Lahore Day One

Without encountering much turbulence we roll on the runway. It is warm outside, evidence that I have traveled across the seas, East. The excitement mingled with fear which is common when your feet first make contact with an alien soil is missing, I am not a stranger here, it is not a strange land. This is in-fact my one and only criteria to distinguish between foreign or not. What feels foreign evokes barriers, asks for protection, raises fences. While here I am confidently walking the corridors towards a clear sign that says ‘Foreign Nationals’. At least I am not directed towards Commercially Important Personnel as in Tehran. Flanking me are giant tourism cut-outs in Urdu. The dank air, the dark nite and the sudden rush of realization.

I am in Lahore.

I continue to walk, willing to spend the next half hour standing in queue but I am stopped by the welcoming party, my friends from DC as well as the-man-from-the-government who has been sent to help us get through such unnecessary hurdles as Visa, Passport, Security. My entry into Pakistan has been too smooth, I literally walk out but for my bags which fail to reveal their presence in the hullabaloo that has ensued all around. Two flights have landed at once, despite warnings and increase in bag-fare everyone has carried a continent with them. The ruckus reminds me of old graceful Begumpet airport, before she was cast away in favour of the brassy flashy Shamshabad. “Arre shaam ko nakko jaao ray pooray Saudi kay logaan rehtay, bas bas ho jaata”.

I feel absolutely at home, needless to mention and I leave the two perplexed Americans with my empty cart to go in search of my missing bags which have done me the favour of carting my saris this trip. I am avoiding floor strewn luggage, climbing over overturned suitcases, pulling up castaways, checking on every piece of box, crate, carry-on that is Blue and has TSA locks. Mental note to stick something more radical, prominent on it so I can spot my bags easily next time. A phone call, our liaison man says that the Memsahibs are here to receive us, waiting outside. In another five minutes we are out walking towards the parking lot.

I turn back and see the Allama Iqbal International Airport, Lahore.

How many times have I sung ‘Sare Jahaan Se Achcha’! The only reason I had joined the National Cadet Core was so that I could march for this song on Janpath, which I did. And then what happened Iqbal? Did you mean it when you wrote these words and if you did then what is this reality that faces me? What changed? Who changed? Why?

We ride the city in the night. There is only us and a cool Lahori breeze. A bedecked bride like truck here and there but that is all. The streets are well lit, the roads are first world, the houses are large and the gardens flowering. For this is Jashn-e- Bahara time and I see the city in its full resplendence. I fall in love. We go towards Cantt, got to drop off one of the guests with a family friend. This is a marriage. Accommodation is prized as are friendships. I see trees and trees everywhere. ‘It was greener before’ I am informed. How green was this valley then, I crane my neck outside to catch the wind with my hair. I am prejudiced, I know. I have a thing for the East. The panchabhutas of the Sindhustan have created me, I thrill in their presence, my body operates beyond its frequency and my soul smiles wisely.

Despite housing many universal ideas, ultimately boundaries manifest in my brain.
Wherefrom have they arisen?
Why this partiality to Sapta Sindhu?

Getting up at nine am with only four hours of sleep to a bearer bringing in chai, buttered toast and jam feels like old times in India, where there is someone at your service always: mother, sister, servant (who we do not mistake for ‘help’). We are at the GOR, next to the Punjab Chief Minister’s residence. He is new, having recently taken over after Mr Salman Taseer has been shot to death by his own guard. We have had to cross many military check-posts but the guards are friendly. One of them, I think, surely knows you-know-who. This area is greener, larger residential quarters for the Ministers and has more security. Or not. We are very close to a five star hotel, a lovely park and Aitchison College. Drawing the thick brown satin double curtains we let the morning light stream in over our Lonely Planet books and Diaries.

Next door is a family visiting from Delhi. Relationships in this part of the world run deep and strong. Something, that a bickering over an arbitrary border drawn by a Britisher who never bothered to visit this land he was dividing, has not been able to erode. Something that is shared commonly in this part of the world. So, one’s grandparents erstwhile neighbours and their descendents continue to remain your family members, partaking in all your functions, even if they are Hindus. Thus Aunty has been visiting Lahore for two decades now, she knows everyone and their grandmother in the host’s family and more! Aunty is here with her Bahu and Pothi. They come into the central courtyard of the Officer’s Mess – with its dry, blue, tiled fountain and white trellised arches – in chamkied clothes that are a big rage even abroad. Clothes, we thought of as very Punju in my time with distaste, too much gota, too much gold, sequined, mirrored, embroidered. Unlike these textiles which drape the white marble gods of the north, in the south the black granite gods are always adorned in silks and weaves. I for one do not feel any Bhakti when I encounter a white god in red and gold chamki.

