Amritsar Border tourism and more

It was the cusp of Independence for the two countries &mdash August 29, 1947. The streets of Lahore were burning. Having never felt a shred of intimidation being the only Hindu family in a Muslim colony for over 20 years, my grandfather could now only sit furrow-browed, waiting for the door to be slammed open and calamity to walk in. Paralysed by fear and trepidation, he helplessly awaited death. The door did open, but discreetly, and in walked khota sikka (the Hindi phrase used for an unproductive coin), the lazy subordinate that my postmaster grandfather forever dismissed. &ldquoYou are useless,&rdquo he would say, brushing him off, &ldquojust like a khota sikka.&rdquo Armed with burkhas and a horse cart, the &ldquokhota sikka&rdquo managed to transport the family safely to his own house. In front of the other Muslims, he feigned anger, resentment and a desire to kill the &lsquopostmaster&rsquo, while my refuged grandfather and his pregnant wife sat silently inside a dark room. An angry mob spent hours in the courtyard of the same house, planning my grandfather&rsquos murder, while my mother whimpered her first muffled coos under a blanket borrowed from the mastermind&rsquos wife. Many days later, khota sikka managed to bundle up the family and send them safely across the border to Amritsar.

It was 5 pm and the road leading up to Wagah for the Beating the Retreat ceremony was a scape of colourful chaos. Hundreds speedily walked to clamber for the best seats, close to the border gate. A garish display of rivalry was already simmering on both sides. On the Indian side, jarring Bollywood songs had nudged many to dance in the middle of the stands. Patriotic songs wafted from the land across the border too, but were quickly hushed by the brazen loudspeaker on the Indian side. At 6 pm, both audiences were silenced to watch their infantrymen put up a mock brusque act of antagonism. Choreographed zealous marching, and sharp salutes and twirling moustaches, instigated an insane amount of cheer and applause. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, hoping to catch a comforting eye that resonated the thought that this electric affair was plain catastrophic. Thankfully, the energy ebbed away as the flags were lowered and the need to rush out fast took over the scene. More clambering ensued. Nationalistic pride was clearly short-lived.

Launched on August 15, 2013 to promote the legendary culinary tradition of pre-Independence Punjab, Sarhad&rsquos menu is replete with dishes from across the border. The patrons of the restaurant love both vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes like chapli kebab, nihari gosht, bannu kebab, fish korma, miyanji ki dal and bakarkhani roti. I ordered a Lahori thaali to get a taste of multiple vegetables and washed it down with a rich Anarkali kesar lassi, thicker than most lassis I&rsquove tasted in Varanasi or Punjab. Of the 50 items on the menu, almost 30 have origins in Lahore and have been brought to the Sarhad kitchen by chefs from across the border. The dry masalas too make their journey with friends, regular importers, and mostly Aman&rsquos own suitcase as he visits Pakistan often to engage and ideate for new infusions. The brick walls and the open enclave of the restaurant sees a heartening footfall of thousands over the weekend, and almost half the number on weekdays. To me these numbers are a delight, as so many minds are influenced by the positivity as compared to Wagah&rsquos boorish parade. To end our meal, Aman quoted his favourite line that defines the spirit of the restaurant, &ldquoIf hunger fuels the fire of anger, food is the energy that propels peace.&rdquo Before we wrapped up, Aman had one more surprise for us. It didn&rsquot take long to decide my favourite on the menu &mdash the Pakistani fruit beer

The next few days were packed with monument hopping and street food, but I was riveted to the thought of how Amritsar had offered me a bite (literally and otherwise) of nationalistic tourism of contrasting flavours. One at the Wagah border with its rather un-elegant Beating the Retreat ceremony, and the other at a refreshingly inclusive restaurant, Sarhad, which aims at bringing us closer to Pakistan. Over the decades, civil society has made some headway in clearing the air. It&rsquos a pity that comedy sketches where young Pakistanis and Indians talk to each other on the phone, and cross-border arts festivals and a few advertisements, which have struck an emotional chord with the two sides, are only a handful. Where tourism is concerned, little ingenuity, and a common love for food and arts, is what we may need to bridge the deep chasm. And hopefully many khota sikkas will emerge as the true currency of change.