A city unlike no other - Lahore

November 27





A border guard at Wagha © Getty Images




Today I saw a pantomime of peacockery, a charade of militaristic posturing so absurd it was faintly chilling. It was also uncompromisingly hilarious as well, which only added to the confusion I felt as a witness. For I was at Wagha, the most famous border crossing in the world, watching the full pomp and ceremony of Asia's two most dysfunctional siblings.


With a day to kill in the absence of any cricket, I had travelled in a minibus with the crew from the BBC, to witness the inimitable flag-lowering ceremony on the Indo-Pak border. We drove along the arrow-straight canal that heads inexorably eastwards, quickly eating up the 40 or so kilometres that separate Lahore from the land of which it once formed such a proud and shimmering part.


We jinked left as the road reached a fork and right again soon afterwards, bundling ever outwards as the landscape degenerated into a morass of frontier settlements. These became increasingly sparse as the flat earth of the Punjab stretched into the middle distance, with the occasional pillar of a brick kiln breaking the monotony.


Suddenly, Wagha arrived with an abruptness that only a checkpoint can provide, with assault courses and shooting ranges giving a foretaste of the machismo to come, and lorry parks and customs houses contributing to a mounting sense of finality. A steady stream of the curious made their way along the kilometre of road that separated the main drop-off point from what could only be described as an amphitheatre, but even at this distance, it was possible to see clearly, through the gap in the imposing gateway, the resonant word: "India".


As guests, we were quickly ushered past the masses as they squashed against the turnstiles, and invited to take our pews by the side of the arena - although most preferred to carry on roaming and examine the extraordinary surroundings. Curving out in a semi-circular viewing gallery behind us were hordes of delirious fans, the men on one side, the women on the other, already bopping and swaying as a succession of patriotic songs were blasted over the tannoy system.


And in front of us, there it was. Two gates, about two or three metres but a thousand miles apart. Pakistan's was wider but lower, green fluted iron embossed with a large white star and crescent. India's was thinner but taller, cream-coloured and topped with tall spikes, and set into a pair of bulky terracotta buttresses. Between them ran the border. The Partition itself. The line in the sand that had crossed a billion lives.


I examined the land that lay to either side. It was unremarkable to say the least. Flat, arid and enlivened only by the distant galloping of outriders, as they cracked their whips and patrolled this most arbitrary of divisions. For me, there was only one place in the world that evoked similar feelings. Checkpoint Charlie in Cold War Berlin, where I had stood in awe as an 11-year-old, imagining a thousand acts of espionage taking place before my eyes. That too had been the product of an unsatisfactory post-war settlement, and that too had become a metaphor for a wider clash of ideologies.


Pakistan, like East Germany, is the underdog in the relationship. Smaller, more put-upon, and misunderstood - reviled even - by a world suspicious of its secrecy. At this early stage of the proceedings, however, the underdog was punching above its weight. Two men in green shalwar kameezs - one young, one old - hared up and down the arena, yelling "Pakistan Zindabad" as they whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Whether they were the inspiration for Chacha Cricket or vice versa, I simply couldn't say.


India by contrast seemed yawningly disinterested. In the distance stood a pair of mighty stands that would not have looked out of place in Eden Gardens, yet not a soul had made his way onto them. A wag in the crowd, that ubiquitous addition to any sporting occasion, began to chant ironically: "You must have come in a rickshaw ."


Then it happened. Sikhs in their abundance, with yellow and orange and black and blue turbans, came tumbling along the long winding path, hooting and waving as they jostled for the best seats. They walked so close to the wire they could almost have been in Pakistan itself, except of course they could not. Over six million of each creed trekked in one direction or the other in those terrible months of 1947. Something approaching a million never reached their destination. Over there was India. The finality of this frontier was appallingly apparent.


And yet, almost 60 years on, it had all boiled down to this. A daily bout of chest-beating as the biggest, most terrifying members of the respective armed forces stamped and pranced and twitched with pure testosterone. At one stage, one of the goosestepping corporals kicked so high his nose felt the full force of his size 15 black boots, while those by the roadside could feel the tarmac shake with every nobnailed crunch. After a suitable delay, the flags were lowered with a vigour that teetered between camp and psychotic, and then hustled to their respective guardrooms with an urgent clippity-clop, like Monty Python's knights in pursuit of the Holy Grail.


