The Punjab - A tale of two cities and 5 rivers.

India

Upon landing in India after a 19-hour flight covering 7,000 kilometers from Lahore via Dubai to Amritsar—just 40 kilometers from Lahore—I sleepwalked into my hotel in the city center. The contrast between the smog-filled streets of Lahore and the brief stop in shiny Dubai was stark, highlighting the differences between India and Pakistan. This circuitous itinerary was my only option to legally bring my bike from Pakistan into India, exploiting a loophole in the visa system. The process involved obtaining an e-visa, leaving my bike, Tara, in Pakistan, flying into India, and then exiting via a land border to get the necessary exit stamp. This stamp is crucial, as it permits the subsequent re-entry with my own vehicle, allowing me to return via the same border with Tara.

Despite Lahore and Amritsar both being major Punjabi cities, the difference in wealth and affluence was a shock at first. Walking from the airport to the city center, I had to double-take when I saw a woman driving a scooter—without a veil! I almost caught myself shouting “Haram!” I was so accustomed to being in the Muslim world, where women are rarely seen driving, that it took me some time to acclimatize. The streets were busy and crowded like those in Pakistan; the air was still smoggy and rich with a mixture of exotic aromas and open sewers—but there was something different.

The hordes of 70cc Pakistani Honda one-cylinders ridden sometimes five abreast had been replaced by thunderous classics: Royal Enfields piloted by giant, proud, turbaned Sikhs, looking cool as fuck with their large beards and Ray-Ban glasses, exuding confidence.

Sadhus—Indian ascetic saints—began appearing in the streets, roaming barefoot in their orange robes. Hindu temples replaced the mosques, and colorful statues of strange, unknown gods challenged my senses.

Amritsar

Rather than rushing straight back to Pakistan to recover Tara and cross again, I decided to discover the city by foot—without worrying about the bike, where to park it, etc…I had three days to wander around before heading back to Pakistan across the notorious Wagah border to collect Tara and cross again.

Traveling alone and arriving in a new city can be overwhelming at times. The noises, the traffic, unfamiliar customs—it was disorienting. The fatigue from the flight had diminished my resolve and courage to explore, and the temptation to lock myself in my room for a day was hard to resist. I was still used to traveling in Pakistan and Afghanistan, where despite appearances, one always had to look over one’s shoulder for fear of being followed by the GID or other nefarious actors. I knew that I was safe in India, but the vigilance of the past months lingered in my mind.

Then flashes of abstract Patrick came back to haunt me—the disillusioned millionaire traveling the world on his bike, shutting himself away from the world in his expensive hotel rooms. That anxiety was enough to get me out of my room, so I set out to discover the city on foot and headed toward the Golden Temple.

From what I had read the Golden Temple, was also known as Harmandir Sahib, it was not only the spiritual nucleus of Sikhism but also considered an architectural marvel. For generations, it has served as a beacon of hope, resilience, and communal harmony for Sikhs and visitors from all over the world. Something drew me to this place, something I could not define.

I roamed the busy streets, getting lost in the sights and smells. Every corner seemed to have a temple or a statue of some unknown god. The city was fully vegetarian—a sharp contrast with the incredible Pakistani karahi houses. It was as hectic as any Pakistani city, but the vibe was more relaxed; people occasionally stared but I wasn’t stopped every few feet for a selfie. The crowds were a mix of local Sikhs, traveling Indians, and pilgrims from all over Punjab coming to pray at the temple. At the entrance, I was stopped by a white-bearded Sikh in his late 70s, as big as a wardrobe. He kissed my hands and feet and wouldn’t stop talking to me in Punjabi, despite my attempts to tell him that I didn’t understand a word. I felt embarrassed by this exaggerated display—I wasn’t quite accustomed to the fact that in India the notion of personal space just doesn’t exist. Tired from the flight and in need of calm, I decided to head deeper into the temple for some refuge.

The Golden Temple

I had no idea what the temple was about or much about Sikhism; I just felt a strange draw toward it. At first, I walked in without a head dress and was reprimanded by two giant temple guards. Luckily, I had my Afghan shemag around my neck as a scarf. I wrapped it around my head and was let in. It felt odd wearing an Afghan scarf in a Sikh temple—this journey had really taken me to some strange places. I had to empty my pockets before entering. Discarding my cigarettes and lighter, as they were considered impure.

It was a Sunday, and the place was heaving with devoted pilgrims and visitors, all congregating at the entrances of the arches leading to the temple. The temple itself looked like a mini fort covered in gold, sitting in the middle of a football-pitch-sized lake surrounded by tall marble walls. In the lake, Sikh men undressed and bathed in the holy water to receive its blessings.

