Coca-Cola's Friendship Machine: The Three Days India and Pakistan Shared a Coke

Key Takeaways

• Small World Machines started from a real, unbearable human tension — two peoples who cannot meet — and built an experience that resolved it, rather than a message that merely stated it.
• It made the audience the hero: no voiceover, no celebrity, just real unscripted reactions, the one asset a competitor cannot buy or out-spend.
• It was engineered for the share, not the impression. The 10,000 free Cokes were a customer-acquisition cost for millions of video views.
• The emotional sequence was the whole trick: connect first, reveal the border second — you cannot argue someone out of a prejudice, but you can let them build a bond and then reframe who it was with.
• Coca-Cola was the host, not the hero — it built the stage and stepped off it, which is the hardest discipline in brand content.
• It earned the right to the territory: a century of togetherness equity, and a specific lineage of connection machines, made 'what unites us is greater than what divides us' credible from a soft-drink brand.
• It deserves its peacewashing critique and survives it: it never claimed to resolve the conflict, only that ordinary people, met as people, choose to connect — a claim it proved roughly 10,000 times.

The Moment Before the Coke

Picture a shopping mall on an ordinary weekday. Fluorescent light, the smell of fried snacks, a soundtrack of footsteps and half-heard conversations. In the middle of the concourse stands a bright red vending machine — except it is taller than usual, and instead of a grid of buttons and a glowing product display, it has a large screen the size of a shop window. Above it, three words: Small World Machines.

A young woman walks up, curious. The screen is not showing a Coke ad. It is showing a live video of another person — a stranger, roughly her age — looking back at her, equally uncertain. A prompt appears and asks them to do something almost childishly simple: touch hands. She raises her palm to the glass. On the other side of the screen, the stranger raises theirs. Their hands meet on the display, two silhouettes overlapping, and the machine — as if applauding — dispenses a Coke to each of them.

Then comes the part that makes the whole thing land like a small electric shock. A caption reveals what neither of them knew a few seconds earlier. One of them is standing in a mall in New Delhi, India. The other is standing in a mall in Lahore, Pakistan. They have just held hands through a screen across one of the most militarized, emotionally loaded borders on the planet — and sealed it with a soft drink.

That flicker of realisation — wait, you're on the other side? — is the entire campaign in a single frame. And in March 2013, over three days, Coca-Cola and the agency Leo Burnett engineered that flicker thousands of times, filmed it, and turned it into one of the most talked-about pieces of marketing of the decade.

This is the story of how it happened, the frankly improbable engineering that made it possible, what it actually achieved, why some very smart people rolled their eyes at it — and what any brand or content marketer can steal from it.

The Wall You Cannot See

To understand why a vending machine could feel like a diplomatic event, you have to understand the border it was quietly reaching across.

India and Pakistan were born in the same violent instant. When British India was partitioned in August 1947, the subcontinent split along religious lines into a Muslim-majority Pakistan and a Hindu-majority India — and the human cost was staggering. It remains one of the largest and bloodiest mass migrations in recorded history: an estimated 15 million people uprooted, and somewhere between 200,000 and two million killed in the chaos, riots and revenge that followed. Families were sliced in half. People who had been neighbours for generations became citizens of enemy states overnight.

The wound never fully closed. Since 1947 the two nations have fought three major wars — in 1948 and 1965 over the disputed territory of Kashmir, and in 1971 over the creation of Bangladesh — plus countless skirmishes and standoffs, with both nations eventually arming themselves with nuclear weapons. Kashmir remains the fault line, one of the most heavily militarised regions on earth.

And here is the detail that turns geopolitics into heartbreak: most ordinary Indians and Pakistanis have never met one another, and most never will. The border is famously one of the hardest in the world to cross. Visas are scarce, restrictive and politically hostage — a bureaucratic wall that keeps families divided for entire lifetimes. There are stories, decades on, of brothers separated as children in 1947 finally granted a visa to see each other again as old men in their eighties, if they were lucky and lived long enough. In the years after this campaign the situation got worse, not better; by 2019 transport links between the two countries were largely severed.

So when we talk about Indians and Pakistanis being strangers, we are not being romantic. We mean it almost literally. Two peoples who share language, food, music, cricket obsessions, film stars and a tangled family tree — kept apart by a line on a map soaked in blood and reinforced by seven decades of suspicion. They are the classic estranged siblings, except the estrangement has an army on each side of it. That is the immovable object Coca-Cola decided to point a vending machine at.