The greatest act of pageantry was yet to come, however, as the barriers to the arena were thrown open, and hundreds upon thousands of revellers bundled in, carried on a wave of drumbeats towards the great divide, where they loitered and mingled and stared at the other side. Some did so with a wave and a grin, others with something more poignant in their eyes, as they contemplated a land lost to them forever.



November 26th


Lahore, Lahore! There's nowhere on earth quite like Lahore. It is, as my colleague Rahul Bhattacharya memorably wrote, a city "so sentimentalised that it sometimes seemed to curl up and rest in the air like an eternal sigh". From the poetry of Kipling to the self-contained assurance of the Lahori elite, there is something about the city that is forever painted in sepia.


A late-night drive through the cultural heart of the Punjab provided a teasing glimpse of a world apart; as we wound down the Mall, past the brooding silence of the GPO and the Wonder House, with ZamZamah - Kim's Gun - imprisoned on its traffic island like the mightiest of caged beasts.


On we continued, a sharp right taking us past the Badshahi mosque, its minarets glowing dimly against the night sky, and its sheer vastness contrasting exquisitely with the low winding labyrinths of the old city above which it towered. The pots and stoves and roof-terrace pulleys of Kookoo's Den, the most famous restaurant in the land, were a foretaste of the sensory riot that awaited in Heera Mandi, Lahore's red-light district and beating heart.


Here was a district where rickshaws and fruit stalls hugged the cobbles and where improbably grand buildings - such as the pink-bricked Missionary School and the great mosaic-walled Wazir Khan mosque - burst out of the backdrop like figures in a pop-up book. Lights and noise and impossibly narrow lanes, where money-changers crouched over pocket-sized display cabinets, and shadowy figures whispered from unseen doorways.


Onwards we progressed, stopping off at Food Street - an avenue of outdoor tables and delicious on-the-spot cookery, bookended by two huge street-signs where men and their motorbikes would come and go in a puff of exhaust fumes, usually with a female acquaintance draped over the back seat, like a permanent procession of elopers. Beyond lay Abbott Road and the derelict cinemas of the Lollywood film industry, where a succession of fading billboards depicted, in once-glorious Technicolor, the stars of a bygone era.


And talking of bygone eras, as we returned towards the Mall to complete our loop of Lahore, there was time for a quick tour of Mayo Gardens, the most exalted of the city's colonial residences. Endless acres of prime British-era real estate, vast verandahed bungalows with gardens so sprawling that neighbours would have needed to don their pith helmets in order to make the trip from one house to the next.


And then, finally, back to the raison d'etre of this tour - to Gulberg and the sprawling arenas of the Gadaffi Stadium complex, where by day the England team are preparing for the third Test but where by night, Lahore's creative community have united for an international arts festival. The amphitheatre of the Alhamra Arts complex has been bedecked in purple lighting and packed with cogniscenti, who sit in appreciative awe of the acts on display.


A French vocal group strut their stuff on a crown-shaped stage, before making way for an "ethno-rock" collaboration from the Czech Republic, who share top billing with one of Pakistan's leading Sufi soul singers, Zahid Sayed. On the concourse outside, Norwegian puppeteers and German craftsmen display their wares to the curious throng. And once again, Lahore is suffused with a knowing sense of self-worth and importance, quite unlike any other city in the land.



November 25


Ah, the sweet fug of good old-fashioned pollution! After the swirling dust particles of Multan and Faisalabad, it was time to return to the cloying exhaust fumes of Lahore. A strange preference, perhaps, but after five days of filing from the open-fronted press-box of the Iqbal Stadium, my laptop and lungs had been left coated in a layer of grime so thick they could have been turned in a Mr Sheen case study.


Admittedly, most of the dust had been deposited after dusk, when the stands had been vacated and the jhaaroowallahs were whipping up a sandstorm as they worked their brooms along the terraces. It was entirely my fault for loitering at my desk long after the more sensible members of the press corps had fled for the sanctuary of their hotel rooms.


Still, after one last rickshaw rumble across town, it was goodbye to Faisalabad and hello to the open road, as I was acquainted for the first time with the remarkable motorway that links the two cities. Remarkable, because it seemed to have sprung from nowhere. My last memory of the trip had lingered from five years previously, when I had been wedged between two Pakistanis on an overcrowded local stopping service that had taken the scenic route, a potholed and precarious meander through the grainfields of the Punjab.


