Footloose

Rannikot - In the Middle of Nowhere

2012-02-22T12:07:00.002+05:00

Flying from Jacobabad to Karachi many years ago, I had spotted a rather puzzling wall-like structure which seemed to snake over and around the stark Lakhi Hills, which form the south-eastern frontier of the Kirthar Range. Confounded by the unusual feature which is not shown on most ordinary maps, I later learnt that it was known by the name of Rannikot (incorrectly spelt as Ranikot). Unfortunately, whatever remains of its history has been thoroughly warped by fiction, the tallest tale being that it is the world’s largest fort! Other than the Talpurs’ historical records making mention of the construction as their handiwork, no earlier account is available to contest it. The annals of Rannikot thus seem to end up in knots.

With a weekend to spare in Karachi recently, I got a chance to untangle whatever little I could about the enduring inscrutability of Rannikot. It didn’t take much to convince my friend Nauman Farrukh, that he needed a break from the humdrum never-ending work. We set course at eight in the morning and took the Super Highway, which is in first class condition all the way north to Sehwan. Reaching the small town of Sann after a three-hour drive, we turned south-west on to a narrow road, leaving the green flood plain of the Indus behind us. The utterly desolate terrain was occasionally cheered up the odd lark chirruping in the scrub. As we travelled ahead, barren hills started to loom in front of us and it was easy to see what a formidable barrier they could be, especially in the scorching summer heat. Small groups of shanty reed huts could be seen not too far from the road. Other than an odd village scrounger begging by the roadside, there was hardly a soul in sight. After a drive of about 25 kilometres, we sighted the wall undulating over the hills; shortly thereafter, we came upon the bastions of the eastern entrance known as the Sann Gate. The wall, viewed from this point, resembles some portions of the Great Wall of China, though any attempt at reading too much into this commonplace description would be utterly superfluous, as we shall see.

A milestone by the roadside near the gateway marks Rannikot, while the small Miri Fort lies a further five kilometres ahead. It would be worthwhile clarifying that Rannikot is not a fort as is usually understood and, simply denotes the outer fortification wall that has numerous circular bastions serving as watchtowers. The wall is not a continuous structure and is, in fact, constructed in several segments ranging from one as small as 39 metres to the longest one which is 3.8 km, all adding up to 8.2 km in length. The wall largely plugs gaps in the hills where the terrain is passable by intruders, mostly towards the south. The wall cleverly aligns with the crests of the hills and forms a continuous barrier, which is, in most part natural and much less man-made. Put together, this barrier has been incorrectly termed as a single wall with a length claimed to be anywhere from 26-36 km. Unfortunately, UNESCO’s World Heritage Site Listing, which gives it a tentative status, gullibly takes up the Pakistani claim. The three-metre wide wall is clearly visible (as well as measurable) in Google® Earth satellite pictures. There is no doubt that overly keen enthusiasts have blatantly distorted facts about its length.

Passing through the bastions of the gateway, we crossed the dry ranni (a local word for hill torrent) which meanders across the Rannikot fortification. In the rainy season, the stream starts as a torrent in the northern reaches of Lakhi Hills and after swinging east, discharges in the Indus near Sann. We had to make a short detour over the rough and stony terrain, as a bridge is being constructed over the stream which is known to swell enormously during flash floods. By the wayside, we spotted a small shack which doubled up as a make-shift petrol pump and a tea stall for odd travellers like us. The friendly owner, Ali Sher Rustamani, assigned a ten-year old tour guide by the name of Bilawal, who was said to be well versed with the area. After a short drive, we had to ford the gushing stream twice again, as that portion is abundantly fed by a natural spring. Luckily, the car’s silencer stayed clear of the water bed, though it’s rattling gave us a brief scare, what with no mobile phone coverage to call for help. Authorities seem to be paying some attention to the prospects of tourism, as indicated by another bridge which is under construction over this section.

As we drove on towards Miri Fort, our little guide Bilawal told us that he knew all the hills and vales because he herded his father’s cattle and goats in the fort’s environs. A happy little soul, Bilawal’s only dread was the charakh (striped hyena), a pack of which of which had recently devoured his favourite calf. Reaching the fort, we entered through a looping vestibule into a large bell-shaped courtyard, a little less in size than a football field. Two dozen dilapidated cubicles and halls made up what might have been the armoury and other accommodation of the garrison personnel, who once manned this outpost. Four corner bastions and one at the entrance, served as watchtowers as well as platforms for artillery pieces. Other than a floral stone carving on the entrance arch, the fort is absolutely utilitarian and there is no evidence of any imperial splendour. Crude renovation attempts on the structure are amply evident. Climbing up a stairway to the top of the fort’s thick walls, we got an excellent view of the surroundings. A lush green patch abutting the stream marked a Gabol village, which seems to have done well in small-time farming. Looking north, we could see the outline of another small fort about 1.5 km away, on the crest of a hill range further beyond. It seemed like a perfect retreat, though reaching it would be a tough call for all but the stoutest of men. Shergarh (or Shergah) Fort had been aptly named, I thought.

Several sources attribute the construction of Rannikot to the Talpurs of Sindh (ruled 1783-1843). The earliest is a composition by the Talpur court poet, Ghulam Ali Ma’il, in which he eulogises the achievement of his patron, Mir Karam Ali Khan Talpur. He states that work started in 1815 and was completed five years later. The extant family records of the wazir and project overseer, Nawab Wali Mohammad Khan Laghari, also attribute the planning and construction of the fort to the Talpurs. In his historical Sindhi narrative, Fatehnamo (1907), Mir Hasan Ali Khan records some details, including the cost of the fort’s construction viz, Rupees 17 lacs, that was borne by the Talpur treasury.

From earliest antiquity till the start of the 19th century, there is no mention of Rannikot in any writing, whatsoever. One of Emperor Akbar’s historians, Mir Masum, who accompanied the Mughal military commander Khan-i-Khanan during the conquest of Sindh in 1590/91 AD, does not record any fort in the area, despite the invading army having tarried at nearby Sann for several months during the monsoon season. Similarly, Rannikot finds no mention in the historical records of the Kalhora rulers of Sindh who held power for over eight decades before the Talpurs.

Talpur Mirs were known to have built as many as twenty forts and strongholds on the frontiers of Sindh, ranging from the coast to the desert. Rannikot was one of their special mountain redoubts, and for good reason. Not having forgotten the fate of one of the Kalhora predecessors, Mian Noor Muhammad Kalhoro, who was humiliatingly vanquished by the Persian Nadir Shah at the defenceless fort of Umarkot, the Talpurs took heed and started preparing for such an eventuality. The Talpur family hunting grounds at present-day Rannikot, which still abound with the graceful Sindh Ibex (Capra aegagrus blythi), were chosen as the ultimate hide-out for a fight back, just in case.

Sixty years of Talpur rule in Sindh ended in 1843, after British guile and General Charles Napier’s “rascality” – to quote his own words – resulted in a rout at Doaba (Dubbo) near Hyderabad. The last ruling Talpur Mirs of Hyderabad and Khairpur were deposed and packed off to Calcutta, without either one getting a chance to repair to Rannikot. The brave ruler of Mirpurkhas, Mir Sher Mohammad Talpur resisted, but his forces were defeated by the relentless John Jacob of Jacobabad fame. Sher managed to escape but had to wander as a fugitive for over a decade. He did find refuge in Shergarh Fort for a short while, but had to move on for fear of being pursued. Eventually, he had to make peace with the British as their wretched pensioner.

Having to get back to Karachi in time to catch a late evening flight to Lahore, I had to wind up the short tour. We stopped by at Ali Sher’s shack and handed over Bilawal to him. Over a cup of instant tea made on firewood, Ali Sher explained that tourism was picking up in bits, despite there being no electricity, running water, gas or even a dispensary in the area. He was at pains to assure us that the place was absolutely safe, especially with Baluch tribes in the vicinity. “Your womenfolk will be treated as our brothers,” he assured us chivalrously. Not sure of having heard him correctly, we wondered if it was a linguistic gender error and asked him what he meant. Ali Sher outdid himself in chauvinism when he explained that, “we want to treat them as worthy, which is only possible if they are given the status of men!”

As we left after a most useful trip, I wondered how the fortification still harks back to a last stand that was not to be. The Irish travel writer, Isobel Shaw, got it so right in her succinct observation about Rannikot, “… in the middle of nowhere, defending against nothing.”

At St Peter's in Vatican

2012-01-22T10:43:00.004+05:00

At the pleasure end of an official trip, I, along with my adventurous friend of many years, Asif Rehman, chose to visit the famous St Peter’s Basilica to round off a well-spent week in Rome. As we neared the Vatican enclave, we could see a queue that was over a mile long, well beyond the walls of the 44-hectare city-state, and spilling into Rome. It was a wonder that such a large multitude had woken up so early on a Sunday to visit the basilica (an important church that enjoys a privileged status, I learnt). Looking at the slow moving queue, we were rather disappointed but several tourists encouraged us to stick around and, assured us that we would be at the gates in no time. An hour later, we arrived at St Peter’s Square – which is actually elliptical – outlined by a monumental colonnade adorned with 140 statues of various Christian saints, designed by the Renaissance master Lorenzo Bernini.

In the centre of the Square is an obelisk dating back to 13th century BC Egypt, which was brought to Rome by the plundering Emperor Caligula. The obelisk was moved a few hundred metres to its present location in 1585 and marks the location where St Peter, one of the twelve disciples of Christ, was crucified in 67 AD. The ruling Emperor Nero had not taken to St Peter’s religious ministry in Rome with forbearance, and the dislike worsened after the Great Fire which was somehow blamed on the Christians. Today, the obelisk is revered for having been a ‘witness’ to the martyrdom of the revered apostle, who is also considered as Christianity’s first Pope. Interestingly, the obelisk also serves as a huge sundial pointer, with the hour markers indicated by white discs on the cobblestone pavement.

While we watched, the Square was getting thronged by tourists and the faithful, both young and old. Everyone had a camera and a festive mood prevailed as people posed against fountains and statues. The further away one went from the basilica, the more prominent became the magnificent dome, whose design incorporates the masterly touch of Michelangelo who also worked on it for some years. Unfortunately, due to an amended basilica floor plan patterned on the Latin cross (which has one arm longer than others), the nave or the central hall was lengthened, causing the façade to obscure the dome as one gets closer. A somewhat similar phenomenon can also be noted in our Badshahi Mosque at Lahore and the Jama Mosque at Delhi, where the façade rises too high in relation to the dome. I may mention that so far as I have seen, the Taj Mahal at Agra seems to have got the proportions just right, and the delicate dome can be happily viewed from far or near alike.

