THE INDIAN/PAKSTANI BORDER -- One day after the army stormed a mosque in the capital city, killing several dozen militants, and mass riots and retaliation expected meant the entire country stood on high alert, is probably not the best time to be here.
But from the wooden benches at the customs post, Pakistan didn't resemble a cesspool of Islamic extremism, it looked pretty much the same as India: flat rice paddy fields and the occasional palm tree.
I came here to watch a strange ritual in the complicated relations between these two countries. Every evening around sunset, the enemies perform at the only international border crossing open to residents from all countries (Indians and Pakistanis can cross elsewhere). Thousands of people come by bicycle, motorbike, auto-ricksaw, van and limousine the 25 miles from the Sikh city of Armistar to watch.
At 5:00 p.m. the border post gates opened, and the assembled crowd rushed down -- the most determined sprinted -- the several hundred yards to the stadium. There they met another line. The stadium opened the same way, without prior warning, sending a wave of people toward the narrow entrance passageway. The crush of people was intense, I felt as if I was a platlet, being squeezed along an artery.
Large bleachers have been set up each side of the border, the Indian part with concrete painted tan, and the Pakistani side with a much simpler, white facade. On both sides women and men were separated, this was especially apparent on the Pakistan part, black is in style for men, yellow and red for women.
As foreigners, we were directed to the VIP section, filled mostly with backpackers. Why, 60 years after colonialism, unemployed college students qualify as important people, I'm not sure.
To pass time, a man with access to the stadium's microphone led chants.
"HIN-DU-STAN!"
The crowd roared back in reply. "HIN-DU-STAN!"
Men in brown pants and dull short-sleeve button down and women with colorful saris ran in pairs from the entrance of the stadium to the border gate, each person holding an Indian flag. Not all went as planned. One young woman, who wore blue jeans instead of a sari, tripped several yards in, and landed hard on her head. A few grandmothers on the sidelined rushed over to take care, and the laps continued. A much older woman got her flag so tangled as her strolled in the border that a solider had to come and untangle it.
The Pakistan border stayed quiet, except for a sound system that blasted very chirpy techno music in Urdu.
The ceremony proper started without warning, as a half-dozen Indian soldiers with formal uniforms and a hat that resembled a Chinese fan marched with incredibly high forward kicking motions toward the border. Pakistani soldiers, dressed, unsurprisingly in black, rushed at the same frantic speed. The wrought-iron gates swung open, the two commanders shook hands, and the crowd cheered.
It's strange, this place. Each crowd is whipped into a nationalistic frenzy, trying to scare the other side with chants and screaming. But yet this is ultimately a ceremony about coming together, that while this border may never disappear, perhaps someday there won't be a need for so many guards. Or maybe just ceremonial ones.
