A Fantasy Rooted in Hope

Imagine a world, just slightly different from the one we inherited. A world where passports didn’t divide, where the scent of Hyderabadi biryani was stronger than the stench of political fear. In this world, I wake up one morning in Delhi, and decide, almost whimsically, to drive to Lahore for lunch. It’s only five hours away, after all. The border? Just a quaint stop where officers smile and wave you through, stamping your passport not with suspicion but with saffron-scented hospitality.

I reach Lahore by noon. The streets are abuzz with chai, laughter, qawwalis floating in the breeze. I sit under a peepal tree in the old city, devouring seekh kebabs and thick lassi, the kind that makes you pause mid-sentence to let the flavour sink in. But the day isn’t done yet.

By evening, I’m cruising toward Kabul, yes, Kabul, chasing a craving for Kabuli pulao, rice bejeweled with dry fruits and raisins, served in Shahr-e-Nau, Kabul’s leading markets, with a side of local folklore. I check into the Serena Hotel, not behind barbed wire, but beside rose gardens, where evening prayers and poetry drift together into the Afghan dusk.

The next day, it’s Peshawar’s turn, for chapli kebabs, grilled on coal and history. Then on to Gujranwala for halwa puri, before circling back to the sacred serenity of Amritsar's Golden Temple, the sarovar shining under the sun. And then, en route to Delhi, I pull over in Murthal for parathas that remind you why wheat was once currency in our civilization.

This is not a dream. This is a fantasy of what should have been, what could still be.

A South Asia unshackled from borders soaked in blood. A region led not by generals and despotic rulers, but by poets, farmers, teachers, and chefs. A world where religion binds rather than blinds. Where identity is not weaponized, and difference is not feared.

I recall sitting across from Ted Turner, the founder of CNN, during a lunch in Atlanta. He said something that lodged deep within me: "Why do we keep bombing bridges, when we should be building them?" His words weren’t metaphor. They were prophecy.

What if we built those bridges?

What if a cruise sailed from Mumbai to Karachi, not with refugees, but with revelers? What if trains ran from Dhaka to Delhi, filled with poets, pilgrims, painters? What if Bengal's sweets weren’t just local delicacies but regional treasures enjoyed across a unified subcontinent?

Imagine if South Asia, like the EU, chose integration over isolation. Imagine a region united not by treaties but by taste buds, textile threads, and temple bells. A hub for the world, not just in IT or cricket, but in culture, cuisine, and compassion.

Yes, even today, India is a miracle of multiplicity, with dozens of languages, infinite identities, yet a shared rhythm. What if that spirit spilled over into Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, and Sri Lanka? What if Kabul and Kolkata remembered they were cousins? What if Lahore and Lucknow held hands again?

It doesn't take more than an hour to fly from Delhi to Kabul. But it takes decades to dismantle hate. It takes vision to see past propaganda. And it takes courage, the rarest currency in geopolitics, to imagine peace in a land drunk on division.

We’re spending billions on bombs, while the very people who suffer from these wars struggle to earn two dollars a day. Missiles don’t kill soldiers. They kill children, bakers, fruit sellers, mothers. And for what? For the illusion of control. For the intoxication of power. For votes, for vengeance, for vanity, for religious supremacy?

What if we flipped the narrative? What if politics wasn’t about who shouts the loudest, but who listens the deepest? What if leaders looked across borders and saw opportunity, not enemy?

What if, as John Lennon once pleaded, we imagined a world with no borders?

A world where "Pahalgam" means beauty, not killings of innocents. Where terrorism is a chapter in history books, not in breaking news. Where we celebrate Eid, Diwali, Vaisakhi, and Christmas together, not out of tolerance, but joy.

Will this happen in my lifetime? Unlikely.

But that’s not the point. You aim for the moon. You might reach the stars. You aim for the rooftop… you might just land in the toilet. Therefore, I would still aim high and fall short than to stop dreaming altogether.

Because if we can imagine breakfast in the paranthe wali galli in Chandi Chowk, lunch at Butt Karahi in Lahore and dinner at Sufi Mahal in Kabul, maybe, just maybe, we’re already halfway there.

Hot Paranthas at Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi

Mutton Nihari and hot roti in Lahore