After purveying the Square, as we were about to enter the basilica, our eyes caught sight of the colourfully costumed Swiss Guards armed with the medieval halberds, guarding the entrance that leads to the inner sanctum of the Vatican. Dating back to the time when the present basilica’s construction started on the site of the older one in 1506, the guards have continued to perform ceremonial as well as personal security duties for the pontiff. Hidden from the view of the public are their SIG 220 pistols that are standard issue, ever since the attack on Pope John Paul II in 1981. The 135-odd Swiss Guards (actually Swiss mercenaries) are aptly called members of the world’s smallest army of the world’s smallest state. They are said to be the most photographed ‘item’ at St Peter’s!

Just outside the entrance to the basilica, we noticed a flyer pasted on the side which suggested that visitors – both genders included – might like to suitably cover their legs and shoulders. In the modesty-abhorring Europe of today, this notice seemed to have little meaning as we were soon to discover, much to our astonishment.

Not at all familiar with the rituals and symbolism of a church, we were overawed by the works of art, ranging from the images inside the dome on top, right down to the mosaics on the floor. Memorial statuary in marble and bronze, baptismal fonts, numerous altars and chapels dedicated to apostles, saints and popes took up every part of the basilica. Next to the entrance door on the right side is the famous Pietà sculpted by Michelangelo, a masterpiece carved from a single boulder of the finest white marble. It shows Mary grieving over the dead body of Christ with heart-rending composure. Graceful as she looks, Mary seems to have been depicted as rather young to be the mother of a thirty-something Jesus, I thought.

Rambling through the nave of the basilica without the corresponding historical knowledge of Catholic Christianity, we simply appreciated the artistry and wondered at the immense toil that must have gone into completing this great church commissioned by Pope Julius II, a patron of arts and many building projects. It was formally consecrated after 120 years in 1626, having been overseen by numerous teams of popes, architects, sculptors and artists during its long period of construction. While I am at it, I must share some trivia with the readers that St Peter’s is not a cathedral as it does not have a bishop to head it, even though the Pope holds Mass and works in its precincts. Contrary to what one might believe, St Peter’s is not even the ‘mother church’ of Roman Catholicism, for that honour officially goes to St John Lateran in Rome, whose bishop the Pope actually is: justifiably so, as St John’s happens to be the oldest church of Rome, parts of which date back to 318 AD. Of course, association with the papacy and the focus of pilgrimage confer the title of the holiest church on none, but St Peter’s.

As we moved to the intersection of the nave and the outlying arms of the basilica just below the dome, we came upon the centrepiece Papal Altar, which marks the purported burial place of St Peter. The altar is covered by a huge bronze canopy known as the baldacchino, with gold embellished spiral pillars supporting it. The canopy was crafted by Bernini in Baroque style, which is evident in much of the interior of the basilica. On orders of Pope Urban VIII Barberini, over 900 tons of bronze was stripped from the pagan Roman temple (and later church) called the Pantheon, for use in the canopy. That pillage gave rise to the famous taunt, “what the barbarians did not do, Barberini did!”

After spending about an hour in the basilica, we decided to check what was going on at the Sacrament of Confession, where a number of worshippers had lined up in front of wooden booths with small peephole windows. We learnt that here, one could confess and be instantly relieved of his or her sins, with the assistance of the Fathers on duty. Asif and I joked with each other that, were we to go for a thorough cleansing, it would take up the better part of the day so it was wise to give others a chance!

Not having enough time, we decided on a brisk walk-through tour of the nearby Vatican Library, instead of the gloomy underground crypt where former popes and other important personages are buried. The well-lit and profusely decorated library is a vast repository of over a million books and 75,000 historical manuscripts. Vatican scholars in their standard religious attire could be seen busy with their research work, apparently undisturbed by tourists like us who trundled around with clicking cameras. “Silenzio!” echoed a gentle command uttered by the library attendant each time the tourists’ loud whispers tended to turn into a cacophony.

A visit to the adjacent Sistine Chapel could not be undertaken due to its closure for renovation work; instead, I bought a book on the Sistine Chapel from a nearby bookstand. Informative though it was, I found it appalling that a hallowed place of worship would put up with the rather inappropriate depiction of unclad figures, all in the name of art or so-called liberalism. After all, much more than legs and shoulders were on display!

Finally, as we took leave of Vatican and looked back at the huge basilica, we could not help but be amazed at the immense diversity in the places of worship, ranging from the uncomplicated and austere, yet glorious Ka’aba, to the lavishly adorned and ornate St Peter’s. Man has a way of getting to God…. and the wonder is that He loves it anyhow!

This article was published in The News International under the title, "Under Bernini's Canopy" on 22 January 2012.

Don't Rush in Vientiane

2011-12-25T10:25:00.003+05:00

On being detailed for a trip to Laos, I was rather pleased as it was one country I could hardly ever think of visiting. A small delegation led by the then Foreign Minister, Mian Khurshid Kasuri, and including a few officials from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the armed forces, was scheduled to participate in the ASEAN Regional Forum (ARF), a sideline to the 10th ASEAN Formal Summit in Vientiane (pronounced ‘viangchan’), the capital of Laos. I briefly wondered how on earth had Pakistan had been able to demonstrate that, ‘it had an impact on the peace and security of Northeast and Southeast Asia and Oceania’, to qualify for ARF membership, but that wasn’t my concern, really. Perhaps it had to do with keeping up with the Joneses in the neighbourhood.

I was glad that I could learn more about Laos People’s Democratic Republic regarding which, I knew little more than the fact that it was one of the last surviving bastions of Communism (though nominally), besides being the most bombed country, per capita, in the world during the Vietnam War.

We took a PIA flight to Bangkok, from where a Lao Airlines ATR-72 picked us up for a short flight to Vientiane. Prompt in-processing at the Wattay International Airport was followed by a leisurely drive to Novotel Hotel where our delegation was staying. Traffic on the well-maintained roads was sparse, largely due to low car ownership; motor cycles, bicycles and rickshaws (locally known as tuk tuk) were the principal means of transport. After checking in at the hotel, I took a short walk to sample the sights and sounds of the placid city that had seen many an upheaval in its tumultuous history of foreign occupation.

Just near the hotel, a statue of Fa Ngum, a ruthless 14th century warlord and founder of the Kingdom of Lan Xang (million elephants) – precursor to what is now Laos – stands menacingly, clasping a huge sword in hand. The road is named after his son and successor Samsenthai. As I walked down the road towards downtown Vientiane, I came across someone looking like our own countrymen, idling outside a shop. Indeed he was a Pakistani, which came as a surprise to me, as salaams were exchanged. He introduced himself as Gulzar Khan who owned a travel agency. He surprised me even more when he told me that about 100 Pakistanis are settled in the city, of whom the younger ones are mostly married to local girls. This matrimonial arrangement provides permanent residence to the Pakistani youth, while the local girls get to live in much better conditions than their less privileged counterparts. Another fellow Pakistani, Somboune Khan, originally from Haripur, emerged from somewhere and introduced himself as a director of a thriving garment import-export company. He also represented the Muslim Association in Vientiane. Both the Khans gave a good rundown of the city and its people and, helped me with some of the must-see places during the short time I had. We again met next evening when the two gentlemen, along with some Pakistani residents, came to call on the Foreign Minister at the hotel.

Walking by the roadside, I spotted a drab colonial building that houses the Revolution Museum. A rather modest affair, the museum covers the country’s struggle against the French when it was ruled as part of French Indo-China (1893-1953). Some heroic pictures of the Vietnam War showing ‘patriotic guerrillas fighting US imperialists’ and, memorabilia of the 1975 communist revolution spearheaded by the Pathet Lao (who ousted the royalists), are also on display. Incredibly, items like socks worn by Politburo members when they escaped from prison, also find a place of honour! The furniture and display boxes for various artefacts were rather worn out and the explanatory labels were on handwritten paper. For a full hour of my stay, I was the only visitor, which said a lot about the lack of enthusiasm for the turbulent past, I thought.

In the evening, we relaxed in the hotel lobby for a while, listening to the soft captivating music being played on traditional instruments, the khim (a stringed instrument struck with thin bamboo sticks) and the saw-duang (a two-stringed instrument that is bowed like a violin). We found everyone to be very courteous, though the language barrier prevented fuller communication beyond clasping both hands in the Indian-style namaste greeting. Modesty in dress and manners was evident even in the hotel, which seemed typical of the stiff communist societies of yesteryears. Jeans and long hair amongst men are particularly frowned upon. Women mostly wear the sarong-like long skirt (sinh) and blouse, with a broad sash going over the shoulder on formal occasions.

Next morning, it was the foreign ministry officials who were scheduled to attend a meeting while we, the forces’ representatives, were to attend a security seminar the day after. This gave me a welcome break for some sightseeing in the city. I took a ride on a tuk tuk to the That Luang, the huge golden stupa, which is the most important monument as well as the national symbol of Laos. Construction of the stupa was ordered by King Settathirat when the capital was moved to Vientiane in 1566. The stupa was later destroyed during the Thai invasion of 1828 and completely reconstructed a century later. Many tourists had thronged the beautiful parks and open areas around the stupa and were busy in photography, as the monument offers immensely picturesque views.

After spending an hour at That Luang and some adjoining monasteries (wats), I took another tuk tuk ride to the Morning Market, a busy shopping area where one can buy just about anything, from fresh fruit and vegetables to electronic goods. Shops and stalls are mostly run by old women while the younger lot is away at work. I haggled for a beautiful inlaid wooden box meant for knickknacks; starting from US $25, the price rapidly fell to $5 as superior Pak bargaining skills took the better of Lao talents. The shopkeeper, a university student, was so excited that he called his mother to inform her of the sale. When I enquired about the matter, he said that the money was enough for the whole family to be able to eat well for a week, so it was important to put the family matriarch in the picture. I was gratefully offered a bowl of sticky rice and fish sauce – the staple food of the Lao – but I declined it as I wasn’t sure about some other ingredients visible on the surface!

On the way back, we drove by an imposing monument known as the Patouxai or the Victory Gate, located on the city’s main Lan Xang Avenue. Completed in 1962, the monument is dedicated to the fallen soldiers of various wars. Patouxai’s similarity to the Arc de Triomph in Paris is readily apparent, though Lao motifs and figurines have been used to embellish the structure most aptly.

The tuk tuk driver dropped me off near the hotel from where I walked down to the banks of one of the world’s great waterways: the Mekong River. Considering that Laos is a landlocked country, Mekong is the lifeblood of its people. To someone used to seeing our emaciated rivers, Mekong seemed almost in flood. The river bank had scores of small restaurants, but I thought it was safer to choose a kosher fare at the hotel. The sound of flowing waters amidst croaking frogs and chirruping insects in the thick foliage was almost primal. It was late in the evening and I could imagine the reflection of a full moon in the river, a theme so creatively interpreted on the national flag of Laos. As I walked back to the hotel, I wondered if there could be a more idyllic city – almost a cosmopolitan village – where life is slow, everyone speaks softly and, anger seems like an extinct emotion.

