LAHORE DIARY
An effusive warmth
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VINAY GANESH SITAPATI worked as an intern in a Pakistani law firm recently. Along with his experiences as an Indian student, he explores the sights and sounds of Lahore.
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Picture coutesy: B. MURALIDHAR REDDY
A delight -- the Food Street, Lahore.
"YOU will not return alive, and nor will my camera," my friend responded when I asked him whether I could take his camera with me to Lahore. Let me explain. I am a law student living in Mumbai, but studying in the Bangalore Law School. This February I had to do an internship with a law firm for a month, and got the chance to work with a Lahore-based law firm. I even managed to procure a Pakistani visa.
As I left for Lahore, my suitcase was not the only luggage I had. In addition to the more widespread stereotype of Pakistan being a haven for terror, I took with me the rather alluring (for an Indian) image of a failing state based on a flawed premise (the two-nation theory). I sought to live an ordinary life, not realising that the trip would be anything but. I will try, in this two-part article, to convey my experiences as an Indian student living for a month in Lahore. I have deliberately avoided dwelling at length on Kashmir or peace with India, as it is a road much trodden upon. Instead, in the first part, I explore the sights and sounds of Lahore; and in the second part, my impression of the pulls and pressures that shape Pakistan today.
The old city
My visit to Lahore began with the old city. To the northwest of Lahore lies the Badshahi Masjid, Asia's second largest mosque. Built in 1673 A.D. by Emperor Aurangazeb, its towering minarets dwarf the more petite spires of Maharaja Ranjit Singh's tomb which lies adjacent to it. The Badshahi Masjid faces the sprawling ruins of the Lahore fort, whose several intact walls criss-cross the area. An uninterrupted culture of royalty — whether Mughal or Sikh — was brought to an end in the mid-19th Century with the advent of British rule. The network of courtesans, musicians and artists hitherto thriving on royal patronage were reduced to penury; and were forced to turn to the world's oldest profession. Even today, in the ornate bylanes of Hira Mandi just outside the fort, prostitutes ply their trade. As they watched from the decorated balconies above, hustling pimps troubled me as I navigated the busy streets below. Much like the geisha women of Japan, the history surrounding Hira Mandi elevates its inhabitants from being mere prostitutes to courtesans. "Kookoos", a restaurant on the edge of Hira Mandi — apart from providing a breathtaking view of the surrounding fort and mosque — recreates some of this culture of song and dance.
... the modern face
The grandeur of the old city is matched by the glitziness of modern Lahore. The posh Gulberg and Defence localities speak of a sophisticated and rich elite, interconnected by broad roads, supplied by fancy supermarkets; and educated at elite schools. One such educational institution, the Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS) belongs to another continent. It was approaching twilight as I entered it, and the campus had a surreal glow to it. Just as well. The exquisitely manicured campus, shiny glass and brick buildings and state-of-the-art equipment had an unreal feel to it. Many Ivy League professors teach at LUMS and most of its students would fit into any American campus (and as on any American campus, decrying American foreign policy). But even here, a militant Islamic culture was creeping in. A student spoke of how a lecturer explaining evolution was heckled as being unIslamic by some students. He eventually had to resign. As I walked around the campus however, I saw couples roaming undisturbed. Groups of college students, both men and women, discussed music and movies in a slightly western accent; and the twangs of a guitar from the nearby music room added to the atmosphere. "Could I apply here for admission," I asked a student. The answer was immediate — "only if I had done my `A' levels".
Education is not the only feature of Pakistan that has been imported. Thanks to minimal import restrictions as well as a lack of indigenous production, most consumer goods — from packaged food to shampoos are foreign. For me, the novelty of seeing Mars chocolate and Pringles chips in every nook and corner was only exceeded by its price. The wide roads in most parts of Lahore, large patches of cultivated greenery and the beautiful canal road which cuts across the city are uncommon in India. But if you're not lucky enough to own a car, you're in trouble.
Public transport operates through an informal network of private vans and buses (cheap) to the auto (expensive and uncomfortable). But the intercity buses — generically termed "Daewoo" — are both convenient and comfortable.
Bollywood's impact
For a month I commuted in a large part by autos. My attempts to pass off my poor Hindi as Karachi Urdu would arouse suspicion but never confirmation that I was Indian. Against all advice, I confided to Ejaz, an auto driver I used more than once, that I was an Indian from Mumbai. It had an effect. He was effusive at my Indian-ness, and awestruck at my Mumbai connection. Did I know Shah Rukh Khan, he asked. Fighting temptation, I replied in the negative but added that I lived close to his house. I didn't have to pay for that ride. My astonishment at Bollywood's impact in Lahore however, was clearly premature; as a conversation with an effusive middle aged Punjabi lady revealed. "I buy all my clothes from India," she began appreciatively. "But there is one outfit that eludes me .... the yellow sari that Tulsi wears in `Kyonki saans bhi ....'"
Apart from Bollywood, Lahoris love food, and are justly proud of their cuisine. That, coupled with a ban on alcohol and a paucity of cinema halls, makes an evening out with family or friends an epicurean delight. Whilst the predictable McDonald's, Dunkin Donuts, Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) loudly display their wares on fashionable streets, more reasonable desi restaurants offer an extravagant meal for two for around INR 350. For obvious reasons though, I chose to frequent the plethora of food and kebab stalls that dot street corners. "You're from India?" the stall owners would ask, speaking in Urdu except that "India" remained "India". "I have relatives there". Soon a small crowd would gather around me. While some had families, others had visited parts of India, or had seen Hindi films.
The conversation would be pleasant. Absent in their conversations were carefully orchestrated, deeply thought out reactions about India. Instead there was spontaneity, inquisitiveness, and warmth. I am in general derisive of the romantic image of two peace-loving peoples divided by scheming leaders. I view such a cliché to be idealistic, simplistic and hence unrealistic. But those cold evenings as I gathered around the warm kebab tava and listened as ordinary people and daily wage earners recounted their images of the "other", I felt more than ever that here is an untapped constituency for peace.
The enduring image of Lahore I took back with me was undoubtedly the hospitality. To most Lahoris, the image of Pakistan as inhospitable terrain is particularly insulting, and they do their best to rectify that. Strangers went out of the way to be helpful. I stayed unannounced with the family of a friend whom I had barely met before, and their warmth was only matched by their courtesy. At my law firm, I was treated more like a judge than a bumbling intern. I was wined (being Pakistan, not quite literally) and dined almost every night by friends. My only virtue. The land of my birth.
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