This Wasn't Coke's First Machine

Here is a thing most retellings skip, and it changes how you read the whole campaign: Small World Machines did not come out of nowhere. It was the culmination of a years-long experiment Coca-Cola had been running with the humble vending machine — turning a cold, transactional box into an engine of human connection.

The story starts in 2009, when Coca-Cola launched Open Happiness, a global marketing platform built on a deceptively big idea: associate the brand not with a product benefit but with small, everyday moments of joy and togetherness. Open Happiness needed proof points — real, filmable demonstrations that a Coke was a unit of shared human warmth. And Coke found them in the most unlikely place: the vending machine, the single most impersonal object in retail.

In 2010, Coca-Cola and Ogilvy Argentina built the Friendship Machine. Launched on 20 July to coincide with Argentina's beloved Día del Amigo (Friendship Day), it was a vending machine deliberately built absurdly tall — over three metres — so that no single person could reach the buttons alone. To get a Coke, you needed a friend to climb on your shoulders, or a group to boost someone up. It turned buying a drink into a slapstick act of teamwork, worked so well in Buenos Aires that Coke rolled it out across seven Latin American countries, and proved a simple insight: make the machine require connection, and people will happily supply it — and film it.

Then came the Hug Me machine in the early 2010s — a Coke machine that dispensed a free drink not for money but for a hug. You walked up, wrapped your arms around a vending machine printed with the words Hug Me, and it gave you a Coke. Silly, a little vulnerable, impossible to do without smiling and impossible to watch without smiling. Again the pattern: replace the transaction with a moment of affection, and the moment becomes the marketing.

Seen in that light, Small World Machines was the graduation project. Coke had spent years proving a vending machine could make two friends laugh, could earn a hug, could turn commerce into connection. The audacious leap of 2013 was to take that exact, well-tested playbook and aim it at something incomparably harder than Friendship Day in Buenos Aires: two strangers raised to see each other as the enemy, on opposite sides of a nuclear border. The escalation is the whole point — and it is a masterclass in how brands should escalate a winning platform: not by abandoning what works, but by pointing it somewhere braver.

Two Cities, About 500 Miles, One Reckless Idea

The idea was born not in Atlanta or Mumbai but in Australia — at Leo Burnett Sydney, with Leo Burnett's Chicago office also involved in bringing it to life. And like most ideas that end up feeling inevitable, it started from a beautifully simple insight, the kind that fits on a napkin: what unites us is greater than what divides us.

It is an easy sentence to write and a terrifying one to prove — especially when the us in question is two nuclear-armed rivals. The genius, and the audacity, of the Leo Burnett team was to refuse to argue the point. They did not make a film telling Indians and Pakistanis they were more alike than different. Instead, they built a machine that would let two strangers discover it for themselves, in real time, with their own hands, before anyone told them who they were talking to.

The geography made the point quietly devastating. The machines were installed in busy shopping malls in Lahore, Pakistan and New Delhi, India — two cities separated by only about 325 miles. In almost any other pair of neighbouring countries that is a weekend trip; here it is a distance most people on either side will never physically cross in their lives. Coca-Cola's pitch, essentially, was: if you cannot go 325 miles to meet each other, we will bring the 325 miles down to the thickness of a screen.

And Coke had earned the right to make that pitch. A brand that had spent a century — from I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke on a hilltop in 1971 through Open Happiness and its lineage of connection machines — banking equity in the idea of togetherness was, oddly, one of the only commercial entities on earth with the standing to attempt this. A bank could not have. A telecom could not have. A fizzy drink that has spent decades positioning itself as the taste of shared human moments? That, it could pull off. This is the [brand marketing](/brand-marketing) principle that a brand can only credibly say what it has spent years earning the right to say.

The Machine Behind the Machine

Strip away the emotion and the Small World Machine was a genuinely astonishing piece of engineering — and the craft matters, because the craft is why the emotion worked. If the technology had been janky, the magic would have died on contact. It was not janky. It was, by the accounts of the people who built it, borderline impossible.

The build was led by The SuperGroup, an Atlanta-based digital agency — founders Brad Lewis and Gabe Aldridge, and senior developer John Preziotti among them — working with Leo Burnett's creative direction. And the first thing worth knowing is that when they took the concept to major hardware suppliers, they were told, flatly, that it was not possible.

