Vajpayee, Sidhu crossed the line, others need to

Kuljit Bains

Atal Bihari Vajpayee crossed the line in a bus. Navjot Singh Sidhu has done it on foot. As the former departed a world no less divided than he inherited, the latter took a step in the direction shown by his one-time mentor; the direction of peace in the face of obvious hostility. As with the bus initiative, Sidhu’s little excursion across Wagah can be seen as an anti-national act, or an undying faith in the strings that tug at the human heart. Either way, all arguments are semantics.

What is, however, not mere wordplay, is the undeniable bond that the two Punjabs across the Radcliffe Line continue to sustain, even as it flies in the face of the narrative generated from New Delhi and Islamabad. Punjabis are simply unable to see it through the prism of history and past hatred; the violence, mayhem, and wars, which they suffered the most. That is because what they feel is present here and now. When a young Punjabi born in the Nineties, post-Independence, post-militancy, even post-Kargil, comes across a Pakistani, what strikes him is the absolutely same features, dialect, idiom, music, folklore. It is just so hard to bury the bond that it’s almost tribal.

The past week of Independence Day, Vajpayee’s departure, Imran Khan’s swearing-in, and Sidhu’s walk churned up endless stories and reminders of the conflict between what our hearts yearn for and what realpolitik demands.

The most visible sign of the gap was the Retreat ceremonies at Wagah and Sadiqi (Fazilka) border posts. Wagah receives droves of nationalistically motivated tourists, who are treated to a ceremony of aggression, if not hate. Far less known, but much more poignant moments are seen at Sadiqi, where thousands come each year to catch a glimpse of their friends or relatives across the fence, or Zero Line; the frenzied scan of faces to spot their own, followed by a desperate wave, and a shout. Till a few years ago, people were even allowed to shake hands, shed a few tears. Try explaining Indo-Pak ties to them.

Exchange of prisoners on Independence Day may be an act of cold diplomacy, yet one cannot but feel the human tragedy we perpetrate in keeping people in jail for decades for no justifiable reason. The Tribune reported the yearning of 96-year-old Amar Kaur (Read story) living in Khanpur, Hoshiarpur, to visit her home in Lahore, and walk the streets of Anarkali Bazaar once before her death. A million such hopes flicker every day.

On the other hand was the contemporary political posturing: attacks on Sidhu for hugging the Pak Army chief (despite the Vajpayee-Musharraf handshake); Dal Khalsa in Punjab seeking Pakistan’s help for the “Sikh cause”; social media battles over cricketer Imran and PM Imran. The cynicism, fear, and suspicion could not be better symbolised than the scare caused by mere balloons carried by the wind from Pakistan, bearing messages of “jeeve Pakistan”, that landed in some towns in the Indian Punjab.

Punjab as a state can do little about how India and Pakistan ties develop or regress. But it stands to directly gain the most if a greater exchange of people and trade is allowed. The benefits of logistics and trade routes are only too obvious. The state, however, almost singly continues to serve the purpose of keeping the flame of a positive bond alive. That is essential because as and when we are done with hatred – which no doubt has to happen one day – we will need the seed of love to grow back what has been lost. Without that seed, it will be hard to jump across the huge time divide to rekindle the historical bond. Punjab is a repository of that seed.

The battle is not about Vajpayee, Imran or Sidhu crossing the line, but about too few people crossing too few lines. If the Pakistani political leadership at one time could think up a “war of thousand cuts” against India, why can’t the people on both sides wage a war of a thousand hugs? Pakistan only sunk while inflicting the thousand cuts, and India suffered in responding to those. No harm trying the alternative.