Not only is the border between India and Pakistan fiercely guarded by the tallest and proudest men the two countries can muster, there’s something decidedly Python-esque about the whole thing

. At least about the spectacle that greets you when you find our way to the daily shutting-of-the-gate, closing-of-the-border at Wagah border post

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Every night, the border gates are slammed shut in a carefully choreographed flurry of mock-agressive gestures performed in unison by soldiers on both sides. And even if the official closing isn’t until about 6 in the afternoon, the only land border between the two regional nuclear powers in unpassable for a couple of hours before that as the throng of spectators build up.
Approaching the border on the Indian side – and I can only assume the Pakistani approach is similar – you pass endless lines of lorries waiting to deliver their goods into the hands of the arch enemy on the other side of the barrier. A mile or so before the actual line, an iron gate blocks any progress – for pedestrians and vehicles alike.
The lorry drivers are forced to hang around for hours and even, I guess, days. The most eager spectators arrive early to ensure a place close to the gate. As the hour approaches, the pressure builds to the point where stern-looking officials wield their lathis as they shout “women and children” first. You’d think we were the last survivors trying to escape the Titanic, and the crowd has a will stronger than anything my legs can muster. I’m pushed, lifted, almost toppled as everyone surges toward the narrow pedestrian gate. The stern and mustachioed man looks me square in the eye, and whether it’s my despair or his sense of hospitality, he beckons me in through the gate.

Eventually the flood gates open and the mad dash for the border is on. Trying to hold our group together is already difficult and becomes almost impossible as the men and women are separated for the forst security checks. The metal detectors beep incessantly, but as with so many of these checks in India, noone seems to care. Absurdly, though, the ban on bags is strictly enforced, including the cellofane-wrapped popcorn someone bought at the gate. No snacking at this show it seems.
Reaching the actual border post, complete with curved grandstand creating a concrete amphitheatre, we are separated again: Indians from foreigners this time. Random passport checks that don’t seem to have any purpose delay us for a while, before we are guided to the designated tourist section, closest to the border. So far, the Pakistani side has only lured a few spectators, and the Indina crowd has started heckling the opposition.

The tallest holiday rep you’ve ever seen has started an impromptu relay race. Not that there’s anything improvised about it
. He’s a pro and he’s a trained border guard. But today he’s picking out school boys and girls, handing them two massive Indian flags and sending them running towards Pakistan. Waving their flags, they turn just before they stray into “enemy territory”, then return to be replaced by the next pair in an endless relay
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There’s music, chanting and dancing, a regular street party on the edge of civilisation as Indians know it. “Jai Hind!” rings out from the crowd in response to the holiday rep’s shouts. “Pakistan zindabad!” is the immediate response from the growing crowd across the border.
But amidst the fervor building up, there’s a gentle side showing through. Even the firecest of guards breaks into a smile and reveals his inner giant boy scout as he guides an elderly lady to her seat. Stern-faced female guards with their hair in the tightest of buns smile, hug and join briefly in the dancing

But then, a command call. A man chosen for his lung capacity as well as his stature – all the men seem to be at least two metres tall (that’s about 6’7″ in old money) – calls out “Atte-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-n-tion!” or something to that effect, holding the note for longer than any normal human being can hold their breath. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Singly, in pairs and in small columns, putting on their game faces, the guards march briskly up the border line. Mirroring their Pakistani counterparts, the flash gleaming white leather gloves and slam their perfectly shibed black boots to the ground. Headwear as ostentatious as the peacock feathers they seem made to resemble are adjusted with precise flicks of the wrist.
The crowd responds to every shout, stamp and flourish. This is war by proxy, it’s a rap battle, it’s kindergarten oneupmanship raised to an art form and performed by the most serious looking men and women who ever said “My dad can beat up your dad”.
While the locals on either side cheer on their team and shout abuse at the other side, the tourists are jockeying for the best photo-ops and shout abuse at any of their own who stand up for too long, blocking everyone else’s view.

Though the build-up has gone on for quite a while, the actual ceremony really isn’t that long

. Suddenly the flag lines are out, held across the road. The flags of the two countries that emerged out of British colonial rule are slowly lowered in perfect unison, passing each other on the way down.
A few more shouts, stamps and the briefest of hand shakes are exchanged and then the gates are slammed shut. The precarious balance of power has survived another day and all can sleep well, knowing that tonight at Wagah, none shall pass.