One of my two companions had started out very talkative, although the strange juddering noise that we emitted while trying to speak rather limited the conversation - that, and the fear of biting our tongues off mid-sentence. The other had the right idea - he went out like a light the moment the engine started and was oblivious to all that went by. Except that he spent most of the journey with his head lolling on to my shoulder, which was all very well unless the bus hit an extra spiteful bump, in which case I would get nutted on the cheekbone.


This time, however - older, crustier and more protective of my creature comforts - I opted for the air-conditioned coach option, and was rather taken aback when my entertainment for the trip turned out to be a showing of the classic war film, The Guns of Navarone. Result! So, I put my seat back, plugged in my earphones, and had become utterly absorbed by the simmering hostility between the Greek freedom fighter and the British officer whom he had sworn to kill the moment the Germans had been vanquished, when the TV went off and the coach pulled into the depot. All over in a flash - where's the fun in that?


Fortunately, the fun was soon to resume, as the tour party gathered en masse at the Pearl Continental Hotel for a quiz night, hosted by the Sky commentators, David Lloyd and Paul Allott. Seventeen teams, comprising the players, press and assembled extras, took part, and after 74 argumentatively contested questions, it was the four-prong "Tabloid Scum" team who emerged victorious by a clear margin. Which just goes to show, next time you read that Elvis has been found on the moon, don't dismiss the story at once - the facts, at least, are likely to be correct.

Andrew Miller

© Cricinfo

Dost Lahore is a wonderful city no doubt but cut this cr@p lahore lahore hai, no other city like it etc. What a farce.

first you diss Fazle, and now you have the audacity to question the greatness of Lahore?

May you have nightmares of Fazle bowling outswingers to you in his jangiya at the Gaddafi with a vociferous Lahore crowd, food street discount coupons and charghay drumsticks in hand, baying for your blood.

gasher gasher hai!

It's a city of hookers at the end of the day

Whats the deal with this anti lahore sentiment..



The old saying is lahore lahore ai.. it doesnt mean lahore is the greatest.. its just that it has a unique charm to it..

i dont understand shahzadd why u get offended by that and stoop to a level of saying what u said.. i suggest you delete it before i report you.

we should have pride for all our nations cities

AK rules!!

a few more details are required in here

Jinne lahore nay takkeya jammeya nai.

shezad that is way out of order

never mind him.. he is just a punk, miss pakistan loving, sami wanna be. which basically means he has all the qualities one would like to see in someone before openng a can of whooplamera$$.

If you didn't know Lahore is the only city in Pakistan where Rugby was once and still is played. And a Hooker is a player's position on a Rugby field.

I don't know what you guys were thinking. Maybe that's your view of Lahore.

Lol

lets not diss lahore guys...lahori's make it out to be that the city is gods gift to the world...can i say reality check?...but from the pictures it looks really nice...wish i had relatives there...anyways, anyone been to heera mandi?

Being serious for a second, the Heera Mundi is a really sad place. I felt really sorry for the women over there.

are they hot?

I agree because: Bradford Bradford Eh!

I am from AK but I have heard and from what I have seen Lahore is one of Pakistan's great cultural cites with heritage and history. It is also one of Pak's sporting capital if not The as the Hockey and Cricket and I think a few other sports authorities have head offices, and the facilities are great.

I believe there are a few Sikh shrines in Lahore too and offcourse the Minaret of Pakistan.

lahore lahore eh!

the atmosphere around the city is just something else...

AK AK eh

the heartbeat of lahore...tariq tafu...muuahahahha

Lahore LAhore aih, no other city like it !!!

What's AK?

Azad Kashmir

my cousin went there and also said that he saw a place were there were loads of hookers there (not the Rugby kind), sad really....

Lahore and EVERY single other city on earth has these issues-why make out that this only happens in Lahore!!

nowdays in pk sex workers are everywhere not only in lahore...heramandi of lhr is known coz its been there for ages even before mughals etc etc...
you guyz ll be shocked but near to jahangir makbara there was a place we happend to drive through that area...and we saw some hijras who were not standing there for dance and get money they were thier for the other thing i was really sad that day..

who would want a hijra,.... sick.

you can easily get good maal from heera mandi why would anyone want those hijras

how much of this 'maal' have you had?

well there are red light districts in Karachi as well but perhaps they are not popular, that's why Lahore Lahore hai! "He who has not seen Lahore has not yet been born".