Beyond borders: Unhoming in Lahore’s magical world

Reimagine Pakistan and embark on a transformative journey. Lahore awaits with its flavours, history, and friendships that transcend borders.

The Jandial, or fire temple, one of the finest examples of Hellenistic Art (2nd century BCE). | Photo Credit: Panchali Ray

In 2014, when the Narendra Modi-led BJP government came to power, to be Indian was no longer synonymous with being just a Hindu; you had to be a Ram-worshipping, plant-eating, Modi-supporting one. Any attempt to assert sartorial, culinary, or intimate choices that fell outside the sweep of supposed Hindu culture would invite trolls on social media who would ask you to “go to Pakistan”. Essentially, if your quotidian did not reflect enough Hindu-ness (as defined by a certain ideology), your obvious choice of residence would be the neighbouring country. Commonsensically, it meant that only those who complied with a straitjacket Hindu-ness, claustrophobic and oppressive, could continue to stay; the rest should go to Pakistan or drown in the sea, whichever was more convenient. Given the visa regimes, probably the latter.

LISTEN: Lahore invokes multiple emotions in people; for me, it was a city that offered culinary delights and architectural beauty and brought out consumerist impulses that were rather unfamiliar, interlaced with the heart’s desire for everything forbidden.

Imagine my excitement then when I finally received the visa that allowed me to travel to the land that had become a metaphor for everything that the category “Indian” could no longer contain. A land both forbidden and promised. Nothing could dampen my excitement as I packed my suitcase, not even the bank’s refusal to exchange currency when they saw my visa stamp, not to mention the raised eyebrows or bigoted comments from friends and acquaintances.

As I made my way to the Wagah-Attari border on a cold December morning, hugging close to my chest the magical document that would allow me to experience the famed city of Lahore, the ruins of Taxila, and the excavations of Harappa, I was prepared to find a desolate immigration office. Instead, I was surprised to find myself in the company of a few jovial sardars and Indian Muslims crossing the border to attend celebrations of marriage, birth, and rituals of death. Visas were difficult to get, almost impossible, but some still did.

The base of the double-headed eagle stupa in Sirkap. The bird boasts of a Hellenic influence and the stupa shows Buddhist influences. | Photo Credit: Panchali Ray

The bus to Attari was buzzing with conversations about visa regimes and the difficulties, or rather, the impossibility of family reunions across borders. The word was that Pakistan still issued visas, particularly for family visits, but in the last decade, India rarely stamped the passports of those seeking to travel to its lands. The only exception was Hindu Pakistanis on NORI (No Objection to Return to India) visas who would cross over to seek employment as labourers. As I scanned my baggage and made my way from one counter to another, the Indian immigration officer interrogated me about my reasons for travelling, noting I was a single woman attending a conference. “Aap JNU waali to nahin ho? Human rights waali bhi nahin? Dekhna desh ki maryada rakhna, aise kuch mat kehna.” (Hope you are not from JNU? Or working in human rights? Be careful, do not say anything that will dishonour India). I nodded in compliance.

The remains of candles lit in an alcove by pilgrims at Saint Thomas the Apostle’s palace in Sirkap. | Photo Credit: Panchali Ray

The immigration officers’ suspicion and hostility directly contrasted with the Border Security Force jawans who escorted us to the Attari immigration hut. Delighted to find a Bengali amongst mostly north Indian travellers, they tried out their newly acquired Bangla on me, making it a point to inform me of all their previous postings on the Bengal-Bangladesh border. I was taken aback by their lack of curiosity and jocular mood, almost flirtatious and deeply disconcerting. A single woman crossing a hostile border invites a range of behaviour and provokes deep emotions, whether underlined by suspicion or sexual imaginaries.

Experiencing multiple emotions

Lahore invokes multiple emotions in people, particularly those travelling from India (longing, belonging, home, exile); for me, it was a city that offered culinary delights and architectural beauty, and brought out consumerist impulses that were rather unfamiliar, interlaced with the heart’s desire for everything forbidden. One late evening, while exploring the walled city of Lahore with a bunch of friends, I was struck by how, despite historical complexities and geopolitical challenges, our people’s similarities resonated louder than our differences.