The reason was a nasty technical paradox. To make two strangers feel like they were truly facing each other — life-size, eye to eye, reaching out and touching hands — you needed to do two things at once that fight each other. You needed to project a large, sharp, life-size image of the remote person onto a screen the person in front of it could touch. And you needed to film the person in front of that same screen, through it, with a camera positioned right about where the remote person's eyes would be, so the eye contact felt real. The problem: put a camera behind a screen that is being projected onto, and all the camera sees is the blinding light of the projection.

The off-the-shelf solutions the suppliers offered — approaches built on the Xbox Kinect — solved this by keeping the participant a full five feet back from the screen. But five feet back kills the illusion. You cannot touch hands with someone through glass from five feet away. The magic of Small World Machines was proximity — palms on the same pane — and the industry-standard tech made proximity impossible.

So The SuperGroup did what great makers do when the vendors say no: they hacked something out of consumer parts used in a way nobody intended. They hijacked active-shutter 3D glasses technology — the kind that flickers between lenses to create a 3D effect. They wrote software that displayed the remote person's full image on one frame and a blank frame on the alternating cycle, and placed a blank-frame lens over the camera. The human eye, seeing both frames, perceived a bright continuous image — but the camera, seeing only the blank frames, was optically isolated from the projection and could film the person cleanly, up close, through the glass. Camera and projector, sharing one pane, made invisible to each other.

Then there was the small matter of connecting Lahore to Delhi with a flawless live video feed. Each machine needed a rock-solid minimum of 15 Mbps of bandwidth. That was manageable in India. In Pakistan, where the typical connection at the time ran around 3.74 Mbps, the team had to specially commission a dedicated connection of over 20 Mbps just to make the moment feel real — a piece of internet infrastructure in a Pakistani mall five times faster than the national average, so that two strangers could hold hands across a border. And the machines had to survive extreme heat, rough transport and internet disruptions.

None of this is visible in the finished film, and that is the point. The audience never sees the active-shutter hack or the commissioned bandwidth. They see two people touching hands and a Coke coming out. The invisibility of the engineering is the engineering's whole job — the more seamless the magic feels, the harder someone worked to hide the machinery. Small World Machines felt effortless precisely because it was anything but.

The Trick Hidden in the Sequence

The machine gave you a task — but which task, and in what order, was the psychological masterstroke.

The prompts were disarming and physical: wave to each other, touch hands on the glass, draw a peace sign together, draw a heart, do a little dance. Nothing asked you to take a position. Nobody was prompted to discuss Kashmir, apologise for a war or debate a border. The screen's motion tracking let two people co-create a symbol across the divide — your hand tracing one half of a peace sign, a stranger tracing the other half until it completed. Finish the task together, and both machines dispensed a free Coke.

Now notice the sequence, because the sequence is everything. You connected first. You were told where the other person was second. By the time the caption revealed that your new friend was on the enemy side, you had already laughed with them, mirrored them, drawn a heart with them. The reveal did not create the bond; it reframed one that already existed. That is a far more powerful move than showing someone a stranger and then asking them to connect across a known divide, because it smuggles the human being past the political checkpoint in your head before your defences can get organised.

And the interaction was cooperative and playful, never confrontational. Play is the oldest trust-building technology humans have — older than diplomacy and far more reliable. Two people who have just danced badly at each other through a screen are, for a few seconds, incapable of seeing each other as an abstraction to be feared. The machine weaponised silliness in the service of peace. That is a genuinely sophisticated idea wearing the costume of a toy.

What Happened When the Strangers Met

The campaign lived or died on one thing no engineering can guarantee: how real people would react when the moment arrived. This is the part money cannot script — and it is the part that turned a clever stunt into a phenomenon.

They laughed. They pressed their palms to the glass and grinned at someone they had been raised, in a hundred quiet ways, to regard as other. They danced. Children waved with the uncomplicated delight kids have before the world teaches them who they are supposed to distrust. Strangers drew wobbly hearts and peace signs together, then stood there holding two cold Cokes, looking slightly stunned at what had just happened to them. Over the three days, people reportedly lingered at the machines for three to four minutes each — an eternity in a shopping mall, an age to spend with a stranger, and a small forever for a vending machine to hold a human's attention.

What you saw on their faces was the specific, unrepeatable expression of a belief being gently overturned in real time. Not a grand epiphany — nobody renounced nationalism over a soft drink. Something smaller and truer: the momentary, physical registering of oh, they're just people, same as me. A kid on the other side who wanted to dance. A young woman who laughed at the same joke. A grandfather who waved back.

