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A friend offered me to visit with him the land of Sikhs – Amritsar, Punjab (India). I was excited to take a journey to the destination I'd only imagined to visit before. It took almost seven hours for Swarna Shatabdi Express to reach Amritsar from New Delhi. We whiled away the time while enjoying the different sites that crossed us and, yes, in fits of sleep. We chatted about various notions of seeing and defining a place, a photograph, or any art. It wasn't long enough to pass through the sights of men with long beards and colorful turbans. At first, they felt like strangers, and soon I recognized a similar human in them. We reached in the afternoon. There it was: a proud city embracing its humble dwellers. From the station, a carrier transported us through the narrow and wide streets, which represent the city's conglomeration of tradition and modernity. In a restaurant around the Town Hall, we tried unique Punjabi dishes with a glass of Lassi for lunch. After having some rest, in the evening, we went to explore the city – particularly the memorial of the Jalianwala massacre and the Golden Temple. On looking at the Temple – surrounded with a vast pond, on the shores of which devotees take a dip to benefit from the sacred water – I felt something changed in me. After covering our heads, we went in along with other people. The expressions of kindness and wonder hid the identities of visitors: we could've been anyone, belonging to any faith, but at this moment, we were all enthusiasts, at peace with ourselves. We waited in a long queue until we reached the inner holy-side of the Temple made of gold. The tombs inside the Temple extent relief. I was a new person. The next morning we went to see a mosque, in a village far away from the central city, identified to be restored. It took us about an hour in a car to reach there. Lush green crops surrounded both sides of the road, spilled the memories of those killed in the Partition-bloodshed. Finally, we reached the spot where the mosque is located – on the outskirts of Gurdaspur. It was only a few miles away from the border-line that separates India and Pakistan – formerly the one country. The structure looked like a taunt. A burial of thousand memories, of broken dreams. A past glory. It tasted like an old world, a history. It had in it buried former saints and holy men, and outside, many unidentified graves scattered in the open lawn – perhaps followers of these saints. This land is witness to the countless killings and mass migrations. Watching the idols of Hindu and Sikh Gurus inside the mosque appeared like barriers dissolving. It looked like peace, tasted like pride, felt like a miracle. It spoke of the bloodbaths, of divisions, of Partition, of abandonment, of death. It made me reevaluate the definitions of love, of hatred, of religion, of a world before Partition, the ruins of displacement, of colonization, of power-struggles, the concept of nation, of people, of me. The half-lost engravings and calligraphies, sketched in praise of Lord, touched like God. The Silsila (names of saints belonging to a particular order) engraved on the inner walls of the mosque was an indication of the fact that mortals are capable of rising beyond their human limits. The oneness of God, inscribed atop the mosque, held the highest position like He’s watching us from the lofty skies. God is the only evidence alive who could recount the sufferings of the people when the country was sliced. Who is responsible – Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, or British Colonizers – for all the carnages and divide? Who abandoned whom: the followers of those saints, or did the saints leave their followers? God, like the Occupiers, didn’t find the people worthy enough for His attention. We returned arguing the possibilities of drawing a new border-line that’ll suit everyone, or no border at all. The British have left a heritage of resentment and prejudice on both sides – India as well as in Pakistan. This is no freedom when there’s no light. I wish if we could live in a world without borders!