Coming from an island, the British have never been the best qualified to draw an international border. In 1899 they separated Egypt and Sudan, only to draw a different line three years later. The two nations have feuded over the resource rich area of Halaib ever since, but poor Bir Tawel is still not claimed by either.

Soldiers march towards the gate, stamping their feet in comical ostentation, thrusting their chests forward at the enemy...

Behind every border line created by the British is a story. Perhaps a story about war. Or vacuousness, incompetence and uprising.

Following the breakup of colonial rule in 1947, the British divided the state of Punjab along religious lines, drawing a random line that placed Lahore and the predominantly Islamic west in Pakistan, and Amristar and the mostly Sikh and Hindu east in India.

Many of those in the minority perished, massacred as they tried to cross the border and join their ethnic or religious majority, with atrocities committed on both sides. It’s a famous story which imbues pride in nobody. So what happened next...?

Sweat drips ferociously from tightly curled, jet-black hair. Eyes bulge in a lurid haze, scanning the crowd, consuming vicariously. In their delirious state the two drummers resemble a cross between a 1970s Kevin Keegan and a voodoo doctor delivering a malediction.

Relentlessly they demonstrate brilliance, pounding away, four hours, six hours, without pause, a four-beat rhythm that builds up and breaks down like the finest Berlin techno.

Baba watches from an upstairs balcony, two hashish joints drooping from a mouth hidden by a resplendent white beard, a crowd of suppliant followers asking for his protection.

Eyes closed in unison, seven long-haired men dance to the beat. Some traipse around in slow circles, archetypal zombies from a sci-fi film; others shake their heads uncontrollably, moving in a trance-like state.

A shrine may seem a bizarre arena for live music and drug-induced dancing but this is an essential part of the Sufi culture in Punjab.

When the beat finally relents the crowd chants a 2 a.m. prayer, offering their thanks to dead saints and babas – divine Sufi teachers.

Conga and Mithu Saien have performed in 32 countries but Lahore is their home. Inviting me upstairs for a 3 a.m. dinner I learn that Mithu is deaf and maintains his hypnotic rhythm by sensing the drums’ vibrations.

Among Lahore’s narrow old city streets sounds wander: prostitutes giggle, fried chicken spits, rickshaws splutter, a call to prayer floats . A haphazard collection of buildings exists here, the mix of plain concrete and decaying wood absorbing the noise.

Restored to its phenomenal former glory by controversial artist Iqbal Hussein, Cookoo’s Nest is an ode to the unspoken debauchery that surrounds it. Portraits of working girls and sculptures of dancers fill its five floors.

The rooftop reveres the divine; the Virgin Mary illuminates an elephant god, and Buddha watches over an affluent Lahore businessman tucking into a chicken achari handi.

As diners feast, their gaze is drawn from a mutton karai to the vast sandstone courtyard of the Badshahi mosque, its grandeur just across the road beneath the forbidden images. But its minarets see everything, imperiously dominating the fifth largest mosque in the world and Lahore’s red light district.

“JulaJula,” one man shouts. “Pakistan!” a crowd of 2,000 responds.

They’re stood in a concrete stand watching their country take on India, fervent faces unanimous in their views. “We hate India,” they proudly declare. “More than America?” I ask. “We hate India and America! They are both our enemies.”

In a second stand, the colours of a thousand saris shine dazzlingly, the women shouting and clapping with equal passion.

An ancient man takes the stage, his white beard reflecting the sun, his flag waved arrogantly to goad the Indians.

I anticipate the bowler’s first ball, the referee’s whistle, a boxer’s punch. But this is not a sporting event. It’s an international border.

Soldiers march towards the gate, stamping their feet in comical ostentation, thrusting their chests forward at the enemy. The crowd cheers. I’m not impressed. If you’re going to fight, get your guns out.

I feel like a fraud. Standing on the opposite side of the border I join the Indians as they declare it is their soldiers that have the highest leg kick and fastest swords.

Vibrant women dance by the gate, waving flags at envious Pakistani men. Despite this overt ‘freedom’ of women, the two sexes are also separated in the Indian stands.

I ask Indians what they think of their neighbour. Identity is asserted but hatred is not. Attitudes are indifferent: some don’t like them; others suggest they are equal; many argue that the rivalry has been dreamt up by politicians; no one displays vehement hate.

Pakistan fans are outnumbered five to one, but like an away team playing at Old Trafford, it is their cheering that dominates.

Differences can be seen on the Indian side of the random line, but they are subtle; a glimpse of a woman’s mid-drift, a different choice of headwear, a turban perhaps, and the sight of an ice box loaded with bottled beer.

Gold shimmers softly on a placid lake, creating a perfect reflection of the Golden Temple. Pilgrims fill my vision; many are asleep on the cool marble floor of Sikhism’s holiest place, a few stripped down to comically long underpants for a dip in the blessed water.

Standing at the gateway, I admire the hair twiddling of potential contestants for the world’s greatest beard competition, amazed at both length and style.

A constant stream of avid people flows past me. I follow. Plates clatter together, spoons fly between vats of water, a cauldron bubbles.

I join the seated pilgrims in a gigantic dining hall and watch my tray being loaded with sloppy dal and sweet rice pudding. Everything at the temple is free, for everyone, regardless of their religion. And every space is taken.

In an overflowing dorm I throw a blanket onto the floor and bed down among the excited chatter of pilgrims and covert scurrying of bed bugs.

I try to dream about what a unified Punjab would look like. Because Punjab isn’t like Pakistan: women drive cars, the electricity only cuts out for three hours a day, and there is a KFC. But it’s not like India either: the chaos is mild, you can buy food without chilli, and beggars are rare.

However, the bizarre border ceremony returns perennially to the forefront of my exhausted mind. The people may all be from Punjab but the similarities between them recede dramatically when a large iron gate separates a piece of land.

I recall an identical sentence told by people from both Pakistan and India. “There has always been two parts of the Punjab.”

What started as a random line has come to symbolise so much more.