Joe Bloggs

It was just the right time to visit - election day (to be more precise, Punjab was among the states and cities voting that Monday in the third and last of the staggered days). Instead of working in the fields, there were two or three clusters of villagers, each sitting under awnings of different colours. Apparently the election provided an excuse for a social gathering. I noticed that one awning was the colours of the Congress party, and another of the BJP (Indian People's Party, which I've just heard has shocked everyone by losing the election). As I got out of the car at the BJP gathering I knew my presence would probably cause consternation.

I was wrong. Even though they obviously didn't have a clue who I was, I was greeted with big smiles, like a long lost friend, and straight away invited to sit at the centre of the gathering. There were about 30 men there (no women), some holding papers written in Punjabi, apparently lists of names of villagers that were eligible to vote. Some names had marks next to them - presumably those who had already voted. I wanted to know why there were gatherings apparently organised by party, and whether those names were indeed of voters. If so, there's not much anonymity in this process, I thought. But to the matter at hand. 'Oh, Davinder Jeet!' exclaimed one of the men in very good English. 'We call him Kuku'. What does that mean? 'Nothing, we just call him Kuku', he said. 'He's now teaching at a school in Amritsar'.

Things were looking distinctly up. Evidently there was no need to look for Mahangir Singh (though he turned up later anyway). Amritsar was just 10 miles down the road. Does he have a phone, I asked. (I remember reading a guide book about India before I went last time, and it advised westerners to ask whether Mr A has a phone, rather than asking for Mr A's number. That might still be good advice, I thought, even though I'd seen plenty of mobiles). You want to see him? came the 'answer'. I would love to. 'Please wait here while I call his cousin. He has the phone number and address'.

At this point a lime drink arrived - quite delicious in the oppressive heat under the awning. It was about 3.30pm at this time but the sun was still high. I wondered how long it would take for the cousin to arrive. Meanwhile the chatter around me went on. Conversation with me was constrained by their limited English and my non-existent Punjabi, so they soon reverted to talking amongst themselves, about who hadn't yet turned up etc. By this time most curious glances towards me had gone, and I was struck again by how quickly I seemed to be considered part of the village. Every now and then those standing at the edges of the gathering would squeeze in to let a farm labourer leading a buffalo get past. The buffaloes reminded me of the hot sweet buffalo milk DJ's mother had offered me in 1982. Which reminded me to ask, what of his parents? 'Sadly they have both expired'. I do so fervently hope Indians will never lose some of their charming usages of English. And actually I'm quite optimistic. Even the Brits and Aussies, with far greater exposure to American English than India to other English, have it seems to me lost little of their linguistic idiosyncracies.

The cousin took a long time coming, and when he did there was no great rush to produce a phone number and address. No, I must adjust myself to the slow pace of village life, I thought, even if it means expiring under this awning. And I was still savouring being part of this election jamboree. About 20 minutes later the cousin told me, through someone else who spoke English, that he didn't have the details but his brother did. Finally there was movement and I looked at my driver who every now and then had been grinning at me from the edge of the crowd. The cousin wanted us to give him a lift to his brother's place a little outside the village. So we got in the car, and I noticed that the cousin seemed a bit bemused when asked to put his seat belt on. He seemed to have no idea what to do with it or where to plug it in. I wondered whether it was his first time in a car.

We arrived in the courtyard of his brother's house. Around the edges of the courtyard were an assortment of farmyard animals: buffalo, goats, pigs, chickens and a cow. The brother came out, had a brief chat with the cousin and straight away signalled that he would lead us into Amritsar and DJ's house.

Just twenty minutes later we were there. The brother went into the house alone. I got out of the car and looked around. I wondered again how different DJ would be at around 50 rather than in his late twenties. 'Is that Mr Picton?!'. I turned round. He had barely changed at all! Still very slim, athletic build (he was a sports teacher at the school), no grey hair. He was grinning from ear to ear and gave me a big hug. 'Come, come inside!'. The requisite apologies and hesitation were brushed aside. 'Inside! This is your home'. In less than a minute he was asking me to stay in his house for a few days. No, I said, I would only bother him for about half an hour, not least because I was planning to go to the border. 'Nonsense! Then I will come with you and we'll all come back'. I explained I had to go back to Delhi the next day. It was quickly arranged that I'd sleep in his house and leave the next morning.