The third day was busy with a day-long security seminar at which we were uninterested listeners as the subjects had little to do with us. In the evening a cultural show was followed by a farewell dinner. The trip to Vientiane came to a tame end and next morning we left for Bangkok, where we had time for a brief shopping spree. Our ambassador at Bangkok hosted a sumptuous lunch which was all the more enjoyable, as it was peppered with hilarity stemming from some uninformed remarks by the host. His constant addressing of everyone as ‘yara’ (buddy) got the ruddy complexioned Foreign Minister turn maroon, but he somehow managed to maintain his poise. A number of questions by the worthy minister, pertaining to our mission in Bangkok, drew unqualified blanks. Finally, the ambassador confessed in all candour, that being a political appointee, foreign affairs wasn’t quite his forte; hearing this, all eyes popped out much like those of the lobsters in our plates! Thus ended an interesting trip to the laid-back sleepy capital of Laos PDR, where the watchwords could well be: Please Don’t Rush!

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 25 December 2011.

Magnificent Amber Fort

2011-11-06T08:47:00.006+05:00

A fascinating weekend in Jaipur would not have been complete without a visit to the nearby Amber Fort, the original seat of the Kachwaha Rajputs before they moved court to Jaipur. Having to catch the Shatabdi Express to Delhi in the afternoon, I had several hours to spare so I set course for the fort soon after breakfast. A friendly taxi driver who had taken me around Jaipur the previous day, had left his contact with me and was available within minutes after I called him.

Amber Fort is a mere 10-km from Jaipur, so we drove at a leisurely pace, with the driver volunteering an informative commentary on the way. With a certain bit of pride, he told me that crime was non-existent in Jaipur and its environs, as locals were aware that it would adversely affect tourism which is a major source of their livelihood. Just out of the city limits of Jaipur, we came across the beautiful Jal Mahal seemingly afloat on the tranquil waters of Man Sagar Lake. Built by the immeasurably fat Maharaja Madho Singh (mota raja) in the mid-eighteenth century, the palace was a pleasure retreat used for hunting and picnic parties. Nowadays, the Man Sagar Lake is a well-protected bird sanctuary and quite popular with bird watchers.

Soon after we drove past the lake, a smattering of shallow hills came into view. The forested ravines and ridges of this isolated stretch of the Aravalli Range seemingly provided protection against any invader from the north and east. This fact that was not lost on Raja Man Singh I who started building the fort atop the crest of a hilly outcrop in 1592, on the remnants of an earlier structure dating back to the 11th century. The Kachwaha rulers went beyond merely bolstering their physical defences and, sealed their security by unique alliances with their Mughal tormentors, as we shall see in a while.

As the driver parked the taxi which was to wait for me for two hours, several men thronged around, enthusiastically yelling in an incomprehensible cacophony of which I could only make out the word ‘haathi’. They were offering stately elephant rides to the fort just 400 metres away! A two-way ride on a shared howdah cost 2,000 rupees while an elephant all to oneself cost twice as much. Any Westerner would be lucky to manage a ride for less than five to six grand. Having stayed in the Narain Niwas Palace the previous night, I had had my feel of the maharajas, not to forget the pinch on the pocket for the extravaganza! I, therefore, opted for a brisk trek up the zigzagging path to the fort.

Approaching the fort from the eastern side, the eye meets a well-maintained garden on the right and the picturesque Maotha Lake on the left. Jutting into the lake is a terraced garden known as the Kesar Kyari Bagh, named after the saffron flowers once planted in its star-shaped flower beds. What a sight it must have been to watch a raft of saffron floating on the turquoise lake, seen from the heights of the fort!

Entering through the east-facing Suraj Pol (Sun Gate) – the rising sun being an emblem of the Kachwahas – one finds himself in a large quadrangular courtyard, the Jaleb Chowk that was once used as a parade ground and quarter guard. Today, well-stocked souvenir and snack shops line the courtyard. Tourists can be counted in hundreds at any given time.

A flight of stairs, as well as a thoughtfully constructed later day ramp for the handicapped visitors, leads to the Diwan-i-Aam (Hall of Public Audience). The adjoining Sattais Kutcheri, with its 27 pillared patio, was used by the court scribes to maintain records and draft petitions for review by the maharaja. The family temple of the Kachwahas dedicated to Shila Devi lies on the adjacent side. I shuffled past hurriedly, lest it seemed rude for not offering a quick prayer outside its solid silver door, as done by most Hindu visitors.

The formidably built and beautifully frescoed Ganesh Pol (Gate of the Elephant-god) leads to the royal quarters and the harem. Atop the three-tiered gateway is a filigreed terrace from where the ladies could watch functions held in the Diwan-i-Aam. Purdah amongst the royal Rajput women was followed rigidly, much like the practice prevalent amongst all Muslim rulers of India. The original Mughal jaali or the filigree screen was, thus, found by the Rajputs to be an expedient architectural contrivance to keep their women from the prying eyes of the commoners.

Stepping beyond, into the royal sanctum, is a Mughal-style four-quartered garden known as Aram Bagh. Flanking it on the left is the Jai Mandir whose masterpiece is the glittering mirror-encrusted Sheesh Mahal on the ground floor, which served as the Hall of Private Audience. The top floor housed the maharaja’s private living chambers. Across the Aram Bagh on the opposite side is the Sukh Niwas or Pleasure Palace, complete with water running through open channels for an air-conditioned effect, much needed in an area where temperatures routinely cross 45ºC.

The last courtyard houses what is known as the Zenana Mahal, originally the palace of Raja Man Singh I. Suites on three sides, with a central baradari pavilion where the royal ladies could cavort, form the main palace complex. Generally sparse in their matrimonial assets, only one maharaja with thirty wives and concubines came close to beating the Mughals at their favourite hobby. “Well-stocked for the whole month”, quipped one of the sharp visitors to the fort, when the tour guide reported the peak occupancy of the Kachwaha zenana!

The power – and the pleasure that goes with it – had to be achieved and secured by force of arms, usually. Unfortunately, in the face of zealous Muslim adventurers, whether the Mughals or the Sultans before them, the Rajputs were seldom able to put up a united stand. Centuries of siege and subjugation had become too much for the proud Rajputs. Seeing this state of affairs Raja Bharmal of Amber made an offer that could make even the stoutest of kings drool. For the Kachwahas, there would be no more jauhars, the collective suicides in the face of defeat.

On a cold wintry morning, the marriage party accompanying the beautiful Princess Hira Kumari left Amber Fort for nearby Sambhar, where Emperor Akbar’s retinue was waiting to receive the bride. In a matrimonial alliance of convenience, Raja Bharmal had decided to give away his daughter to a Muslim emperor, thus sealing an alliance that brought the House of Kachwahas a breather from centuries of constant feuding. Mariam Zamani, Emperor Jahangir’s mother, well-remembered by a Lahore mosque of the same name near the railway station, was none other than Hira Kumari.

Having become familiar with much of Amber Fort, I could imagine Hira Kumari being led to the Shila Devi temple for invoking the idol’s benedictions before the start of a new but uncertain life. Then, amid the wail of shehnais, a sad farewell at Jaleb Chowk would soon have been followed by a cheerful welcome at Agra, full of Mughal fanfare. Much pleased by the offering, Emperor Akbar returned the Kachwaha favour by promoting his new brother-in-law’s son, Raja Man Singh, as the Commander-in-Chief of the Mughal Army. Akbar went even beyond that, by including him amongst his famous inner circle of Nauratans (Nine Jewels).

The pattern set by his father led Raja Bhagwant Das to offer his daughter Princess Manbhawati to Emperor Jahangir; she was later to become the mother of Prince Khusrau. Thus continued an alliance amongst some of the most unlikely partners, but which turned out to be advantageous to the Mughals and Rajputs alike. I should have been careful to specify which particular Rajputs, for the other ruling clans were none too happy about this arrangement. The Sisodias of Mewar, the Bhattis of Marwar & Bikaner and, the Rathores of Jodhpur considered that Rajput honour had been defiled, for their credo demanded death to such dishonour. For those who saw to it that their women burnt themselves on the pyres every time they were vanquished, offering daughters as pawns was considered the ultimate in shame. In the event, the Kachwahas turned out to be one of the most prosperous and largest Rajput houses till the abolition of the Princely States after Independence. The Mughals too, having managed to cover their western flank, were able to expand their empire in other directions, unhindered.

The fortunes of the town fell when Amber Fort started to suffer water shortages in the 17th century. So grave was the problem that Maharaja Jai Singh II decided to abandon the fort and start building a new city of Jaipur in 1727. The abandoned fort fell into neglect, but lately, conservation efforts have paid off and the fort has recovered much of its former glory. Having seen Amber Fort, with which Lahore Fort shares much in architectural and functional detail as well as place names, one wishes that we too could do more about conservation. Sadly, given the prevalent security situation, the effort might be questionable as few tourists would be there to repay the expenses.

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 6 November 2011.

Enchanting Jaipur

2011-10-29T18:41:00.009+05:00

The anticipation of visiting the fabled pink city of palaces and exotic bazaars was overtaken by the child-like excitement of travelling in a train for the first time in three decades. On a warm April morning, I was waiting at Delhi Railway Station to board the Shatabdi Express. As the train slid aside the platform, passengers promptly shuffled on board; five minutes later it was speeding out of Delhi. The pleasant initial impression at the railway station was soon blighted by the sight of a vast garbage dump that ran for miles and miles on both sides of the track. There was no consternation as pigs and dogs rummaged about while trains whistled past. Mercifully, the rustic charm of the countryside gradually started to transform the scene that seemed so familiar; one could well be travelling somewhere in our own Sindh or Punjab. For me, the train ride was especially thrilling, as I thought there was no better mode of travel to study the land and people of India.

Most of the passengers seemed to be well-heeled as the Shatabdi tickets are a bit dear. The money was well-spent, however, as everything was good about the train: the compartments were clean, seating was comfortable, newspapers and magazines were plenty, the food was a delight for a vegetarian like me and, not the least, the hostesses were most courteous and smart. I must also add that the train driver was an absolute stickler for punctuality, an attribute little cared for in our part of the world.

Four hours later, I was at Jaipur. As I got off, two trains stopped by in quick succession, with as many passengers on the roof tops as were inside the compartments. “Such a sight is common on weekends due to rush,” explained a polite taxi driver who drove me from the station to the Narain Niwas Palace where I had a reservation. The high sounding palace is actually a ‘heritage’ hotel now, as most of the former rulers of India’s Princely States have converted their palaces into attractive tourist dwellings. These earn them sizeable revenues which help keep up their princely airs, while the government gets a good return from the thriving tourist trade.

