On one of my annual visits to London, I dropped into the Red Lion, the pub tucked away between Downing Street and the Houses of Parliament, where Winston Churchill was known to tipple. Whether he stopped there on his way to work or on his way home, I have no idea. Knowing Churchill, probably both.
After surveying the pub’s interiors, I found myself on a barstool next to a Pakistani Punjabi. He came from Jhelum district—the very area from which both my parents had fled as refugees during Partition. That discovery produced instant bonhomie.
As usually happens when an Indian and a Pakistani find themselves sharing a drink, the conversation soon turned to the familiar lament: how wonderful it would be if our two countries were friends; how ordinary people on both sides wanted peace; and how governments, armies and vested interests kept the hostility alive.