The moment I stepped into the Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation terminus in Lahore and met the rude staff, porters included, I wondered if it was a bad idea to take the bus.
I waited patiently for the Special Branch personnel to manually check my luggage as there were no scanners. To my horror, a man from the Special Branch began tossing my belongings all over the table and on the floor.
When I objected, he bragged that he had some time ago nabbed a woman who was carrying fake currency. The same treatment was meted out to my sister-in-law and my parents-in-law who were travelling with me. Soon all their stuff was on the floor too, with all of us trying to shove things hurriedly into suitcases because there were just 15 minutes left for the bus to leave.
We were also body-searched by a woman from the Special Branch. The woman made me empty the contents of my bag on her table, spraying my perfume liberally on her blue chador. She checked the money in my wallet, holding it till I asked her to return it.
She made my mother-in-law and sister-in-law empty their hand bags and “requested” my sister-in-law to “gift” her a sunscreen lotion. Before accepting the “gift”, she even asked her how it should be applied!
At the Wagah border, the Pakistani immigration officer refused to stamp my passport. He argued that I could only fly to India (since I had never done the train/bus route before). I explained to him that I could not cross the border on foot (a luxury only the diplomatic community enjoys) but I could take the bus or the train. He ordered me to go and sit.
I was the last one to be called in. He asked me for a police report. I told him I have been exempted from police reporting according to the visa issued to me. He looked at me suspiciously, went to his boss’ room, returned and immigrated me. All along, the Special Branch officer, who had checked my luggage in Lahore, was parked near the counter and having fun at my expense.
Five minutes later, the immigration officer called me again and cancelled my immigration. I was shocked. He told me I was not allowed to do the land route. I again explained my case to him. He went back to his boss’ room and then returned. “Behan aap naaraaz kyon ho rahi hain? Main kar raha hoon na aapka kaam,” he said.
I was immigrated again. As I was leaving the counter, the Special Branch officer called out loudly “Allah aapki kher karey”.
We crossed over to India and were off the bus again – this time at Attari. I was happy to be back in India. Happy that my ordeals were over. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As I was filling out the immigration form, my mother-in-law announced that about Rs 10,000 in Indian currency was missing from her wallet. I checked my bag and found that a little pouch in which I was carrying some jewellery was missing. The only time our hand bags were checked was when the Special Branch woman had opened them in Lahore.
A few minutes later, I got tapped on the shoulder by a man who had the first three buttons of his shirt open and didn’t quite look like an official. "Passport,” he said. I had just been robbed and I didn’t fancy a man running away with my passport.
“Can I see your identity card please?” I shot back. The man looked at me disgustedly and then walked towards a colleague and whispered something into his ears.
As I continued to stand in the queue for the next ten minutes to get my passport stamped, I noticed that all officers were checking me out one by one.
As I continued to stand in the queue for the next ten minutes to get my passport stamped, I noticed that all officers were checking me out one by one.
All hell broke loose when I passed on my passport to the official at the counter. He stared at it hard for a few minutes and then tossed it to the other officers. It changed hands a few times and then three officers took me aside. “You live in Pakistan?” asked an officer.
“Yes. I have been there for over two years,” I offered.
“You are not allowed to use the land route,” the officer from across the counter announced. “You should have a letter from the Pakistan government saying that you can cross the border through this route,” the officer argued, with four others, and scores of passengers looking on.
“But the Pakistanis have cleared me,” I argued.
Soon I found myself sitting in the senior-most officer’s cabin. I repeated myself again for his benefit. He didn’t seem to understand anything at all even though he was introduced to me as the boss at the immigration office.
I was already feeling tired so I asked him if I could use his phone. “The phone is dead,” he said. “We will have to send you back to Pakistan,” he announced. I asked him if there was any other phone that worked at the immigration office. “You think I am lying?” the officer barked.
I told him that I would like to inform my office that I was stuck at the border. “Don’t impress me with your press,” he said rudely.
It suddenly dawned on me that my parents-in-law would be worried because I had “disappeared”. I asked him if I could go and inform them that I was with him. He declined my request with a firm “no.”
By now I had answered all his questions – a dozen times each – “when did you go to Pakistan”; “when was your last visit to India?; “what do you do in Pakistan?”; “what does your husband do there?”; “why did you decide to board the bus and not fly?....”; “how many Pakistanis do I know?”
I was quite exhausted. He stared at me hard and then said, “Why are you nervous?” I insisted I wasn’t. He waved his hand dramatically rubbishing my answer. “Of course, you are. Look at your face.”
