Devil Soul
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From Sado Mazo to Peeplasar – A road less travelled
FAROOQ SOOMRO — UPDATED about 3 hours ago
Dadu is a treacherous, arid district. The weather can be unforgiving and water is hard to find. The landscape is vast, and the settlements sporadic. However, in this very landscape, many civilisations have risen and fallen, some possibly dating back to 5000 BCE.
I am here with a rather odd group of people.
One of them is a commissioned officer who likes to introduce himself as the Minister of Sound and Music. The other is an engineer and has recently moved back from abroad. The Minister of Sound and Music takes the DJ’s role as soon as we cross Karachi toll plaza. He changes the melancholic tone of the playlist to that of flamenco – from Geeta Dutt to Gypsy Kings.
I am on the road again.
July is not the best time to be visiting Dadu, but I am hoping for a cloudy day. The drive on Indus Highway is scenic and without any hiccups. We reach Dadu before sunset, entering the city through the mighty gates which have been built in many interior Sindh cities as a sign of development.
On both sides of the road are dingy shops, mostly belonging to mechanics, with greasy auto parts lying in front of the shops. There are no women to be seen anywhere. We struggle with directions for a bit, but finally find my friend’s place, which is our home for the night.
We drop our luggage in the rooms. There is no electricity, so we go out into the lawn. My friend is hosting some other visitors from Rahimyar Khan, who are making an overnight stop here. We sit on lawn chairs and talk politics.
The industrialist from Punjab tells me that he feels sorry for the state of affairs in Sindh. He tells us that a tehsil in Punjab has better infrastructure than Dadu, which is a district capital. He says that he finds it hard to believe that he is still in the same country when he crosses the border into Sindh. The engineer tells the industrialist that he has a similar feeling when he crosses the border into Punjab.
After the engineer and industrialist call it a day, I am left alone with my host. He tells me that he moved to Dadu a few months ago, but did not intend to bring his family. "There is not much to do for women here, you see," he explains. "There is not much to do for men either, except for their jobs," he says wistfully. The waiter serves us green tea which we sip silently.
Suddenly, the night smells of jasmine and melancholy.
Sado Mazo – The land of legends and pre-historic paintings
We rise up early in the morning. Our host has arranged for a guide who has accompanied many eminent scholars on their journey across Kirthar range. He introduces himself as Miskeen Laghari.
The Minister of Sound and Music asks Miskeen if he is also a poet. He nods, but says that he is more of an explorer now. He is wearing a mustard-coloredshalwar kameez, a black and white angoosha on his head, and plastic chappalson his feet. His face is tanned and wrinkled. He tells me that he has walked thousands of miles by now across Kirthar range.
We drive towards Sado Mazo, which is accessible from Wahi Pandi. The streets of Wahi Pandi look like a swamp and around it, a small bazaar bustles with activity. We get some water from one of the shops and continue our journey. Due to torrential rains, the dhoras (tributaries) are full of water and at some places, Miskeen has to walk through the water to ensure that our vehicle can go through.
The main street of Wahi Pandi turns into a swamp during monsoon season.
Miskeen gauges water for that rest of the entourage.
People of nearby villages gather at a stream to take a dip.
The rocks in the area are not particularly beautiful.
Tributaries are full of water due to the recent rains.
We park our cars and embark on our journey on foot towards Sado Mazo.
Sado Mazo takes its name from a local legend. The area has seen a lot of tribal conflict, which has given birth to many legends; of betrayal or trust, of bravery or cowardice, of values or the lack of it.
As we walk through a gorge, Miskeen narrates the legends. He says that the Lasharis and Rinds have inhabited Kirthar range since ages, and have been at daggers most of the time. During one of the fights, two sisters from the Lashari tribe, Sado and Mazo, asked the drum-beater to use different drumbeats to announce the result of the war.
They told the drum-beater that in case of defeat, they would commit suicide in order to save their honour. As the legend goes, Lasharis went on to win the fight, but the drum-beater, in his vile curiosity, announced defeat instead. The women, upon hearing the beat, jumped off the cliff into the ravine. The cliff is named after both sisters since.
I ask Miskeen why women are celebrated only for their modesty and sacrifice. I read him lines from Majaz’s poetry.
This scarf that covers you is beautiful indeed
It would be better if you converted it into a banner of revolt
Miskeen shrugs his shoulders and tells me that the conflicts have always been a bad thing, putting men and women of honour at crossroads.
We keep walking. It is a walk of death; the temperature must be nearly 40°C. I hear the engineer cursing the barren terrain, the unforgiving sun and much more. We take a turn and reach a water body. Miskeen soaks his angoosha in water and rounds it up on his head. It beats the heat, he tells me. The Minister of Sound and Music announces that he will go to take a dip in the water. We leave him there and continue walking.
I see a group of local people walking ahead. We meet and they tell us that they are residents of Wahi Pandi, and are going up in the mountain to fish in the torrential streams. Their feet are much quicker than ours, and they disappear into the distance soon.
We see some local people in the distance and walk quickly to catch up with them.
One of the local residents tells me that they are going up the mountain to fish.
We are not far, assures Miskeen to the engineer, who is left with us along with another local. Soon, he announces that the rock on the left is the place where the most prominent of chiti – prehistoric paintings on the wall – can be found. We climb up to see it close. The rock has eroded at few places, but we can still make sense of the paintings. The most prominent painting is that of a horse with couple of lotus flowers on its body.
