ghazi52
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A rendezvous with Saif-ul-Malook
SYED MEHDI BUKHARI
That morning I left home to wander in snow and meet the great Saif-ul-Malook Lake in its frozen glory, the mountains of Hindu Kush had seen the last snow shower of the season; mild rays from the sun had just kissed the eaves of the roof of my house; a fresh red rose in the flower pot had just blossomed; my wristwatch told me it was eight o'clock.
Somewhere far away, a song seemed to be playing:
"Awara hoon yaa gardish mein hoon. Aasmaan ka tara hoon"
(Vagabond I have become, or have I fallen into turbulence. A star of the sky I am).
The previous night, a firebrand leader of a political party had given his marathon televised address; in the morning, TV channels were running an ISPR statement denouncing the incendiary speech. The whole episode had me in stitches.
All this had already happened when, cursing hypocrisy, politics, and society, I packed up and embarked on my journey.
As soon as my car left the city behind, the sunlight turned a little too hot. Wilted wheat crops stood on both sides of the road. The spikelets had bent down from their stems. Looking at the shrivelled crops made my heart sink. The continual deluges had tested the patience of farmers in Punjab.
What can man can do but bow his head before Nature?
The River Chenab.
Sunrise at Abbottabad.
Before the fields of the lifeless crops could end, I found myself at the bridge over River Chenab. Down in the middle of the River, a boat was being rowed by a lone sailor. He must have been singing, but sitting in the car I could not hear him. It was a holiday and the boatman must have been enjoying his moments of leisure with the waters of Chenab.
The sun was looking at its reflection in the River, where the boat floated down with such ease that it put a smile on my face. I suspect that the boatman had seen me, for he, too, was smiling; the joy of the journey is the same for someone travelling on waters and someone travelling over land.
In this bright morning; the sunshine sprawling itself on both sides of the Grand Trunk Road, which was being trodden with traffic from all sorts of vehicles; my car continued to travel, and then, there was Potohar. The Potohar Plateau.
The River Kunhar.
Jalkhad.
It is a region with friable clay hills, with pathways traversing these hills, with bushes guarding wild flowers, and with many small forests of acacia. A few herons had perched on three or four of the acacia trees, making it look like they were laden with fruit. The herons were silent and still, completely lethargic, drowned in thoughts, and digging their beaks in their bodies; perhaps, the entire drove had lost the desire to fly.
Speeding along the road, I caught a glimpse of two blue wild flowers that broke the pattern created by orange-coloured flowers. Perhaps, they were oblivious to the touch of butterflies and would glow only when they had travellers in sight. Beautiful but without fragrance. A soft smile from me to them.
The car passed by several cities – tired and sleepy on the holiday – and arrived in Rawalpindi's Pirwadhai area, where I changed the vehicle. It was May Day, the day of the working class and the poor. A number of posters had appeared everywhere at the bus terminal. Some well-known politicians and factory owners were to speak on the labourers' rights at a seminar scheduled for that evening at the PC hotel. They were to flood the podium, set under a German chandelier and decorated with narcissus flowers with their tears, but only after having high-tea of course.
Under one of those huge posters, I saw a life form, bent and knock-kneed with the heavy bundle it carried to earn a day's living. An uncontrollable laugh was subdued by the hubbub of the surroundings. Who would have heard it? Who was the subject, who knows?
A young woman watches the sun set in Paye.
Paye meadow.
A horse rider in Paye.
A horse rider in Paye.
Then came the Hazara region; crowded as usual; people busy and yelling; vehicles gridlocked; buildings with colourful window panes, most of them green and blue. When the population centre was left behind, wheat fields filled the landscape.
The health of these crops rejuvenated my spirits. They waved in the breeze with their spikelets full of wheat berries, like a host of healthy damsels. The wheat had grown in abundance and everywhere – in a plot of land between two shops, in backyards, on the banks of a stream, and even in a graveyard, where passages between the graves had been sown.
Wheat crops in the Hazara region.
The health and abundance of these crops made me wonder if the people here grew wheat instead of hair on their heads. A smile for the Hazaras, too.
The vehicle sped up the curvy mountain roads, passing by Army Burn Hall College, Kakol Military Academy, and then Mansehra. It left the city of blue roofs, Balakot, behind. It ran along Kaghan Road and arrived at Paras, where I saw a marble gravestone with a weird inscription, which read:
"He died in an accident while beating drums in the middle of the road."
I rubbed my eyes, but the inscription, instead of revising itself, became more vivid. I laughed so hard, doubled down over myself, that it seemed the world around me had spun over upside down, and that the River Kunhar was flowing upstream – from Balakot to Naran.
Balakot had been left behind, down the mountains somewhere. The curvy road had become steeper. My driver pulled over at the Shogran Stop for a tea-break. Outside the shabby restaurant, a couple of sunflowers had blossomed. A sudden déjà vu hit me; I remembered having travelled up from this spot to Shogran and Siri Paye.
Shogran had seen an influx of tourists, who trampled over its beauty, leaving it jaded. Siri Paye, nonetheless, still retains its strong attraction for tourists as a green plateau on top of the Hindu Kush. Engulfed in clouds and fog more often than not, it entices me as a rendezvous which allows one to observe Nature play peek-a-boo.
