Crossing the Wagah

The remainder of the week passed relatively quickly as Yasmeen prepared her room for the upcoming visit from Auntie Seema and Cousin Noor. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bajwa made preparations of her own, eager to welcome her older sister. She sorted through the contents of an old trunk, filled with memories of her past: a trip to the Taj Mahal, and a childhood in Delhi, India’s capital city.
As she stood by the kitchen stove preparing Nihari stew, she remembered those long forgotten times. The front door banged and Faisal burst into the living room, interrupting her thoughts..
“Good morning, Faisal. How is your day going?”
“Just perfect,” he replied.
“What makes it so perfect?”
“Didn’t you hear? We won, 3-0!” He dropped his gym bag from his shoulder and plopped on the couch beside his sister.
“Did you play today?”
“No. There was a Men’s Cricket game yesterday between Pakistan and India.”
“Oh, that,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“I’m so glad we beat them,” replied Faisal.
“I know you’re proud of your country, but your cousin and your Auntie are from India. Remember to treat them as guests this week, okay?”
“Okay, mama,” replied Faisal. He kissed his mother on the cheek before heading off for a shower.
The children gathered around as Mrs. Bajwa sat a bowl of Nihari on the kitchen table. She portioned equal servings for her children. Roasted lamb, vegetables, and spicy brown-yellow broth spilled into each bowl.
Yasmeen and Khan performed a delicate trade, moving tomatoes and green peppers between their two separate bowls. At the end, Yasmeen had all the tomatoes, while Khan had all the green peppers.
“Hurry up and eat, children. We have a long trip ahead of us.”
“Do we have to go?” asked Faisal.
“Don’t you want to go?” said Mrs. Bajwa with disappointment in her voice.
“Not really,” said Faisal.
“Me neither,” added Mohammad.
“You’re still going?” Mrs. Bajwa asked her youngest two children. They nodded enthusiastically.
“That’s good to hear,” I guess you boys can stay here, but I don’t want you getting into any trouble. We probably won’t return from Wagah until very late and your father will be home late, too.”
“Okay, mother,” replied Faisal. Mohammad nodded in agreement.
After lunch, Mrs. Bajwa cleaned up the kitchen and then the children said their mid-day prayer. Afterwards, they got into the car and sped down Grand Trunk Road, toward the border city of Wagah.
Mrs. Bajwa and Yasmeen rode in the front while Khan rode in the back. Khan leaned his head out the window and looked at the scenery. He watched goat herders as they traveled from Lahore to the Pakistan border.
Auntie Seema and Cousin Noor arrived early in the morning. Before they could cross over from India to Pakistan, they had to go through Customs, a part of every border crossing. Now, they waited for Khan and his family.
“Mama?”
“Yes, Khan?”
“Why does Auntie Seema live in India?”
“Maybe you should ask why we live in Pakistan,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“What do you mean?”
“You know I grew up in Agra, which is in India,” she said, “I chose Pakistan because your father was from Lahore. When I chose him, I chose Pakistan.”
“Isn’t India full of Hindus?”
“I guess you could say that, but there are Muslims in India, just like there are Hindus in Pakistan.”
“Why is Pakistan an Islamic Republic?”
“Because of the partitition,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“What’s the partition?” asked Khan.
“What’s the partition!?” exclaimed Yasmeen, “It’s only the reason we’re going on this trip today.”
“To answer your question, Khan,” replied their mother, “the partition happened in 1947 when India was divided into three parts. There was West Pakistan, East Pakistan, and then India.”
“West and East Pakistan?”
“Back then, there were two Pakistans. East Pakistan eventually became Bangladesh.”
“What happened to West Pakistan?”
“It just became Pakistan,” she replied.
The gates rose in the distance as they neared the border. Mrs. Bajwa pulled the car into the parking lot and everyone hopped out. Auntie Seema and Cousin Noor waited outside the border gates. Yasmeen ran across the parking lot and hugged her cousin.
“It’s so good to see you, Noor.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.”