After a quick snack at a nearby Subway joint, I took a taxi that dropped me at a place called Bara Chaupar (Big Square) on the eastern end of the pink city. I may add that the pink colour of the buildings has an amusing history behind it. In preparation for the Prince of Wales’ visit in 1853, the Maharaja decided to impress his colonial benefactors and whimsically decided to paint all buildings of the city pink. (That should be known as ‘going pink with kindness!’) Nine blocks of buildings, including the City Palace and the Jantar Mantar Observatory, constitute the original city that was started by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II in 1727, and completed six years later. The well laid out city with wide streets is said to be the first in the sub-continent based on a proper grid plan, after a break of well over four thousand years since Harappa and Moenjodaro saw their glory days.

All kinds of wares are sold in the bazaars, including textiles, jewellery, flowers, local handicrafts, etc. Curiously, I saw several female cobblers doing their work by the road side. Sadhus and yogis were a common sight on the streets. The imposing Jamia Masjid near Bara Chaupar is a triple-storey structure with fifteen arched entrances. A sizeable Muslim population of the city lives in harmony with the rest, mostly Hindus. The main thoroughfare of the city is named after one of the most accomplished Prime Ministers (Diwan) of Jaipur State, Sir Mirza Ismail.

On the other side of Bara Chaupar is the famous fantasy structure known as Hawa Mahal (Palace of Breeze) built in 1799 as an extension of the Maharaja’s City Palace. According to one tradition, it was designed to let the royal ladies witness the market scene through the small windows and filigree screens, while remaining in purdah. The façade is supposed to represent the crown of the Hindu god Krishna, to whom the builder of this palace, Maharaja Sawai Pratap Singh, was intensely devoted.

As one walks down the Tripolia Bazaar (named after a triple-arched gateway to the palace compound), a prominent Islamic-style minaret catches one’s eye, but it is a surprise to find that there is no corresponding mosque. It is actually Ishwar Tower, built as a victory memorial by one of the maharajas after defeating his step brother. The association of Kachwaha Rajput rulers of Jaipur (and previously Amber) with the Mughals is well known and, one sees this most vividly in architecture, where Islamic elements are clearly evident. Interestingly, the title of ‘Sawai’ was given by Emperor Aurangzeb to his unusual Hindu ally, Jai Singh II, for being extraordinary or ‘more than one’ against the Marathas, sawa (one-and-a-quarter) being used as a metaphor. The Maharaja’s heirs seem to have taken the title too literally, for they fly two Indian flags atop the City Palace, a full-sized one and a smaller, quarter the size of the bigger one. Old habits die hard, they say!

After a busy day, I retired to the hotel for a brief rest. The evening fare at the hotel consisted of an open air dinner in a lovely mango garden, with a Rajasthani folk dance and music troupe in attendance. Next day, I started my tour with a visit to the City Palace, which is as old as the city of Jaipur itself. A portion of the palace, the Chandra Mahal, is occupied by the heirs of the last Maharaja, while the rest is open to public. I was welcomed to the Diwan-i-Khas (Hall of Private Audience) by two liveried guards with lances who were keen to help me with the camera. They suggested pictures with them as, “you will look like a Maharaja,” they uttered in unison. Of course they earned a good tip for the smooth talk. Located inside the Diwan are two silver urns, said to be the world’s biggest silver vessels, each weighing 750 lbs. When a former Maharaja visited England for King Edward’s coronation in 1901, these urns were shipped along, so that the Maharaja could drink ‘pure’ water from Ganga River and not be polluted by the English Thames. Ganga Mineral Water, anyone?

Paucity of time demanded that I choose the Sileh Khana (armoury) over Mubarak Mahal where a boring display of textiles and crafts was underway. Some of the exotic items at the Sileh Khana included a dagger with two pistols on the sides, a disembowelling device whose many blades open up like an umbrella on penetration, daggers bejewelled with rubies and emeralds and, dual-purpose walking sticks that could shoot bullets. I came out awed by the opulence as well as gut-churning tastes of the Rajput royalty.

A many-faceted Maharaja Jai Singh II had an interest in astronomy and mathematics as well, which led him to an observatory construction spree in five major cities. The one at Jaipur known as Jantar Mantar is a fully functional one, and has several structures including a huge sundial and devices for calculating the positions of heavenly bodies, as well as exact times of eclipses. It was amazing to see scores of children checking the time on the sundial, while many others were seen trying their skills at various other devices. I thought we needed an observatory in every district that could at least sort out our perennial moon sighting problem!

After a short trip to the magnificent Amber Fort, I collected my night kit and checked out of the hotel. As the clerk handed me the bill, the manager soothingly came around to congratulate me for having lived like a Maharajah for a day! A late afternoon ride on the Shatabdi was uneventful except for some lively interaction with a fellow passenger. When I had declined a meat patty served over tea, he was quite pleased that I was a strict adherent of ‘the’ faith and hadn’t succumbed to modern ways. Then we discussed local politics, Delhi’s civic problems, world politics and just about everything under the sun. When he asked me what my profession was, I told him that I had been flying the fast stuff. “Oh, so you can take care of the neighbours!” To this one, I emphatically replied that I could. Despite conversing for hours I had managed not to give away my identity, but after his swipe, I was itching to let him know where I belonged. As we got off at Delhi Railway Station, he asked my address. When I told him I was from the neighbouring country, he nearly tripped off. He held his head in his hands and said it was amazing that in nearly four hours of conversation, not once did he think that I was an outsider. He was a businessman from Jaipur and invited me to visit again; he assured me that what he said earlier didn’t have much meaning to it. I thought I could do one better and warmly invited him to Lahore, “so I could take care of the neighbours!” We had a hearty laugh followed by effusive goodbyes, which brought a befitting end to a wonderful weekend at Jaipur.

© M KAISER TUFAIL

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 30 October 2011, under the title, 'Going Pink.'

Hasanabdal of the Mughals

2011-10-02T13:52:00.009+05:00

“On Wednesday the 12th [Muharram] the camp was at Baba Hasan Abdal. One kos to the east of this station there is a waterfall over which the stream rushes with great force. There is no fall like it on the way to Kabul. On the road to Kashmir there are two or three like it. In the middle of the basin, in which is the source of the stream, Raja Man Singh has erected a small building. There are many fish in the basin of the length of half a gaz and a quarter gaz. I halted three days at this enchanting place, drinking wine with those who were intimate with me and employing myself in catching fish.”

That was Emperor Jahangir recounting his hedonic capers in Tuzk-i-Jahangiri. He was taking a break at the delightful way station while on his way to Kabul in April 1607. Earlier, his father Emperor Akbar and later, his son Emperor Shah Jahan had been frequent visitors to this rest-and-recreation spot, where the watchwords were opium, wine, hunting and fishing. Today, the dilapidated relic known as Wah Gardens continues to be a relished picnic spot for locals and for whom, carbonated beverages and fowl-rich biryanis provide the ultimate high.

I had visited the gardens several times when we were young students at the nearby Cadet College. For those of us whose parents were located too far for a weekend visit, cavorting in the local bazaars and verdant gardens of Hasanabdal provided welcome relief from chronic homesickness. Now, more than three decades later, nostalgia of another kind took me back to Hasanabdal. The aroma of spicy fried rohu fish sold by street side vendors, verdant loquat gardens even now too tempting for a mischievous raid, the all-pervasive whiff of bhang that grows ever so wild and, every other restaurant dedicated to Lalarukh, whoever she was: these were sights and smells that had to be savoured to relive those teenage years long gone.

About three kilometres south of Hasanabdal near the small bridge over an anaemic Dhamrai Nala, a narrow road branches off into dense foliage. On the roadside is a romantic little cottage surrounded by a bamboo thicket, which I recall, was once owned by an old German lady. Winding around acute corners of villas of the well-to-do locals, one suddenly finds himself face to face with the ever-present extortionist, greedily waving the car parking coupon. The gardens seem abuzz with activity and revellers of all ages greet outsiders with the usual small town stare.

A fifteen-rupee entrance ticket allows you inside the gardens. In the middle of the green lawns is the fish pond described by Jahangir, but instead of fish of the half gaz variety one sees dozens of mammals of the two-legged kind, clad in all-purpose shalwars, thrashing about in the water to kill the intense summer heat. Alongside, families have laid out their feasts on mats under the cool shade of some very old chinar trees. A nearby marble plaque proclaims: Chinar, Platanus orientalis, 1908.

Besides the pond, the upper terrace also has a pair of utterly ruined baradaris, the only extant buildings in the gardens. Traces of an adjoining royal hammam (bath) are also visible. The lower terrace has a central water channel (now dry, of course) lined with elegant cypresses. At the north-western end of the channel is the main entrance gateway, which is closed to the public.

“Time has left nothing but ruins of buildings, parterres covered with grass and weed-choked reservoirs, a jungle of trees….,” wrote a certain Colonel Cracroft in 1932. Today, eight decades later, it is not much different from the Colonel’s description. Unhappily, one is left wondering what the gardens must have been like in their original imperial splendour.

For those of you who thought that something was amiss about Mughals on an R&R trip, we shall move to another part of Hasanabdal to see if it connects. Turning into the Main Bazaar Street, one comes across the familiar Sikh Gurdwara of Punja Sahib. It is out of bounds for Pakistanis – which is no surprise, as things are – but that doesn’t matter if you are looking for a certain Lalarukh’s tomb that lies just across the street reeking with open drains and bubbling sewers. In the centre of a small chahar bagh style walled garden, stands an odd squarish structure made of rough stone blocks crudely plastered, standing about two metres high. The somewhat stubby corner turrets of perimeter walls are topped by small ribbed domes, hinting at a Timurid tradition. A later day cenotaph surmounts the pedestal rather loftily; there is no tombstone, no sign of the forlorn occupant of this strange tomb. Lalarukh, or ‘tulip face’ is supposed to rest here according to lore, but her real identity remains an enduring mystery.

Mughal genealogies or autobiographies do not record any princess by the name of Lalarukh. In any case, if she were a royal daughter accompanying the emperor and, died due to an accident or some natural cause, a splendid tomb would surely have been ordered. Could she have been a favourite concubine who accompanied the emperor as he tarried at Hasanabdal on his way to Kashmir or Kabul? Perhaps she contracted some tropical fever in the hereabouts and, was quietly laid to rest amidst the cypresses and cool streams, far away from the court chatter of Agra, Delhi or Lahore. On the other hand, she could well have been a local courtesan who knew how to liven up the emperor’s evenings with song and dance. As for the emperor who might have been associated with Lalarukh, all three mentioned earlier were consummate pleasure seekers; however, if the famous Anarkali offers a clue, it could well have been the unstoppable Jahangir!

