Imagine a large hall in a major city in Punjab, on the other side of the border. It’s packed with people, mostly women from Pakistan, India, Nepal, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. On the stage are two men: one a long-haired bearded, hairy – chested sardar, the other a clean shaven smooth – chested younger man. They are engaged in a languorous, erotic, sometimes passionate, sometimes tender, rendering of the story of Heer Ranjha. In the background Madan Gopal’s wonderfully resonant voice sings the story. Tragedy hangs in the air, for most of the people in the hall are familiar with this beautifully story of star – crossed lovers, and after the initial hesitation at seeing two men, they now ‘believe’ that the beaded Navtej Johar is actually Heer, and the supple Anil is Ranjha. Such is the power of their dance.

We’re in Islamabad, attending a dance performance that marks the end of the day of conferencing (Reclaiming Space from Victim hood to Agency: State and Civil Society Response on Violence Against Women in South Asia), and of an award ceremony in the memory of a young women, Meeto Bhasin Malik, whose untimely death remains one of the great losers of the women’s movement in India. There is not a dry eye in the house the story of Meeto and the story of Heer and Ranjha have ensured that.

There’s joy too, for the Meeto award this year, given for outstanding contribution to the cause of women by young women, is given to the only women mayor in Afghanistan, a young, petite women called Azra Jafri. And there’s tension the organizers are on edge, a crowded event, a dance performance, an Indian team, it’s a recipe for disaster in a town and a country that is no stranger to violence. But things pass of peacefully, the dance ends, the music dies away, and the entire hall erupts in applause and appreciation.

The last time I was in the city wasn’t so long ago. Then, my Pakistan friends and I had eaten and shopped in the very same market where, a week later, the politician Salman Taseer would be shot in broad daylight for speaking out in defence of a Christian women accused of blasphemy. Things have, if anything, become worse. Yet, an in all such places, life goes on and I see my Pakistan friends joke and laugh about the problems they face every day some of them life-threatening as they come out of discussions on violence against women.

It’s an odd thing about meeting that involves Indians and Pakistanis. No matter who else is there, somehow the discussion inevitably becomes one where Pakistanis and Indians talk to each other, often breaking into Urdu, or Punjabi, forgetting that others need also to be in the know. Those watching might shake their heads in resignation, thinking, there they go again.

Our discussions for the past two days have focused on violence against women. Between our two countries there is no competition here rape, molestation, ‘honor’ killings, domestic violence, we have them all, and we’d be hard put to it, to say who the better entity here is. Both have shameful recorders another thing we have in common. But here at least, we’re listening to each other. As speaker after speaker details the ways in which they deal with cases of violence, the mismatch between law and forensics, the impunity of offenders and state collusion, women from across South Asia listen and nod and learn from each other. Nationalist rhetoric is remarkable by its absence here. The organizers, an NGO called Zest Rozan, are happy, their larger broods of male and female volunteers are excited, they’re learning so much, they’re meeting people from different countries but especially from across the border. A staff member who has been chasing our police clearances smiles as he hands them over to us ‘it’s my dream to India one day,’ he says, ‘in meeting you I have at least begun the process of fulfilling that dream.’

As the conference ends I make my ways to Lahore. I travel by bus, a unique Pakistani inter-city system known like our Volvo buses by the make of the buses rather than the routes on which they ply as Daewoo. On the way I watch as the landscape of hills and hillocks gives way to flat terrain, as the dusk sets in the dust begins to rise as the cows come here, the moment we call godhuli(dusk). I could be in India, there’s nothing that marks this flat terrain, these abundant crops, these heavy oxen, as different.

We stop for a fifteen minute break. I’ve been told by all my friends to be very quick here the bus doesn’t wait for anyone they say, that’s what makes it so efficient in keeping its timings. One loud report of the horn and it’s off. Fearful of missing it, and being stranded in the middle of nowhere, I stay on the bus. But the young couple sitting across from me comes up and encourages me to get off. There’s still two hours to go, they tell me, why you don’t come down and have a cup of tea. I’m not a tea drinker, but I don’t have it in me to say no, so I go with them.

On the way, we decide to make a visit to the toilet, and the young women and I have an idle discussion about the current fashion for women’s clothes in Pakistan. Sometimes I say alerts her that I may not be local, and she exclaims: you‘re from India? The gaggle of laughing, chattering women in the bathroom suddenly falls silent, they’re filled with curiosity they look at me, at my clothes, my hair, my face, to se if I am any different, and they confess or some of them do that they dearly want to visit India, they’ve heard to much about it, and they watch serials on Star Plus!

The young women’s partner returns, she tells him excitedly what she’s discovered about me, and he demands special tea from the chai wallah. I offer to pay they’re both much younger than me, but they’ll have none of it. And the chai wallah, who’s heard our discussion, in the end doesn’t take anything from them, insisting that he wants to offer at least a cup of tea to the mehmaan in their midst.

I’m overwhelmed by this, but it’s nothing new. It’s not my first encounter with stray Pakistanis. And yet, apart from the odd occasion on which I have met hostility, people have been unfailingly polite, often very kind, and hospitable to a fault. I wonder, not for the first time, what the fuss and tension is about between our two countries.

I’m not native about this I know of course that there are real issues there that keep the hostility alive, that keep us apart. But there’s also the inescapable reality that there is a deep curiosity, and a deep desire for people to met and talk and learn that the ‘other’ is not the monster they believe him or her to be. Perhaps, I think, we should play many more cricket matches!

There’s another thing that happens from Delhi, we’ve gone in a group: all women, one man who calls himself a trans-gender person (a TG in common parlance). From the moment we land in Lahore and being the process of clearing immigration, he’s surrounded by people, mostly men, who have a deep curiosity about him and who don’t hesitate to show it. One of them even asks him if he feels more female than male this a bare few moments after he sees him. At Lahore airport, as we wait to pick up our flight to Islamabad, a mother and daughter duo sitting across from us, watch him carefully, without seeming obvious. At some point, he walks across to them and the mother engages him in conversation and then makes him a gift of a lipstick. I’m not sure what to make of this, but I’m struck by the frank expression of curiosity and the unabashed expression of it.

Back in Delhi, when I go to my yoga class, my friends in the class want to know where had I been? I tell them about my visit to Pakistan. Isn’t it dangerous, one of them asks me, did you feel safe there? The odd thing is, it is dangerous the Pakistanis themselves will tell you this, they’ll advise you not to go to certain places, to always take care. But the only time I felt any danger, it was from the rampant dengue mosquito that has laid siege to the city of Lahore, where it has taken over 500 lives.

Six decades. It’s more than enough time. Time for us to make good our promises of normalizing relations , of opening borders, of making it possible for people to travel, to visit their old homes, to reconnect with their friends, to indulge in the simple pleasures of shopping, eating, visiting, and more importantly, seeking our joint research projects, uncovering our hidden histories.

Will this happen in the near future? It’s difficult to say. But this I do not know, the day I am able to make a visit to Mohenjodaro and Taxila without having to seek a hundred permissions, without worrying about reporting to the police, the day my friends are able to cross over and visit Ajanta and Ellora, Indore and Orchha, I’ll know things have begun to normalize, and that’s when we can really begin to celebrate, it’s not such a difficult thing to imagine for two countries, can it really be so impossible to realize?