INDIA AND PAKISTAN FACE OFF FOR A CHANGING OF THE GUARD

      

      After our visit to the Golden Temple, Navneet, Neru, Kuljit and I parted company with our escort, and after a quick freshen up at our hotel, made the 28 kilometer drive to the Wagah, Pakistan border to witness the changing of the guard.  

       

        Every day at sunset the Indian and Pakistan soldiers face off at the border gate in a flag lowering, gate closing ceremony that draws a crowd of thousands. I understood in advance that the two countries were at odds with one another; but it was not until I witnessed that menacing barbed wire fence rising out of the mist, coiled in places like a snake ready to strike, the emptiness of the forbidden ground inside it and the resulting hostile atmosphere, that I, a free American unencumbered by borders, was able to put it into its proper prospective.  

      At the border a frenzy of cars raced to get a space in the parking lot while hordes of lively stepping people converged on foot.  A parking attendant urgently directed our driver into a spot so tight that I could barely squeeze through the car door opening.  I had not expected such a turnout; but then, neither was I prepared for the crowd-pleasing performance I was about to witness.

      There were several military guards collecting tickets at the entrance to the event, all trying their best to maintain tight security. Amidst that difficult task, loud speakers were blasting music and voices cheering, causing the excitement to build  inside me.  One of the guards had all he can do to keep up with the mad rush of people shoving their tickets in his face, much less our driver and the two uniformed border policeman that met us at the gate who were trying hard to garner his attention above all the others. We could not enter until he checked our names against the VIP list of reservations… compliments of the very accommodating colonel's wife. In the midst of numerous interruptions, the guard finally managed to find our names and at long last the gate was opened allowing us to push our way through the crowd and gain entry.

      A dynamic street scene, much the same as that of a New Years parade awaited us. Two sets of bleachers filled the entire side of a two lane road accommodating twenty or so rows on one end and six rows on the other, all taking up at least a fourth of a city block.  They were already nearly full to capacity and the crowd from outside had yet to enter.   

On the opposite side of the road, two rows of spectators had taken their seats, but seven front row seats remained empty. A guard looked at our tickets and led us to four of those seats where we were positioned front row and center of the two countries' gates; no doubt providing us some of the best seats available. 

       

One end of the roadway was dominated by the India gate where two armed sentries looking dwarfed atop their lofty spot flanked an enlarged picture of India’s beloved, Mahatma Gandhi.   

About a sixteenth of a mile farther down the road a twenty to thirty foot long red and white metal gate lay open to the Pakistan border where another towering gate featured an enlarged photograph of some notable figure. 

Amidst the incoming spectators, armed Indian border police and soldiers worked hard to keep an overzealous crowd in check. A German shepherd with its nose to the ground sniffed the area around the bleachers. The loud speakers vibrated with the sound of Indian music leaving the crowd entertained by a large group of young girls showing off a traditional dance in the street.   

Even the two members of Mother Teresa’s Missionary of Charity seemed charged by the impending event.

       

      As the sun began its ascent the crowd chanted and cheered jumping up and waving their arms high above their heads.  People of all ages were getting in on the act, to include me, foot tapping and itching to get in the thick of it.  On the other side of the gate, I could see the empty Pakistan bleachers and a small crowd—paled in size to the Indians-- attempting to cheer on their soldiers; but they were no match for the uproarious Indians. A sense of patriotism pervaded; pride was written on the faces of India’s citizens.  I could feel the goose pimples rise on my arms at the sight of it all.

       

      At the onset of sunset six foot extra plus, modern day Adonis’s all head adorned, decorated and spit shined line up in formation on the street, reigniting the anticipating crowd.   

 One by one the soldiers carried out their breathtaking spectacle of  high stepping, arm thrusting and foot stomping march that ended up in a face off at the gate with their Pakistani counterparts.   

      With the sun now settled on the horizon, the flags were lowered, the gate once again closed against another day. 

       I wondered as I watched the stand off between opposing soldiers what they must have been thinking as they stared into each others eyes.  They were, after all, enemies, united only for a short ceremony.  In the morning, the gates would reopen and allow the trucks from either side to transport their goods, only to be closed again at sunset for a repeat performance. 

       

      Outside, the spectators were gathered around the soldiers who stood on display for  the visitors.  Across the border, two Pakistani soldiers in profile were motionless atop their horses.   

