It was a winter day, and when my school-term exams ended at noon, I stood outside the gates, clutching my exam-notepad. My father picked me up on his Rajdoot, and after a short ride, we were at his office. An old building in an old part of the town, with large iron gates, it was a 4-BHK set-up. The building-owner lived a floor above. Mr Ansari took pride in playing landlord to a large Indian corporation — it did ensure uninterrupted rental cash-flow and community pride.

That day, upon seeing a kid sitting on his father’s Rajdoot, he came downstairs. After some small talk, he figured I was waiting out my father’s shift and generously invited me upstairs. A bowl of sevaiyya (sweet vermicelli) was summoned, to which I happily helped myself. Assured I was taken care of, he sat beside his landline phone and made a call. Someone at the other end, in Karachi, picked up. He inquired about someone’s health, and after some small talk, disconnected the call. I was a bit shocked. How could someone make an international call in the daytime? Even for an STD call, I used to go late in the night to a PCO, with eyes firmly on the meter. As it flashed the price, it synchronised with our collective familial heartbeat.

Many Biharis had migrated to Sindh at the time of partition. At least one member stayed back in India to look after whatever property they had. And hence, there were several families, divided by the border but actively in touch. Remember, this was the 1990s -- a time of cricket teams touring each other’s countries and Ghulam Ali concerts in India.

Then, Kargil happened. A Pakistan general thought he could finally end the drought and get a win to his name. After every brief spell of normalcy, the Pakistan army tries a “terror adventure”, a health supplement for its continued relevance.

Sadly, the only thing it has ever won is rounds of popular elections in Pakistan. It is the operating system of the country, which hosts various apps (the country’s political parties), installing and uninstalling them at will. A country forever between successive IMF bailouts, Pakistan is barely of any concern to India now -- other than Indian corporates using its cricket matches to sell more shampoo and some funny YouTube content-creators, who self-flagellate to earn a few Indian ad-dollars more. The world has de-hyphenated us long back.

There was a time when, at UN meetings, speakers of both nations would exchange sharp words about Kashmir, addressing empty seats. “We brought up the Kashmir issue” -- that was considered an achievement across the border. But now, India is not known for the Kashmir conflict, but as a place where 20% of iPhones are made. It is known as a possible counterweight to China. How successful we are is debatable, but we are in that race.

India is now known for exporting tech CEOs, politicians, and professionals worthy enough to take American jobs. We may be hated or loved, but we have moved on from indifference.

Pakistan is still fighting ghosts. The only thing going for it, and why it is still dangerous, is that its army is suicidal. It has no concern for the lives of its citizens, let alone its soldiers. Hence, it is unhinged and can risk anything. The Pakistan army doesn’t care about the morale of its people as it isn’t going to face elections. It is like a local gunda, whose entire equity is the fear that it commands. And it will go to any extent to preserve it -- for example, not even claiming the bodies of its soldiers killed in conflict, trying to revive the discredited Two Nation theory, and by segregating tourists and asking them to drop their pants.

Dealing with such a force is tricky for a democracy. The Cold War is over. Americans are no longer in Afghanistan, so there is no rent to seek. Nobody cares if it shoots itself now, so it is using the same gun to shoot innocents -- and wait for more civilians to be killed in retaliation. Then, its army can sit on the throne of fear, convincing the non-dead population that it is their only saviour.

All the elderly in Pakistan that Mr Ansari inquired about in the 1990s must be dead now. One of his kids is a surgeon and the other works for a tech MNC. No phone calls are made now.

Abhishek Asthana is a tech and media entrepreneur and tweets as @gabbbarsingh. The views expressed are personal