The Global Social Network
Several prominent Indian journalists and writers have visited Pakistan in recent years for the first time in their lives. I am sharing with my readers selected excerpts of the reports from Mahanth Joishy (USIndiaMonitor.com), Panakaj Mishra (Bloomberg), Hindol Sengupta (The Hindu), Madhulika Sikka (NPR) and Yoginder Sikand (Countercurrents) of what they saw and how they felt in the neighbor's home. My hope is that their stories will help foster close ties between the two estranged South Asian nations.
Mahanth S. Joishy, Editor, usindiamonitor.com : (July, 2012)
This may be hard to believe, but the first thing that crosses your
mind when you drive into Islamabad is suburban Virginia — its wide
roads, modern buildings, cleanliness and orderliness is a complete
contrast to the hustle and bustle of the ancient city of Lahore, some
220 miles east on the Grand Trunk Road.
Islamabad
is laid out in a grid with numbered avenues running north to south. The
streets are tree lined and flowers abound among the vast open stretches
of green space.
Perhaps one of the
most beautiful spots is the Margallah Hills National Park. Drive up the
winding road on the northern edge of town to the scenic view points and
you'll see the broad planned city stretch before you.
It's
a Sunday afternoon and you could be in any park in any city in the
world. Families are out for a stroll and picnicking on park benches.
There's a popcorn vendor and an ice cream seller. Kids are playing on a
big inflatable slide. Peacocks strut their full plumage as people are
busily clicking away on their cellphone cameras. Lively music permeates
the air as souvenir sellers are hawking their wares. Off one of the side
paths I notice a young couple lunching at a bench, a respectable
distance apart from each other but clearly wanting to be alone.
Here's a Pakistan Pictorial:
Find more photos like this on PakAlumni Worldwide: The Global Social Network
PAKISTAN, THROUGH INDIAN EYES
https://tribune.com.pk/story/2389418/pakistan-through-indian-eyes
Ms. Nitupola Sharma writes an account of her first encounter with a Pakistani and her visit to Pakistan
A very strange thing happened to me in the Badshahi Masjid, which will stay a mystery for me forever. I somehow feel it was God’s way of showing me that that He was there. As our group of six adults and seven children went inside the mosque, right outside the gate was a man sitting with a basketful of what looked like sweetmeats packed in cellophane paper. There was another person standing beside him, and as we passed by, the gentleman standing next to the seller picked up a packet and offered it to me. I declined politely. He shook his head and said, “Prasad [food and water offered to a deity during worship] nahin lena?” [Don’t you want prasad?] Astonished, I immediately accepted. My group had already gone ahead, and I had to run to catch up with them.
Prasad at the doorstep of a mosque? How had this stranger identified my religion? I was dressed no differently from the other women. Or was it the mosque offering sweets? After doing a tour of the masjid, we came out, and I noticed that both the seller and the gentleman were gone. I showed the packet to Shaista, my colleague’s wife; she was convinced that it was either drugged or poisoned and forbade me from sharing it with the children. She also enlightened me to the fact that mosques do not offer any sort of prasad like temples do.
I went ahead and opened the packet of soan papdri sweets. I vouch by their crispy fluffy texture and I live to tell the tale. When nothing happened to me, we, the adults, shared the rest of the sweets, but no one could figure out who those men were and where they went. We went back to the place the next day to see if the men were there again, but no one was there. I could have sworn on my life that the person looked like a Pathan and could not have been anyone else.
It was past midnight when we finally headed home after celebrating Ryan’s birthday. Lahore was still awake, and life outside seemed like it was still early evening. Midnight on the eve of Eid was another discovery for me when Shaista took me shopping. At that hour of the night, I would not have expected Pakistani women to do finery shopping. There seemed to be a lot of activity all around. Mehndi stalls, shopkeepers not being able to keep pace with demands of specific shades of lipstick and nail polish, and jewellery of every kind. My favourite amazingly beautiful glass bangles in a myriad of colours, ready to be matched with any outfit. It was a scene straight out of a Bollywood movie, only this was real, and I was relishing every minute of it.
