Travel - The Nation We See

The morning sun spilled golden light over the gleaming spires of New Edinburgh, a city buzzing with promise and possibility. In two different corners of its sprawling urban tapestry, two young men stirred awake in their modest apartments.

Shankar, an Indian student with a mop of unruly black hair, stretched in his cramped studio apartment, the walls adorned with posters of cricket legends and a small shrine to Ganesha. Across town, Rizwan, a Pakistani student with sharp features and a neatly trimmed beard, rose from his bed, his room decorated with calligraphy and a framed photo of the Lahore skyline. Both men, from nations long at odds, were bound by a shared rhythm—and a rivalry that had simmered since their first encounter at Edinburgh College.

Their mornings unfolded like mirrored rituals. Shankar laced up his sneakers and jogged through a nearby park, sweat glistening as he pushed through his workout, his mind already replaying arguments with Rizwan. Rizwan, meanwhile, hit the gym, grunting through sets of weights with fierce determination, picturing Shankar’s smug grin after their last cricket debate. Back in their apartments, Shankar lit a diya and murmured a quiet prayer, hands pressed together. Rizwan unrolled his prayer mat, facing the Qibla, his lips moving in devotion.

Hunger called them to nearby cafés, their paths separate but eerily aligned. Shankar slid into a booth at The Morning Brew, ordering a paratha and lassi, the familiar comfort of home grounding him. Rizwan settled at Cafe Saffron, digging into a masala omelette and chai, the spices sharpening his focus. Both cafés had TVs mounted on the walls, tuned to the same channel—a sports network hyping the India vs. Pakistan cricket match set for later that day.

Rizwan’s eyes gleamed as the screen flashed highlights of Pakistan’s bowlers, their pace tearing through stumps. He leaned back, smirking. “Today, Pakistan’s gonna win. I’ll teach that Shankar a lesson,” he muttered, picturing Shankar’s face when Pakistan would inevitably—Rizwan was sure—claim victory.

At the same moment, Shankar sipped his lassi, grinning at clips of India’s batsmen practice smashing boundaries. “Rizwan’s gonna be ready for another Mauka-Mauka today,” he said under his breath, chuckling at the thought of wiping that confident smirk off Rizwan’s face with India’s triumph.

In unison, though miles apart, they both thought: “Today we must win”

The clock ticked on, and urgency crept in. Both were late for classes at Edinburgh College, their shared battleground. Shankar grabbed his backpack, rushing out to flag a cab. Rizwan slung his bag over his shoulder, darting through the crowded streets. Their paths converged at a busy intersection, where a lone black cab idled by the curb.

They spotted it at the same instant. Shankar jogged forward, hand raised. Rizwan quickened his pace, waving. They reached the cab door simultaneously, freezing as their eyes locked—Shankar and Rizwan, their rivalry a spark ready to ignite.

A beat of silence hung heavy between them, thicker with recognition. Shankar broke it, leaning toward the driver. “Can you drop me to Edinburgh College?” Rizwan, not missing a beat, said, “Same. Edinburgh College.”

The driver, a grizzled man with a thick British accent, raised an eyebrow. Shankar, sensing a chance to win this small battle, added, “I’ll pay five pounds to travel alone.” Rizwan shot him a look, his jaw tightening. “Eight pounds. I want it solo.”

The driver chuckled, shaking his head. “Gentlemen, you’re both going to the same place. Why don’t you share the ride? Save your pounds for something useful.” Shankar and Rizwan exchanged a glance, a mix of suspicion and begrudging acknowledgment flickering in their eyes of time running out.

Later we see, Shankar on the left, Rizwan on the right, leaving a deliberate gap between them on the worn leather seat. The cab pulled into traffic, weaving through New Edinburgh’s bustling streets. Outside, the city hummed with life—students, workers, dreamers all chasing their own stories.

At that moment, the driver turned on the radio. It started voicing out, “The Indian batters are entering the ground to open their partnership.” Hearing that, both of them leaned in to catch the commentary.

The commentator continued, “Here comes the first ball... and it’s a dot ball! Starting with a defensive shot. The pace was quite good. Now, the next ball is delivered — and it’s a Six!” Hearing that, Shankar cheered, while opposite him, Rizwan looked disappointed.

The commentary went on, “The second over begins now... and the first ball — OUT! Dismissing the opening batsman with a fiery swing!” Rizwan shouted excitedly, “Yes!” while Shankar’s face fell.

Rizwan said, “First wicket down. Now nine more to go!” Shankar replied, “Don’t get carried away, it’s just one wicket.” Rizwan grinned and said, “You got excited for just one six — so why can’t I for one wicket?”

Shankar responded with a sarcastic smile, “Let’s see if Pakistan can actually win at least this mauka (chance). It’s been years since I last heard the words Mauka Mauka. Mauka keeps coming... but no winning!”

Rizwan smirked and shot back, “At least we don’t need 1.3 billion people praying for a win every time! One bad day and the whole country goes into mourning!”

Shankar chuckled and replied, “Yeah, yeah... we’ve seen it. Let’s see today how many TV companies make a profit — selling new TVs after fans smash the old ones!”

Then, with a mischievous grin, Shankar added, “Anyway, you guys are experts at attacking from the back — whether in matches or elsewhere. Straight fights toh kabhi jeete nahi (you never win fair and square)!”

Rizwan shot back, “Oh, right. As if your country has been a great preacher of peace!”

Shankar, now furious, snapped, “Yeah, we are! Not like your country that gives shelter to fugitives and terrorists. Just hearing the name Pakistan — everyone knows what it stands for!”