Everyone gathered, trading greetings and hugs.
“Khan, grab your Auntie’s luggage and take it to the car.”
Khan did as he was told. Yasmeen carried her cousin’s bags. They stored the luggage in the car’s trunk before returning to the gate. People gathered along the gate tower where Pakistani Rangers kept guard of the border. A large stone tower stood over the gate. Yasmeen and her family entered the gate. Bleachers lined the road up to the border. A green metal gate with the Pakistani Crescent and Star stood closed at the other end.
“Let’s hurry up and find a seat,” encouraged Mrs. Bajwa.
Yasmeen and Noor sat side-by-side until Khan wedged his way between them.
“May I sit here?” he asked.
“Sure,” his older sister chuckled. Khan’s grin stretched across his face.
A group of Pakistani Rangers marched from the tower toward the gate. Crowds clapped and cheered as they watched from the bleachers. National pride was in full force as people chanted “Ya-ya! Pakistan! Ya-ya! Pakistan!” The Rangers took giant strides toward the gate, their feet kicking high in the air with each step. Even more grand than their steps were their uniforms. Their dark green uniforms reminded Khan of the Pakistani flag. Headdresses sprouted from their hats, only they looked like a big gtreen rooster’s comb.
Khan leaned toward his sister. “What are they doing?”
“They’re the color guard,” she replied as she pointed towards the green gate, “They’re going to lower the flag.”
Across the gate, there was another gate. It was painted in three stripes: orange, white, and green, just like the National Flag of India. Across the gates, Indians gathered in their own stands, cheering as the Indian color guard marched in a similar fashion from the other side. Khan stretched his neck forward, trying to see what was happening across the border.“You know, Khan,” said Aunt Seema, “it wasn’t so long ago that these bleachers were part of India, too.”
“I know, but then it became West Pakistan, because that’s where most of the Muslims lived,” replied Khan.
His Aunt nodded. “How did you know that?”
“Yasmeen just told me.”
“Did you know some lived in Agra, where your mother and I grew up?”
Khan shook his head.
“Well, let me tell you a little story,” replied Aunt Seema.
She adjusted the covering on her headscarf, pulling a stray hair into place. Her eyes scanned the horizon, where the sun was just about to set.
“The western provinces of India were mostly Muslim.”
“I know,” replied Khan.
“But Punjab was half Hindu and half Muslim. Even Lahore was split between the Muslims and the Hindus.”
“How did they decide where to split then?”
“Before the partition, India was ruled by the British. A British viceroyal named Mountbatten led the way. He decided on where to draw the line between the two countries. Lahore was a very important city to both the Indians and the Pakistanis. In fact,, all of Punjab was divided by this partition.”
“How did they make sure all Muslims were on one side of the line and Hindus on the other?”
“They couldn’t. In fact, many Hindus and Muslims spent years crossing over from one side to the other after the Partition.”
Khan watched as two of the Pakistani Rangers in the color guard reached out and pulled the green gate apart. A Pakistani Ranger marched forward, meeting one of the Indian Color Guardsmen halfway. Their strides were bold and brave. Still, it reminded Khan of two roosters in a farmyard, looking to prove who was the biggest and boldest. Each man stepped forward and reached out his right hand. With a quick jerk, they shook hands and then turned away, as if touching the other man might give them a terrible cold. The crowds cheered loudly.
“Why do they seem angry with each other?” asked Khan.
“You know it’s just an act,” said his Aunt.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like a little stage play or a Bollywood movie. They only do it to get everyone’s reaction. They’re not mad at one another. In fact, if they weren’t wearing uniforms, could you tell who was Pakistani and who was Indian?”
Khan shook his head.
“Of course not. Just like you are Pakistani and I am Indian. Still, we share a common heritage.”
In fact, each movement the color guards made, seemed like a Bollywood movie, sharp and dramatic. Khan studied each movement. One Pakistani Ranger stood next to the Pakistani flag pole. He quickly unfastened the rope and held it in his hands. As he did, the Indian color guard was doing the same thing. It was like a carefully rehearsed dance.