It was wonderful to see DJ again. We were very close at the school. Almost every night that I was there, we either visited each other's flats or went to that of another teacher, a man in his late 50s called Mr Sharma. When there he would make us delicious tea, we'd play chess and laugh and be very childish (I remember at that time being happy that even someone approaching 60 can be childish). Quickly DJ told me how I used to call Mr Sharma, who had a wicked pot belly, 'Bellybabes'. I couldn't remember that at all and asked DJ if Mr Sharma minded. Not at all, he loved it. I was mightily relieved, if dubious.

In less than 10 minutes we were back in the car and heading towards the border. This was something I'd always wanted to see, given the very tetchy relationship, and three wars, between India and Pakistan. DJ told me his recollection of the last war in 1971 or 2. He was about 19 at the time, and there were bodies all over the fields surrounding his village. 'It was like Diwali', he said cheerfully, referring to the Hindu festival of lights. Wasn't he frightened? 'Oh yes, we were all terrified'.

DJ said the border made an interesting trip now: it's not just a border post with a couple of bored looking sentries: each evening they have a 'closing ceremony'. I was intrigued. In less than half an hour out of Amritsar we were guided into a car park and advised to walk the last 500 yards or so to the border itself. The last 100 meters is the Indian side of the no man's land that runs the length of the border, a good couple of thousand miles. The border itself was marked by a gate, and we could see the Pakistani guards the other side of it. They were exactly the same tall and immaculately turned out turbaned Punjabis as on this side - another reminder of how Punjab had been divided. I noticed an interesting symmetry about the place: same size flags, poles and buildings on each side. About 20 yards from the border, on each side, was a stand for members of the public, and on both sides the stands were packed. Clearly there was to be an identical ceremony on the other side, and evidently there was some coordination here between the two sides. I noticed how the people in the stands on the Indian side were a myriad of colours, while those on the Pakistani side were dressed mostly in white.

Our timing was perfect - within a minute we were told to sit down. Out of a small building came four hugely tall Punjabi Indian soldiers in full ceremonial dress, complete with flamboyant fans emanating from the sides of their turbans. The turbans themselves were a smart black and red, the colours of the Border Security Force. One shouted a brief order and in a second they marched at breakneck speed, towards the gate. The crowd roared and clapped as though these men were going into battle. Sure enough, on the Pakistani side they were doing the same, and their crowd was just as excitable. Just a few yards from the gate three of them stopped, but one continued towards the gate. To my complete surprise the gate swung open, and the Indian and the Pakistani abruptly saluted each other, shook hands once (one sharp downward motion), and immediately turned back into their own countries and joined their three colleagues. Within a few seconds the gate was closed again. It was extraordinarily dramatic. The four then fast-goosestepped back towards the building and again the crowd roared their approval of these homecoming heroes.

By this time people on the Pakistan side were screaming as loudly as possible so we could hear: 'Pakistan zindabad!' The Indians would yell back 'Hindustan zindabad!'. I now understood why the stands on both sides were placed strategically a fair distance from the border itself. And why before entering the area we'd had to go through a metal detector. It only takes one nutter.

In another few minutes there was a closely coordinated ceremony on both sides to take down the flags. Again in an almost touching spirit of reconciliation the gate was opened for this part. To the tune of the Last Post the flags were lowered and the ceremony was over. It had been quite fascinating. DJ then told me it was also his first time at this ceremony and that he also was rivetted.

There is still almost no activity across this border. You may remember a few months ago the two countries instituted a once-a-day bus service from Delhi to Amritsar and across the border, at this gate, to Lahore. That's still going, and in fact the bus passed us (with a police escort) as we went back to Delhi the next day. I noticed as we walked back to the car from the ceremony, a big sign saying 'Welcome to the world's largest democracy'.