October 31. Morning

I had just finished conducting my second workshop with school kids at the Children’s Literature Festival organized by Idara-e-Taleem-o-Agahi at the Children’s Library Complex in Lahore. A representative from the Public Relations team came over and informed me that a journalist wanted to interview all the Indian delegates at the festival. After the introductions had taken place, the journalist had just one question for me: “Aapko Pakistani bachchay kaise lagay?” (What did you think of Pakistani children?) I tried to hide my amusement. “Children are children, whether Pakistani or Indian does not make a difference. I had a great time.”

Earlier that morning, some of the student volunteers I had met the previous day came over to the workshop venue a little before we began our session. They had A4 size sheets of blank paper and a bunch of coloured markers in their hands. “Sir, can you please write my name in Hindi on this?” said one. “Sir, mine too!” said another. The number grew from two to five. And by the time the session had begun, I had been ‘bullied’ into writing not just their names but also ‘Hello from India’ and ‘All the best’ notes for their girlfriends at school. The boys who came with these requests were 12 and 13 year olds from Lahore. Their young, love-struck eyes reminded me of my high school students in Mumbai. Truly, children are children.

***

November 2. Afternoon

I was at the Al-Hamra Arts Council complex on Lahore’s Mall Road, waiting to say hello to novelist Mohsin Hamid just after his session at the Khayaal Creative Network’s Festival of Arts and Literature 2013. He was surrounded by admirers seeking autographs. When he finished signing and began to walk away, I went up to him and said, “Hello, I am Chintan from India. I really enjoyed your book The Reluctant Fundamentalist. May I have a photograph with you?”

He offered a warm smile, and said, “Of course.” I was pleased. After I thanked him and he left, I found myself being greeted by two young boys who asked if they could have a photograph with me. “Me? Really? Sure, but why would you want a photograph with me?” I asked, wondering about my claim to fame. “Oh, because you are from India! We have not met any Indian before,” one of them said. I was tickled by the humour of it but more touched by their enthusiasm. At that moment, I wanted to get them to meet all those skeptical Indians who had warned me against travelling to Pakistan, fearing that I may get killed in some terror attack. Incidentally, I meet people like that often, and I find it amusing to see their disappointment when their warnings do not work on me.

Anyway, coming back to those two boys, I asked them where they were from. “Gilgit,” came the answer. Now it was my turn to look at them with stars in my eyes. “Wow! I have never met anyone from Gilgit. I’ve heard it is really beautiful. I’ve read about it in the book Empires of the Indus. I am so glad to meet you!” I said. They looked pleased with my gushing: “Yes, you must come. It is just like your Ladakh.”

***

November 4. Evening

I went to a popular international pizzeria chain in Islamabad for dinner with my friends Shiraz, Furhaan and Faheem. They took me there because they were certain that we would be able to find at least a few good vegetarian options for me. Shiraz called the waiter and asked, “Do you have something made of vegetables? This friend of ours does not eat any meat.” The waiter’s reply had all of us in splits. “Ji, vegetable roll hai. Usmein bilkul mamooli sa chicken hae.” (Yes, we have a vegetable roll. It has only a wee bit of chicken.)

Once again, Shiraz said, “No meat. Just vegetables. Do you have something like that?” The waiter looked perplexed. He said, “Ji, ji. Only chicken. No meat.” We had another good laugh. There was no point in losing one’s patience. The best way to handle the situation was to appreciate the absurdity of it. I was later told that in Pakistan, when people say ‘meat’, they mean ‘red meat’. By that definition, chicken clearly does not qualify as meat. Anyway, I discovered a salad bar at the restaurant, and was quite thrilled with what I piled on my plate. When I narrated this incident to friends in India, I got a range of responses. Some were too shocked to say anything; others proclaimed that without a taste of the local meat, my trip had been an utter waste.

***

November 5. Afternoon

I needed a taxi ride from one part of Islamabad to another. It would take roughly 15 minutes to get to my destination said the friend who walked me to this taxi. Soon after I settled in I heard the driver speak to someone on the phone in a language that I did not understand. I figured it was Pashto. When the driver hung up, I asked him:

“Kya aap Khyber Pakhtunkhwa say haen?” (Are you from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa?).

He said yes. I wanted him to guess where I was from. He thought for a long time but was unable to place me. He was about to give up but I did not relent

“Aap koshish tau karein!” (Please try at least) I urged.

“Aap sooba tau bataaein,” he said. (At least tell me the province.) “Nahi. Sooba bataanay say tau aapko jawaab jald hi mil jaayega.” (No. If I tell you the province, you’ll guess it immediately.) That was fun!

He eventually asked me, “Are you from India?”

I said, “Yes, from India. Mumbai.”

He sounded thrilled to hear that and immediately turned on the music system, pointed at it and said:

“Yeh sunein. Aapkay mulk ka gaana.” (Listen to this. It’s a song from your country.)

It was a Bollywood number that I cannot recall. I requested him to turn it down so that I could listen to him instead. It was an interesting conversation. He remarked, “Aap tau Mumbai say haen. Wahaan tau aazaadi hogi. Peenay kee. Naachnay kee. Disco mein jaanay kee.” (You are from Mumbai. There must be a sense of freedom there. Freedom to drink, dance and go to the discotheque.) I smiled. “I wish we had the same here”, he said wistfully.

What followed this remark, though, was a bit surprising to me. “Humnay sunaa hae aapkay yahaan khawaateen ki izzat nahin hotee. Pakistan mein aisa nahin hae. Yahaan koi khatoon raaste par niklay tau koi aankh uthaakar bhi nahin dekhtaa.” (I have heard that women are not respected much in your country. That does not happen in Pakistan. Here, if a woman steps out on to the street, no one dares to cast an evil glance at her.”) I found that a bit difficult to believe because of the stories I have read in newspapers, the conversations I have had with Pakistani friends, and the dwindling numbers of women in public spaces after dark. However, I felt I needed to have my ideas confirmed, so I spoke to some feminist friends in Islamabad and Lahore who all said that the taxi driver’s remark was typical of the denial one finds in Pakistan society. It is the same in India. Unfortunately, denial breeds more gender-based violence.

***

November 9. Morning

I was at the end of my visit to Pakistan. I had arrived at the Wagah border and was sending out my last few text messages to friends in Lahore, Karachi and Islamabad. After getting the exit stamp on my passport, I walked up with all my bags back to the country I had come from. An officer from the Border Security Force asked me, “What passport do you have – Indian or Pakistani? “Indian”, I said, and slowly walked over the dividing line.