The final chapter: I was afraid. Not all the time, but in amounts small enough to remain undetected, yet big enough to leave an impact.
It’s been
over a month since I returned from my visit to Pakistan, and I’ve been
procrastinating when it came to writing this particular post, partly because I
don’t want to hear the voices saying “I told you so,” and partly, because I don’t
want to see looks of disappointment. Because writing this down – penning these
words down – would mean finally admitting to myself the presence of one
particular emotion that was present in this trip.
Fear.
Now, I’m not
ignorant. Not entirely. I knew I was visiting a country that has been
mercilessly targeted by terrorists, and is a long-term enemy of India. I
expected a certain amount of fear to present itself in various aspects of the
trip: in the eyes of my parents, in the words of cautiousness from my
relatives, in the streets of Karachi where people preferred to drive than walk;
in the need to lock car doors and put up window shades at night; in the presence
of army troops in the city; in the cancelling of cell-phone networks on tempestuous
days; in the blast that occurred not too far from a public demonstration.
While these
incidents were new to me as an outsider, they were also expected. I was
prepared for that. But it wasn’t the fear in my parents or in the city that
bothered me: it was the fear in me.
I was
afraid. Not all the time, but in amounts small enough to remain undetected, yet big enough to leave an impact.
Considering
that this was the most awaited trip of my life, I wasn’t expecting this
reaction. I was afraid of not being appropriately covered; I was afraid of the
prospective immigration officials; I was afraid of being left alone for even a
second.
Basically, I
was afraid of being an Indian in Pakistan.
For the last
eight years of my life, I have lived away from home. The last two years have
been the most liberating of my life – where I could go where I wanted, whenever
I wanted. Perhaps it’s my luck that Bombay is a safer city when compared to
others, but I’ve never had to think twice about walking on the streets, or
travelling on public transport. Fear is not an emotion I feel too often out
here.
But in
Pakistan, with no cell phone reception [because I had an Indian network] during
the entire trip, and an ID document that could potentially be more problematic
than helpful, this was not the case. I felt like a little child, afraid to be
away from known faces even for a second.
On one
particular event at my friends’ wedding, I called over a friend and asked him
if he knew every person at the event. He said yes. Then I asked him if I was
the only Indian present. Giving me a what-kind-of-a-question-is-that look, he
said: “Yeah. Obviously.”
Obviously. I
knew the answer ever before I asked the question. But just hearing that said
aloud was unnerving – it made me feel vulnerable in a way that I have not felt
in a very long time. I have travelled to a lot of countries across the world,
and it usually doesn’t take long to forget where I am and just enjoy the
holiday. But on this trip, I was very aware at every given moment that I was an
Indian in Pakistan, and for some frustratingly unknown reason, that thought
would not allow me to unwind in the way I had hoped. I couldn’t even place a
finger on that emotion – I’m only now starting to admit that perhaps it was
fear.
Part of me
wanted to let everyone around me know that I was from India, but a tiny,
rational and cautious part of the mind kept butting in and stopped me.
I think it
was the part that read our history books; the part that followed media reports;
the part that felt alone during cricket matches; the part that had heard of the
horrors of partition; the part that had seen movies like Veer-Zara, the part
that listened to every single anti-Pakistan comment ever made in my presence.
In other
words, it was the part of my mind that has succumbed to 23 years of
anti-Pakistan ideology.
For someone
who has always prided herself on standing apart from the majority – from being
able to see things from a variety of perspectives and not take hatred at face
value – this was a disconcerting realization.
So, I’m
going to say it once and for all – the trip was a let-down. I went to Pakistan,
and I was afraid. The fear came in such small doses, that I could barely even
identify it. Yet it was there. I didn’t get to enjoy being in Pakistan, because
I was too busy worrying about being an Indian on enemy ground.
Fear is not good for enjoyment. It’s probably
going to take several trips for me to rid myself of that fear. And I’ll know I’ve
managed to leave that fear behind when I’m able to go to Pakistan and just be
in Pakistan, and not be an Indian in Pakistan.
The trip didn't turn out the way I expected - for a myriad of reasons (some good, some bad). But do I regret going to Pakistan? Definitely not. Am I going back? Definitely yes.
The Journey to Pakistan will continue - it may just take a break for a few years.
