a Mughal fortress, makes you a little speechless and that’s understating it by miles.

The minutes after that witnessed 5 grown men turn into excited little children as we walked across shaking hands and clicking pictures with the rangers. And then the environs lingered with our enthusiastic cries as we stood on that 6-foot wide ‘no man’s’ land which separates the two nations.

22 March, 12:30 pm, will be a moment engraved in our memories forever and in the folklore we will pass on to our grandchildren.

The above could be considered a travelogue of a personal visit to a neighboring country. Or it could be seen as a personal testimony to how years of collective myopia on both sides have desensitised us to a simple fact.

We are actually the same people. There is no ‘they’ and ‘we’. I may in my lifetime visit hundreds of other places and meet many other people, but this expedition to Lahore will always be paramount in importance.

Simply because there will be many holidays where you’ll come back with a rejuvenated body, but only one or a few where you’ll come back with a rejuvenated spirit. I realise now that ‘real’politik feeds on illusions of problems and has nothing to do with reality.

And that reality is that history has its own demands; that our leaders don’t give enough credit to the common man’s intelligence; that the existence of India & Pakistan as separate nations is one of the biggest tragedies of our time. If you ever get the chance to hop across the border, jump on and go! You won’t regret it! And of course, the least we can do is to return the sentiment when they are here…

(This story was first published in 2014. This is a personal blog and the views expressed above are the author's own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)