Uncover London

I am in Lexington on Pentonville Road. In front of me, is a small table in the center of the lively, warm and huge pub.

Long black coats, tall hats, bow tie, girl with a moustache, shiny pants, weird glasses. Yes, that is the team that heads Uncover London. and presents, the “Monopoly Pub Crawl”! (curtains please)

My plan: go to Lexington, get a whiskey, go see a friend, or come home. I got my whiskey – neat with a lot of ice, and within 10 minutes the call: Monopoly Pub Crawls moves to next destination. Finish your drinks. Well, I thought, I just HAVE to go. So down went the whiskey – in my little whiskey bar with names of whiskeys like old crow

Next, is Ye Grapes, Mayfair – and as I walk across from the Ritz, looking for a dark, dingy, stone alley, along with the leader dressed in a long back coat, a tan backpack, a tall black hat and a curly moustache, I feel like a detective looking for a spy. I look behind me, and there is golden brown curly haired bowtied team member, having a jolly good time, enthralling us followers. And zoom, a bus passes by. I look straight, onto the road, opposite the Ritz, onto the streets, and in the dazzling lights and buzzing sounds, I really do feel like I were living Monopoly. The red buses, the zooming cars, the hotels, the inns, the stores, the fines, they’re all here, I’m here on the same streets, whose names I learnt while playing monopoly incessantly.

The next, is Captain’s Cabin on Regent Street. Here, I get a rum and coke. Aaah, so good. I had forgotten how much I missed it. Now is time for community chest cards!! yea yea, they’re legitimate, and we live, with all the rules! My friend has to pick up every single empty glass in the pub. Dressed in a black dress, and with the slender, impeccable and meticulous gracefuleness of a waitress, she does so (pretty drunk by now – considering her desire is to rate every pub by the quality of its house wine). The bar tenders are thrilled and amused. We, just laugh uncontrollably.

This was my favourite – The Sherlock Holmes on Northumberland Avenue. Small, crowded, no place at the bar, tv playing a black and white of some sherlock holmes related thing, and a gun, a horse shoe magnet, and various other ‘tools’ in glass bars all over the tiny walls. And the house wine – excellent. One of the best I’ve had ( that’s probably not saying much, because I only took to red wine recently).

As we get out of Sherlock’s den, we stumble to find our way back home. Miss those toy buses three times. And after 6 hours of living fantasy, I come back, to the reality of 9 a.m. class on a Friday morning, but the joy of seeing London in the best way possible.

Broken hearts

Why did Partition happen? Why do we have borders? Why are all my neighbours my “enemies”? Do they really hate us? Are they even they? Or are they actually just.. us? Is he like me? Am I like him? Can I cross the line, and not suddenly be an outsider?

I love my country, and I always saw Pakistan as separate from my own, as an enemy. Until now. No, we have the same skin, we eat the same food, we wear the same clothes, we speak the same language. You cannot break up something that is mine and tell me suddenly that it is no longer belongs to me. You can not alienate me from a people that are the same as me. I am angry. And hurt, and shamed, my trust broken, my pride melted, my eyes fallen. How could you do this? How could I do this? Why did you do this?

I still remember that room at Tufts – screening a documentary made by a Pakistani journalist. I entered, and seeing a ton of brown people, immediately felt at home, (even though they had the accents!). Until, very soon I realized, I was not sitting in an Indian crowd, but in a predominantly Pakistani one. For the first time, I felt at a loss of identity. I did not know who I was. And I suppose, what hit me most was that I could not distinguish myself from the Pakistanis sitting around me. Then someone said “Chacha”, and another “Gulab Jamun”. I wanted to hit myself hard. I was slowly beginning to realize, they are not different from us. You are like me. I am like you.

I am in London now, and I have absolutely no idea who is who or from where. And, I don’t care. One of the guys at Costcutter says “chai apne mulk ka hain”. I wanted to ask him, how did he know I was Indian? While another Pakistani from Lahore sells me wine at half the price calling me his little sister, or Aapa/ didi. He says his one desire is to come to India. I want to say to him, mine is to go to Pakistan.

I am angry and hurt. For the past 20 years, I lived in the oblivion that my country gained independence on the 15th of August, 1947, and it was a day of pride and celebration. That damned day also saw the bloodiest and worst transfer of people in the world, where millions of my countrymen bled. Who, can I call, my countrymen? The ones who were coming, the ones who stayed and then left, or the ones who left, or the ones who were killed? Aren’t they all? What does country mean, if love does not matter? With some amazing ability and capacity, I managed to keep Independence and Partition as two separate events, not linking the two, not realizing that along with Independence, came the wounds, scarred memories and dried blood from Partition. What sort of independence was this, which fragmented the nation into broken bits and pieces? What kind of celebration, when nearby, million hearts were broken, and still, after 63 years, remain thus?

I can never celebrate 15th August the same way again. Nor find pride in the false glory of Independence.

Goodbye..

My eyes are swelled; tears are only an expression of fear, love, longing. Every moment seems to stand still – making its permanent space in time, allowing me to go back to that frozen frame. Yet, it all seems fluid, a thing of the past, while I wrestle in vain to be there in that continuum. What remains is only the intensity of the creation of that moment; the clutched hand, the tight hug, the long stare, the red eyes, the silent fear, the strong touch. The last goodbye. The final wave. The lingering smile. The singular image I carry with me, in my emptied pocket, the continuing image. I keep, preciously, this split second, in my secret treasure, to last me until another goodbye.

As the plane slowly lags through the runway, every moment seems to be racing forward, while I stand still. I cannot, and do not attempt to catch up with time. The five months flash before me, and with every minute I feel a little older. With every month, more grown up. I stop. I shut my eyes. The waving hand, the lingering smile, the deep stare. I float, drown in colour, now in black, now red, an illusionary maze of several thousand blocks, black and white; I swim, in a dream.

As I sit here in London on my desk, I look up at photographs on my little bulletin board. Every single moment carries with it so many memories: the sneakiness of chilling in the 7th floor loo during Hindi with Aangs and Nutt, the anxiousness of graduation, the ridiculousness with Sai and Kapoor, continuous blabber with Mahi and Priyen, flying time of laughter with Meenal and Arjun, long conversations with Bhaiya. Of family, it aches to speak, for the pain of separation never leaves.

The bhel at Marine Drive, biryani and beer at Leo’s, ice tea at Vile Parle, paapad at spices, paani puri at Breach Candy, sitting at Marine Drive, at Sea Face after batata wada, Moshe’s at Crossword, Gokul, Bade Miyan, the walk from Jehangir to Navy Nagar, staring out into the sky at Nariman Point, getting wet in the rain, Ajmer, the last night, Dilli chai, Old Mussoorie, the morning bath at Haridwar, Vasant Kunj, Prithvi, … home..

These come to in flashbacks – suddenly in class, at random in the middle of a paper, when I wake up, before I sleep, while walking, at the dinner table, even at pubs. I know its ridiculous – maybe I’m just not someone who can live away. Yet, there is a restlessness when I’m not. I hate to admit it, but maybe I’m one of those, whom I’ve always despised. Neither here, nor there. I suppose it’s all good though, considering I’m coming back in 2 months now.

This one’s for you guys,

“May the road rise to meet you

May the wind be always at your back

May the sun shine warm upon your face

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.”