SYED MEHDI BUKHARI
That morning I left home to wander in snow and meet the great Saif-ul-Malook Lake in its frozen glory, the mountains of Hindu Kush had seen the last snow shower of the season; mild rays from the sun had just kissed the eaves of the roof of my house; a fresh red rose in the flower pot had just blossomed; my wristwatch told me it was eight o'clock.
Somewhere far away, a song seemed to be playing:
"Awara hoon yaa gardish mein hoon. Aasmaan ka tara hoon"
(Vagabond I have become, or have I fallen into turbulence. A star of the sky I am).
The previous night, a firebrand leader of a political party had given his marathon televised address; in the morning, TV channels were running an ISPR statement denouncing the incendiary speech. The whole episode had me in stitches.
All this had already happened when, cursing hypocrisy, politics, and society, I packed up and embarked on my journey.
As soon as my car left the city behind, the sunlight turned a little too hot. Wilted wheat crops stood on both sides of the road. The spikelets had bent down from their stems. Looking at the shrivelled crops made my heart sink. The continual deluges had tested the patience of farmers in Punjab.
What can man can do but bow his head before Nature?
The River Chenab.
Sunrise at Abbottabad.
Before the fields of the lifeless crops could end, I found myself at the bridge over River Chenab. Down in the middle of the River, a boat was being rowed by a lone sailor. He must have been singing, but sitting in the car I could not hear him. It was a holiday and the boatman must have been enjoying his moments of leisure with the waters of Chenab.
The sun was looking at its reflection in the River, where the boat floated down with such ease that it put a smile on my face. I suspect that the boatman had seen me, for he, too, was smiling; the joy of the journey is the same for someone travelling on waters and someone travelling over land.
In this bright morning; the sunshine sprawling itself on both sides of the Grand Trunk Road, which was being trodden with traffic from all sorts of vehicles; my car continued to travel, and then, there was Potohar. The Potohar Plateau.
The River Kunhar.
Jalkhad.
It is a region with friable clay hills, with pathways traversing these hills, with bushes guarding wild flowers, and with many small forests of acacia. A few herons had perched on three or four of the acacia trees, making it look like they were laden with fruit. The herons were silent and still, completely lethargic, drowned in thoughts, and digging their beaks in their bodies; perhaps, the entire drove had lost the desire to fly.
Speeding along the road, I caught a glimpse of two blue wild flowers that broke the pattern created by orange-coloured flowers. Perhaps, they were oblivious to the touch of butterflies and would glow only when they had travellers in sight. Beautiful but without fragrance. A soft smile from me to them.
The car passed by several cities – tired and sleepy on the holiday – and arrived in Rawalpindi's Pirwadhai area, where I changed the vehicle. It was May Day, the day of the working class and the poor. A number of posters had appeared everywhere at the bus terminal. Some well-known politicians and factory owners were to speak on the labourers' rights at a seminar scheduled for that evening at the PC hotel. They were to flood the podium, set under a German chandelier and decorated with narcissus flowers with their tears, but only after having high-tea of course.
Under one of those huge posters, I saw a life form, bent and knock-kneed with the heavy bundle it carried to earn a day's living. An uncontrollable laugh was subdued by the hubbub of the surroundings. Who would have heard it? Who was the subject, who knows?
A young woman watches the sun set in Paye.
Paye meadow.
A horse rider in Paye.
A horse rider in Paye.
Then came the Hazara region; crowded as usual; people busy and yelling; vehicles gridlocked; buildings with colourful window panes, most of them green and blue. When the population centre was left behind, wheat fields filled the landscape.
The health of these crops rejuvenated my spirits. They waved in the breeze with their spikelets full of wheat berries, like a host of healthy damsels. The wheat had grown in abundance and everywhere – in a plot of land between two shops, in backyards, on the banks of a stream, and even in a graveyard, where passages between the graves had been sown.
Wheat crops in the Hazara region.
The health and abundance of these crops made me wonder if the people here grew wheat instead of hair on their heads. A smile for the Hazaras, too.
The vehicle sped up the curvy mountain roads, passing by Army Burn Hall College, Kakol Military Academy, and then Mansehra. It left the city of blue roofs, Balakot, behind. It ran along Kaghan Road and arrived at Paras, where I saw a marble gravestone with a weird inscription, which read:
"He died in an accident while beating drums in the middle of the road."
I rubbed my eyes, but the inscription, instead of revising itself, became more vivid. I laughed so hard, doubled down over myself, that it seemed the world around me had spun over upside down, and that the River Kunhar was flowing upstream – from Balakot to Naran.
Balakot had been left behind, down the mountains somewhere. The curvy road had become steeper. My driver pulled over at the Shogran Stop for a tea-break. Outside the shabby restaurant, a couple of sunflowers had blossomed. A sudden déjà vu hit me; I remembered having travelled up from this spot to Shogran and Siri Paye.
Shogran had seen an influx of tourists, who trampled over its beauty, leaving it jaded. Siri Paye, nonetheless, still retains its strong attraction for tourists as a green plateau on top of the Hindu Kush. Engulfed in clouds and fog more often than not, it entices me as a rendezvous which allows one to observe Nature play peek-a-boo.
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