 One can only access the temple by a small gangway that extends from the marble walkway to the center of the lake, where the Golden Temple seems to float. The bridge was jam-packed with at least a thousand devotees eager to enter the temple and be blessed. Constant chanting blasting from the loudspeakers immersed the thousands of visitors in a trance-like pattern of movement around the walkway. The temple was alive with music, movement, chanting—an organic, living spiritual structure. So far removed from the stale, abandoned churches of the West, here, within these walls, religion, practice, and life were truly lived.

The banks of the lake were made of white marble, and the pilgrims seemed to walk around it in a clockwise pattern. I joined the flow, sitting on the banks to observe this living, chanting, breathing temple. In front of me was a proud middle-aged Sikh man, crossed-legged in a red turban, eyes shut, meditating and humming a mantra. Next to me, a young woman in a colourful sari sang along to the tunes of the chants coming from the speakers.

The temple was guarded by Sikh warriors with yellow turbans and deep purple robes, all carrying swords and spears. The walls are adorned with plaques bearing the names of fallen brave Sikh warriors, commemorating their sacrifice. The plaques reminded me of those I had seen every Sunday morning in church while at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst—13th Punjabi Lancers, The Punjabi Gunners… Despite being thousands of miles from home, I felt at home in this place. The uniforms looked British, with familiar rank slides and insignias, surrounded by the memories of these brave warriors who had laid down their lives in service to their country.

I sat there for hours, watching and meditating, until suddenly I was overcome by it all. Something in me had shifted—I couldn’t quite explain it. My eyes began watering; something powerful was happening.

My reveries were interrupted when a large guardian walked past me. Our eyes locked, staring intently, proudly—with maybe a hint of fierceness. Neither of us looked away. Then his stern, serious face broke into a smile; I dropped my mask and smiled back. He walked off and returned a few minutes later and handed me a local Punjabi sweet. He said something I didn’t understand and then walked off—I was completely taken aback by his act of kindness.

After the temple, I wandered the streets until I found a vegetarian restaurant. There, I had an enlightening discussion with an atheist Muslim. On my way back to the hotel, I was invited into a small temple to pray to a cobra god. I slept for 12 hours that night.

Service and duty play a huge role in Sikhism—a fact I didn’t realize at the time as I entered this sacred place with no prior knowledge. Something I would be drawn back to the following g day.

Sewa

The next morning, I decided to spend more time at the temple. After the usual setup tasks upon arriving in a new country—SIM cards, insurance, money exchange—I headed for an early gym session and then returned to the temple in the afternoon.

I went straight to the temple without any stops along the way, keen to learn more about Sikhism and to explore the feeling I had experienced there the night before. In the ramparts of the temple is the Sikhism museum, depicting their bloody and violent history. The walls are covered with paintings of valiant Sikh warriors leading cavalry charges against the Mughals and depictions of Sikh martyrs enduring unspeakable torments at the hands of caricatured, malevolent Mughal despots.

Punjab has long been a crossroads of civilizations, its history marked by the valor and resilience of its people. From the early days of Sikhism, the region witnessed the rise of a faith rooted in equality and justice, with Sikh warriors defending their land against various invaders. The Mughal era brought both cultural flourishing and brutal oppression, as emperors imposed their rule over a fiercely independent populace.

The Partition of India and Pakistan in 1947 had shattered the Punjab, displacing over 10 million people and unleashing communal violence that scarred the region for generations.

I had been told by a young Sikh to look for evidence of impact rounds from the 1984 Sikh uprising.

In 1984, the Sikh community experienced profound trauma following Operation Blue Star, when the Indian government stormed the Golden Temple, and the subsequent anti-Sikh riots that erupted across the nation. This upheaval not only left physical marks on the temple’s periphery but also etched deep emotional scars in the collective memory of the Sikhs, a constant reminder of their struggle for dignity and justice.

Later that evening as a wandered around the temple, I was invited to take part in the sewa—a means of “selfless service.” It involves acting selflessly and helping others in a variety of ways, without any reward or personal gain. It is a way of life for many Sikhs and part of their daily routine.

At its core, Sikhism is founded on the principles of equality, compassion, and selfless service. The faith emphasizes the importance of community, where every individual is seen as equal regardless of caste, creed, or gender. Devotion to Waheguru or God is expressed not through ritual alone but through acts of sewa—unconditional service to others—which embodies the true spirit of humility, solidarity, and active compassion.

