It was a beautiful evening, clear summer sky with a gentle breeze that ruffled the lush green ‘bajra’ fields on both sides of the Punjab road I was on. A Sunday and the day after when India lifted up the World Cup, both made it the prefect day for me to go visit Hussai-niwala Border( India-Pakistan) in Punjab. From where I was, Hussainiwala was a mere 17 kms from the town of Ferozpur. On the motorbike ride that pleasant evening little was I aware of what I was to find there and what I was to feel.
The trees growing along the length of the long road, the landscape of distant fields, river canals gushing with water and visions of farmers going with their family out for the evening made it a picture distinct from one I would conjure in Bangalore on a Sunday. As I lifted up my sunglasses from my eyes and kept it perched up on my forehead, I took in the fresh air, the fragrance of earth and of India.
I reached a huge bridge built across River Sutlej which also had an artificial embankment just across it which served as a spot for tourists to do boating here. We were nearing the border. I was not to deprive myself of such pleasure of boating in the wide, cool waters of Sutlej so I took my seat on the boat which could accommodate six people. The boat took us to the far periphery of the artificial embankment and I sensed my mind go beyond the present to somewhere in the distant past. When I was silent surrounded by nature I transcended from present to a time in the past and I wondered what was this place like 100 years ago and who were the occupants and where were they gone now? I was soon to be shaken from my reverie as the boat ride came to an end and we were reminded to proceed soon to Hussainiwala if we were not to miss the flag retreat held in the evening.
I wasn’t prepared to see the huge crowd of people waiting to be let in through the barricades which had been put up by the Border Security Force at the gate that marked Hussainiwala border. This perhaps was 0 Km. This was the border and just across from where I stood was probably Pakistani land. This for some peculiar reason made me more sensitive to my past, to my country and to what we as a country went through to be free India today. There was a quality in this place that made you feel this way. As I stood here it stopped to matter where I came from, what I did for a living and what kind of thoughts I carried within me everyday because the one thing that endured now was that I am an Indian and my freedom didn’t come easily. It came with a price.
People from different parts of the country come here to be a part of the retreat held in the evenings to mark their loyalty to their country. It was but expected for some of them to carry the National Flag. Not everyone really gets to go in unless you have approved tickets. In spite of having tickets I still had to stand in a long maddening queue to be finally let in through the heavily manned gate of Hussainiwala. As I passed that screening I heaved a sigh of relief now determined to absorb what I had come here for all the way from Bangalore.
The huge brick-coloured gate that stood towering over me read that this was the historical place where three great freedom fighters—Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru were cremated after they were hanged to death by the British in Lahore. Following riots after their death, their bodies were brought to Hussainiwala, cremated and the ashes doused in the mighty Sutlej. If I think about it now, I feel the British had been so shrewd in making even the last remains of a hero disappear in anonymity to make sure that was the end of public rage. But had they succeeded? I doubt. Here centuries later Hussai-niwala border stood testimony to the victorious cry of a hero who would never be silenced even by a death penalty. Bhagat Singh was very much alive for whoever came this far to the border to be part of the evening retreat.
We sat in the Indian side of the court along with hundreds of others separated from the Pakistani side by a white-painted line that ran across the road. This line I was told marked the international border of India and Pakistan. On the Indian side outpost hung a picture of Mahatma Gandhi while on the Pakistani side was a picture of Muhammad Ali Jinnah. It took me some time to realise that just across the line, the hundreds of people seated across me were not Indian—they were Pakistanis. As I tried to absorb every minute thing around me, I saw not far from where I sat were two flag posts—one on either side of the international border and I saw two great flags flowing in the sky. Someone shouted “Bharatmata ki Jai!!” breaking my concentration soon after followed by, “Pakistan Zindabad”. The retreat was soon to follow, a special parade done by the BSF and the Pakistani counterparts at sundown when the two national flags are brought down together at the same time.
Two flags of two great nations with histories entwined together for centuries flew together high up in the air in the fading evening sun. The Indian soldier stood proudly face to face with his contemporary from Pakistan as they in unison lifted up their bugle to play the sweetest, yet saddest melody, called the Last Post. My emotions stirred. The National Flags came down gracefully as I got up from my seat to mark my respect to this moment. And somewhere in the distant past I could imagine a young fearless Indian hero cry out, “Inquilab Zindabad!!”
I guess heroes never die.
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