I gave up. I realized there was no point talking to someone who was out to “frame” me. He asked for references in Delhi and Islamabad. I gave him sister’s address in Delhi and also an uncle’s, who is a senior IAS official. When he asked for a reference in Islamabad, I gave him a top diplomat’s number.
He removed his glasses and looked at me, “How do you know him?”
“Yes. I have been there for over two years,” I offered.
“You are not allowed to use the land route,” the officer from across the counter announced. “You should have a letter from the Pakistan government saying that you can cross the border through this route,” the officer argued, with four others, and scores of passengers looking on.
“But the Pakistanis have cleared me,” I argued.
Soon I found myself sitting in the senior-most officer’s cabin. I repeated myself again for his benefit. He didn’t seem to understand anything at all even though he was introduced to me as the boss at the immigration office.
I was already feeling tired so I asked him if I could use his phone. “The phone is dead,” he said. “We will have to send you back to Pakistan,” he announced. I asked him if there was any other phone that worked at the immigration office. “You think I am lying?” the officer barked.
I told him that I would like to inform my office that I was stuck at the border. “Don’t impress me with your press,” he said rudely.
It suddenly dawned on me that my parents-in-law would be worried because I had “disappeared”. I asked him if I could go and inform them that I was with him. He declined my request with a firm “no.”
By now I had answered all his questions – a dozen times each – “when did you go to Pakistan”; “when was your last visit to India?; “what do you do in Pakistan?”; “what does your husband do there?”; “why did you decide to board the bus and not fly?....”; “how many Pakistanis do I know?”
I was quite exhausted. He stared at me hard and then said, “Why are you nervous?” I insisted I wasn’t. He waved his hand dramatically rubbishing my answer. “Of course, you are. Look at your face.”
I gave up. I realized there was no point talking to someone who was out to “frame” me. He asked for references in Delhi and Islamabad. I gave him sister’s address in Delhi and also an uncle’s, who is a senior IAS official. When he asked for a reference in Islamabad, I gave him a top diplomat’s number.
He removed his glasses and looked at me, “How do you know him?”
It was at this point that the officer decided to let me go back to the lounge, with the half-open-shirt officer parked nearby lest I try to escape!
I saw from the place where I was sitting my mother-in-law crying and pleading with folded hands with officers to be allowed in to speak to me. I saw my sister-in-law also crying. I also noticed my co-passengers giving me looks as if I had been caught with drugs, explosives or worse, a suicide jacket!
I sat in the lounge for another 30 minutes without my passport. Then half-a-dozen officers reappeared saying that I was right and that I was allowed to cross the border in the bus.
The officer who was introduced as boss to me handed me a sheet of paper asking me to write that “I am innocent”. I told him that I am innocent and that I needn’t write that on paper.
He gave me a hard stare and then told me to give in writing that I was not aware that I could cross the border in the bus (even though the officials themselves admitted that I could). I had no option so I did.
My ordeals were, however, far from over. It was the customs official’s turn to embarrass me. “Why did the IB take you away?” he asked, sounding very amused.
Later, on the bus I learnt of other stories of harassment – such as an old woman having to part with Rs 1,000 and another who had to give Rs 3,000 to ensure smooth sailing into India. The bus hit India 90 minutes behind schedule because of my “detention”.
Ever since I have been wondering if the officials “detained” me hoping for their palms to be greased or I just paid the price for rubbing the half-shirt-open officer the wrong way.
I sat in the lounge for another 30 minutes without my passport. Then half-a-dozen officers reappeared saying that I was right and that I was allowed to cross the border in the bus.
The officer who was introduced as boss to me handed me a sheet of paper asking me to write that “I am innocent”. I told him that I am innocent and that I needn’t write that on paper.
He gave me a hard stare and then told me to give in writing that I was not aware that I could cross the border in the bus (even though the officials themselves admitted that I could). I had no option so I did.
My ordeals were, however, far from over. It was the customs official’s turn to embarrass me. “Why did the IB take you away?” he asked, sounding very amused.
Later, on the bus I learnt of other stories of harassment – such as an old woman having to part with Rs 1,000 and another who had to give Rs 3,000 to ensure smooth sailing into India. The bus hit India 90 minutes behind schedule because of my “detention”.
Ever since I have been wondering if the officials “detained” me hoping for their palms to be greased or I just paid the price for rubbing the half-shirt-open officer the wrong way.