So I spent the rest of the day doing sewa in the kitchens of the Golden Temple, washing dishes for the ten thousand people who eat there for free every day. I was led into a large room with six 12-meter-long washing basins. The basins were continuously being filled by a stream of metal plates, cups, bowls, and cutlery from ravenous pilgrims. At my station were rich, poor, old, and young Sikh men, all with their sleeves rolled up, silently cleaning the endless stream of crockery. I took my place and silently joined in; hours passed and I felt at peace, immersed in the monotonous, entrancing rhythm of wash, rinse, wipe, and repeat.

The only sounds were the crashing of metal plates and the chants blaring from loudspeakers in the temple courtyard. The work was hard and relentless—it never stopped—but within that, peace and acceptance were found. It quieted the mind and levelled the people. Just roll your sleeves up and get on with life—the Sikh way.

Despite being the only foreigner there, no one batted an eyelid. I was simply there doing what needed to be done. In that moment, I fell in love with the Sikhs.

After a few hours, I left the line and wandered into the kitchens, following the flow of cutlery that we had just cleaned to where it was being used. Through various halls and into the main dining hall, I was offered a tray and a place to sit in a long line of worshippers. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I enjoyed a meal of rice, dahl, and rice pudding served by other volunteers.

I returned to my room that night, prepared my small backpack to return to Pakistan and pick up Tara—intent on returning as soon as possible to the Golden Temple.

The Loophole

The next day, I set off by taxi to cross the Wagah border from India to Pakistan. I had left Tara with Hussein, the Pakistani criminal lawyer. The border crossing was a seamless process—contrary to what I had expected. Unsurprisingly uncrowded, there hasn’t been much “tourism” between India and Pakistan lately, or at all since the Partition in 1947.

The road leading to the border was devoid of traffic—no commercial trucks, no travellers. For about 20 kilometers, the area was unpopulated. Most people living there had been cleared out after the violence that took place following the Partition, leaving the area pretty desolate aside from a few farms and a disproportionate number of military bases.

At the border, the few people crossing into Pakistan were mainly Sikhs on pilgrimages—visa exceptions are made for them—and a couple of loud Muslim families. We were loaded onto a bus and driven through the DMZ to Pakistan. After the usual hassle of getting money exchanged, I grabbed a taxi to get to Hussein’s. The air was thick with smog and had an acrid taste. While waiting for my taxi, I met Alina, a fierce Russian solo traveler I had met a few days earlier in Lahore. She was on her way to India, looking rather pale, and told me she had just recovered from a severe bout of illness.

Unsurprisingly, considering the levels of pollution that were starting to be reported that week, we shared tea and wished each other good luck on our travels. On the road, it’s always reassuring and heartwarming to bump into other wanderers—someone with whom you can share an easy conversation that isn’t just “Where are you from? How much is your bike? Have you been to XYZ?” Wanderers share the same lust for travel and also its pains, so it’s always good therapy when we meet and can gripe about things that people back home would call self-indulgence.

Lahore Belly

When I arrived at Hussein’s, something was wrong—my stomach started rumbling. The plan was to pick up Tara and set off back to India the next day for the reverse crossing.

Settled into the night, excited at the prospect of entering India on Tara—the place of her namesake—I was abruptly awakened at 3 a.m. by a sudden urge to run to the toilet. I was staying in Hussein’s spare room on the floor; there was a small Indian toilet and that was it. I spent the next three days emptying myself, battling a 40-degree fever. My time was divided between doing deep squats on the toilet and crawling out on all fours to lie on the floor, curled up in a ball in the worst pain I had ever experienced.

In my delirious state, I was confronted with my own decisions to come. She was back in the picture—we were talking and making plans to meet in India. I was afraid to see her; what if it didn’t work out? I couldn’t afford to get hurt again. Val had left to follow his Promethean search for knowledge in the south of Pakistan—to Multan and Karachi, I felt alone.

 In order to see her, I would have to cancel my planned crossing of Tibet to head into Nepal. I needed to know whether what we had was real, so I decided to follow my heart and disregard all the warnings from friends and family. Amidst the bouts of sickness and delirium, I felt at my lowest—rudderless, vulnerable, and alone. The plan had never been to go into India, yet here I was, about to head into this whole new continent with no plan and a faint hope of love. My internal struggle matched the physical pain. To add to the sense of impending doom, pollution warnings in Lahore had reached an all-time high. The Air Quality Index had recorded over 1200 AQI. Anything above 520 AQI is considered a health risk and would lead any European city to issue health warnings and temporarily close down all non-vital activities. That week, Lahore was double that—going outside and walking around was equivalent to smoking 27 packs of cigarettes in ten minutes.

