Sulman Badshah
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French physicist Blaise Pascal had famously said: “Nature is an infinite sphere, of which the centre is everywhere and the circumference nowhere.”
Traveling is the best way to cast out depression, to run away from the suffocation that surrounds you – travel to far flung mountains, where there are no people, only snow, mountains, trees, and the fragrance of wet leaves filling the atmosphere. Where there is endless solitude, and the sound of your own breath whistles in your ears. In a valley, which lights up as soon as the night falls.
It doesn’t matter whether the different hues of evenings are splattered on the horizons, or if plain foggy white is the only colour you see. If you just want some respite, even one colour is enough.
Sitting on top, watching the thin traffic in the valley as the freezing wind blows, then walking up the long and winding mountain path – that’s the recipe for escaping from the world. Returning back you see you surroundings, your home, your job, your society with new eyes, with new hope; the hope that things can change, they can be different. The hope that sustains life.
If nothing changes, the road to escape will always be there. The traveller will escape back to the mountains, where their snow-covered darkness will welcome him with arms wide open. Here, your own voice echoes back to you, and even the kraa-kraa of a crow sounds like the coo-oo-ooh of a koel.
Shandur Lake
The desire to embrace nature has pushed me to travel extensively, but when I passed through Ghizer, it felt, for the first time, that this was where the circumference of nature’s sphere lay.
I have seen countless such scenes inside and outside the country, which, when relived later, fill my mind and my heart with their colours and fragrances every single time. But among these mental memorabilia, the most sensuous ones belong to Ghizer.
With the strange fragrance of Deosai, I will always stay in love. Especially the musky scents of Ghizer, and the way the soil smells after the first rains. I have a habit of breathing in deeply whenever I pass from here. I left the serenity of the Phunder Valley on one such rainy noon. Now, I am going through Ghizer’s settlements: Teru, Gulaghmuli, and Langer, all the way to Shandoor Pass, and the Kalash Valley beyond that in Chitral.
Autumn in Ghizer.
Near Phundar Valley.
The rain stops for a few minutes, and I unpack my camera for a little photography alongside my companion, the Ghizer River. The sun is setting in Teru, and the day’s luminosity is slowly turning into the night’s darkness.
The birds are returning to their nests, but the valley seems to bustling with life – men returning from the fields, the children playing in streets, youngsters busy chatting; everyone is now returning to their nests under the gray sky. The river, too, has become calmer, perhaps it is tired after a whole day of flowing.
Then, night falls. The orangish rays of the setting sun make the yellow-turning leaves of poplar trees look like burning matchsticks lined up. The last rays of the sun are still dancing on the summits of the Shandoor Pass, and the Hindukush Peaks are wearing a metallic red shade.
Heading to Shandoor, I am thinking of the people I left behind in Gilgit-Baltistan. What sceneries those were! There are certain evenings when you recall these memories and your heart skips a beat. On these days, the journey down the lane of memories are most radiant.
I drive by Teru and now enter Gulaghmuli. This small village too, is enveloped in the sadness of the night, and even the children are in their homes rather than playing in the streets. I see Gulaghmuli’s Government Primary School Building. Last I was here, spring had returned to Hunza and the flowers of the cherry trees were blooming everywhere. I had come to Ghizer all the way from Hunzah in mid-April. I had wanted to go to the Shandoor Pass even then, but the snow hadn’t melted there yet.
Teru.
Spring in Gulaghmuli.
Winter in Gulaghmuli.
On my way, I saw this school for children. The weather was extremely cold, with chilly winds from the nearby snow-covered mountains filling up the valley. When I stepped inside the school premises to take a few photographs, I ended up crying. The two female teachers of the school thought I was from the media, and told me about the problems that the children and the school faced.
The children were from farmer families. In this extreme cold, when I was shivering, they neither had any shoes on their feet nor adequately warm clothes on their body. Many didn’t have sweaters. I couldn’t help myself but salute the ambition of these young children, who were immersed in their lesson, without a trace of worry or discomfort on their faces.
The national flag waved in the courtyard as the little angels sat on the ground, seeking knowledge.
A teacher asked the children to recite the national anthem. I couldn’t keep my eyes off this particularly shy little girl, her blue eyes filled with pure innocence. While reciting the national anthem, she would should louder than the rest of them the line, “Kishwar-e-Haseen Shadbaad” (May this beauteous land remain happy and bountiful), and all the students broke into fits of laughter. Seeing the children happy, at school, despite all the hardships was extremely heartening. I turned to leave before my eyes teared up again.