Rizwan leaned forward and retorted, “And not like your country — hiding behind the image of a peace preacher while harming your own minorities!”

Seeing this, the driver said, “Hey boys, why are you both arguing? Stop fighting!”

But Shankar didn’t listen. He fired back at Rizwan, “Harming minorities? Your country has no right to talk about that...” The driver, losing his patience, shouted, “I said, both of you — STOP!” At that, Rizwan and Shankar finally fell silent, glaring at each other but saying nothing more.

The driver turned off the radio and shook his head. “What is wrong with you two? You started with a simple cricket match, and now you’re escalating it into a full-blown country fight. Seriously?”

Shankar responded sharply, “I am an Indian. He’s a Pakistani. What more do you need? Our countries were separated when the largest nation could have been born together.” Rizwan immediately shot back, “If we hadn’t separated, we would have been facing your majority’s torture!”

Shankar retorted sharply, “Your country isn’t any better — look at what’s happening with minorities there, the military coups. So don’t act like you’re saints.” Rizwan replied, holding his ground, “At least we’re making changes, reforming laws for minorities.” Shankar responded firmly, “We have our own laws too — and we treat everyone like brothers and sisters.”

The driver quickly interrupted, raising his voice, “Okay, okay, STOP! Enough!” Both of them finally stopped their argument, sitting back in their seats, still breathing heavily.

After a few moments of silence, the driver asked calmly, “Apart from your nations… do you have any personal hatred for each other? I mean, personally?” Shankar and Rizwan looked at each other — a long, knowing look — and then answered together in unison, “No.”

The driver then said calmly, “See? There’s no personal reason to hate each other. Then there’s no need for hate at all. Support each other — be friends.” Shankar still not ready to fully let it go, smirked and said, “Easy for you to say. The ones saying all this once did the Divide-and-Rule policy in our country a century ago.” Rizwan chuckled and added, “Yeah, the world still remembers your country’s imperialism. How cruel the East India Company’s rule was — squeezing every drop from our lands.”

He driver smirked and said, “Actually... I’m a nomad.” Both Shankar and Rizwan looked at him in shock and asked together, “Wait, so you’re not originally from the UK?” The driver chuckled and replied, “Yes ofcourse.”

Then Rizwan asked curiously, “Where were you actually born then?”

The driver smiled faintly and said, “I don’t know. I was raised by a man named Eric — a nomad. He told me he found me abandoned on the streets of Poland. There was no one around, only ruins.”

He paused, his voice growing softer, “It was during the time of World War II. Eric said the cities were ghost towns... He picked me up and took me with him. Since then, I’ve roamed across countless countries — Italy, Russia, Yemen... too many to name.”

The driver glanced out of the window as if remembering another world and added, “I’ve seen the fall of empires and the birth of new nations with my own eyes.”

Shankar asked thoughtfully, “Didn’t you ever try to find your roots?” The driver smiled sadly and replied, “I did try… but I never found anything. For a while, it made me feel lost.”

He looked ahead, then added with quiet pride, “But then I realized — the whole world is my home. So, instead of searching for a past, I decided to build my future. I made my own family.”

The driver pulled out a slightly worn photograph from his dashboard and showed it to them. His finger gently pointed as he said, “This is my wife, Lyla... and that’s my son, Tom, and my daughter, Sarah. Now, both my children are living their own lives, making their own journeys.”

Rizwan smiled warmly and said, “It’s nice to hear your story.” Shankar nodded and added, “From having no one to creating a family... that’s truly inspiring.” The car fell into a peaceful silence for a moment.

The driver continued, “We can’t say if the nations we know today will even exist tomorrow. If you look into the past, every country we see now was once a kingdom — ruled by kings, queens, or emperors. In some places, there were even two or more kingdoms fighting for power. People back then had pride in their kingdoms, just like we have pride in our countries today.”

He glanced at both Shankar and Rizwan before continuing, “But where does it all go wrong?”

He took a thoughtful pause and then said, “It’s when pride turns into hostility — when we show it through sports rivalries, arguments with people from other nations, and endless competition. From my experience, true nationalism isn’t about beating others. It’s about speaking honestly for your own country — recognizing its faults, working to fix them.”

The driver’s voice softened but carried weight, “You don’t have to be a great leader to do that. Even a common man, a simple voice, matters when it points out what needs to be better. That builds the right foundation for the future.”

He smiled gently and concluded, “And most importantly... always put humanity before nationalism. That is what truly makes a nation great.”

Later, we see both Shankar and Rizwan stepping out of the cab. Shankar asked, “How much for the ride?” The driver replied with a smile, “Four pounds.”

Both Rizwan and Shankar took out their share and handed it over to him. Rizwan then asked, “By the way, sir, what’s your name?” The driver responded, “Oscar Schindler.”

Shankar smiled and said, “It was really nice talking to you, Oscar.” Oscar nodded warmly, “I felt the same, gentlemen.”

Rizwan added, “You just gave me a new way of looking at nationalism.” Oscar chuckled softly and said, “If you carry it with you in life, that’s good. If it ends with the cab ride, that’s your choice.”

Shankar said sincerely, “Thank you for your wonderful words.” Oscar replied, “My pleasure, gentlemen.” He tipped his hat slightly, started the cab, and drove away, disappearing into the bustling streets.

After he left, Rizwan and Shankar exchanged a brief glance. Shankar said, “Time’s running out.” Rizwan smiled and responded, “Let’s head to our classroom.”

And together, they started walking toward their class — leaving behind a lingering question: Had they truly put aside the weight of national hate, or was it just a passing moment of reflection? The answer, perhaps, lies within us too.