Amritsar and Lahore are like two eyes on the face of the landscape. Their proximity and the palpable sense of history bonds them. Yet the scar-like barbed ridge running diagonally across seems to enmesh all chances of cross-cultural exchanges.

A visit to Amritsar evokes the stark beauty of the Golden Temple. It sits like a jewel in the water. Walking past the silver gates across the short span of a bridge, the strains of Guruvani in the air, the songs sung in praise of the Sikh Gurus, almost beckon me to hurry. Inside, the huge Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikhs is set in the centre of a small hall. A priest gently sways a silken tassle continuously over it. The beauty of the music, the temple, the message of love and peace of Guru Nanak, all coalesce and hold me spellbound.

Surrounding the temple is a huge courtyard and a complex of rooms. What fascinates is the melee of colour. Sikhs in the swirling frock-like robes, in blacks, whites, oranges and blues, all with matching turbans, flowing beards, and with their kirpans or daggers, overhelm. This was before the infamous Operation Bluestar, the storming of the Golden Temple on the orders of Mrs Gandhi. The whole air seemed rife with rebellion, and we wondered where the gun-toting Bhrindanwale was.

A year later he was fished out dead from the temple complex.There were preparations for a feast, and small diyas were being filled with ghee to be lit and set afloat on the water the same night.

We were leaving the same day and I tried to visualize the burnished gold of the temple catching and reflecting the flickering flames all around. A langar was on, and devotees queued up for food being served from huge deghs.

The gold for the temple, they say, came from Emperor Akbar. That the Sikhs, writes Romila Thapar,in her book The History of India, survived as an independent religious community more sucessfully than the Kabirpanthis (followers of Kabir) resulted from the differences between their teaching. ...the repeated reference to God by names familiar to these two religions tended to associate him (Kabir) with the less orthodox members of both religions. To become a follower of Nanak demanded a greater rejection of the outward manifestations of Hinduism or Islam. The later adoption of visible distinguishing symbols by the Sikhs further accentuated their separateness. (The five K's are the kesha, refraining from cutting the hair; kanga, a small comb; kara, an iron bangle; kirpan, a small dagger and kachha, underwear. Little wonder that the temple gave a spiritual high.

Outside, small shops lined the street. The city is on the crossroads of history. The intrigues of the past, the womb-waters of the freedom movement spawning dissent against the British. The warm hospitable Punjabi homes. The city of farmer, soldier and entrepreneur alike. The butt of jokes, a Sikh comes across as a large-hearted buffoon. But it was in Micheal Ondaaje's book The English Patient, that the most endearing picture a Sikh (Kip) comes across. The fascinating relationship that most Sikhs have

with machines, soft-spoken, unruffled and deep vis-a-vis the stereotyped garrulous image.

Jallianwallah Bagh is close to the Temple. The narrow passage suddenly opens on to the historic ground where hundreds of civilians were butchered on the orders of General Dyer. We peer down the well, now covered with iron railings, where men, women and children leaped to their death to escape the gunfire. The marks on walls left by the hail of bullets still bespeak of the madness.

Next on our agenda was the Attari-Wagah border. In no time are we at the border. The Indian chowki is adjacent to the Pakistani one. A song from Satyam,Shivam, Sunadaram is blaring at an ear-shattering pitch. I ask the Indian security guard for the reason and he informs me that it's for the benefit of the Pakistani soldiers who wish to listen to the latest film hits. (This was before the invasion of the dish.)

It is close to sunset. As we scan the landscape, we see a farmer in shalwar-kameez toiling away in a field. It's a strange feeling to view a country from such close quarters. At sunset, soldiers on both sides of the border lower the flags at the checkpost in harmony after a short drill.

Visitors on both sides stare at each other passively. The gates are thrown open and we are invited to step into the no man's land, which is a narrow, approximately 3-foot passage. It's a mite weird. I refuse to step in.

The no-man's land is like a compromise, I'd rather step ahead and embrace humanity. Lahore seemed so close, and for a fleeting moment one glanced down at the earth, witness to the Partition. It seemed so illogical at that point to turn away, when all one wished was to drive upto Lahore.

Now, after two decades, it seems that sanity will soon prevail when the bus with the Indian Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee rolls in. Karachiites, however, have been justifiably harbouring hopes for a long time that the Khoprapar route should be reopened.