Fanfare for the comic men at the India-Pakistan border

The daily flag-lowering ceremony at Wagah is part macho strut, part Monty Python. Some see it as a metaphor for the nations' complex relationship.

By Mark Magnier

February 26, 2010

Reporting from The Wagah Crossing, India-Pakistan Border -- As one heads across the border from India into Pakistan at the Wagah crossing, the only thing that seems to concern the customs officer in the (essentially dry) Islamic Republic of Pakistan is whether you're bringing in booze.

Heading back the other way after two weeks covering political infighting and Taliban attacks, the first thing you hear from an industrious Indian hawker is "You want to buy beer?"

Welcome to Wagah, the busiest of the two land crossings linking these ever-suspicious neighbors -- in other words, not very busy.

On Thursday, India and Pakistan held their first high-level talks since the November 2008 terrorist attacks in Mumbai, which India blames on Pakistani-based militants. As expected, the meeting produced no breakthroughs and some sniping, a reflection of the tensions between these nuclear-armed rivals.

Sometimes, as is evident in Wagah, those strains take on comic overtones.

It's late afternoon. And for the last 63 years, that's meant one thing here: "retreat ceremony" time.

The daily theatrics, part rooster strut, part goose-stepping, part Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks, start at 4:30 in India, 4:00 in Pakistan. (The two can't agree on the border crossing's name, officially known as Attari in India, so why should the time of day be any different?)

As the ceremony's kickoff approaches, thousands of Indian tourists, babies in tow, popcorn and balloons in hand, dash a quarter of a mile from the parking lot to tiered bleachers a few feet from the historic divide, as if flocking to a rock concert.

Watching the 30-minute gate-closing ceremony from the Indian side has its advantages, particularly if you live in India. As a helpful shopkeeper told me on the Pakistani side: "You could watch it from here. But then you'd have to spend another night in Pakistan."

The crowds in India also tend to be bigger and livelier, befitting the nation's sevenfold population advantage over its neighbor. On a recent weekday, there were about 3,000 people on the Indian side, compared with 400 or so for Pakistan.

"Theirs is smaller because they charge," an Indian spectator said, adding proudly, "Our side is free."

En route to the seats -- men and women sit separately in Pakistan, together in India -- spectators are frisked, ushered through a broken metal detector, their bags pored over, refrisked.

Signs along a rusty barbed wire fence on the Indian side belie the carnival atmosphere. "Duty Unto Death," says one. "Danger, Do not Touch, High Voltage" says another. (Given the regularity of power outages in both countries -- something they do share -- its deterrent value is questionable.)

As the stands fill, the crowd finds its voice, releasing cries of "Long live India!" and other cheers. Fists pump the air. Girls scream. Cameras flash. These are answered almost immediately by the other side. "Pakistan is my life!" and "Allah, Allah!" ring back, not as loud, but no less spirited.

Trumpets sound and several extremely tall soldiers simultaneously appear on their respective sides of the divide, essentially a 250-yard-long courtyard flanked by seating between twin arches. Each of the prancing units sports crisp uniforms: black and green for Pakistan, orange, red and khaki for India. They march about, epitomes of machismo. Both countries choose their finest, as tall, intimidating and, in Pakistan's mustachioed case, hirsute as possible.

Their height is amplified by the large, fan-shaped coxcomb bits atop their helmets, evoking peacocks battling for a mate.

Shifting into high gear, the dueling guard goliaths goose-step, stomp, spin, strut and salute crisply. With a flash of white spats, several then march triple-speed straight at the border, arms swinging like crazed metronomes, before halting just short of the line.

"It's wonderful, so inspiring," said Ronur Prakash, 48, a banker from the Indian city of Bangalore. "Things always get spirited when it's India versus Pakistan. It's like a little war."

In 2001, during a tense period, a Pakistani ranger aimed his gun at the Indian spectators, prompting an agreement that the guns would remain empty.

After nearly 30 minutes, it's time for the finale. The guards meet in the small no-man's land and lower, until tomorrow, their flags.

Suddenly everything shifts from hyperactive to super-slow-mo -- part of a faceoff to see whose flag "retreats" first.

An officer from each side then briskly shakes hands with his counterpart before the crews dart back to home territory and slam shut the gates for the night.

Some see the ceremony as a metaphor for the two nations' complex relationship, at once threatening, menacing, potentially deadly but also melodramatic and, at times, choreographed. The two border units work closely to synchronize their moves and prevent one side from kicking the other, which might provoke a real fight.

"The Wagah ceremony becomes a little like kabuki, an amusing drama, but it also shows something much deeper," said Akbar Ahmed, former Pakistani ambassador to Britain and a professor at American University in Washington. The ritual, he said, is meant to communicate each army's power.

The ceremony, which was suspended in 1965 and 1971 when the nations were at war, is also something of a barometer of relations.

The higher the ceremonial kicks, the more bitter relations tend to be. And during times of particular strain, both sides have added taunts, stare-downs and chest thumping.

"We're now in the process of toning down some of the more aggressive gestures," such as glaring, said an officer with India's Border Security Force.

There's enormous curiosity about "the others" on the part of those on either side of a border that encapsulates bloodshed, family separations and the pain of division. At the end of the ceremony, spectators throng the fence to get a peek at neighbors who look so much like themselves. Some wave. Many just stare.

Six decades of separation, limited people-to-people contact and mistrust whipped up by politicians have left their mark on average Ahmeds and Guptas, who sometimes act as though the other folks are from another planet.

"So you've just come from India?" a taxi driver asks a traveler all of 15 feet into Pakistan. "What's the weather like over there?"