Ever since I started taking keen interest in the complicated geo-political turbulence which marks the affairs of our benighted subcontinent, I have more or less sided with the peaceniks, as far as the see-saw of Indo-Pak relationships is concerned. To preempt the possibility of being labeled as anti-national, intolerant or maybe even seditious- as is the wont these days-I solemnly, and under oath, declare that I also love my country to the hilt  (although I am not a chest thumping, war mongering, jingoist), and am a proud Indian to the core, as much, if not more, than any other person, except that I don’t display my patriotism on my sleeve, but it beats with my heart, and runs in my veins, as my blood.

Historically, I trace my roots to a family of Hindus & Sikhs which hails from the small town of Saiyyad Kasran, in district Rawalpindi of what is now Pakistan. I often used to hear from my father, who was a teenager then, and other family elders, sordid tales on how we had to bear the full brunt of the emotional and physical trauma, turmoil and violence that marred the momentous occasion when our nation gained freedom from the yoke of imperial dominance in 1947, and the vast subcontinent was carelessly, with the finesse of a butcher’s knife, truncated into two. Reams have been written about how the event witnessed one of the most horrendous massacres, and exodus, ever seen by the human race in its history.

Delhi, which one of my favorite authors, Khushwant Singh, often referred to as an ageless whore in his writings, used by all, but loved by none, has been our home ever since, and I, its most eligible, eloquent suitor.

The scars of 1947 were barely beginning to heal for those who had suffered the most in those heart rending events, when 37 years after partition, the reverberations of a falling tree shook the crumbling and ancient foundations of Delhi to their core. In a gruesome blood bath, unprecedented in the annals of free India, thousands of innocent Sikhs were butchered within a matter of hours on the streets of the nation’s capital- their places of worship desecrated, their houses ransacked, looted and burnt, their women molested, their men hunted and killed like wild animals- even as the eye of the law went blind. (For a more detailed account, read my book, Dilliz Boyz; 2011; Niyogi Books).

So I, for one, knows that it is always best to side with peace.

My love for cinema, and yearning for peace, came together, when I saw, and fell in love with Richard Attenborough’s magnum opus on the life and times of the great Mahatma, Gandhi, while I was still in my early teens. Thereon, peace became an enduring anthem for me- during my growing up phase in the embrace of my beloved Delhi, as a young student in St. Stephen’s College, Delhi, as a Post Graduate scholar in the Department of Physics and Astrophysics, Delhi University and beyond. I liked to hear the tales- which became part of folklore- of veterans like the late Kuldeep Nayar and his ilk, lighting candles and distributing roses, and praying for everlasting peace to prevail between India & Pakistan. Their acts drew instant attention of peaceniks like me, especially when they were held at the Wagah border in Amritsar, probably the most active road link between the two antagonistic countries, seemingly forever at war with each other, more often than not due to the mischievous nature of the regimes in power in the neighboring country, which never wanted to see real peace prevail between the two nations. My deep desire to see what I perceived was a mecca of peace, the Wagah border, remained only a dream for decades on end, although between the years 2012-2015, I visited the holy city of Amritsar a few times, but it was mainly to pay obeisance at the Golden Temple, the shrine of the Sikh community, to which I belong.

The jinx was finally broken in January 2016, when I was in Amritsar to attend a seminar and the organizers managed to procure VIP passes for me to visit Wagah.

On the designated day and time, I, along with a group of colleagues walked the last kilometer or so, after a passing through a series of security checks, and took our seats adjoining the massive gate where the martial ceremonies are conducted with full gallantry and pomp every evening. The crowd in the general stands- people of all hues and ages, representing the diverse Indian diaspora in all its magnificence and beauty- it seemed, had been waiting for quite some time under the benign winter Sun, and were now getting impatient and restive for the ceremonies to commence. A group amongst them was very enthusiastic and boisterous, but not unruly, due to the heavy presence of security personnel manning the area with diligence.

Once the martial ceremonies commenced, they were indeed a treat to watch, as smartly dressed men and women (on our side) in uniform marched to near perfection, complimented equally by their Pakistani counterparts, which, incidentally, also included a Sikh soldier. Slogans, replete with patriotism, reverberated in the air, as passions were aroused by jingoistic Bollywood songs. To be fair to all present, there was no provocation, or anything offensive to hurt anyone’s sentiment, from either side.

Once the function came to an end, and we started our trudge back to our car, carrying a bagful of lifelong memories, I was a tad disappointed. Yes, there had been hullaballoo galore, but there were no gentlemen or women with roses and candles in their hands to be lighted at the ‘no man’s land’, as I had imagined since childhood. There were no white pigeons fluttering freely from one side of the man-made border to the other, spreading a message of peace, harmony and tranquility. There was no exchange of Panjabi puppies and jhappies amongst the masses.

Alas! These were only reveries of a peacenik and nothing more.

However, now, as my 54^th year draws to a close, I am increasingly getting worried about the future, as the peaceniks seem to be running out of steam, and have an increasingly lost case at hand. Because, if even at the cusp of 75 years of our Independence, for which the Mahatma had to ultimately pay with his life, our candles and pigeons and roses are barely visible at the Wagah, then surely we have a long way to go. Or is the path of peace and reconciliation, propagated by Buddha and Nanak, on which we are still trudging, a wrong one?

Well, the answer to this conundrum lies hidden in the womb of future, but if we have to prove that peace is also a gamble worth betting on, then we have to ensure that even as the Tricolor is unfurled in all its resplendent glory at the Red Fort on 15^th August 2022, we roll up our sleeves, and surge ahead with a peace offensive, and ensure that pigeons representing harmony and understanding flutter in the clear open skies of Wagah for all times, and generations to come.

Insha-Allah.