FAROOQ SOOMRO — UPDATED about 3 hours ago
Dadu is a treacherous, arid district. The weather can be unforgiving and water is hard to find. The landscape is vast, and the settlements sporadic. However, in this very landscape, many civilisations have risen and fallen, some possibly dating back to 5000 BCE.
I am here with a rather odd group of people.
One of them is a commissioned officer who likes to introduce himself as the Minister of Sound and Music. The other is an engineer and has recently moved back from abroad. The Minister of Sound and Music takes the DJ’s role as soon as we cross Karachi toll plaza. He changes the melancholic tone of the playlist to that of flamenco – from Geeta Dutt to Gypsy Kings.
I am on the road again.
July is not the best time to be visiting Dadu, but I am hoping for a cloudy day. The drive on Indus Highway is scenic and without any hiccups. We reach Dadu before sunset, entering the city through the mighty gates which have been built in many interior Sindh cities as a sign of development.
On both sides of the road are dingy shops, mostly belonging to mechanics, with greasy auto parts lying in front of the shops. There are no women to be seen anywhere. We struggle with directions for a bit, but finally find my friend’s place, which is our home for the night.
We drop our luggage in the rooms. There is no electricity, so we go out into the lawn. My friend is hosting some other visitors from Rahimyar Khan, who are making an overnight stop here. We sit on lawn chairs and talk politics.
The industrialist from Punjab tells me that he feels sorry for the state of affairs in Sindh. He tells us that a tehsil in Punjab has better infrastructure than Dadu, which is a district capital. He says that he finds it hard to believe that he is still in the same country when he crosses the border into Sindh. The engineer tells the industrialist that he has a similar feeling when he crosses the border into Punjab.
After the engineer and industrialist call it a day, I am left alone with my host. He tells me that he moved to Dadu a few months ago, but did not intend to bring his family. "There is not much to do for women here, you see," he explains. "There is not much to do for men either, except for their jobs," he says wistfully. The waiter serves us green tea which we sip silently.
Suddenly, the night smells of jasmine and melancholy.
Sado Mazo – The land of legends and pre-historic paintings
We rise up early in the morning. Our host has arranged for a guide who has accompanied many eminent scholars on their journey across Kirthar range. He introduces himself as Miskeen Laghari.
The Minister of Sound and Music asks Miskeen if he is also a poet. He nods, but says that he is more of an explorer now. He is wearing a mustard-coloredshalwar kameez, a black and white angoosha on his head, and plastic chappalson his feet. His face is tanned and wrinkled. He tells me that he has walked thousands of miles by now across Kirthar range.
We drive towards Sado Mazo, which is accessible from Wahi Pandi. The streets of Wahi Pandi look like a swamp and around it, a small bazaar bustles with activity. We get some water from one of the shops and continue our journey. Due to torrential rains, the dhoras (tributaries) are full of water and at some places, Miskeen has to walk through the water to ensure that our vehicle can go through.
The main street of Wahi Pandi turns into a swamp during monsoon season.
Miskeen gauges water for that rest of the entourage.
People of nearby villages gather at a stream to take a dip.
The rocks in the area are not particularly beautiful.
Tributaries are full of water due to the recent rains.
We park our cars and embark on our journey on foot towards Sado Mazo.
Sado Mazo takes its name from a local legend. The area has seen a lot of tribal conflict, which has given birth to many legends; of betrayal or trust, of bravery or cowardice, of values or the lack of it.
As we walk through a gorge, Miskeen narrates the legends. He says that the Lasharis and Rinds have inhabited Kirthar range since ages, and have been at daggers most of the time. During one of the fights, two sisters from the Lashari tribe, Sado and Mazo, asked the drum-beater to use different drumbeats to announce the result of the war.
They told the drum-beater that in case of defeat, they would commit suicide in order to save their honour. As the legend goes, Lasharis went on to win the fight, but the drum-beater, in his vile curiosity, announced defeat instead. The women, upon hearing the beat, jumped off the cliff into the ravine. The cliff is named after both sisters since.
I ask Miskeen why women are celebrated only for their modesty and sacrifice. I read him lines from Majaz’s poetry.
This scarf that covers you is beautiful indeed
It would be better if you converted it into a banner of revolt
Miskeen shrugs his shoulders and tells me that the conflicts have always been a bad thing, putting men and women of honour at crossroads.
We keep walking. It is a walk of death; the temperature must be nearly 40°C. I hear the engineer cursing the barren terrain, the unforgiving sun and much more. We take a turn and reach a water body. Miskeen soaks his angoosha in water and rounds it up on his head. It beats the heat, he tells me. The Minister of Sound and Music announces that he will go to take a dip in the water. We leave him there and continue walking.
I see a group of local people walking ahead. We meet and they tell us that they are residents of Wahi Pandi, and are going up in the mountain to fish in the torrential streams. Their feet are much quicker than ours, and they disappear into the distance soon.
We see some local people in the distance and walk quickly to catch up with them.
One of the local residents tells me that they are going up the mountain to fish.
We are not far, assures Miskeen to the engineer, who is left with us along with another local. Soon, he announces that the rock on the left is the place where the most prominent of chiti – prehistoric paintings on the wall – can be found. We climb up to see it close. The rock has eroded at few places, but we can still make sense of the paintings. The most prominent painting is that of a horse with couple of lotus flowers on its body.
