I thought I could recount a little story from a few years ago, when I played some Bach to two border guards. Two border guards on either side of one of the most hotly-contested crossings in the world.
I had been cycling from Shropshire to Hong Kong, as you do, and after a few months and a lot of sandwiches, had reached India. Well, India was ten metres away. I, my bicycle, and my little travelling violin were still in Pakistan.
I had had my passport stamped by a smartly dressed immigration officer, all the time feeling guilty because: a) I was born in the country that caused the whole mess in the first place, and b) doesn’t everyone feel guilty at immigration? I left the office and, as instructed, walked my bike towards India.
I had left Lahore, in Pakistan, very early in the morning to get to the India–Pakistan border by 9am and to try to arrive in Amritsar, in India, before I wilted from cycling in forty-five-degree heat.
Just forty kilometres separate these two cities. Not even the distance of a marathon. Before Partition, people used to go and pay visits to friends and family in the other town and be back in time for tiffin. During Partition, whole trainloads of people were hacked to death, trying to travel to their newly appointed country. When the carriage doors were opened, in both Lahore and Amritsar railway stations, blood poured out in a thick, deep stream.
And now, after Partition, the border is a mixture of supreme distrust and swagger. Each evening the two defence forces have a flag-lowering ceremony where they try to outdo the other in pomposity and military snappiness.
So you can understand that I was a little nervous walking between the two countries. I didn’t look very snappy smart myself. You try looking smart with only two shirts to choose from and your whole world stuffed into four panniers. I had washed my cycling shirt pretty well, although probably not as well as I’d washed Vita, my bicycle.
I walked the last few metres of Pakistan, a country I had fallen in love with. Lost in my thoughts, I was brought to an abrupt stop by a military shout. A ranger, one of the special forces of the Pakistani military, raced up to me and examined my bicycle, my luggage, me and, finally, my violin.
He whacked the violin case on my back.
The ranger wanted me to play him something. I knew that because he made the international gesture for, "Play me something!": you point, or indeed hit the case of the instrument you want to hear; you look straight into the eyes of the musician, you raise your shoulders and hands in a shrug and you look just like Herbert von Karajan getting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra started on a Beethoven symphony.
"Play me something and it had better be good, otherwise I am going to revoke your visa and make your life hell, even though you have officially left the country."
Ok, that was my interpretation.
I played some Bach.
It’s quite hard to play the violin when you feel like you are playing for permission to advance to the next country.
I chose the bourrée from the third cello suite. I knew it so well I didn’t have to think about the piece when I was playing it. My fingers, once they started, were like a little pack of Pavlov’s dogs; starting with certain notes made the following ones inevitable. As I played the bourrée I kept my eye on the ranger, especially his rifle, and watched as his moustache twitched with glee. I played just the first boisterous bourrée, in the major key, thinking that if I went on to the slightly lost and morose minor one my new friend would get a little morose himself and all would be lost.
I stopped, waited for the verdict, and it came.
"Please proceed."
Just in time as it turned out, because what looked like his commanding officer was walking over towards us quick march and he didn’t look very impressed. He barked an order to the ranger, I packed up my violin as hastily as I could and walked to India.
And, two minutes away, in India, the same thing happened. Exactly. An Indian soldier, the same international gesture.
This border guard urged me to play the minor bourrée as well, although he started to yawn in the middle and fiddle with my bicycle.
I guess my Bach was worse than my bike.
Ed Ayres presents Weekend Breakfast on ABC Classic (Saturday and Sunday 6am – 9am). This article was originally published in October 2019.