August is a testosterone-heavy month for patriots

As August approached with intermittent bursts of torrential rains, crops were watered and canals dug. The earth was nourished and fed. Lahore began its yearly ritual of adorning itself with green and white flags of all shapes and sizes, fairy light draperies on trees, festive decorations, patriotic jingles. It took on a certain unmistakable flavour, one that you could taste in the air.

August 14 and 15 mark the independence of the subcontinent, and the Youth Initiative for Peace (YIP), a group of which I am a member, had been planning a vigil at the border near Lahore, to mark the days. Local chapters of YIP-India and Pakistan had been coordinating the event.

The idea was to come together at the border from both sides – the Wagah crossing on the Pakistani side, Atari on the Indian – united in a celebration of the independence of both countries. I was wearing green, and was proud to be Pakistani.

We left for the border a little after 4pm. The cavalcade of cars was amusingly barat (wedding procession) style. Twelve cars left Lahore, only two actually reached Wagah. I sat with Mehru with Mira and Ali (the sole male) in their car. Braving the heat, the insane traffic, the frantic melas on the streets – it was incredible.

We seemed to be travelling through time itself, for as we left the more familiar part of town into less frequented areas, civilisation seemed to decay into an older time. Brick and glass gave way to green fields gently snoozing in the late afternoon sunshine.

The car crossed over an ancient-looking bridge that rose only a few feet from the rushing water beneath. We looked around; astounded at the traffic inflow; it seemed as though everyone and their entire neighbourhood’s family had decided to go to the border.

“If the bridge collapses, I’ll rescue all of you, one by one,” said Mehru, with the lolling ease only a swimmer could have felt looking down at the dirty swift-flowing water beneath.

“I’d rather that didn’t happen,” replied Ali uncertainly.

I gazed down, and prayed silently that the bridge would survive the day. (It collapsed about half an hour after we crossed, and of the group of eighty in our party only ten made it all the way.)

Our world was screened by layers of dirt and swirling dust particles.

We arrived dust-ridden and sweaty, and started walking towards the gate from the parking lot. My mind whirled with thoughts of bomb threats and violent mobs and rampant lawlessness and all the warnings my worried parents had issued.

We were surrounded by milling crowds. I could smell excitement and madness in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and dirt. Jingoism too was rife in the guise of nationalistic pride. I had hardly begun to identify and separate the two emotions, when all of a sudden danger appeared on the horizon. Blinking and flashing; a neon sign if there ever was one. We were in the midst of a violent agitated mob. A mob that was being lathi-charged. Panic erased excitement, andflooded the atmosphere. What does one do when close to a hundred people, packed together, take flight all at once? Stampede ensued.

We were pushed and shoved, squashed, grabbed and manhandled.... I could feel myself being pressed in from all sides. I couldn’t breathe. Frantically trying to excavate myself from the mob; an army of groping hands with fingers trained to pinch and squeeze. (Was it a coincidence that there were only men all around me?)

"You know why they were chasing us?” Ali asked me, as we walked through the parking lot. I looked back and I nodded. I looked at the throng of men dancing, jumping, shouting and celebrating, and I wondered whether their jubilation was rooted in a nationalistic pride, or whether the elation was born of a more complicated testosterone-laden zone. “Because of all of you,” he added. He didn’t offer up anymore information, and I didn’t press him for any either – both of us knew who was the subject of the unwelcome attention.

Directed by the ineffectual police, we had to take a dirt road, travelling through muck and slime, on our way back to the city. Back to the city, where we could seek refuge in the comfort of our houses, and cold showers and food.

The city had come to a halt. A brightly-lit, noisy and colourful – albeit suffocating – monster held the city in its grip. We were finally back in connected-by-mobile-phone-land, so our parents were called and informed that we were safe, in a manner of speaking. We moved sluggishly along the canal banks. A friend called and asked if he could help us in any way.

“Not unless you can get a canoe,” said Mira as she smiled wryly.

Inside the car, we listened to Farida Khanum sing Faiz, and ate chhalis (corn on the cob). Outside, burst silencers roared as motorbikes were revved up and raced alongside one another. Men danced on the streets, throwing fireworks onto the ground, yelling, singing, cheering, and ogling. I remembered a poem by Faiz, ‘Nisarein teri galion par...’

Picking up our flags from these grounds

will march forth more caravans of your lovers.

For whose journeys’ sakes, our footsteps have

shortened the lengths of the agonizing quest.

For whose sake we have made universal

by losing our lives, the pledge to your faithfulness.

We, who were slain in unlit pathways.

I met someone later who told me about a newspaper cartoon: the illustration showed roadblocks in Islamabad with attendant traffic jams and wrought nerves. Beneath the cartoon was a sign boldly declaring, “Happy Independence Day!”

Independence day 57 years on. I’m fumbling to find something to say, to be able to articulate. And I find myself agreeing with the friend who said, in the traffic jam on the way back from Wagah: “I love my country, but I don’t think my country loves me.”