The next few days were spent enjoying amazing hospitality and savouring great food. Days went long into night, and I realised that the Lahore society was used to late nights with even children being wide awake while Ryan and I walked around like zombies. Lahore was another incredible experience for us, and we could not wait for more.
Where the straggly pine treetops reached out to the sky in hope of a whisper of sunlight, and the hills wore a deep red hue. That is where my friends took us next. We drove on serpentine roads by the deep gorges of the Kallar Kahar Salt Range to Murree and Ayubia in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province. The scenery changed frequently, sometimes barren hills greeting the eye and sometimes bountifully lush green hillsides. The road was colourfully decorated at places with shawls hung out for sale and salesmen lounging by the roadside, staring longingly with soulful eyes at the passing cars, willing them to stop. In some places, the road was lined with trees in full bloom as the yellow blooms competed with the fresh green leaves.
PAKISTAN, THROUGH INDIAN EYES
https://tribune.com.pk/story/2389418/pakistan-through-indian-eyes
Ms. Nitupola Sharma writes an account of her first encounter with a Pakistani and her visit to Pakistan
After what seemed an eternity, we finally arrived at our destination just as the sun decided to take a break and the evening chill to bare its claws. Murree was a hill station choc-o-bloc with jostling stalls displaying tempting woollens and Kashmiri jewellery. My mind was engrossed with this feeling of déjà vu after I saw a huge photo hung on the wall of the restaurant where we had supper. The painting was a faded replication of the Mall Road as it was during the British Era. And then it dawned on me. It was the Mall Road in Shimla, with the church, the downhill road, and the small culvert. The British had left the signature of their homeland in all the places they touched and adopted. Because of the dim light of dusk, I could not see much of Murree’s Mall Road or a church or a culvert.
The jostling crowd of tourists, the smell of roasted groundnuts in the air and the colourful cotton candy added to the festive atmosphere that enveloped us. Tiredness eluded us as the children enjoyed a screaming pram ride uphill before we proceeded into the darkness of Ayubia. Roads were not too familiar for Saad, and before we realised the road ahead turned into a misty darkness as we fumbled our way through. Children had dozed off, happy and content with full tummies. We finally made it to the hotel safe.
I cannot for my life recall the name of the hotel, but the view of a deep ravine, depths of which played hide and seek with my eyes, with golden streaks of sunlight piercing through thick trunks in the early morning is a mental image I will treasure forever. Sunrays seemed so alive with millions of dust particles swimming against a clear blue sky. That early morning welcome sight more than made up for the bone chilling water that greeted us when we went inside to take our baths.
The previous evening had ended with us sipping sweet, brewed tea out of glasses as we discussed world politics, India, Pakistan, and the future of our region. Children added spice with frequent appearances as we tucked our toes into our chairs, trying to keep them warm in our long coats. There seemed to be a univocal agreement on the worthlessness of the enmity of our two countries, and wastage of time and money whereas competitiveness should have been solely concentrated on the cricket field. We talked about the huge fiscal wastage on arms, whereas the same money could have done wonders if spent on the development of the region. It was as if we were nothing but puppets in the hands of powers that wanted to maintain a certain status quo and were slaves to profits at the immense cost of human lives, peace, and development.
Nathiagali greeted us with a sumptuous breakfast of hot parathas and fluffy masala omelettes in the fresh, crisp, mountain air. As we feasted, I shared the story of my arrival in Karachi with my overwhelming emotions of instant despair, fear and then warmth in the first two hours of landing in Pakistan. A concerned and protective Shaista kept shushing and warning me on my choice of words — I was using the word Indian too much — as she gestured to a group of men in grave discussion at a nearby table, with their rifles casually leaning on the side of the table pointing upwards. I could not help wondering if they were the Taliban!
After breakfast, we splurged on some quick shopping and curio hunting. I mused on the prices I had paid for my shopping; things were unbelievably cheap. Saad explained that the priority of those shops was to sell their wares so they could have food at home. It was inconceivably sad.
I can cite plenty of examples of Indians visiting Pakistan who differ with Prof Ishtiaq Ahmad view of the two countries.
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