After a long sleep and the achievement of some practical matters, such as my laundry, I decide to head for the Indian-Pakistani border, about 30km west of Amritsar itself. The crossing at Wagha is apparently the only place where it’s possible to get from one country to another on foot, so the place holds some significance, especially with the troubled history between these two nations.
Since Partition, there have been wars, riots, and much bloodshed on both sides of the border as Hindu-Muslim relations deteriorated to open hostility. There is still a fair amount of distrust from both sides, heightened by the Mumbai terror attacks in 2006, which were carried out by Pakistani nationals.
On the drive out there, by auto-rickshaw on the first open highway (i.e. good road) I’ve seen in India, this lingering distrust is clear to see, as I pass mile after mile of military installations. There are soldiers all over the sides of the road, and machine-gun posts and checkpoints ready and waiting to be called into action, as well as menacing displays of tanks and artillery pieces inside the several layers of barbed wire. As I get closer to the border itself though, the road becomes more congested with parked buses, cars and rickshaws, all of which have made the trip out to witness tonight’s bizarre spectacle. I arrange a meeting point with the driver, and start off into the crowd, all headed one way.
The atmosphere on the road is akin to the excitement felt before a big football match. Everyone’s hurrying to get there on time, only stopping to buy snacks or souvenirs. Young ones are waving Indian tricolours, or are decked out in other patriotic garb. There are plenty of women in green and saffron saris, while the Sikh men are sporting appropriately-coloured turbans too. There’s singing and chanting, and as we get slowly closer to the stadium-like enclosure, we can all hear the turbulent noise of those already inside. Once past a series of unnecessary and repetitive security checks, I’m ushered towards a VIP gate (because I’m clearly a tourist), and, passport in hand, am prodded to enter the arena.
Both sides take part in this odd nightly ceremony, and over the border gates themselves, I can see a similar, though slightly smaller, Pakistani crowd, with the women segregated from the men. Thanks to my VIP skin colour I’ve got a good spot, in amongst other tourists and some upper-caste Indians. There’s a long stretch of road in front of me which passes between the two countries, through two ceremonially painted gates, with huge seating areas arranged at each end to view the impending closure of the border. I wait expectantly.
An Aussie next to me nudges me and says “Here we go”, having spotted a line of formally uniformed Indian soldiers getting into position. Over the tannoy comes a long, loud military call to attention, the soldiers’ backs stiffen, and we’re off.
Decorated with ornate red-and-gold turbans with fan-like headpieces on top, the soldiers, obeying commands which all sound exactly the same to me, perform a series of quick, high-stepping and high-arm-swinging marches to and from positions that undoubtedly have some significance, though to me there was little discernable pattern. The guy in charge of the soldiers then marches himself straight towards the gates, which makes me think that something is going to happen, but then he salutes his Pakistani opposite number (the choreography on both sides seemed to be exactly the same, with one specific gesture being the exception), and marches right back to where he had started.
This is the call for a musical interlude, with a non-uniformed MC chanting call-and-response slogans at the crowd, who shout back with gusto. These chants seem to be nationalistic in meaning, as I recognize some of the words used to refer to India as a nation. The Pakistanis are trying to outdo us (I guess I’m a token Indian for the night) with their own chants, but we outnumber them and they are some distance away, so it sounds like we’re winning. Some more marching ensues, to random cheers from the crowd, who are liable to make lots of sudden noise for no clear reason. Some of the moments which I was finding most symbolic, by contrast, often received little or no adulation.
Anyway, this cycle of marching and chanting repeats a few times, slowly moving the troops around to whatever final position they’re supposed to be in, until the flags of both nations are ready to be hauled down. The high-stepping flourishes at the end of the individual marches are now preposterously overdone, involving several stamps and a couple of inexplicable quarter-twists. This flourish, when performed opposite a Pakistani soldier, ends with an aggressive elbow-raise, showing a ritualistic strength and defiance. The corresponding Pakistani finish is one of spread arms and jutting chin, as if to say “Come on then!”. It’s like watching a ballet of football hooligans where someone has got the costumes terribly wrong. I have to say, though, that the black uniforms of Pakistan look far more menacing than the India’s almost office-like beige.
Now, even with the flags ready to be lowered, there are seemingly still more marches to complete, and chants to shout. The spectacle is surely impressive (if a little strange and too militaristic), but the component parts seem needlessly interminable, with little sense of progression from one to the next. In fact, the Aussie’s video camera is nearly out of tape, so he switches off and waits for something worthwhile to happen, hoping that one minute’s worth of recording time will be enough to capture the finale. He doesn’t seem optimistic.
Finally, after several more manoeuvres, the flags begin to be brought down, and the crowd is told to stand. In this moment, the symbolism of the ceremony becomes clear, and looking around at the hordes of Indian faces intently concentrating on their flag, the pride and fervour are clear to see. India’s borders are once again ceremonially enshrined by the lowering of a flag and the slamming of a gate, and until tomorrow, the homeland is safe.
Perhaps it’s something that I, coming from a fairly safe island nation, cannot fully appreciate, but there is definitely something in this ritual of closing the gates that keeps these stands packed night after night. It celebrates an Indian identity and commonality, a pride in the country and the strength in that belief. In order for these crowds to create a united identity for the disparate collection of peoples, religions and languages that make up India, they must collectively shut the gate on something foreign, something other.
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