What started as a casual walk soon became a hunt for Hindu shrines in the neighbourhood of the Wazir Mosque. Our friend, who aspired to write a coffee-table book on shrines in Lahore, insisted on showing us what he had discovered by chance: a Hindu shrine colloquially called saat behen, or seven sisters, located in a dank and dark alley and maintained by an old Muslim caretaker who lived diagonally opposite. It drew visitors and pilgrims from across Lahore and its adjoining areas, who came to offer sindoor and light candles. It is said that the seven sisters died mysteriously, and one of them was buried there. And such was the power of her spirit that every mannat (prayer/wish) was granted. No one knew any further details. Staring at the offering of candles, sindoor, and flowers, I was reminded of the Kali temple in a Chinese ghetto in Kolkata. Maintained and worshipped by the local Chinese community who find solace and seek the blessings of a goddess alien to their pantheon, it questioned all boundaries between faiths. As more and more mosques are built around Sufi shrines in Pakistan, and equally, as a number of temples of all scales and sizes spring up every day in India, the very human impulse to draw inspiration from multiple traditions and to find a shared understanding of the divine continues to thrive in spaces less illuminated and least expected.

A Hindu shrine in the Wazir Mosque neighbourhood in Lahore. | Photo Credit: Panchali Ray

It was with the same wonder that I gazed at the ruins of Taxila and Sirkap (circa 6th century BCE to 2nd century CE) located in Rawalpindi district that boasted of not only Buddhist stupas but also Jain, Hindu, and Zoroastrian temples. Dating from the Achaemenid Persian Empire, followed by the Greek Empire, the Maurya Empire, the Indo-Scythians, the Kushan Empire, the Parthian Empire, and the Indo-Greek Kingdom, the great cities famed for their art, architecture, trade, and universities were finally annihilated in the 5th century by the Huns, who put to fire the Buddhist monasteries and stupas.

Syncretism of religious influences

Both Taxila and Sirkap are internationally acclaimed as the cradle of the Gandhara School of Art, which reflected the coming together of Buddhist and Greco-Roman influences, but what was surprising was the syncretism of religious influences that produced such structural marvels, visually stunning and spiritually resonant. As most of South Asia hurls towards populist and monolithic narratives of the past—of straightforward invasions and destruction of existing cultural and religious architecture—I marvelled at this contrarian evidence: the fusion of architectural styles and symbolic motifs that pointed to a shared cultural space where different and often conflicting beliefs coexisted.

The Jandial temple, for instance, which is mostly traced to the Parthian regime, is one of the finest examples of Greek art that brings out the heterodox practices of the Greeks. Used for fire worship and thus showing evidence of the flourishing of the Zoroastrian faith, the influence of Greek architecture is undeniable, flying in the face of all theories of the clash of civilisations and the annihilation of the vanquished.

The excavation site of the palace built for Saint Thomas the Apostle (40 CE) in Sirkap. | Photo Credit: Panchali Ray

Equally mesmerising was the site where Saint Thomas the Apostle, who visited the city of Sirkap, had a palace built for him by the king. Local legends claim that he brought the dead brother of the ruler back to life, and in gratitude, the king built him a residence for the next 40 years to enable him to spread the teachings of Christ. Today, Christian pilgrims from various parts of the region light candles in this magical spot to pay homage to their patron saint, though most of his followers are said to reside in present-day Malabar, Kerala, and probably can never trek to this enchanting space tucked away in a forgotten corner of Pakistan.

Diversity and the coexistence

One could argue that Christianity is not alien to the subcontinent, making its entry with Portuguese or British aggression, but indigenous and indispensable to the region’s history. As much as certain forces manufacture a monolithic linear narrative of religious interaction in the South Asian subcontinent, any serious genealogy of migration, conquests, cultural exchanges, and religious proselytising would only point to the diversity and the coexistence of multiple faiths, which form the shared heritage of the subcontinent.

With great reluctance, I tore myself away from the magnificent sunset over the Sirkap ruins, only to remember that I had missed lunch. As I invited my guide and driver to some sumptuous naan and beef kebab, we chatted about visa regimes, politics, and the hardening of majoritarianism in both countries. The driver recounted stories of his grandfather’s migration from Uttar Pradesh to Lahore and how he continues to meet his Indian relatives at the Wagah border every year. The persistent memories of Partition, with its collective inheritance of exile and longing, haunted every encounter, every conversation, both of the past and the present.

As home continues to remain a contested term for those whose ancestors found themselves on the wrong side of the border, home no longer holds any meaning for me. As I packed my suitcase, I watched on social media the fervour with which the announcement of the inauguration of the Ram temple on the debris of the Babri Masjid was greeted. If sitting in the ruins of Taxila was a magical moment and evoked emotions that nowadays I struggle to feel—serenity, wonder, and an invitation to marvel at the possibilities that the world holds—waiting at the airport for the connecting flight to Chennai on Christmas day evoked nothing but loneliness. My heart was broken, and I did not look forward to returning to the heartbreak that I was compelled to call home.

Panchali Ray teaches anthropology and gender studies at Krea University, Sri City, Andhra Pradesh.