On the few days I could manage, I walked outside and couldn’t see more than ten meters ahead. The pollution was dense and stung the eyes. As I lay on the floor reading news headlines about the pollution, I just wished I could feel well enough to ride again—to escape this hellhole. I craved fresh air; I couldn’t breathe. I needed to feel free and alive again. The emotional pain linked to her and the thought of seeing her again compounded my exhaustion. I had been riding for six months by this point, and I didn’t realize it yet, but I was at burnout. I was exhausted—I just wanted some peace.

When I finally had enough energy to get back on Tara, I set off from Hussein’s to ride across the border. Still feeble from my illness and worried about the air quality, I started tentatively early in the morning, riding across Lahore back to the Wagah border.

The Most Polluted City in the World

What a disturbing ride that was. I witnessed devastation like I had never seen before—more insidious and pervasive than any disaster or war zone. The pollution and toxicity in the air were purely man-made, a self-inflicted disease harming everyone who breathed it. The air was thick with an acrid, dense smog. It permeated everything; even sitting on the bike was hard on the lungs, let alone walking. The smell was a pungent mix of burnt plastic, car fumes, and something indescribably vile and industrial. The sun was completely blocked out by the toxic clouds, rendering the air almost cold—it felt like every living thing beneath them was being microwaved.

Twelve million people live in Lahore officially. All the motorways were shut due to poor visibility, so all the traffic was diverted onto smaller roads. In any other country, an emergency status would have been declared, banning unnecessary travel in these conditions. But how could one enforce that on a population that lives hand-to-mouth daily? How could you tell people—who are barely surviving—that the air is killing them when they are fighting for survival just to feed their families?

The roads were clogged with trucks, tuk-tuks, motorcycles, and horse-drawn carriages, adding to the fumes like cancer patients smoking cigarettes outside a hospital. The pitiful acceptance on the locals’ faces—crammed into the back of overloaded tuk-tuks, inhaling a shorter life one fume-filled breath at a time—was shocking. Blessed are the ignorant young men who rode past me on their motorbikes without helmets, a cigarette dangling from their mouths, with zero fucks given. And why would they care? At this point, they might as well live dangerously. I got stuck in a two-hour gridlock just a few kilometers from the border, fighting the tuk-tuks and single-stroke Hondas in a vain attempt to escape this living hell. I was getting more and more frustrated until I looked around and realized there was nothing I could do—and neither could they. The Pakistanis around me seemed unphased by their slow, toxic death that was engulfing us. Suddenly, I felt ashamed at my own frustration; at least I was leaving the country, while they were stuck here. Their quiet resignation was the only recourse they had. How could I dare be angry at something temporary for me, when it was a daily reality for them?

I finally managed to break out and escape the traffic jam. Weaving through the city, I crossed several slums—built atop mountains of rubbish, often over fifty meters high. The stench made me gag in my helmet. How could people live in such squalor? How did they survive, maintain their dignity, and strive even? The scenes in these slums were like something out of a dystopian nightmare. Is this what the earth is doomed to if we don’t curb man’s effect on nature? My thoughts were interrupted by a full family of five on a small motorbike descending from a hut built atop a mound of trash and excrement, riding off into the smog. A man lay on a bed of plastic bottles, staring hopelessly at the road before drooping his head and going back to sleep. Then, another large man—maybe the same age as me—emerged from the trash. He stared right at me with such rage in his eyes. We were from different worlds; his gaze scared me. How could he be my age and have survived in this living hell for so long? What must he have done to make it? I wondered what he thought of seeing me on my bike, looking like an alien in a hazmat suit. What was happening to this world? Was this what the bottom of the pile looked like? How have we allowed our brothers and sisters to live like this—discarded like trash?

I rode back toward the Wagah border, tired, exhausted, and partly in shock at the levels of poverty I had witnessed. It was the weekend, and on the Indian side, thousands were flocking to the border to watch the evening ceremony—tall Indian guardsmen facing off against their Pakistani counterparts in a theatrical display of marching and peacocking. I toyed with the idea of watching, but after the scenes of poverty and squalor I had just seen, I couldn’t bear the thought of watching thousands of Indians jeer at their Pakistani neighbours. I was too tired to face a display of nationalist arrogance in the face of a dying country.

I was finally across the border with Tara, ready to tackle India—but I was utterly exhausted. I needed a break. I headed to a ayuavedic hostel on the outskirts of Amritsar running on fumes desperate for a cosy bed to rest in.