So many prejudices.

The lovely three, for they are beautifully dressed and I have overcome some of my earlier dislike for shiny clothes, call out to us that the van is ready. Maamu has arranged a vehicle with a driver for us. To take us around the city and for shopping. We do the sacred rounds of the boutiques that dot this city. So many of them! Even though the prevailing fashion is that of culottes or parallels, shalwars with very broad ponchas and long kaftan like kurtas, you will be surprised with the variety that can exist within this limited scope. Khadi. Generation. Gul Ahmed.

The driver drops us off each place and quietly waits for us, lets us take our own sweet time to get back, helps us with packages, doesn’t murmur a word of irritation or discontent. His eyes are averted when I face him wanting to speak, to engage in banter, chatter that I indulge in with the people around me in a bid to integrate myself better. What usually works in India does not work here.

He refuses to accept the bait, rejects my gaze, continues to stare at my usual unkempt un-pedicured toes and pockets the tip reluctantly. The heat, the unpredictable nature of a women’s whim while shopping, hunger, thirst, bad roads, traffic all this and more would be a cause for concern in India with hired drivers. They will let you know what they feel clearly. They will surely make faces, demand extra reimbursement, drive rashly to show their displeasure and sometimes will even fall in love with you a la Raja Hindustani. In short I think of Indian drivers I have met as very empowered. Although, as a passenger I must say that I preferred this non-interfering subservient demeanour of our Pakistani sarathi.

Not only am I prejudiced but I enjoy wholeheartedly the privileges of my class.

First of all I spot Sushmita Sen splashed right across the Liberty parking area. We now enter the hallowed precincts of the many warrens and by-lanes which house parandis, pajebs, tikas, jhumkas, choodiyaan, dupattas, joothis and other such accoutrements as are needed by women to revel in their womanhood. Tailors galore of course. I have been advised by Indian Punjabi friends to get ‘at least one suit stitched, they are the best seamsters’, a suit is termed a joda here. Finally! street food; a few shawarma stalls, a corn-y place, chat and samosa. Despite Lahoris claiming proudly (remember Ahsan from the plane?) that they are foodies I could not find much evidence on the streets of the same, the many cooks at home probably does not necessitate the many thelas, dhabas, tiffin centres, juice stalls, bandis, that one encounters every few feet in Hyderabad.

Men dyeing cloth, twisting it after dipping it in dye, now opening it and drying it in the sun. Cycles, Horse-carts, Scooters, Pedestrians. No one looks at me or stares as one would have expected. I had been advised by Amina to change my tights to a shalwar to avoid unnecessary hassles and it has worked. I am like the Invisible Woman. I walk unmolested the streets of Dupatta Gali owing to my love of the Dupatta.

It is strange but I have a great fascination for the Chunni. I have always supposed that angels wore gauzy scarves. Given that among Telugu Brahmins it is forbidden to cover one’s head! Men and Women do it when someone dies. Especially widows will have their heads covered all the time, at least in the old days. Unlike in the north we do not cover heads when we visit a temple either. Gurudwaras obviously adopted many Islamic customs and many Hindus in the north followed suit. For me to cover my head is as much an act of resistance as well as a thing of pleasure especially if it is a recently acquired chiffon phulkari from the Indian Punjab.I feel very regal when I don it. Angelic.

Not having much time to explore or to while away since we are here only for a week I make extremely quick decisions in buying accessories for the evening as well as for gifts to take back home - kundan jewelry which is solid, well crafted and not too expensive – Jaipur which has been home to kundan jewelry for centuries has lost its edge by catering to the milling tourists and shortchanging on quality, unless one buys from a very high-end jeweler one cannot get the same ethnic, authentic, quality product for the nominal price that I got them for in Lahore. We buy parandis too and payals. And tikas. Among ornaments the Tika and Payal hold a special delight for me. The Head and the Feet. Is it symbolic in any way? paapiDi biLLa it is called in Telugu, literally ‘maang-ka-tika’ or hair-parting-locket which loses all romance in English of course. Pajeb are payal in Hindi and gajjelu in Telugu meaning small bells. Anklets.