“The migration of Hindus and Muslims lasted for several years,” said Aunt Seema. “It was an important time for both India and Pakistan. We still feel the effects of it today.”
“What do you mean?” asked Khan.
“Just like your mother and I, every Punjab was greatly influenced by the partition. Some families were split apart by the partition. It was a time of great trouble for India. When you bring change, people are always affected.”
The color guards pulled their ropes away from their flagpoles. The separate ropes crossed, forming an X. With precision movements, the color guards lowered their flags. The color guard took special care with their ropes, each flag descending slowly. They also made sure the flags crossed at the same height and then came off the rope at the exact same time.
“That’s it!” said Mrs. Bajwa.
“That was fantastic!” agreed Aunt Seema.
The two sisters hugged and kissed as they stood up. They shooed the children toward the car. As they rode home, Khan squeezed between Yasmeen and Noor again. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and it was starting to get dark outside. Khan rested his head against Yasmeen’s shoulder, quickly falling asleep on the way home.
“I think he’s tuckered out,” said Mrs. Bajwa as she spied Khan from the rearview mirror. Yasmeen nodded. When they arrived home, Mr. Bajwa was watching television with the boys. He fetched Khan from the car and tucked him into bed.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bajwa reheated the Nihari for Seema and Noor.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” said Aunt Seema.
“I remembered it was your favorite.”
The two sisters and two cousins sat at the table, enjoying the roast lamb stew. Yasmeen’s favorite thing about Nihari was the way it became richer and richer with every reheating. The spices of the hearty broth gave off a pungent smell. That smell tickled Yasmeen’s nostrils.
Yasmeen grabbed a spoon and began to dig in.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Aunt Seema. There was a sound of shock to her voice.
Yasmeen glanced over to her Aunt.
“Why are you eating Nihari with a spoon? Don’t you have any chapatti?”
“My children always eat Nihari with a spoon.”
“That’s not the proper way,” said Aunt Seema. She got up and rummaged around in the kitchen. She found several pieces of Nihari and brought then out to the kitchen table. She demonstrated her Nihari technique by tearing off a piece of the flat bread and folding it in half. She then dipped the chapatti into the Nihari, scooping out a portion and popping it into her mouth.
“That’s how you eat Nihari,” said Aunt Seema.
Yasmeen began eating like her aunt and cousin. It was easy to understand why Aunt Seema preferred this way: you could eat the spoon. The women stayed up for a little while longer, before it was time for bed. Yasmeen showed Cousin Noor to the bedroom.
Cousin Noor had a long enough day already. Instead of unpacking all her clothes, she only took out what she needed for tomorrow. Instead, she prepared her bed and shared stories with Yasmeen.
“When are you coming to India?” she asked.
“I do not know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“You really should come. We could go shopping and meet Indian boys.”
“Oh, my father would not approve of that.”
“That is something we do not have to tell him, is it?”
Yasmeen smiled. Cousin Noor seemed to live a very different life than she did. At times, Yasmeen was jealous of her cousin, never getting to travel or see new and exciting things. As Cousin Noor spoke, she worked on her dress. It was very pretty, but it showed the belly button. Yasmeen’s father would never allow her to wear something like that. He’d say something like “it’s a disgrace for a lady to show her belly button to anyone but her family.”
Still, Yasmeen loved her home.
“I would never keep anything from my father,” replied Yasmeen.
“Yes, you always have been a straight arrow,” said Cousin Noor.
“Well, I just don’t see any need in it sometimes.”
“I guess so. But still, there are things we should do while I’m here,” said Noor as she continued looking through the wardrobe.
“Like what?”
“Like take you shopping,” she replied.
“Maybe,” said Yasmeen.After Noor finished fixing her clothes, Yasmeen turned off the bedroom lights and opened the window. A crescent moon hung in the sky, pale and blue. It made her think of the green gate and of the far away land where her cousin was from. Maybe one day she would travel. For now, she was happy being right here in Pakistan.