There was only a clutch of British, American, German and Japanese tourists crossing the Wagah border into Pakistan that day. The Nepalese national badminton team was on the way to the SAF games. As we walked towards the ceremonial border-post with our small children, a commotion erupted at the gates. A uniformed Indian official with a large stick was lathi-charging the porters who were thronging to get the business of the returning Indians streaming in on the other side of the road after a cricket match was over. The porters scattered like nine-pins, grown men in their blue porter’s kurtas ran for cover from the baton-wielding paramilitary.Baffled and shaken, we continued behind our two porters along the empty road. Suddenly, as we neared the gates, the same Indian official attacked one of our porters with the stick, hitting him hard several times on the upper body. The man couldn’t even dodge the blows, as he had our luggage on his head. The children watched wide-eyed. We intervened and were told that the “offence” of the beaten man was that he had his numbered badge in his pocket rather than around his arm.The assaulter now put down his stick and sat down to write our passport details in the ledger. My husband started to note down his name—Sergeant Thydore Joseph of the Border Security Force. “Look, the sahib is noting my name,” sneered Sergeant Joseph in Hindi to two others lounging there on chairs. We stood while he filled the ledger. He refused to give his service number, citing “security reasons”.My husband asked one of the others, a Sikh captain in the BSF but with no visible name-badge, whether he was the responsible officer present and if he thought it was right to beat the porters. “Yes,” said the Sikh officer. Across from them, a man in scruffy plainclothes, again with no identity badge, identified himself as “Intelligence”. He too said that Joseph’s brutal assault was correct behaviour.Ledger entry over, we stepped over the demarcation line. “Welcome to Pakistan!” said a tall Ranger, smiling broadly. He had watched the whole incident — a representative of a military-led regime observing how things are done in democratic, socialist India. We exchanged pleasantries.The ledger entry on the Pakistani side was done by an officer named Munir — smart, efficient, courteous. He had a neat row of chairs where we were asked to sit while he swiftly dealt with our passports. The other officials stood. In a couple of minutes we were at immigration, where the official gave us oranges while he stamped our papers. Customs formalities were over quickly.Soon we were off and into the waiting arms of the warm hospitality of our friends in Lahore. The children were asked what they found different about Pakistan so far. “The Pakistanis gave us oranges,” they observed solemnly.” About the Indians they said nothing.