Ghussa Mahal is our next stop. Once inside I am reluctant to come out. The workmanship is wonderous. Intricate embroidery in all colours, specially with silver and gold zari thread, on leather. Cow hide to be precise. No wonder the leather is so soft. At one time I would not have been permitted into this shop by my ancestors, excommunicated if I had gone in, forget what would have happened if I had bought and worn the joothis brazenly! Made of dead cow skin! Ayiyiyo! Obviously someone ate the beef and then this is what was left….. I buy a few pairs, I have been given ‘footprints’to get the exact size by a Patialvi. He sure knows what is available right across the border. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. For a connoisseur of Jodhpuris and Kolhapuris this is spectacular stuff. I exchange some dollars here, despite my attempt at banter, again, after being snubbed by the driver, the owners are polite but will not fall for the bait. They smile sweetly and mutter a soft ‘phir aayen’ whence I prance outside in my newly bought footwear. It is pink, netted and handcrafted. Fits me like a shoe!

While others shop for cushion covers and clothes the Pothi and I go get ourselves a Subway sandwich. There are many American food joints on this road. KFC, McDonalds, you name it. The options of vegetarian though are few. Which is made up by the extra chilli that is put in my Jalapeno Rye bread. No Mayo, No Cheese, No Onions, No Garlic, No Mushrooms is how I eat it. At least food-wise my pitris have no cause for complain. I do not eat what is not permitted of me and I FEEL GOOD. (Pothi being Punjabi insists that she pays for it even though I am older. That is how they are.)

So now I am not only prejudiced, I am also class conscious as well as a conservative upholder of caste rules and judgemental .

After a haul of some exquisite Mukesh material we are finally satiated and return to HQ. For the dholki tonite I wear a yellow Bandhini chiffon that Shirin has brought for me from Dilli. I like the feel of this transparent textile on me while temple trees and eucalyptus sway in the summer breeze, dropping a bud here and there, sometimes on my shoulder as though a blessing. My back and waist are of course open to the elements enjoying their new found short-lived freedom until I change for the night. Even before that I am asked to drape my sari over my shoulder to avoid becoming a spectacle. Tonite I am the only one in a sari, two days later a few more women show up in exquisite silks.

Yellow satined chairs and yellow carpets, flower decorations on pillars and wedding lighting. Sana, a friend of the hosts singing Ghazals on her Casio, while we from India dance to Laungawacha. My snakelike yellow parandi twists with me. One of the rural retainers has plaited it up expertly (Of course there was not a word exchanged in the process). The songs are mostly ‘old bollywood’ when the lyrics were more Urdu and chaster. Collective nostalgia is what we share, we sing these songs together.

I am taken aback at the ease and the modernity of the function, a Telugu Hindu Brahmin wedding would be full of customs and mores that would be incomprehensible to even the participants! NO way would filmy songs be permitted on the mandapam. It is all Vedic chants (which can go on for hours), prayers, fasting (yes, the groom and bride have to fast, no-it does not lead to consummation the same day - for which an auspicious Muhurath has to be set), classical music and other ancient practises. Did I mention fire? The only commonality as far as I could see is the absence of alcohol in both places.

The guests all arrive on time, surprise! Most women are well turned out in their separate seating, very elegant in their quiet selves. Not many handlooms, from what I can spot, shalwar kameezes made of mainly rich synthetic materials. Food is laid out in the garden with a tandoorwala, a kebabwala and a puriwala offering their wares. I have enough vegetarian fare for me with Puri Chole, Raita, Aloo and Phirni, while there is Biryani and Kebabs for the rest. That Punjabis should be so restrained - another surprise!- in their menu till I am told of the official food policy that insists on keeping the items few and simple. The Aloo being really hot and spicy makes up for Zia's spoil-sport-ness.

Lahore is quiet in this area of Model Town. Extremely green and clean with fountains at almost every chauraha. Which work. Men have not really been interested in eve-teasing such as what I have experienced in India. KK and Amina tell me that it is the offshoot of the new found religiosity. Whatever. If the way I dress can keep men off my back, I will go right away and get my burqa (that I bought in Dubai since that fellow at Charminar would not sell me one saying "aap ko kyun chahiye?", and I wasn't even wearing a bindi!) . Mostly dignified and polite these men, I love how they address me with such sophistication even in the smallest of shops. No honking, not much traffic, after all not as much public transport as compared to Delhi or even Hyderabad. I don’t see many women driving two wheelers an extremely common sight in Hyderabad, in fact not even one. Closed autorickshaws. Green and White signboards like the US. Lots of flowers and flower beds alongside the Lahore canal and the weeping willows waiting upon them. A few Indians like us taking it all in and wondering what the fuss is about.

Oh Lord! not only am I prejudiced, class and caste conscious but also judgemental and nostalgic. Nothing like visiting your 'enemy' to see things more clearly. To know oneself better.