As I walked across the Wagah border into Pakistan, I felt as though I was stepping in to a looking glass. To my Indian sensibilities, everything seemed the same as India except for the air. The air curled and settled quietly in nooks, crack and unseen corners. The differences were too subtle to be seen by the naked eye. Like the air, it was a mere feeling that I could feel dance lightly on the tip of my nose and consume me entirely with every breath I inhaled.
On a rickety little bus to Lahore, we drove along the muddy waters of Ravi at midnight. The quick cool breeze blew my hair and brought to me the wet-earth smell of freedom. As I looked out of the bus window, I saw lights dancing on the river. It looked like a woman adorned with jewels – the shining yellow gold with the smoother green tones of emeralds. As the bus came to a red light, I noticed that there were patterns in the colorful lights – a drum, a crescent moon and other Islamic symbols mirrored in the water. The weathered face of the bus driver explained to me that Friday night was a night of festivities after the prayers of Jumma. During Jumma, all sins were absolved and so on the following night, people would rake up new sins for the following week’s prayers.
In Lahore, I paid a visit to the tombs of Jehangir and Nutan, the only Mughal royalty not buried in India. Dome-shaped archways, intricate work on austere marble floors, stone walls and ceilings; I walked with a suffocating silence deemed fit for respecting the dead. The precedent was set by the locals loitering around in the area. Everyone was quiet but watchful. I watched the eyes of the women whose faces had been lost forever behind the veil. I watched myself being watched by men. They stared openly, shamelessly. Perhaps wondering why I was exposed. Cover your head, their eyes seemed to say, cover the skin on your arms and the slight hint of curves along your waist. My Indian skin must have looked Pakistani to them. It was a hot summer’s day with an uncomfortable air. In the pond at the center of the historical landmark, I watched my reflection feel stifled.
The evening began to creep into the sky and I decided to visit Cuckoo’s Den, a famous upscale restaurant. While dining on the rooftop of this café, I could smell sweet perfume and expensive alcohol in the air. I watched as the sun set peacefully in to the Badshahi Masjid on the west side. The red sandstone and the white marble of this structure paid the perfect compliment to the orange afterglow. The vastness of the sky almost seemed contained by this “Royal Mosque”, one of the largest in the world for religious devotion. It was created as a symbol of Mughal grandeur, beauty and religiousness.
As the sky darkened and the air turned blue, I noticed a staccato rise in the activity to the east of the restaurant. From my bird’s eye view, it became clear that the grandeur of money was offered to beauty for a different sort of religion. Sexual devotion masked in dull gold, shiny red, eroded hands, empty faces, orange flesh, black hair and white bones. Women were not asked to cover up here. Here, there was no female shame. The east of Cuckoo’s Den displayed the red light area of Lahore, Heera Mandi. By asking around, I discovered that Cuckoo’s itself used to be a brothel that was converted in to a restaurant. A painting of a semi-clad, shapeless woman bargained - “I am deaf and dumb. Living with two sick babies. Charges are Rs 100 only. You can ask for discount.” Plain negotiations nestled between negotiations with God and those with love.
When I think back to my trip, I remember the thick air, with its stark differences.
Pity and piety. Love and loathing.
And Lahore, the city of contradictions.
No comments:
Post a Comment