The lines of control

I am tempted not to write what I am going to write. To hide this story from the world and from Irum for the rest of my life. It is so sham...

I am tempted not to write what I am going to write. To hide this story from the world and from Irum for the rest of my life. It is so shameful and painful for me. It is about a gift given to me by the first Pakistani friend I ever made. It was a t-shirt with `Pakistan’ emblazoned across it.

But more about the shirt and why it is so tragic in the end. I met Irum in Nepal in January. She was a journalist. My ignorance of Pakistan matched only her ignorance of India; ditto our curiosity about each other’s countries. And perhaps my love of Pakistan matched only her love of India. We were attending the same conference, visiting the same places, eating at the same hotels.

We shared a strange relationship of children who had been prohibited from playing together by quarrelsome parents. Maybe this sounds sentimental but we met as if we were meeting after a long and traumatic parting. They had no idea what was what in India, just as I could not even imagine Pakistan. What are rains like in Pakistan? And can you see the Himalayas in Pakistan? As for them, the guys talked about Hindi filmstars like Sonali Bendre and Madhuri Dikshit. One cracked a "give us Madhuri, we’ll give you Kashmir" joke. I thought why not.

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Take Madhuri, Raveena, Kashmir and Kanyakumari and all of us in India so that we become a single entity again. But we did not get into this. We left it untouched as if it was an area beyond us, as if it was destiny, an outsider whose line of control scorched through our lands.

When I was leaving Nepal, she came to me with a little crumpled packet. It was the gift, the t-shirt. I was delighted as this was totally unexpected. And I have always liked to touch and, if possible, buy material, mostly clothes, smuggled into India from Pakistan. I saw the word Pakistan painted on the green shirt. I felt all the more pleased and decided then and there that I would keep it all my life. But I had not thought deep enough.

It was when I came back to India and imagined myself going out in that t-shirt that my feet went numb. What would people think? Would they think I was hostile to them? How would I tell them that it was a sign of love and not hate?

Finally I decided to interview a few people about what they felt about wearing such a t-shirt. One person who I did not know very well and who was a passing acquaintance said that I should not wear it. He said people would stare at me and think that I was a Muslim. And if a riot broke out they would target me. To save the shirt, he advised me to scrape off the name. I reminded him that people, including me, wore shirts with America and Switzerland and even England written on them.

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That made him think for a while, but he said people saw Pakistan as an enemy as it had attacked us and caused trouble, without provocation. Otherwise people had nothing against the country or its people. He was an ordinary lowrung worker in a private company. Next I asked a colleague, a journalist. Don’t wear it, he said instantly. Why? Because Pakistan is our enemy.

It was as simple as that. Maybe there was something wrong with me, I thought. What would happen if people on this side of the border started expressing love for Pakistan? Nothing. Pakistan may not express anything. Because it is not permitted to express itself so. Shouldn’t that be all the more reason to love it?

As for my t-shirt, I do not know what I would tell Irum if I ever meet her. Or if she asked me on e-mail. Or if she read this which is one of the reasons why I wanted to hide this story from the world. And I wonder when I will wear the shirt. Maybe on a visit to Pakistan if I am destined to go on one. Or else in my mind which is where all our memories are safe, safe from loss, safe from being eaten by termites, safe from lack of love.