Just when it seemed that some headway had been made in this right royal tangle, we have one Hasan Gujjar who is claimed by traditionalists to be the real occupant of the mystery tomb. Why a Mughal emperor would edify the Gujjar’s resting place with a garden and a tomb and, not mention it in his autobiography when even the most mundane activity gets detailed, is inexplicable, unless one of the emperor’s nobles undertook the initiative on his own. One of our professors at the Cadet College, the late Mr M H Siddiqui, who was well-versed in local lore and history, was of the opinion that Hasan Gujjar was none other than the saintly Sheikh Karim-ud-din Baba Hasan Abdali.

What is known for sure is that ‘Lalla Rookh’ is just a fictional character in Thomas Moore’s grotesquely amusing 19th century romantic poem, hung around the neck of Emperor Aurangzeb’s misnamed daughter. How she ends up in Hasanabdal, remains an unsolved riddle. Perhaps someone in the British Raj thought that Moore’s imaginary princess had just the right credentials to fill in for the unknown courtesan – or the Gujjar – and, could help attract odd tourists like me!

Nearby, a well-designed but little cared for tomb known as Hakimon ka Maqbara stands derelict and decaying. The tomb was constructed by Khawaja Shams-uddin Khawafi for himself in 1589. Khawafi was the Superintendent of Works during the construction of Attock Fort and had his summer headquarters at Hasanabdal. He was later elevated as the Governor of Lahore, but was not destined to be buried in his own tomb as Emperor Akbar ordered one of his favourite ‘Nauratans’ (Nine Jewels), Hakim Abul Fateh Gilani to be buried there instead. Subsequently, Abul Fateh’s brother, Hakim Hamam Gilani, was also interred in the same tomb. One suspects that Khawafi may have earned Akbar’s ire, possibly for trying to immortalise himself beyond what his station allowed.

The tomb’s basic form is derived from a regular square with bevelled front corners. Archways on the four sides lead to the tomb chamber which is vaulted on the inside. The archways, as well as the exterior and interior walls, have niches which break the monotony of the simple structure. Unfortunately, crumbling plaster and graffiti scribbled through the ages have rendered this building in as wretched a state as the rest of the Mughal buildings in Hasanabdal – and much of Pakistan, I hasten to add. It is said that the ruinous condition of the tomb is largely due to the wanton destruction of Muslim buildings by the terrible Hari Singh Nalwa, Sikh Khalsa Army Commander and later Governor of Peshawar under Maharaja Ranjeet Singh. The cenotaphs of the Hakim brothers were razed, all embellishments removed and the tomb was used as a munshi’s office for a long time. Apparently, no worthwhile renovation has been undertaken since then. A fish pond in front of the Hakims’ tomb is full of slimy water with hideous flotsam, including polythene bags and juice packets, floating about. The wonder is that many large-sized mahasher fish swim about, apparently in good health!

The next time the Archaeology Department decides to hold its annual seminar, Hasanabdal might be good venue to set up camp. Maybe it gets the archaeology mandarins’ attention for a long due repair job at this – once celebrated – way station of the Mughals.

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 2 October, 2011.

Bay Watch at Ormara

2011-09-04T10:46:00.009+05:00

With the lone hotel in Makran having closed down recently due to security concerns, one has to think twice about exploring this fascinating vastness by camping out in the open. I was lucky to take up the offer from a naval colleague and decided to spend a tranquil weekend at the Naval Mess in Ormara. The allure of watching the turquoise waters of gently curving bays, from an exclusive viewpoint perched on the enchantingly beautiful ‘hammerhead’ was too much of an opportunity to let pass; and what better way to get there than by driving down the excellent highway which, at places, overlooks the dazzling Arabian Sea with the stratified hills of the Coastal Makran Range for a picture-perfect backdrop.

With my old Air Force friend Nauman Farrukh for company, we set course early in the morning and headed via the Northern Bypass towards the industrial estate of Hub. From there, as we drove along the RCD Highway to Uthal, we picked up many features familiar to us from the air during our bombing runs of yester-years at the Sonmiani Firing Range. We were so busy recollecting old stories that we completely missed the turn to the Makran Coastal Highway. After nearly reaching Bela, we realised our mistake and turned back to Zero Point, 18 km south of Uthal, from where the highway starts. The traction of the tyres suddenly smoothened out as we coasted along one of the finest roads in the country. The road widely arcs around the inland sea known as Miani Hor where all sorts of aquatic birds can be seen; it can be visited only in a 4x4 vehicle due to rough terrain. About 90 km from Zero Point is another marvellous geological feature, the famous Chandra Kop mud volcanoes of Makran. Located about 6 km off-road, the three volcanoes can be visited in a 4x4 vehicle; however, one must be prepared for a very bumpy ride over sand dunes and thick shrubbery.

The desolation of the countryside is evident all along, with hardly any population centres, save for a few reed huts here and there. There is no evidence of agriculture or even rudimentary industry, anywhere. The road traffic is thin, with about one vehicle passing by every 3-4 minutes. Roadside shacks serve tea and beverages, while some also sell petrol, hand-pumped out of barrels as there are no proper petrol stations on the way. About 100 km from Zero Point, the road starts to run south-west along the base of a hill range that eventually dips to the edge of the sea. For those not so lucky to manage a night’s stay in a forces’ Mess at Ormara or beyond, the drive must end at Hingol River crossing near Aghor (about 3½ hours from Karachi) so that a return journey can be completed before nightfall.

We took a tea break at a roadside shack short of the Hingol Bridge that also marks the beginning of Hingol National Park. Nearby, a signboard proclaims – dubiously, I think – the site of the graves of Muhammad bin Qasim’s soldiers, though their design and vintage seem similar to those at the 15th–18th century Chaukundi Necropolis north of Karachi. Another signboard indicates the road branching off to Nani ka Mandir, a Hindu shrine of great antiquity, about 15 km inland near Aghor. Since there is no bridge over the river and the water level was high for fording it, we decided to leave it for some later adventure.

Beyond Hingol River, the road passes through defiles and gullies in the hill range. Odd shapes chiselled by the wind and rain can be seen, the most remarkable of all being a huge sphinx-like figure. Not too different from the famous specimen at Giza in Egypt, it only needs some refinement and finer shaping of facial features to qualify as the Sphinx of Baluchistan. Other naturally sculptured shapes include pagoda-like structures, lofty towers and human figures; one of the latter is said to have been named Princess of Hope by none other than Angelina Jolie, while on a flood relief tour a few years back.

As we got closer to Ormara, the huge mass of the promontory jutting out into the sea became visible. We were low on fuel so our immediate concern was to find a petrol station in the town. As we drove through the town’s central street, we saw numerous shops selling Iranian bootlegged petrol, besides the usual groceries and vegetables. A shopkeeper’s assurance that it was top grade fuel prompted us to get a refill; in the event, we did not have any engine issues on the return leg. The drive through the town had nothing to show but pot-holed streets and an unkempt look. Iranian-made motor bikes are the principal means of transportation in the town. Occasionally a woman wrapped in a black chador would scamper past, somewhat uncomfortably. We found the locals to be generally good-natured and friendly. Almost everyone spoke Makrani Baluchi with a Persian lilt to it, though Urdu is the lingua franca in much of Makran. Unfortunately, literacy rate in the area does not reach two figures for males, while for females it is absolutely zero. A school administered by Pakistan Navy, however, promises to change things in due course.

After reaching the Mess we had a quick shower and, hurried to be in time to watch the sunset from atop the hammerhead which rises to 1,500 ft above sea level. A winding road covering a distance of 17 km takes one to the top, where a small viewing enclosure aptly named Bay Watch offers the most stunning views of the East and West Bays. Unusual for the month of July, we encountered cold winds that lashed the sheer cliffs draped in low clouds. Ospreys struggled to keep balance in delightful aerobatic flight as they scanned the shore for fish and crabs. About 50-odd fishing boats could be seen in the shallow waters off Ormara town. The Jinnah Naval Base stood out as an ultra-modern facility in the clear blue waters of East Bay. The picturesque view did a lot to soothe our tired eyes, much as the feast that followed did to our mid-sections, a little later! After the long day was done, we drove down the hammerhead in pitch dark, with our headlights picking out several hedgehogs setting off on their nocturnal forays.

Next morning we decided to go around the town to check the activities. Plenty of men were busy catching crabs on the West Bay which is a daily chore for those who cannot afford a fishing boat. Many others have found jobs as labourers at several of the Navy’s construction sites. Poaching of falcons for Arab Sheikhs is rampant, we were told; a sizeable number of shikaris indulge in this illegal falconry trade which earns them handsome amounts. The beautiful Sooty Falcon (Falco concolor), a summer breeder on the Makran Coast and the Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus), a winter visitor to the area, are prized birds which has been the cause of their declining numbers.

The Navy is well-respected in Ormara, especially for its welfare efforts which include free medical care for the locals and subsidised rations purchase. An upcoming 100-bed hospital is certain to extend health care to far-flung areas. In a few years, one expects the first batch of educated youngsters from Ormara enlisting in the Navy, which would be a turning point for the locals, both from the point of view of employment opportunities in this far-flung region, as well as national integration.

Having spent a wonderful weekend, we were ready to leave at mid-day. Shortly after driving out of Ormara, we saw two more mud volcanoes about 3-5 km off-road (approximately 18 km north-east of the town). Since we had to get back to Karachi before sunset, we could only view them from a distance. During the journey, a lot of landscape pictures were taken. We noted an excellent spot at Kund Malir for those who insist on hazarding a camping trip. About 25 km west of the Hingol river crossing, the rocky Ras Malan plunges into azure waters, and date palms laden with fruit seem to soar above the huge sand dunes of Kund. This is Arabian Sea in unmatched splendour.

It must be noted that mobile phone signals in the area are poor to non-existent; a car breakdown could thus turn into a nightmare, so it would be best to travel in a convoy of two vehicles. A jerry can of extra fuel, a properly inflated spare tyre, jump start leads and a strong towing cable are a must for travel safety. Needless to emphasise, a stock of delicious snacks and cold beverages could enrich the outing manifold! A Sunday on the Makran Coast is a thrilling picnic waiting to happen. Wise words: don’t wait!

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 4 September, 2011.

