Enjoying the hospitality of a hostile army

“Should I drop you to the headquarters?” he said, realising that my vehicle hadn’t turned up at the airport. I accepted the offer hesitantly, seeing the accoutrements on his uniform. “Where do you belong to?” I said, initiating a conversation during the drive. “Sir, I am settled in Gujranwala.” This was my first ever ‘friendly’ interaction with a Pakistani army officer of the Baluch regiment.

One had always been inquisitive about the officer cadre that had led the segment of the erstwhile British Indian army on the other side of the Radcliffe Line, dividing the two countries. The opportunity came when one got selected to serve in the peace keeping force where troops of two arch rival armies serve under a common United Nations flag, enforcing peace in war-ravaged nations.

As luck would have it, the officer I had come to discuss the matter with also happened to be a Pakistani half colonel. We had a fruitful interface for more than an hour in which ‘Allah Talah’ was praised after every five sentences.

While chatting over a cup of tea, I learnt that the officer owned hectares at Lyallpur, now Faisalabad.

The army is evidently an attractive career for Pakistani nobility. I preferred to converse in English, while he spoke in Urdu with a heavy Punjabi accent.

When the literary façade fell, we settled down in our lingua franca - Punjabi. His Punjabi was rather sweet and polished, without the adjectives one finds east of the Ravi river.

My mission accomplished, I had a couple of hours before the return flight. He requested me to join him for lunch. Though not keen, I agreed on his insistence. He escorted me to his Officers’Mess where 12 officers received us with warm smiles. Names such as Arif Gill, Farukh Cheema, Irfan Ghumman (first names changed) on their military fatigues were attention-grabbing indeed, revealing a common lineage. The mess staff exhibited impeccable drill and were in awe of their officer.

Though my hosts were at their courteous best, our conversation was measured. The ISI and RAW baggage didn’t let us open up. It was 40 degrees Celsius outside and I looked around if a glass of chilled beer could be offered. Alas! Alcoholic beverages are not served in their messes.

I did, however, relish the Indian-tasting food, Pakistani cuisine I beg your pardon, and for a moment forgot about my increasing waistline. “Please do make your brothers in arms savour these laddoos from Rawalpindi,” said the mess secretary, a smart captain, presenting me an artistically wrapped packet as I bade goodbye.

I spent my time in the flight recollecting the hospitality offered by officers of a hostile army.

One couldn’t fathom how we can nurture so much animosity back home in spite of belonging to the same stock with indistinguishable culture, language, eating habits and social customs. I opened the box of sweets and the taste of laddoos was so much familiar.

My eyes then fell on the cover of the box and read Ludhiana Sweets inscribed on it.

A nation may have been partitioned but thankfully not its flavour or taste.

HOW CAN WE NURTURE SO MUCH ANIMOSITY IN SPITE OF BELONGING TO THE SAME STOCK