Coca-Cola filmed all of it and cut it into a short documentary-style film, and it is the reactions — not the technology, not the branding — that carry it. The tech was the delivery mechanism; the human faces were the payload. Which is a lesson in itself: the most advanced part of the Small World Machine was not the active-shutter hack. It was the decision to point the camera at ordinary people and trust that their unguarded reactions would be more persuasive than any headline the agency could write.

The Numbers, and What They Actually Say

Here is where the honest content marketer has to sit down and separate what is solid from the fog of a decade of case-study retellings.

The hard, well-corroborated facts first. The activation ran for three days. Across those three days, the machines gave away more than 10,000 cans of Coke — 10,000 individual moments of two strangers completing a task together to earn them. That is not a projection; it is the operational reality of the stunt.

Then the amplification, where the numbers get bigger and softer. The campaign film reportedly gathered somewhere in the region of 18 million views online within a few months and was shared more than 1.6 million times across social media. Treat those figures the way you would treat any decade-old campaign stat copied from case study to case study — directionally true, precisely uncertain. What is not in doubt is the shape of the result: a physical stunt that touched roughly 10,000 people in person became a piece of content that touched millions who would never see the machine. The 10,000 cans were the seed; the video was the forest.

And then the industry's verdict, which was emphatic. At the 2013 Cannes Lions International Festival of Creativity — advertising's Oscars — Small World Machines was one of the year's breakout winners, taking home a haul of Lions widely reported as around three Gold plus a clutch of Silver and Bronze across categories like Promo and Activation, Direct, Media and Outdoor. Exact tallies wobble depending on which report you read, but the direction is unambiguous: it was a Cannes darling, and it helped cement Coca-Cola's standing as one of the most creatively awarded marketers in the world that year.

Put the layers together and you have the anatomy of a modern earned-media hit: a small, expensive, physical experience engineered to produce irresistibly shareable human footage, distributed by the internet for free to an audience hundreds of times larger than the stunt itself could reach, then re-amplified by the credibility of winning the industry's top awards. Coca-Cola paid for a vending machine. What it bought was a global conversation.

The Asterisk Nobody Puts in the Highlight Reel

A teardown that only tells you how wonderful this was would be doing you a disservice — and, frankly, would be worse content. Because Small World Machines was polarising, and the people who criticised it were not cynics. They had a point, and a strong marketer should be able to hold both truths at once.

The criticism has a name in advertising circles: peacewashing — using the imagery and language of peace and social good to sell a product, in a way that can trivialise the very conflict it claims to address. The most cutting version of the critique came, tellingly, from inside the Indian advertising community. As the campaign swept Cannes, some Indian ad professionals pushed back hard. One agency head, quoted at the time, went as far as to hint that the whole thing was a kind of client-sanctioned confection — an unrealistically sunny message entirely dissociated, in the reporting, from the actual atmosphere of suspicion and hostility between the two countries. Outlets like The Washington Post ran the skeptical take too: the spectacle of a soft-drink company suggesting that vending machines could soothe one of the world's most intractable geopolitical conflicts struck plenty of observers as, at best, naïve and, at worst, presumptuous.

The core objection is fair, and it deserves to be stated at full strength: you cannot dissolve Partition, three wars, Kashmir and seventy years of state hostility with a peace sign and a free Coke. The people at the machines were, by definition, the subset of urban, mall-going, curious, open citizens most predisposed to a friendly wave — not a representative slice of two nations. And there is a sharper edge: a multinational extracting warm, award-winning, brand-burnishing content from a real human tragedy is not a neutral act. Coke got the Cannes Lions and the millions of views; the border got nothing, and it hardened rather than softened in the years that followed.

And yet. Here is the tension worth sitting with, because it is the most interesting thing about the whole story. The critics are right about what the campaign is not, and it does not fully defeat what the campaign is. Small World Machines never actually claimed to resolve the conflict. It claimed something much narrower and much harder to dispute: that if you strip away the state, the flags and the history for ninety seconds and let two ordinary people meet as people, they will, more often than not, choose to connect rather than recoil. That claim is true. It was demonstrated, live, roughly 10,000 times. The campaign did not fix the border; it offered a small, real, repeatable piece of evidence about human nature underneath the border — and let millions feel that evidence rather than be lectured about it.

Whether that is meaningful or merely marketing is, genuinely, in the eye of the beholder. But a brand that provokes that exact argument — is this beautiful or is it presumptuous? — has already done something most marketing never does: it made people care enough to fight about what it means. Indifference is the only true failure in advertising, and Small World Machines was many things, but never that.