Never Too Late for Soon Valley

2011-08-20T17:04:00.013+05:00

Returning after yet another weekend trip from our favourite getaway at Sakesar, I and my wife decided to try out a different route on the way back to Lahore. After a heavy downpour, the south-bound road from Naushera to Khushab was badly inundated. We checked with some locals about the feasibility of an alternate route heading east to Kallar Kahar to get onto the motorway. Three successive bystanders assured us that (i) the road is not bad, except for some repair work (ii) the road is as good as the other one (iii) the road is very good. All three comments spurred us to drive through the fabled Soon Valley that lies between Sakesar in the west till Padhrar in the east, a stretch of about 60 km walled up all along by two ridges about 15 km apart. What lies between the verdant ridges are striking hues of greens and browns with some shimmery silvers reflected from the beautiful lakes that dot this picturesque valley. ‘Heavenly Bliss’ got a new meaning as we drove through this little traversed stretch of the Salt Range.

Soon Valley is the home of Awans as was evident from signboards at almost every shop in the small towns of Uchali, Naushera, Jabba and Padhrar. The name plates at the homes of the more well-to-do locals also display the superior title of Malik. A sign of the extravagant taste and affluence of some locals was evident from the concrete urials (wild sheep of the antelope sub-family) crafted to the most exacting proportions and colours, that surmount the roofs of their houses. The real life urial has, unfortunately, been hunted to near extinction in the Salt Range, though conservation efforts claim to have arrested the declining numbers.

A few miles out of Naushera, just as we were discussing the merits of the bystanders’ advice about the road conditions, we were jolted by tyres meeting crushed stone. It was the expected road repair work, of course, but we hoped to ride out the rumble in a short while, if the first bystander's comment had some truth in it.

Uchali Lake, part of the 3,000-acre Uchali Wetland Complex, could be seen to our left. The lake is bisected at the western edge by a road that was supposed to connect Uchali town with Chitta village, but remains incomplete due to shortage of funds. Sticking out like an ugly varicose vein over the lake’s placid surface, the road was the brainchild of a local politician who thought that a shortcut through the lake would please the locals and bring in votes, while outrightly disregarding issues of environment and aesthetics. The lake is a birdwatcher’s delight, being home to numerous varieties of aquatic birds, especially during the migratory winter months. White-headed Ducks, Greater Flamingos and a variety of grebes are a sample of these birds that can be found especially in this complex.

As we continued rumbling over the ‘under repair’ road, we checked with a passing motor-cyclist who told us that the broken stretch would continue for another fifteen kilometres. Mercifully, the pleasing scenery soothed our bones that were starting to get jarred. Little shepherd boys tending flocks of goats and sheep were a common sight. Even in small hamlets, children seemed oblivious to school life, which is a pity. Even though school buildings could be seen by the roadside villages, attendance seemed less than satisfactory.

After covering fifteen kilometres, there was still no sign of a proper road, so we flagged an oncoming pick-up truck to find out what the driver had to say. “Fifteen kilometres more to Jabba and then you will be on a proper road,” he surprised us, just when we thought the worst was over. Crest-fallen though we were, we slowly trudged along the broken stretch assuring ourselves that the beautiful countryside was, at least, worth the rough ride. Gradually, a large water body came into view which was Khabbeki Lake, the second in Soon Valley. Though much smaller than Uchali, it offers a more charming view since it runs along the roadside. Water birds could be clearly seen but are in small numbers compared to the winter migration season, when the lake is full of many kinds of ducks and flamingos.

As we drove on, we noted that there were no ugly billboards and hoardings to mar the scenery. However, stone quarrying and cutting have left some unsightly scars on the adjoining ridges and one is not sure if this activity is being undertaken lawfully. When one considers that the Salt Range is a geological wonder of Pakistan, it is heart rending to see its priceless fossil-loaded specimens being ground up in the stone-crushing machines. Earlier in the morning, we were lucky to have walked over a pathway on Sakesar top which was littered with rocks bearing imprints of molluscs (a group of small sea animals). Studies show that these creatures lived in the Early Jurassic Era dating to 200 million years ago. Sediments bearing these dead creatures that were once on the sea bed got uplifted, folded and buckled – in excruciatingly slow motion – to build mountains due to collisions of the underlying plates of the earth’s crust. Subsequently, erosion of the mountains by the elements led to exposure of the fossils. Such are the ways of Nature that you get to observe in the open air museum of Soon Valley, much as in the Salt Range at large.

The fauna of Soon Valley is restricted to bushes and small trees including sanatha, phullai and kau (wild olive). The wood of the latter is quite hardy and finds use in ploughs, handles and walking sticks. It was no surprise to see a number of camps set up by enterprising Afghan refugees, stacked with heaps of kao wood. Womenfolk, in their brightly coloured ankle-length dresses, could be seen helping their tall, heavily turbaned men with loading lumber in the tractor-driven trolleys. We were left wondering if the local forest conservation authorities are aware of this activity, which, I am told, is prohibited in the area.

Having been on the broken road for two hours, we were delighted when a passer-by told us that Jabba was just fifteen minutes away. The car’s fuel warning light had come on and, with no fuel station in sight in the valley, we wanted to get to some worthwhile town at the earliest. As we drove on anxiously, we had a close call when we stalled in a puddle of slush and mud. Mercifully, my wife’s ‘dua’ routine (that had been invoked at several critical junctures earlier) worked, and the wheels suddenly picked up some divinely-sanctioned traction. We finally made it to Jabba from where the broken stretch ended and, much to our relief, we got to ride smoothly on a proper road once again. It had taken us two hours to cover just 25 km, but we were lucky to have been driving in a beautiful valley, enjoying its idyllic landscape, never mind the bumps and jerks. As with all good things that come to an end, the small town of Padhrar came into view around a bend in the road, and we bade farewell to Soon Valley.

Anyone wishing to drive through the valley would be well advised to either do so in a 4x4 vehicle or, wait for the road to be repaired fully, which is likely to take about an year or so, at least. A simple picnic with the family at the Uchali and Khabbeki Lakes or nature photography, bird-watching and study of rocks and fossils for the keener types, are some recommended activities. Whatever your preference, if you haven’t had a good outing for a while, it is never too late for the Soon Valley!

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 21 August, 2011.

Sultana's Last Abode

2011-07-02T09:40:00.009+05:00

Standing at the Turkoman Gate, we hailed a cycle rickshaw to take us to the curiously named Bulbul-i-Khana locality inside the convoluted labyrinths of Old Delhi. “Where exactly?” the rickshaw-wallah asked us. “Razia’s grave,” I replied. Pedalling laboriously for several minutes in the April heat, he abruptly stopped for what seemed like a breather. “There, into that street .… ask anyone,” puffed the rickshaw-wallah. Looking at the width of the street that branched off, we understood why he could go no further. Feeling odd – and a bit guilty, I may add – at having arrived in almost colonial splendour, we rewarded the wretched rickshaw-wallah handsomely and strode off to pay homage to the fabled Razia Sultana.

I, along with my wife, had been soaking up Delhi’s history for the whole of the previous week and, had seen just about every landmark that we had read about in our school days. When we expressed our desire to visit Razia’s grave, hardly anyone could help with its location, which was a surprise. Though a famous film starring Hema Malini as the vivacious Sultana and, even comic books featuring Razia have been popular in Delhi, there weren’t many who seemed interested in her forlorn after-life.

We asked a chai-wallah if he could help us with the way to the gravesite. “It’s up there on Bhojla Pahari, not far from here,” he replied casually, while his clients looked at us questioningly. As we headed into the shabby cobblestone street, we noticed that it was getting claustrophobic and not even two persons could walk abreast without a nudge. Not sure if we were at the right place, we rechecked with some passer-by, who said that we were not only on track, we were actually at our destination, as he pointed at the grilled iron gate on the dead end of the street. The surroundings could not have been much different from our own Inner City in Lahore, with rickety conjoined houses putting good neighbourliness to severe test, live electric wires taking dreadful dips in every terrace and, the rubbish mocking at slothful babus of the municipality. The sub-continental street scene came full circle when a pye-dog soaked in sewerage slithered past us, having had a cool dip in the open sewers. Something must have gone very wrong for Razia to have ended up where she was, we wondered.

Our schoolbooks never told us that Razia was enamoured to the keeper of her horses, an Abyssinian slave by the name of Jalal-ud-din Yaqut. The chauvinistic Turki nobility known as the ‘Group of Forty,’ already incensed at having to bow to a woman in court, was aghast at seeing Yaqut promoted from the Amir al-Khayl (Superintendent of Stables) to the powerful position of Amir al-Umara (Superintendent of Nobles). Palace intrigue, thick with spying and plotting, soon implicated the unmarried Razia and Yaqut in a frivolous bit of intimacy. Yaqut was reported to have helped Razia clamber into her saddle, rather ardently. While she trotted off with a gratifying smile that eventful day, little did she know that the long knives were out.

A revolt by the Governor of Lahore in 1240 AD was put down bloodlessly, but shortly afterwards, Razia was confronted with a more ominous threat from Malik Altuniya, the Governor of Bhatinda. Razia led a force to confront the rebel governor, but was routed soon after her arrival. Her favourite Yaqut was killed in battle, while Razia herself was imprisoned in the very fortress she had come to reduce. Thereafter, in a twist right out of Indian cinema, her captor Altuniya found himself irresistibly captivated by Razia’s charms – she was about thirty, we are told – and the two promptly got married! Altuniya then led the combined force to Delhi to wrest his bride’s sultanate from her brother Muiz-ud-din, who had usurped it in the prevalent brotherly fashion while she was away campaigning.

Standing on the little Bhojla Pahari, which is more of high ground than a hillock, we looked around at the dense jungle of brick and concrete that is Old Delhi today. It took our mind’s eye to visualise that over seven and a half centuries earlier, this place was a wooded jungle on the floodplains of Yamuna; the imperial court was a further ten miles south at Rai Pithaura – the first of seven Delhis – then just 60 years old. We imagined Muiz-ud-din marching past where we stood, to square off with his new brother-in-law, as far north from the capital as he possibly could. Though Razia was more experienced in battle craft, she was constrained to defer leadership of the force to her husband, who was not quite equal to the task this time, as it turned out. After a resounding defeat, Altuniya and Razia fled westwards from the battlefield near Karnal, but after a day’s march which saw bulk desertions, they were cut down by local Hindu Jats at Kaithal. It was 14 October 1240, almost four years into Razia’s rule as the first Muslim woman ruler of Hindustan.

Reaching the iron gate at the dead end of the street, our eyes fell on two unremarkable graves in a small open courtyard. Were it not for the Archaeological Survey of India plaque which gave the details, we could well have been looking for some domed building hidden from view, elsewhere.

Mounted on a foot-high plinth, both graves are dressed in crude stone blocks. Of the two graves, one is said to belong to Razia’s sister Shazia but in the absence of tombstones, guesswork is fair game. The possibility of Altuniya resting in the company of his wife is not altogether improbable, I thought. A couple of platters full of bajra ensure that pigeons liven up, what might otherwise qualify as the most pitiful resting place of any monarch that I have seen.