A school in Gulaghmuli.
Traveling is the best way to cast out depression, to run away from the suffocation that surrounds you – travel to far flung mountains, where there are no people, only snow, mountains, trees, and the fragrance of wet leaves filling the atmosphere. Where there is endless solitude, and the sound of your own breath whistles in your ears. In a valley, which lights up as soon as the night falls.
It doesn’t matter whether the different hues of evenings are splattered on the horizons, or if plain foggy white is the only colour you see. If you just want some respite, even one colour is enough.
Sitting on top, watching the thin traffic in the valley as the freezing wind blows, then walking up the long and winding mountain path – that’s the recipe for escaping from the world. Returning back you see you surroundings, your home, your job, your society with new eyes, with new hope; the hope that things can change, they can be different. The hope that sustains life.
If nothing changes, the road to escape will always be there. The traveller will escape back to the mountains, where their snow-covered darkness will welcome him with arms wide open. Here, your own voice echoes back to you, and even the kraa-kraa of a crow sounds like the coo-oo-ooh of a koel.
Shandur Lake
The desire to embrace nature has pushed me to travel extensively, but when I passed through Ghizer, it felt, for the first time, that this was where the circumference of nature’s sphere lay.
I have seen countless such scenes inside and outside the country, which, when relived later, fill my mind and my heart with their colours and fragrances every single time. But among these mental memorabilia, the most sensuous ones belong to Ghizer.
With the strange fragrance of Deosai, I will always stay in love. Especially the musky scents of Ghizer, and the way the soil smells after the first rains. I have a habit of breathing in deeply whenever I pass from here. I left the serenity of the Phunder Valley on one such rainy noon. Now, I am going through Ghizer’s settlements: Teru, Gulaghmuli, and Langer, all the way to Shandoor Pass, and the Kalash Valley beyond that in Chitral.
Autumn in Ghizer.
Near Phundar Valley.
The rain stops for a few minutes, and I unpack my camera for a little photography alongside my companion, the Ghizer River. The sun is setting in Teru, and the day’s luminosity is slowly turning into the night’s darkness.
The birds are returning to their nests, but the valley seems to bustling with life – men returning from the fields, the children playing in streets, youngsters busy chatting; everyone is now returning to their nests under the gray sky. The river, too, has become calmer, perhaps it is tired after a whole day of flowing.
Then, night falls. The orangish rays of the setting sun make the yellow-turning leaves of poplar trees look like burning matchsticks lined up. The last rays of the sun are still dancing on the summits of the Shandoor Pass, and the Hindukush Peaks are wearing a metallic red shade.
Heading to Shandoor, I am thinking of the people I left behind in Gilgit-Baltistan. What sceneries those were! There are certain evenings when you recall these memories and your heart skips a beat. On these days, the journey down the lane of memories are most radiant.
I drive by Teru and now enter Gulaghmuli. This small village too, is enveloped in the sadness of the night, and even the children are in their homes rather than playing in the streets. I see Gulaghmuli’s Government Primary School Building. Last I was here, spring had returned to Hunza and the flowers of the cherry trees were blooming everywhere. I had come to Ghizer all the way from Hunzah in mid-April. I had wanted to go to the Shandoor Pass even then, but the snow hadn’t melted there yet.
Teru.
Spring in Gulaghmuli.
Winter in Gulaghmuli.
On my way, I saw this school for children. The weather was extremely cold, with chilly winds from the nearby snow-covered mountains filling up the valley. When I stepped inside the school premises to take a few photographs, I ended up crying. The two female teachers of the school thought I was from the media, and told me about the problems that the children and the school faced.
The children were from farmer families. In this extreme cold, when I was shivering, they neither had any shoes on their feet nor adequately warm clothes on their body. Many didn’t have sweaters. I couldn’t help myself but salute the ambition of these young children, who were immersed in their lesson, without a trace of worry or discomfort on their faces.
The national flag waved in the courtyard as the little angels sat on the ground, seeking knowledge.
A teacher asked the children to recite the national anthem. I couldn’t keep my eyes off this particularly shy little girl, her blue eyes filled with pure innocence. While reciting the national anthem, she would should louder than the rest of them the line, “Kishwar-e-Haseen Shadbaad” (May this beauteous land remain happy and bountiful), and all the students broke into fits of laughter. Seeing the children happy, at school, despite all the hardships was extremely heartening. I turned to leave before my eyes teared up again.
A school in Gulaghmuli.