The Teardown: Why It Actually Worked

Strip the campaign for parts and you find a set of principles that outlive it — the reason it is still taught, dissected and rewritten more than a decade on. If you make content or run a brand, this is the part to keep.

One: it found a tension worth resolving, not a message worth broadcasting. Most brand purpose content starts with a message the brand wants to say and hunts for an excuse to say it. Small World Machines started with a real, unbearable human tension and built an experience that resolved it. The message was never stated as the headline; it was produced as a byproduct of the experience. Audiences forgive you for a truth they arrive at themselves and resent you for a truth you shove at them.

Two: it made the audience the hero, and the camera did the selling. No voiceover, no celebrity, no product benefit recited — just real people having a real reaction, captured honestly. The most persuasive asset the campaign owned was the unscripted human face, because a genuine reaction is the one thing a competitor cannot buy, fake or out-spend. When you can engineer a moment real enough that filming it is the ad, you have escaped the arms race of production budgets entirely.

Three: it engineered for the share, not the impression. A vending machine in a mall reaches thousands; that was never the point. Every design choice was optimised so the film would travel — real reactions, a clear emotional arc, a reveal, simplicity a stranger can grasp on a muted phone screen. The physical activation existed to manufacture footage; the footage was the actual product. The 10,000 cokes were a customer-acquisition cost for millions of views.

Four: it sequenced the emotion with almost cynical precision. Connect first, reveal second. Play before politics. You cannot argue someone out of a prejudice, but you can let them build a bond and then reframe who it was with. Great content, like a great magician, controls the order in which you learn things — and this is where disciplined [campaign planning](/guides/campaign-planning-guide) earns its keep.

Five: it let the brand be the host, not the hero. Coca-Cola is barely in the campaign as a product — a red machine and a can that appears at the moment of connection. The brand's role was to enable the story, not to star in it. That restraint is the single hardest discipline in brand content: build the stage, then get off it. Most brands cannot resist grabbing the microphone. Coke handed it to two strangers and a peace sign.

Six: it earned its right to the territory. Coke could attempt togetherness because it had spent a century, and a specific run of connection machines, banking equity in exactly that idea. Purpose content only works when the audience already believes you have standing to say it. You cannot rent your way into a value; you have to have been living there — which is why this kind of campaign belongs inside a coherent [marketing mix plan](/guides/marketing-mix-plan-guide), not bolted on as a one-off stunt.

How to Build Your Own Small World Machine

Most people read a case study like this, feel inspired and take away nothing usable — because be Coca-Cola with a global agency and a magic vending machine is not a plan. So here is the transferable blueprint, reverse-engineered into steps you could brief tomorrow, whatever your budget.

Start with a real human tension your brand has permission to touch. Not a message — a genuine, felt friction in your audience's life. And be ruthless about permission: is your brand credible as the one to address it, or will you look like an intruder cashing in? Pick the tension that sits at the overlap of what your audience genuinely feels and what your brand has genuinely earned the right to say.

Design an experience that resolves the tension, do not just talk about it. The move that made Small World Machines is that it did not describe connection — it manufactured it. Ask: what small, physical, doable thing could two people actually do that embodies the resolution? The experience should be the argument, so that no one has to be persuaded — they participate and feel the point.

Make it cooperative and playful, and put the payoff before the lecture. People will do almost anything framed as play and almost nothing framed as a moral. Give them a task that is fun and low-stakes, let the good feeling arrive first, and let any meaning reframe a bond they have already formed. Never open with the message; earn the right to it.

Engineer for the recording, because the recording is the reach. The in-person moment is the seed, not the harvest. Design so the film is irresistible, then ask the ruthless question about every element: does this make the video more shareable, or is it there for us? If it is there for you, cut it.

Cast reality, not actors. The whole thing rests on authentic reactions, so the casting is really situation design — engineering a setup where genuine, unguarded emotion is the most likely outcome, then filming enough of it to find the moments that sing.

Sweat the invisible craft. Small World Machines worked because the technology disappeared. Whatever your equivalent of the active-shutter hack is, that unglamorous behind-the-scenes rigor is the difference between a moment that feels like magic and one that feels like a broken kiosk.

And stress-test it against the cynic before the internet does. Someone will call your heartfelt campaign a manipulative cash-grab, and if the tension is real and heavy, some of that critique will be fair. Do the peacewashing gut-check before you launch: are we adding something genuine, or extracting warmth from other people's pain for our brand? You may still proceed — Coke did, and the result was defensible — but going in with your eyes open is how you make something you can stand behind.