With nothing more to see, nor any caretaker to talk to, we left the place rather cheerlessly. As we were winding down the street, a shrill voice called out, “aye bhai sahib.” Looking back, we spotted a middle-aged man with paan stained teeth, beckoning us to stay as he had not been able to offer his hospitality. Sensing it to be the usual attempt at extorting money, we continued, only to be chased by the man who kept insisting that we see the adjoining dargah and mosque. The whole situation started to become tense as he grabbed my arm and almost dragged me to a halt. My wife too was worried that one shrill whistle by the charlatan could draw out a dozen thugs rushing from the warrens and alleys. Before things got nasty, I jerked the fellow aside and we shuffled out of the street as fast as we could.

How on earth did Razia come to be buried in the horrid corner of Bulbul-i-Khana, if the grave is actually hers, that is? To complicate matters, there is a tomb in Kaithal also attributed to Razia. To answer the question, one can only speculate, based on the circumstances in which Razia died. If indeed Hindu Jats had killed her (there may have been a tacit nod from the top), the new Sultan would have put up a pretence of a decent burial and, would have hastily brought his sister’s remains back to Delhi. Bhojla Pahari is said to have been the place where Razia’s purported patron saint, Hazrat Shah Turkoman Bayabani, used to sit during meditation. This location may have been chosen by Muiz-ud-din in the belief that the saint’s blessings might comfort his tormented sister’s soul; that it was out of the way for any would-be sympathisers from the capital, was just as well. In the event, the saint died shortly afterwards and is buried not too far from the gate named after him.

As for the tomb at Kaithal, it could have been built by a later ruler over the site of Razia’s temporary burial. There being no tombstone or memorial tablet at Kaithal does not help matters much.

That Razia’s grave could yet emerge somewhere in Pakistan, some day, would be no surprise. In fact, discovery of Razia’s burial chamber in Kasur has already made news in some Urdu dailies, but we shall leave that for another story!

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 3 July, 2011.

Thatta's Fallen Glory

2011-06-12T10:02:00.011+05:00

If you are a Karachi-ite and have a Sunday to spare, you couldn’t make better use of your time than taking a quick tour of Lower Sindh. A spine for adventure and some good weather could see you through Makli Necropolis, Kinjhar Lake, Shah Jahan Mosque at Thatta and the little-known hill of Pir Patho, all in a day! That is what I and my good old friend Khalid Marwat – also a skilled amateur astronomer in his own right – did last month, much to our pleasure I may add!

We reached Thatta after a two-hour drive from Karachi on the National Highway. It did not take long for us to observe that the fabled town had seen better days in the past. “Negar Thuttie, a great city as big as London,” proclaimed the joining instructions to captains of East India Company in 1607. This contrasted starkly with a report by a German armyman Leopold von Orlich during a visit to Thatta in 1845 in which he noted “the narrow, irregular and dirty streets … the ruinous nature of the town.” Sadly, fortunes of the city fell forever when the silted Indus delta changed course in one of the vagaries of nature, for it had been a thriving river port and seat of power in Lower Sindh since late fifteenth century, till the Kalhoras moved the capital to Khudabad (near Dadu) in 1739.

Of the several sites visited by us over the weekend, I thought the Shah Jahan Mosque deserved a closer enquiry, if for no other reason than its being the only structure commissioned by the Mughals in Sindh – an oddity of sorts, surely. From the point of view of Islamic architectural styles, this mosque is unique too in a number of ways, as we shall see.

It is said that Shah Jahan, while an emperor-in-waiting, fled from his father’s wrath after a rebellion and sought temporary refuge in Sindh. Were it not for the generosity of Sindhis, he might have met the same ignominious fate of his seditious brother, Khusrau. Later, when Shah Jahan had the throne all to himself, he ordered the construction of a mosque as a token of gratitude to the people of Thatta, which practically speaking, was synonymous with Sindh in those days. The mosque was completed in 1647, three years after construction had started.

Located at the eastern edge of the town, the relatively unassuming facade of the mosque is lent some distinction by a chahar bagh style garden laid out only in the last major renovation in the 1970s. The entrance portal has three well-embellished arched gateways which open into a vestibule, with the main gate leading directly to the courtyard, while the two smaller ones lead to the ablutions bays, and then beyond to the arcaded galleries on the northern and southern sides of the mosque.

The twin-aisled galleries are actually a series of cubicles interconnected with thick-walled arches, each topped by a small dome. Built with red bricks lined in white mortar, the arcaded galleries and their domes are an exquisite study of myriad geometric shapes. The white horizontal lines of the arches effortlessly give way to the verticals and then, wrap themselves into concentric circles on the insides of the domes, looking much like the long-exposure shots of stellar motion in the night sky.

Besides the numerous small domes, a main dome tops the prayer hall, two secondary domes top the main entrance portal, while another two tertiary ones mark the centres of the two galleries. Ninety-three must be some magic number to ward off kafir sorcery, one wonders, for why else would they not complete a full hundred domes? Superb acoustics are said to be the outcome of these numerous domes and, the imam’s voice is claimed to be heard loud and clear in the farthest corners of the mosque. Unfortunately, we were not able to test the high-fidelty sound effects, but saw no fuss in agreeing with the multitude. Personally, I thought the visual appeal of the vaulted galleries may have been the dominant factor in the unusual design. Aesthetics were, however, soon blighted by the sight of human heaps sprawled in the galleries, deep in pious siesta!

As we stepped into the medium-sized courtyard, we could barely see the main dome over the prayer hall as it was rather squat, without a drum at its base. Even more surprising was the absence of minarets; there wasn’t a single one to be seen! The structure of the mosque is far removed from the quintessential Mughal style of Delhi, Agra and Lahore. In fact, this mosque boldly breaks from tradition and does not seek to be imposing in any way.

The prayer hall itself is emblazoned with bright Sindhi tiles in blue, white and brown, but one does not fail to note the hybridisation of designs that has resulted after recent renovations. The later ones are finished crudely, and the florals and starbursts are more evocative of our rickshaw and truck art. Sadly, yet another renovation seems in order as plenty of tiles have fallen off or are cracked.

It was heartening to see busloads of school children as well as weekend revellers visiting the mosque, despite the suffocating May heat. After all, it seems like the only place in town worth visiting! Unless the flagging fortunes of Thatta somehow find a prop, it would be quite a challenge to preserve this remarkable mosque that has a style all its own: simply, ‘jo Thatto’ (of Thatta)!

After visiting the Shah Jahan Mosque we had time to do some sight-seeing at a rather offbeat spot called Pir Patho, where we had planned to stay the night at the PAF Officers’ Mess. Located 15 miles south of Thatta at the southern tip of Makli Hill Range, the little settlement is located on a small hill, about three miles from Indus.

We first drove up to two very old mausoleums: that of Syed Sakhi Jamil Gurnari (died 1244 AD) and the other one of Shah Hussain Aplani (died 1268 AD) also known as Pir Patho Debali or just Pir Patho. The latter is considered the patron saint of boatmen, who invoked his blessings as they set out in the crocodile-infested Indus delta. Interestingly, Hindus too revered him for the same reasons, but as an incarnation of ‘Raja Gopichand,’ a somebody in their man-god pantheon.

Not needing any special benedictions as we found ourselves safe from crocs, we drove off to the nearby bin Qasim Mosque and Tower complex. As the sun dipped low, we caught sight of a dilapidated tower which, the locals told us, marked the spot where Muhammad bin Qasim landed. Of course bin Qasim had trudged along the Makran badlands on camelback, but local lore had him as an able Admiral too! The memorial tower is quite similar to the one at the mausoleum of the early 17th century writer Mir Masum Shah in Sukkur and possibly, of similar antiquity too. My friend Marwat, however, thinks that due to its elevated location (the hill is 80-ft above sea level), the tower at Pir Patho could have well have been a military look-out or an anchorage marker in Thatta’s maritime heydays: a KPT Tower of sorts. Of course, we are talking of an Indus delta and the sea that was much further inland.

The nearby mosque – actually two of them, curiously conjoined – has six domes, three to each half. Without much material for a deeper study, one can only speculate that the second mosque was a later add-on for more accommodation. Like the tower, the mosque seems to be of seventeenth century vintage.

Green Pigeon, illustration from

Birds of India by Martin Woodcock

Our busy day was done with a good shower and excellent food by our somewhat surprised hosts at the little-visited Mess. It was a wonder that Marwat could stay awake for a night of sky-gazing though I was deep asleep within minutes of going to bed. Next morning, while breakfast was being lazily prepared, we did some bird-watching, whose highlight was an unusual spotting of a Green Pigeon (Treron phoenicoptera) high up in the tree tops. Sighting of this winter visitor, which is mostly confined to Punjab, would have been significant only if we had been able to photograph it, but for the bird getting disturbed by the sudden noise of generators cutting in at the start of load-shedding! By the way, Pir Patho and its wetland environs are a bird watcher’s delight, especially in winters.

On our way back, we decided to sample thaadal, the traditional Sindhi drink, at a roadside shack near Gharo. Heaps of almonds were being pounded by wooden pestles in stone mortars, but it were the sundry ingredients being sprinkled incessantly that got us wondering if the concoction was to quench something more than ordinary thirst: rose petals, cloves, cardamoms, mint tablets and poppy seeds! Mercifully, we stayed in control after the heady drink and came home in good cheer, with some excellent memories of the genial people and fabled places of Lower Sindh.

With Alexander Across the Salt Range

2011-05-15T07:55:00.018+05:00

I couldn’t have been much concerned about which route the invading Alexander took when he started from Taxila, to battle Porus across River Jhelum (Hydaspses) in 326 BC. To me, the location of the battlefield – still not clearly identified – and what exactly happened there, was more essential. All that changed when my friend Shahid Dad suggested that we retrace the likely routes, as his daughter Aisha had some new ideas that she wanted to test for a thesis in her Classical Studies major at Wellesley College in Boston. Ever too eager for a trek, I immediately paced up my evening walks to tone up for the rigours of the outing, while the mornings took up a study of Sir Aurel Stein’s On Alexander’s Campaign in the Panjab. Stein’s work is a modern day commentary on Arrian’s Anabasis Alexandri, which remains the best source on Alexander’s campaigns, though one has to allow for inaccuracies and omissions as the latter was written a good four hundred years after the events.

Stein would have us believe that, just because a Ghaznavid expeditionary force supposedly descended through a narrow gorge in the Salt Range to reduce the Hindu Shahi stronghold at Nandna, Alexander would have used the same route thirteen centuries earlier! Now this line of reasoning would have remained uncontested if the opening at Nandna was the only one in the widespread Salt Range spanning almost 100 miles from east to west. In the event, we thought we could look elsewhere, with the bonus of observing some of the most colourful landscape Pakistan has to offer.

