shaam aae aur ghar ke liye dil machal uthe

shaam aae aur dil ke liye koī ghar na ho

[Evening falls, and the heart longs for home;

Evening falls, and the heart has no home to return to]

~ Akhtar Usman

Despite our love-hate relationship with those across the border, with home we share history, culture and a past, one wouldn’t lie about feeling a certain curiosity about the sights, smells, and sounds of Old Delhi in the capital of our archrival, India. Is it possible to go there and not be smitten by their culture? As the world has turned into a global village, a simple vlog from the Taj Mahal should suffice to virtually satisfy the curiosity of the familiarly exotic place or historical wonder to a certain extent. However, seeing through the eyes of a Pakistani unraveling the everyday existence of the other side, with a distinct experience of a certain place and time, is a tour de force in its own right.

That’s where Shueyb Gandapur’s Coming Back: The Odyssey of a Pakistani Through India comes in. Shueyb, a chartered accountant by profession and a traveller by passion, has explored more than a hundred countries. In this book, his first-ever travel memoir, he chronicles his journey through India at a time when religious fanaticism is beginning to escalate. His trip which lasted just two and a half weeks covered four cities Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, and Varanasi.

Interestingly, these cities weren’t consciously chosen; rather, they happened by chance, prompted by an abrupt call from the Indian High Commission in London asking for four cities, even though the website mentioned five. Had he tried to plan them differently, he might have missed this epiphanic experience — of living, absorbing, and ultimately writing this book.

For the writer, the experience was more than just another visit. It wasn’t exclusive in terms of travel, though crossing borders comes with its share of immigration hurdles, but because of his familial history. His “Babaji” or grandfather had spent part of his childhood in India, Baikunthpur and Manendragarh, to be precise, now in the state of Chhattisgarh, before moving to his native Kulachi, a town in Dera Ismail Khan District.

This history lingers in a quiet, melancholy manner beneath the enthusiasm throughout the book for the forced exodus of those whose only “sin” was having a different faith. He notes that a third of his hometown, Dera Ismail Khan’s pre-Partition population was pushed to a “territory unknown.” He writes: “I used to think that when I visit India, I would find out where they found shelter, and ask them if they still remembered their Kulachi and Dera Ismail Khan, where their old, lovingly built homes became occupied by new immigrants.”

Of course, the logistics were grim, given the requirement to report to the police in each city —ten times in total — during the entire visit. One surprising and bleak moment for me, as someone from Peshawar, was the writer encountering a Sikh gentleman from Peshawar in the Delhi foreigners’ registration office who had come to India as an asylum seeker. Then there was the sight of NWFP engraved on the India Gate, along with the names of those who fell in the Third Afghan War.

The juxtaposition of shared history is striking. “I asked myself how those winding lanes, those houses made of narrow brick, those entrance portals with niches for lamps, and those hand painted nameplates were different from those I had seen in my own hometown, Dera Ismail Khan.” Well, the truth is, they are not. Each experience narrated in the book feels vividly alive, so that you can almost sense the scent of the ghats of Varanasi aka Banaras, even the burning of flesh and bone because the author’s narrative style plays like a cassette replaying memories. The references themselves are deeply evocative, rooted in history, and entrenched in our collective consciousness.

The adventures — being a Muslim and, worse, a Pakistani — were at times somewhat risky and unsettling. Especially when the author found himself in a potentially hazardous situation at the Kashi Vishwanath Mandir, where only Hindus were allowed. Somehow, he managed to save himself by acting discreetly. He writes,“In Benaras, death was very matter-of-fact, a mere transition from being to nothingness.”

I thought Agra was only about the Taj Mahal, but like many surprises, the author introduced me, at least, to the Agra Fort, where Shah Jahan was imprisoned by Aurangzeb for eight years in a marble room decorated with intricate inlay patterns of gems. From there, he would gaze upon the Taj Mahal, the final resting place of his beloved wife. “Sir ji, wo colour mein thoda sa fault aa gaya hai [The colour has become a bit faulty!],” a taxi driver told the author in the “Pink City,” Jaipur, where the once-rosy buildings now appeared more orange-ochre than pink.

Everyone carries a special sanctuary of reverence for their favourite writer, and for the author, it is Quratulain Hyder. He somehow found himself in a sprawling cemetery of “a million and one” graves, and yet he located hers. While it is virtually impossible to fully capture the feeling of admiration, awe, and warmth in words, we can still sense the deep affection and respect in the author’s heart: “I sat there in silence, amidst the sea of the dead…”

He then visited a school named after his hometown, D.I. Khan Senior Secondary School, where he even met the manager from Kulachi. The school, established in the 1950s, followed another institution called Sati Kewal Ram (SKR) Public School, named after a 17th-century Hindu saint. This school housed a temple with a sapling brought from Bilot, a village near Dera, where the original Sati Kewal Ram was located. On a wall in the chairman’s office hung a picture of the author’s great-grand uncle.

While sifting through old magazines, the author discovered a letter written in Urdu from a prominent elder of the Gandapur clan, the former Chief Minister of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Inayatullah Khan Gandapur, addressed to his childhood friend, one of the founders of the institution. The letter read: “ I am so keen to meet you. I pray again that God may keep all of you happy and healthy. If you meet an old friend or a brother from Kulachi, please embrace him on my behalf, pay my regards and convey my love.”

Delhi also has an area named “Derawal Nagar,” established by the government for refugees from the Derajat region (historical region comprising Dera Ismail Khan and Dera Ghazi Khan). When Gandapur arrived and explained his context, silence turned into celebration. Tea and kachoris were served to the man who had come to meet his people. Among the crowd was an old man who had left at the age of five. And amidst this overwhelming bonhomie, I had goosebumps while reading this, someone softly hummed a Seraiki folk song:

Chann kithaan guzaari ayo rate ve

Maida jee daleelan de vaat ve

[Sweetheart, where did you spend last night

My heart continued finding excuses for your absence]

In a way, caught between intimacy and estrangement, the book feels like the din of a child who, after the umbilical cord was cut, could do nothing but return as a grown man, seeking solace in the relics, remnants, and memories of his mother and the bygone times. Much like the roots of the tree outside a temple, the book is like a sapling transported from its lost home to be planted in an adopted land.

Furqan Ali is a Peshawar-based researcher who works in the financial sector. He can be reached at alifurqan647@gmail.com