It was a rainy evening in Paris, as usual. I’d just arrived at the Nord station and was trying to get to my university, located in the suburbs and almost a lifetime away from the city centre. I had some luggage with me, so I decided to book a cab. But, technology almost always fails you when you need it the most, and my phone app just wouldn’t load the driver’s location.
I dialled the driver’s number, though I was resigned to my fate. I’d been in this situation on numerous occasions earlier. I’d already played out the sequence of events in my head. The driver would receive the message. Then I’d ask him if he spoke some English. He’d refuse and hang up. After a few minutes my ride would be cancelled and I’d be charged a fee by the app for not arriving at the indicated meeting point on time. I felt frustrated even dialling the number.
But, then again, things never happen the same way over and over again. Fate surprises you when you least expect it. I was greeted by a familiar accent on the other side. A voice that sounded like home, in that suddenly alien city. The driver heard the panic in my voice, asked me to calm down, figured where exactly I was, from what I blabbered in my flustered state, and arrived.
As I sat in the car, he looked at me and asked if I spoke Hindi. I excitedly nodded, and asked him if he was from India. He replied in Urdu, albeit shyly, that he was actually from Pakistan. Needless to say, it was the best cab ride I had in Paris.
Studying in Paris, I made a lot of friends. Some were close, others not so much. There were a few, however, who made the unfamiliarity of the city easier to deal with. There was no need to be diplomatic or politically correct around them. There was no need to consciously avoid using any Indian references or ‘Hindi’ words around them. We could listen to Bollywood numbers together, discuss cricket (even though I’m not particularly fond of the sport), and relish butter naan. While yes, most of them were Indian, there was a Pakistani among them too.
They say friendship begins with a ‘me too’. And, we had so many of them. We’d long for home together, we’d bond over a shared sense of ambition, discuss how our cultures were similar, how we’d been taught to hate each other, how our countries were happy and miserable in similar ways. She’d say she had met very few people who were so similar to her, not just in habits and ways of life, but in beliefs and values too. Even though we spent only a few days together, it’s uncanny how much we resonated.
But life does go on, time flies and all we’re left with is a quintessential ‘so close, yet so far’ kind of wonderment. In a land where the dividing border isn’t just a line, but years of misunderstanding and insecurities leading to wars, hatred trumps love. Warmth, compassion and a shared culture feign as individuals begin to relive atrocities and disregard acts of kindness. We forget that civilians everywhere are the same. They care about their families, decent means of income and leading a peaceful life. We start labelling an entire population based on the acts of a few extremists. We stop trying to understand and start trying to distance ourselves. Yes, we have indeed spent more than 70 years in a state of cold war that continues and reigns. Generations have grown up around media and leaders that falsify events, exaggerate violence and conceal peace efforts. And yet, we can’t run away from the fact that we’ve also spent more than 700 years living together, building traditions together, writing our history together. Traditions that still live, a language that still connects (even halfway across the globe) and history that still does and will always tie us together.
Sitting in those artsy Parisian cafes, surrounded by Italians and Germans and a gazillion other European nationals, I’d often wonder what kept them together, despite the years of war, despite the cultural differences. I’d wonder how many years of despising thy neighbour would it take to finally erase the centuries that were spent being friends.
I know what you’re thinking. How can we forget all the lives that have been lost, all the sacrifices that have been made? But that’s the thing. Nobody wants you to forget any of that.
We just need to recognise, we’ve been counting it wrong all this while. In these 70 years, we haven’t just lost our friends on this side, but those across the border too.
vrindalohia@gmail.com