The Long Echo

Here is the bittersweet coda the happy-ending version leaves out, and that makes the whole thing more moving, not less.

The Small World Machines did not usher in a new era of India-Pakistan friendship. If anything, the geopolitics ran the other way. Relations soured through the following years; by 2019 the tensions had escalated to the point where transport and travel links between the two countries were cut back to almost nothing, and the border became, if anything, harder to cross than in 2013. The campaign was a bright flare fired over a landscape that then got darker.

Which is precisely why it endures. Small World Machines is not a document of what India and Pakistan became. It is a time capsule of what they briefly, provably could be — a three-day, 10,000-moment demonstration that the ordinary people on both sides of one of the world's angriest borders, when handed the chance to meet as people, overwhelmingly chose to wave, laugh, dance and draw hearts. That does not fix anything. But it records something, and the record matters. In a relationship defined by everything that divides two nations, someone built a machine to measure, for once, what unites them — and the measurement came back hopeful.

That is the real reason this campaign is still being written about, argued over and rewritten more than a decade later. Not because it sold Coke, though it surely did. Not because it won Cannes Lions, though it won plenty. But because it did the rarest thing a piece of marketing can do: it took the most cynical of formats — a vending machine, a soft-drink ad — and used it to catch a genuine, fleeting glimpse of human decency in a place where we have been trained to expect none.

The Product Was Never the Coke

So — a beautiful act of connection, or a slick piece of peacewashing? The honest answer is that it was unmistakably both, and pretending otherwise in either direction misses the point.

What Coca-Cola actually sold in those three days was not a carbonated beverage. It was a story — so cleanly built, so precisely sequenced, so honestly filmed and so deeply rooted in a value the brand had spent a hundred years earning, that people who would never taste that particular Coke or stand in that particular mall carried it around the world for free, and are still passing it along today. The Coke was the prop. The connection was the product.

The enduring lesson, for anyone in the business of making humans feel something, is this: the strongest brand moments do not happen when a company tells you what it stands for. They happen when a company builds a small, generous, filmable stage — and then has the confidence to step off it and let two ordinary strangers, separated by everything, reach through a screen and remind us that we were never quite as divided as we had been told.

They just needed a machine to prove it. And, apparently, a Coke.

Sources and a Note on the Facts

The load-bearing details here — Leo Burnett Sydney's origination, The SuperGroup's build and the active-shutter camera solution, the roughly 20 Mbps commissioned connection in Pakistan, the Lahore and New Delhi machines about 325 miles apart, the touch-and-draw mechanic, the more than 10,000 cans over three days, the Open Happiness and Friendship Machine lineage, the Cannes Lions haul, and the peacewashing criticism — are drawn from contemporaneous reporting and case studies. As with any decade-old campaign, the amplification figures (views and shares) and the exact Cannes tally vary between sources, so treat those as directional rather than precise.

• [Coca-Cola connects Indians and Pakistanis through Small World Machines — Campaign Brief Asia](https://campaignbriefasia.com/2013/05/20/coca-cola-connects-indians-and/)
• [Coca-Cola bids for peace across India/Pakistan border — The Drum](https://www.thedrum.com/news/coca-cola-bids-peace-across-indiapakistan-border)
• [Behind Coke's Attempt to Unite Indians and Pakistanis with Vending Machines — Ad Age](https://adage.com/article/behind-the-work/coke-s-attempt-unite-indians-pakistanis-vending-machines/241554/)
• [The Technology Behind Coke's Small World Machines — Lürzer's Archive](https://www.luerzersarchive.com/features/the-technology-behind-cokes-small-world-machines/)
• [Case study: Coca-Cola The Friendship Machine by Ogilvy Argentina — Campaign](https://www.campaignlive.co.uk/article/case-study-coca-cola-the-friendship-machine-ogilvy-argentina/1062527)
• [Open Happiness — Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Open_Happiness)
• [The Ongoing Legacies of the Partition of British India — Asia Society](https://asiasociety.org/magazine/article/ongoing-legacies-partition-british-india)
• [Conflict Between India and Pakistan — Council on Foreign Relations](https://www.cfr.org/global-conflict-tracker/conflict/conflict-between-india-and-pakistan)
• [Transport between India and Pakistan — Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transport_between_India_and_Pakistan)