Luckily, the airplane did not hit a
giant wall. It continued over the border towards Delhi as though
nothing had happened. Delhi is only 400 km
from Lahore, but it might as well be behind an
insurmountable fortification. It took emigrating to Canada and
acquiring a new passport ? in some ways a whole new identity ? to finally punch through the barricade that separates
India and
Pakistan. Although I had
undertaken the journey to see the Taj Mahal, unbeknownst to even myself, I
had managed to break through not only a physical partition but also a
historical one. My journey became about much more than seeing what has
been called, mistakenly, ?the ultimate monument
to Love.? It was about discovering paradise and realising its loss.
The theory that the Taj was
a monument to love was popularised by the British, who, performing duties
far away from their loved ones for long periods of time, projected their
own romantic longings onto this building. An alternate, more recent
explanation, whose main proponent is scholar Wayne Begley, holds that the
Taj is a representation of an Islamic paradise, complete with rivers and
abundant ?fruit within easy reach,? as the Quran
describes.
By the time I reached
Agra, the
home of the Taj, I had read Begley?s theory and
was eager to confirm his keen architectural observations. Agra is not the most
beautiful or sanitary of cities; the roads are full of pot-holes and
traffic is utter, hair-raising, chaos. The Oberoi Hotel, on the other
hand, where I stayed, turned out to be an oasis of luxury. The view from
the balcony was spectacular. To one side extended the lush terraced
gardens, shimmering pool and pattering fountains of the Oberoi; on the
other side stretched the dust and squalor of the shanty town of Agra city. On the
horizon, right on this dividing line, sat the Taj, untouched by both these
conflicting vistas. Literally, I thought, the Taj sits above and beyond
earthly and human concerns of life?s abundance
and its adversity. That?s paradise!
It did not take long to
confirm Begley?s observations. Our very
knowledgeable guide even added a detail that my reading of Begley had not
brought to my notice. Unlike the modern-day pictures you see of the Taj
and its current state, the gardens surrounding the main structure used to
be seven feet below the walkway (the British had them levelled later). The
fruit trees were planted close to the sides. The effect was that the
fruit, which under normal circumstances would be inaccessible without a
ladder, would be within arm?s reach ? which is precisely how the Quran describes heaven. This
sealed the deal in my opinion. The Taj was conceived as an Islamic
paradise on earth.
I have yet to see a more
magnificent building. And for the first time, I came to appreciate the
profound loss of Partition. I asked myself, isn?t
this paradise a part of my heritage as much as any Indian?s? Doesn?t it belong to me as much as to them? Why then, have I
not been allowed to enter it for so long?
These thoughts stayed with
me back in Delhi where historic sites took on a new
life, becoming symbols of my own forgotten past. I went to pay my respects
to the great Sufi mystic Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia?s mazaar and to Humayun?s tomb. The
President?s House and India Gate made an
impression because I realised I had not grasped the true might and
grandeur of the British Raj till I saw them. My appreciation of my history
grew manifold, as did the sense of having lived in the dark.
I met an old friend of my
father?s, Aziz Khan, who is currently
Pakistan?s High
Commissioner to India. I saw him at his
official residence which used to be Liaquat Ali Khan?s pre-Partition home. On the walls hung pictures of
larger-than-life figures that had shaped our nations, shaking hands and
cutting ribbons. The certainty of belief that these men supposedly
possessed escaped me. I wondered if the decisions they had to make had
really been easy for them. Did Jinnah ever grapple with doubts about the
efficacy of Partition after he left the Congress? Did Nehru ever
see any weight in the demand for a Muslim state? Much like the pictures on
the walls of the High Commissioner?s residence,
these giants are painted in black and white in our history books. I
doubted if the real story could be so simple.
For my last night in
India, I sat with my wonderful
hostess and family friend Chanda Singh and a few guests around the dinner
table. ?Bring more Misri Dahi!? she commanded the cook, seeing that I spooned clean the
clay bowl in which the creamy date yogurt is made. Never had I tasted such
dessert before, but it seemed tailor-made for my taste buds. As I started
to make my way through the second helping, it dawned on me that I felt as
much of a connection with my Indian friends sitting around me as I did
with my Pakistani compatriots. We shared the same language, the same
interests, the same history and heritage ? even the same palate! Suddenly I found myself
triumphantly brandishing my spoon, declaring, we are one! The history
books are wrong! Hindus and Muslims are not distinct nations! Needless to
say, an entertaining debate followed.
From my window seat on the
flight back to Lahore, I saw the border. Instead of a
giant wall, I saw something more disturbing; the border was a gash, a cut
inflicted into one natural body, as would be the case if nations were
biological organisms, complex creatures that defy simple distinctions
based on religion. This long, jagged scar extended far into the horizon
but I realised that the wound was even deeper than it appeared. Partition
was more than a physical disconnecting of people who are essentially the
same. It is also a temporal severance. We are cut off from our history.
As the plane touched down in
Lahore, I
could only hope that Pakistan-India relations would continue to improve,
so all Pakistanis can make the journey I had made
? that of discovering ourselves in the
other.
