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| No man's land
It was nearly one in the noon when we reached the Indian- Nepal border at Sunauli by road from Ghorakpur.
“The vehicles are not allowed to cross.” the drivers said, stopping the two Toyota Innovas a few meters from the Indian immigration office at the border.
“Oh! How do we cross?”
“Why, just by walking across, of course!”
“Oh? And the luggage?” Already 5 cycle rickshaw fellows had surrounded us, tanned faces and tattered-dusty clothes with muscular arms and dirt laden fingers, ready to haul the luggage onto their waiting cycles.
We learn that Indians can cross over freely and don’t need to show the passports.
Someone began bargaining and someone shifting the luggage. I took a stroll towards the border. The Indian side of the border is a dusty, crowded street which is choked with vehicles and pedestrians. Nepali women saunter along, chatting and hauling their laden shopping bags, foreign tourists with huge back packs are also going across. The shops along the street sell everything from grocery, electronic goods, and SIM cards to clothes, toys and toiletries. There are shops with ‘Money Changers’ boards which means they exchange Indian to Nepali currency and vice versa. 1 Indian Rupee(INR) = 1.6 Nepali Rupee(NC) (The word reminds me of Arthur Hailey’s book of the same title and an ATM teller with a terrific memory, who knows just exactly how much money she has and has given away as transactions that day in the bank! Can’t recall her name though she plays an important role later in finding out a hideout, I think.)
The shop keepers look at the passing people in boredom, as if the same ones cross over everyday.Understandable. But ditto the security personnel at the borders!
Security and not alert? I wonder what anyone should do to catch their attention. I purposefully slow down in my tracks knowing fully well that as much as I try, I can never manage to look anymore suspicious than a curious aunty! I can’t stop thinking…they are supposed to be guarding the border…Anything or anyone can just walk across…They can’t just keep chatting and picking their teeth and glance cursorily at people passing this way and that. This is the border, for heaven’s sake… and just look at the rickshaw wallas lugging all those huge suitcases. Anyone can have anything. I watch them and they ignore all the traffic. I suddenly realize I am shamelessly staring at men and as I just look off, one chap asks,
” Kahan se?”
“Bengloor.” I say nonchalantly and continue walking towards the Nepali arch. There is about 80-100 feet of no man’s land between the two arches. I explain to my daughter that this part is neither India nor Nepal. However, on the right side, I see an ugly windowless brick building encroaching from the Indian side onto the no-man’s land! ”Oh! Land mafia has no barrier…” I think. Were it less exciting times, I would have gone and checked what the building was.
At the Nepali arch are security men in different colored uniforms of course(blue and white fatigues), but same demeanor.
I return to find out how much the haggling and transport of luggage has progressed. On a spur I enter a mobile shop and ask for a Nepali SIM card. Two shops and several bored shaking of heads later, I decide I will buy it from the Nepali side.
Meanwhile, the deal has been struck for hundred Nepali rupees per cycle rickshaw and the rickshaw wallas are already pushing their vehicles as we walk alongside. (They don’t cycle. They just push it)
We are walking on the left side of the road. The India Immigration office is on the right side, a few meters before the arch way. Several non-Indian foreign tourists are having their documents verified. The desk is almost jutting out to the road from the insides of a dinghy room. Suddenly a stocky short man in Khaki uniform materializes amidst us. Says something in a low voice and the rickshaw wallas have also stopped.
“What?”
“He’s asking for money.”
“Why? Besides we are still on the Indian side.”
The rickshaw fellows look at us as if,”why are they even thinking twice about this transaction?”
“Hey don’t pay,” I say as the men reach out to their wallets. “Let him check our entire luggage. Let him.” Someone seconds me.
“But he may purposely delay checking…it will hamper all our plans..” By then a note of one hundred Indian rupees has changed hands over to the waiting hands of Mr. stocky, fly- mustache. He waits grumbling for more. The rickshaw wallas start moving as if cuing us.
‘Saab, nahin dena tha,” they say conspiratorially after a few steps!
We cross the Indian arch, no-man’s land with that encroachment and the Nepali arch.No one bothers. A few feet further a group of 3-4 men and 2-3 women sit beneath a makeshift station.I don’t know if they are Government people or just curious Nepalis.
‘Kahan?”They ask giving an overall to our crowd and luggage.
“Mukthinath.”
“Hmm,” they say getting back to their conversation.
We are now in Nepal. Rupandehi. As agreed the rickshaw chaps take us to hotel where we plan to have lunch. They are unloading our luggage.
As the older man picks up the last one, a 2-3 foot black-sheathed piece he yells-“Gon.gon” (Gun)I rush back to see him holding it up very casually. My God! We have just crossed the border and are at a sprinting distance from there and this chap is shouting gun so loudly!
“Abbe chup! Who gun nahi hai. Zor se aisa mat bol!” (Shut up! That is not a gun. Don’t yell)
“Gon nahi?”
“Nah!” I say bursting out and calling to my cousin-“Look here. This guy has mistaken your camera tripod for a sten gun!”And so the tripod became ‘The gun’ for the rest of the trip!
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