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The book “Strange Encounters” by Parikshat Sahni is the multicultural, multifaceted saga of Parikshat Sahni’s journey from being a film student in Soviet Russia to surrendering Stanislavski for Indian cinema.
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Sahni chronicles stories from a life whose pendulum swings wildly from the humorous to the utterly horrifying.
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He confronts his thanatophobia on film sets and his atheism on an ill-prepared trek to Amarnath; he gives us drinking lessons with screenwriter friends and a profound insight into the state of culture wars in present-day Kashmir; he recalls the thrill of young love in Russia and its attendant treacheries of the heart, as well as a study of Pakistan, a history of India as the land of many, and a look at the current political discourse through the eyes of a refugee.
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Read an excerpt from the book below.
Rajouri
Another memorable experience involving Pakistanis was during the filming of a serial called Ajnabee in Rajouri, right on the LOC, where we shot in Indian pickets opposite Pakistani bunkers just a few yards away. One could see no movement in their bunkers. That was because there were sharpshooters sitting on both sides, ready to pick up anything that moved on the other side and blast it to glory. So, everyone made it a point not to raise their head above the wall of the picket for fear of being decapitated.
I never got to see a Pakistani soldier or an officer except at a flag meeting one day for which I was allowed to accompany the Indian Commanding Officer. I was not allowed inside the tent in which the meeting took place but when the Pakistani counterpart met the Indian side he recognized me immediately and greeted me with a broad smile. He remarked that he knew I was from Rawalpindi, pointing in the direction where Pindi was. As they moved into the tent I heard him say to his Indian counterpart, “We are the size of bird-shit (vithh in Punjabi) compared to your army, so what are you guys worried about?” and then the two of them went inside the tent, leaving me outside, admiring the scenery.
Outwardly there seemed to be mutual respect between the two armies. I asked an Indian jawan what the Pakistani soldiers were like in comparison to our soldiers and he smiled and said, “They are good soldiers! They fight well. They are tough. And they are very well looked after, mutton every day, imported cigarettes, etc.”
“How do they compare with our soldiers?” I asked.
“As I said, they are good soldiers! The only difference between us and them is that they are used to the good life, good food and good pay! But they fall short of us because the Indian soldier is hardier! We can survive on dal-roti and fight just as well if not better on simple food and rations on any terrain.”
All the wars that were fought between our two countries (as they themselves admit) were instigated by them; the first one began just a few months after the two countries were partitioned and gained freedom—1947. That is when they sent “tribesmen”, as they called them, across into Kashmir, in order to instigate the Kashmiris to revolt, hoping they would secede from India and join Pakistan. The plan went horribly wrong and resulted in the Maharaja signing the document of accession to India.
Since then there have been wars in 1965, 1971 and then there was the imbroglio in Kargil in 1999.
I am sure the elders who remember Partition do not harbour any rabid hatred of India, although there is not much love lost between the two either. But the younger generation, those below 40, have been brought up on propaganda and a distorted view of history, so their hearts are full of venom and hatred. I was witness to this sort of mindset for the first time in 1971 when my friend Rashid Poonawala invited me home for dinner one evening.
Rashid Poonawala
Rashid and I have been buddies since childhood. Never once have our religious backgrounds come in the way of our friendship. We were not even aware in our childhood days of the fact that we belonged to different religions. He is a bosom pal. He often wines and dines at my place and I at his (though boozing is not allowed there). One day he invited me home for dinner.
I met a young Pakistani in his early twenties at Rashid’s place. He was Rashid’s distant cousin, with his ancestral roots in India. I tried to be friendly with him. I told him that we both had this in common, that his father was born in India and mine was born in Pakistan, so we were both mohajirs (refugees) and therefore brothers. The Pakistani’s reaction startled me. He was infuriated. Dinner had been served and a succulent roast chicken was lying on the table in front of us. The lad picked up the chicken and with unbelievable fury crushed it between his fingers and then began tearing it limb from limb, declaring passionately, “This is what Pakistan will do to India…We will crush you and dismember you…Like this chicken…”
I was surprised at this sudden and unexpected outburst. Rashid was embarrassed and annoyed and said with some vehemence, “India is no chicken!” He was about to mount a verbal assault but I stopped him. I tried to change the topic. After all the Pakistani was a guest so it was best not to make an issue out of what he had said. However, I couldn’t help being surprised at the ferocity of his verbal attack. His hatred towards India bordered on pathological.
As a result of this Pakistani’s rabid anti-Indian attitude, the evening turned out to be an unpleasant one. The young man was filled with anger, resentment and hate. He was supercilious. He was convinced that it was only a matter of time before Pakistan would “tear India limb from limb” and hoist its flag on the Red Fort.
Tensions between India and Pakistan were running high in those days. Within a week, in 1971, before the Pakistani lad had left India, war broke out. He was stranded in Bombay. In a matter of days, the Pakistani army had been routed and India had captured 90,000 Pakistani soldiers as prisoners of war. East Pakistan had ceased to exist. In its place now stood Bangladesh, a new, sovereign country which was hostile to West Pakistan.
I dined with Rashid again after a fortnight and the Pakistani lad was still there. When the roast chicken arrived at dinnertime, I had half a mind of dismembering it to show the Pakistani what India had done to his country but I desisted from doing so. It would have been in bad taste. Besides, I don’t believe in “tit for tat”, nor do I harbour any hatred in my heart towards anyone. So, I just offered the Pakistani lad some chicken. He accepted it without a word, his eyes downcast. I learnt subsequently that the fellow never returned to Pakistan. He was so demoralized about what had happened as a result of the war that he migrated to Sri Lanka and later set up home in England.
Patriotism is a laudable attribute. I do believe that one should never lose sight of the allegiance one owes to one’s native land. One’s attachment to the country of one’s birth is indissoluble. But chauvinism, to my mind, is downright dangerous. It destabilizes a person and puts his reason on “hold”. It turns a man into a fanatic. And our young friend from Pakistan was the best example of this.