Another soldier standing at ease stared back at me as I aimed the camera in his direction.  A faint smile—or maybe it was a smirk—temporarily parted his lips.  Unfortunately, the girls whisked me away so I did not have the opportunity to tell the Indian soldiers just a few feet away that they took my breath away with every step!

~~

      It seemed more events were in store that morning following the changing of the guard, to include another visit to the border. But not before we stopped for breakfast at the second storey hole in the wall restaurant in Amritsar where I ate the creamy fresh yogurt and mouthwatering, fresh off the fire thin breads…probably made by the man on the street standing on his stool and ladling the delicacies out of a huge wok. 

      

       Our first stop was at Wagah for a very brief but memorable visit with the colonel and his wife, Preeti, whom I soon viewed as being like-minded, for she, too, loved to write and saw life through a similar lens as I; and who, at one point during our conversation, looked me square in the eye and delivered words that rendered me speechless:  “You are a very sensitive person.  You inhale the breath of every conversation.”  Although I wished for our meeting not to end we had no choice as a military vehicle with two soldiers under the colonel’s orders was waiting outside to accompany us on our day’s journey.     

       I rode in the back seat crammed next to the other women, staring out the window as we bounced along the narrow winding country roads that passed lush fields of crops and tall pampas grasses in full feathery bloom, stopping finally at a small military installation only a stone’s throw from the Pakistan border. 

      

      The only thing interrupting the calm and peaceful country atmosphere of this modest base was the hostile barbed wire fence and watch tower separating the two countries.   

Otherwise, it seemed a lovely place where one might escape the madness and pollution of the city to breathe in the clean air and take a leisurely stroll along the avenue of trees that meandered in contrast alongside the ominous looking fence. 

Off in the distance, though, the faint outline of another tower was a constant reminder that someone might be watching my activities with suspicious eyes, sending a tiny shiver of fear down my spine as I took aim with my camera.

      

       At one o’clock we sat at an outside table where the soldiers began piling our plates with food that came non-stop. Afterwards we were introduced to life on a border base.  

      Several soldiers, male and female appeared on the scene and I began to feel those all-too-familiar stares that had become my constant companion. News had traveled fast on this small complex, and I supposed that they had come to satisfy their curiosity and meet the American woman visiting their base, because they all eagerly posed for a group photo positioning me in the center. 

       We traveled back along the same winding road where, at some point, we stopped to let our escort out to join two other soldiers waiting at the entrance to the small village of Dera Baba Nanak. 

By now I was dizzy from all the events, this time being hurried down a narrow street in the company of the now three guards who, for obvious reasons, weren’t overly keen on my stopping to have a peek at the sights along the way.  Outside the very modest gurudwara where shoe removal was a must, I was beginning to develop an intense dislike for the reluctant buckles of my sandals that always left me lagging behind the other women. The guards stood patiently by my side watching my struggle.  Shoes off, scarf now positioned on my head, camera secure around my neck, I entered the holy place feeling the cold marble slabs on my bare feet, witness now to the reverence being displayed by those standing before the glass encased, five-hundred-year-old wedding dress of the tenth guru, Guru Nanak, which was on display in this most modest of gurudwaras.

        

       There was pride written on the face of the turbaned man who told the story of the guru who once wore the now, age-worn garment, and of his wife who embroidered the cloth below it. “I am the 17^th generation descendant of the guru,” he said in broken English.   

His was a long dissertation, mostly in Hindi, so I let my eyes wander and my lens do its work.  Finally, he honored us four ladies with the orange cloth which we wrapped around our necks. Others who had entered the gurudwara after us seemed to pause and view us as special…and I suppose we were special for aside from the Guru Sikh, we were the only ones wrapped in orange.  In fact, for two days we were given nothing shy of the royal treatment; first from our escort at the Golden Temple the day before; and finally when we were met by, Preeti, and her military entourage who came to wish us farewell on the road leading out of Wagah.

      ~~

      My sincerest thanks go out to the colonel and his wife who made it all happen…and in a way that I will never forget.  And to those escorts who assured our safety, I also extend my gratitude.  And finally, to all those splendid looking soldiers, some of whom I managed to capture up close in spite of their high stepping…you are an asset to your country.