I grew up with indistinct ideas of what constituted a frontier, vague notions that, in retrospect, were entirely appropriate given the amorphous nature of the subject. In my hometown of Palakkad, a sleepy Keralite border town that curried favour with sandalwood smugglers due to its strategic location near Tamil Nadu, I learned to identify territorial limits with forms that seemed specifically located to mark a boundary: the dull khaki uniforms of the sometimes-dozing policemen at the checkposts, the signboards frostily greeting travellers with welcome to or goodbye from, the long queues of trucks that were as much a fixture of the landscape as the grey road and the trees trying to shake off dust from their leaves.
These recollections are perhaps why I find the clamour at the Wagah border so astonishing. The atmosphere leading up to the nightly closure of the border gates is festival-like, with young men flagging down vehicles full of visitors to tell them to park here, not there, or there, not here. Schoolchildren sit chattering, sipping colas, outside the many stalls lining this last stretch of the Grand Trunk Road in India. The colas taste suspiciously unlike the brands they claim to be, but no one appears to notice anything amiss
In front of each of the stalls are television sets, facing not the stalls but an imaginary audience on the road. These screens continuously show Indian soldiers marching, presumably taking part in the sunset ceremony, when both the Indian and Pakistani sides bring down their respective flags – an event that all of us are here to witness. On the road are boys selling CDs of what they describe as the 'border show'. They run away at the first sign of an authority figure, unsuccessfully trying to hide in the fields by the makeshift parking lots. Two men in khaki, however, assure me that the CDs are genuine. "It's us," says one.
Nearing the border, I see a stadium-like arrangement where Border Security Force (BSF) men are sorting out the seating woes of still more schoolchildren. Patriotic songs blare from a loudspeaker and, behind a BSF building, young military personnel practise their steps – perfecting the ritualistic stomping of feet, synchronising their salutes. Desh mangta hai qurbaniyan (the nation demands sacrifices), says one of the songs, as if in approval.