Peacocking Fun

"Hindustan!..” “Jiya! Jiya!.." These were the shouts we could comprehend, hurled like raucous ping pong balls back and forth over the gates of the Indo-Pak border. On our side, rows of red granite show stands choked with motley revelers dancing in throngs to the Slumdog Millionare soundtrack; waving saffron, white, and green flags; responding to a rally leader with the fever of hooligans at a clutch football match. On the other side, maybe 100 yards away, neat rows of Pakistanis sitting a good bit more austere and resolute, hijabs and scarves atop the women folk among them, answering in military cadence as soldiers on each side—identical in spit polished dress style save for the clashing colors of their uniforms and the broom style spikes rising like sharp peacock feathers from their starched hats—engage in a game of mirrored spectacle while charging one another from just beyond each gate.

First dueling lungs, as each soldier, erect like a skyscraper, aims to outlast the others with a single shouted note. Pakistan scores 1. Then, guns thrown over shoulders, and orders barked, a flurry of swinging arms and marching kicks that sends toes above noses as the two sides advance on a collision course that ends with razor turns back to the adoring crowds. India scores 1. Repeat for a good hour. And on the India side, throw in a few American Indian style hand to mouth war whoops to poke fun at Pakistanis’ penchant for ululating on the other side. Then lower the flags perfectly in sync, sneak one quick handshake between kicks, and crash close the gates.

This is the means by which India and Pakistan sign off with each other at the end of each day. The day prior, Melissa and I had found ourselves on the other side of this dusty border land as our plane came to a slow stop in the black wee morning air and our Turkish Airlines pilot announced in Ottoman and broken English, "We are delayed ladies and gentleman, and are awaiting clearance from the authorities." Ahhh, I thought, finally we've arrived in Delhi, and alas, no shortage of big Indian government to see us to our gate. It was then that the nice Punjabi German girl across the aisle from us, who had rekindled my creaky college Deutsch over the past 14 hours with the only language we held in common, explains, "We are in Karachi!" Karachi? That’s in Pakistan, right? What?.. A hundred recent headlines from CNN, none of them rosy, zip through my head. It seems the entire country of India is buried in a blanket of fog. After two hours of futily circling Delhi airspace, the pilots had opted for landing in the Islamic republic next door.

But I’m reassured by the idea that our airline is owned by the Turks. No Muslim government, no matter how much they might disdain India, is going to play politics with a stranded Ottoman plane, right? A few uninformed gate agents, obviously left out of the loop, cock their heads in visible surprise when I respond to their question, “Destination, sir?” with a matter of fact, “Delhi.” Its pretty clear planes don’t move too often between Pakistan and India. Indeed, every flight on the departure boards, save for Singapore, has an Islamic destination. But the airport staff, for the most part, are nice. I examine a familiar looking wool hat in a gift shop. The friendly vendor inquires, “You like?.. Taliban!” My response to “Where you from?” is mostly met with cheerful indifference, though one salesman viscerally reacts to the word, “Chicago” as it leaves my American lips.

Only after reboarding our aircraft five hours later, having passed beneath a gate screen that read “Destination: Dubai,” does Melissa inform me of the shop clerk that grappled her chest after offering to assist her with a scarf she had wanted to try on in his store. But Melissa is tough. Turkish Airlines had also purchased a sit down breakfast for all the passengers on our flight. Even the bottle of duty-free Gin I’d had to lug before Sharia Law was left be by the agent who responded to my “…headed to Delhi” plea with a “...take your bottle” response that revealed only mild disgust. The lesson I think learned: if you ever find yourself stranded among Romans, travel with a Turk.

Two hours later we arrive in fog chocked Delhi, my senses reawakened by the cacophony of humanity and other animal folk roaring, buzzing, whirring, and trotting around one another along every inch of flat space—on four, three, and two wheels or feet—the constant beeping of horns a polite reminder that all of outdoor India is a rushing river of life to perpetually navigate. A relaxing stroll in the American sense doesn’t much exist, replaced by no shortage of colorful surprises in transit or commerce around each bend.

Fitting that our friend Andrzej would meet us at our hotel to proclaim, “tomorrow we’re off to the Pak border to watch the peacocks dance!” Our five-dollar tickets in AC class secured, the next morning our train is off into a fog bank three other trains didn’t survive. Our conductor appears aware of this fact, as we crawl toward the Punjab at a speed that allows coffee vendors and other hawkers to bound in and out of open doorways to the passing world beyond. Looking about our car at business folks glued to newspapers, kids lost in cell phone games, and the coffee guy with his shiny five gallon tank in tow, I remember a simple truth about India: to be here one must be comfortable with the prospect of death. Jeez, am I? I tell myself that’s why I brought along the cribbage board and a deck of cards, to deflect such morbid thoughts. And to have my ego heartily bruised by Andrzej’s ludicrous counts.

Just an hour shy of sunset we arrive in Amritsar, where the high price of six bucks for a taxi to and from the border is quickly accepted to reach the spectacle that awaits us before the closing of the gates. Our Tata SUV races across the Punjabi plains, scores of kites flitting in the skies above—our driver even taking control of one from a gas station attendant as we stop for a fill-up. The sun a large orb on the horizon, we finally pull alongside hundreds of other parked vehicles in a barbed-wired field.

One of three hundred promised rupees in hand, the driver pledges to stick by our bags and we bound for the line of giddy revelers stretching hundreds of yards beyond. We take our place at the end and are told, “No! No! You’re a foreigner, move to the front!” It doesn’t seem the least bit fair but these guys will have none of it. On to the front we go, where armed guards hold closed a rickety gate, half a mile beyond which sit red granite stands that promise something that must be akin to the Rolling Stones.

Suddenly the gate swings open and Indians are running full forward all around. We pick up their pace—a wee bit frightening as I mill over the idea that we just might be charging Pakistan—but soon settle into a playful jog as all involved realize the humor of the whole thing and we meander our way into the stands. Packs of women are Bangra dancing to “Jai Ho!” blaring over the PA while young men wave Indian flags in unison from the top seats behind. Save for the spit polished guards with rifles in the red granite towers just beyond, the scene could be straight out of the pre-game at the Super Bowl. One look to the left, however, and the purpose is clear. There stand two wrought iron gates, one after the other, the painted colors of their respective countries filtering the view of white marbled Pakistan just beyond.

Just what do this motley crew of Indians think of the handful of pale faces in their midst? High fives, excited handshakes, and a happy kid dropped into Melissa’s arms answers that question, as we take our place among the revelers and let loose for our adopted team. Commands, kicks, shouts, and salutes, as the peacocks go at it for a good hour. Razor sharp moves fueled by raucous fans, introduced by a mic wielding MC that must stand seven feet tall when not swinging like a pendulum between the edges of the crowd. It. Is. Ridiculously. Awesome. If India and Pakistan can keep this shtick up, they just might keep the peace.

Photos compliments of the wife, Melissa

Link to Video Footage (compliments of Sanjeev Bhaskar)