Could a ‘Salt Road’ have existed in Alexander’s time for transportation of salt from the big salt mine at Khewra, if it was operational, that is? It is not hard to imagine camel and mule trains hauling the valued condiment to the markets in Central Asia, Gandhara, Kashmir, India and Persia. One has to only glance at the map to note that such a route may have been the precursor of today’s road that runs south from Chakwal to Khewra, then on to Pind Dadan Khan before swinging east to nearby Haranpur, the purported site of Alexander’s main camp that lay roughly opposite that of Porus across the river (see map, brown track). For Alexander to have followed such a route, it had to be effortlessly negotiable so as not to wear out his soldiers before the actual battle started, besides having sufficient forage in the crags and defiles for a cavalry of 9,000 horse.

In May last year, I, along with Aisha and Shahid decided to check these ancient logistics issues while motoring in merry comfort – with no worries about hay or horseshoes, I may add! Turning off the M-2 motorway at Kalar Kahar, we headed east over a narrow road shadowed by an escarpment that runs alongside for a full 15 miles till Choa Saidan Shah. A few miles short of Choa, the Ketas Raj temple complex is visible from the roadside, so we took a detour for a short visit. A Buddhist stupa dating to the 3rd century BC is the oldest extant structure, while numerous Vedic temples attest to the reverence in which the complex was held in the later Hindu Shahi era. Ketas is said to have once been the centre of annual pilgrimage by Hindu devotees from all over the sub-continent.

At Choa Saidan Shah, we had a tiffin of tea and patties which charged us up for a more difficult stretch till Khewra. The constantly winding road provided breathtaking views, only to be blighted by the ugly smoke emanating from Dandot cement factory. A visit to Khewra salt mines was not scheduled so we pressed on to Haranpur, which is about as unremarkable as any other small town of Punjab. As we took a roadside break, everyone agreed that the route, while the most direct from Taxila, had some very difficult stretches that could have severely taxed Alexander’s force. Nonetheless, the lore about the famous conqueror is so deeply ingrained amongst the locals that just about every village or small town of Potohar boasts of Alexander having having stopped there for a rest before taking on Porus!

Our next destination was Alexander’s river crossing point, which is reported by Arrian to be 150 stadia (17 miles) from the main camp. Arrian further states that, “there was a headland ascending from the Hydaspes at a point where the river made a remarkable bend”. Stein interprets this headland as the “precipitous spur projecting from the Salt Range which terminates with its south-western corner just opposite to Jalalpur”.

Covering the 17 miles to Jalalpur Sharif was straightforward and, without wasting much time, we drove to the little known but high sounding Alexander Monument and Research Centre. The complex abuts a torrent bed whose name Kandar Kas (kas = nullah or rain stream) would surely ring a bell with etymologists; the nullah passes by the eastern edge of the town before draining into River Jhelum. What a disappointment to see an interesting building locked up and no one to tell us what it was all about! With not even a chowkidar anywhere in sight, we decided to visit it again at a later time, for we had yet to explore other possible routes culminating at Jalalpur Sharif.

A month later, we set off on our next trip to Nandna temple and fort ruins, which overlook a defile from where, it is said, any expeditionary force coming from the north can conveniently debouch on to the plains of Punjab. Breaking off the motorway at Lilla Interchange, we drove past the familiar Pind Dadan Khan and Haranpur before stopping at a quaint-sounding Dharyala Jalap, where ‘Doctor’ Khalid Qazi was waiting for us as a guide. Khalid is a compounder and runs a small home dispensary in Jalalpur, but seemed to be more of an expert on all things Alexandrine. We had heard of him during our last visit to Jalalpur and had requested his help for the next trip; he graciously decided to forego his thriving practice for a day, to join us this time.

With four of us and our driver seated in the two cabins of a 4x4 pick-up truck, we set course for Baghanwala, a mere five miles north (see map, red track). A verdant settlement with lush gardens and spring water streams was a welcome sight, amidst the stark and rugged terrain all around. A few surprised locals were at hand to help us through the scrub-lined cobblestone path that led up a steep rock face. The ruins of the Nandna temple were visible high up against the skyline and to get there, it took us half an hour’s trek through an idyllic oasis ringed by small hamlets and several mills run by stream water. Grazing camels, donkeys and goats harked back to a scene which may well have been some millennia past.

Panting and sweating in the June heat, we got a feel of what Alexander’s force might have experienced in the same season. Reaching the top of the Kainthi plateau, as it is known, we surveyed the few remains of the temple and fort, as well as the northern approaches. To our surprise, we could see nothing more than a few narrow rain torrents that serve as tracks used by villagers for collecting firewood; there was no trace of any path wide enough over which a 66,000-strong infantry and 9,000 cavalry could have trodden. In any case, the narrow gorge enclosed by sheer cliffs was utterly difficult to negotiate and, we thought, any wise commander would have avoided this route unless he was mad angry or mad drunk. (Alexander was known to be afflicted by both maladies, though!)

We were told that a narrow road built in recent times led from the nearby cement factory at Gharibwal to the village of Ara and beyond. That was good enough reason not to attempt a hike through the craggy hills and, hurt an ankle or two in the effort. We, therefore, pressed on in our 4x4, though in a direction opposite to what Alexander supposedly followed.

Ara is a small settlement on the edge of a picturesque plateau that offers breathtaking views, with the lush foliage teeming with birds of all feathers. From Ara, we could view Nandna in the distance and, the rough and convoluted terrain in between only reinforced our doubts about this route. We took a break at an ancient stepped well (baoli) whose concealed location, our guide Khalid knew very well. The location of the baoli testified that some time in the past, Ara may have figured as a way station for weary travellers like us. The baoli had not dried up and in fact, it was being used to pump water to someone’s private gardens nearby. It is a pity that not many people know about the tranquil getaway that Ara is. We all thought of a dream farm house here, some day, much in preference to any at Bedian Road or Chak Shehzad!

Still harbouring doubts about the two routes explored, we decided to investigate yet another one. Aisha, incisive as always, pointed out that any heavily-laden expeditionary force would find the mere sight of hills daunting, and it would be worthwhile finding a bypass. Khalid suggested that we drive through the dry bed of River Bunha, a rather long, winding rain torrent that skirted the heights and eventually drained into River Jhelum. To our good luck, the driver of the pick-up was well-familiar with the terrain as he had brought his sahib on many a hunting trip in the past (before hunting was prohibited, we assumed).

From Ara, we headed in a north-easterly direction along a narrow broken road that eventually led us to Padhri, where we intercepted the river bed. We learnt that this bed turns into a torrent a few miles south of Chakwal and meanders east till Padhri before bending south, whence it opens out in a large fan near Pind Sawika. From there, a narrow road leads to Jalalpur Sharif, astride Kandar Kas during the last few miles (see map, blue track).

One could see that a south-bound expeditionary force could catch the Bunha bed anywhere during its 50-mile traverse and, get to Jalalpur quite effortlessly. We noted that grazing was ample and there were plenty of pockets that had retained water from the last rains several months ago. The only caveat to this alternative route is that in rainy season the river bed would turn into sludge and marsh, so Alexander would have to have marched through before the monsoons came. Of course his local guides, possibly from the Taxiles Legion made available by the confederate Raja Ambhi, would have known of this route as well as the vagaries of weather.

The drive had become bone-jarring by now as we had spent the better part of the day over hills and vales, half of it trekking. Khalid also seemed to be getting edgy, but we knew he’d get his smile back, on seeing the waiting room full of patients. We eagerly looked forward to his promised tea when we reached his home/dispensary.

Late in the afternoon, we reached the Alexander monument at the northern reaches of Jalalpur town. The structure’s baked brick walls, classic Grecian portals and rather vainly fashioned Ionic columns, left us unsure of what to make of its architectural style. An ill-conceived research facility funded by the Greek government and several NGOs, as well as some keen individuals, it never developed beyond the basic structure and is in a state of abandonment since its inauguration in 1997. Money might have been better spent if it had been a scaled-down memorial signifying the place of assembly of Alexander’s forces, and no more. Perhaps the Greek government (with the consent of other donors) could still gift it as an educational facility to Jalalpur Sharif. Any takers for ‘Sikander Primary School’?

The last item of the day was sumptuous tea at Khalid’s place. He turned out to be quite an antiquarian when he showed us several pieces, including his coin collection of various Muslim eras. The pièce de résistance was a huge and very heavy article carefully wrapped in sheets, which got us wondering, till he unveiled it. It was a mammoth (3’x2’) copy of the Granth Sahib, the Sikhs' holy book, printed at Amritsar’s first press at the turn of the previous century. Khalid told us that it was left behind by the Sikh owners of his present house at the time of Partition. Khalid’s entrepreneurial spirit showed up when he allowed that he would try to rope in some Sikh yatrees for a bid, when they next visited Punja Sahib (at Hasanabdal)!

As the journey came to an end, we were all glad at having spent yet another useful day in the Salt Range; Aisha was no less thrilled at having gone through an adventure few girls in Pakistan can dream of. I, however, have yet to ask the young Classical Studies scholar as to how it mattered whether Alexander passed through Khewra or Baghanwala or the Bunha bed, as long as he was in time to meet Porus!

© M KAISER TUFAIL

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International in two parts on 8 May and 15 May, 2011.

Two Glorious Mosques

2011-04-03T10:03:00.013+05:00

A short walk from Chandni Chowk down the oddly-named Esplanade Road brings you to Old Delhi’s (or Shahjahanabad’s) famous Jama Masjid. Dense and narrow bazaars, similar to ours at Anarkali, fill the long vanished canal that once bisected a tree-lined esplanade (or walkway) in front of the nearby Red Fort. You cannot fail to be distracted by shops peddling jewellery, perfumes, spices, brocades, silks, Quranic CDs, and even coffin shrouds and funerary accoutrements. A bit of each for the ‘here’ and the ‘hereafter’, so to speak. In a few minutes, you find yourself against an impressive stairway platform that leads up to the mosque’s main (eastern) portal. The mosque is sited on what was once a small hillock so it could offer a magnificent view from afar, but now the congested localities barely allow a minaret to peek through.

As one looks around after entering through the main portal, the ubiquitous sub-continental tout emerges to help you with the history of the mosque, “in a language of your choice, sahib.” Sooner he is shooed off, a greedy-looking man in kurta-pyjamas complete with a grease-trimmed Nehru cap introduces himself as being from the mosque management, and announces the ‘official’ rates for using your own camera: Rs 25 for stills and Rs 75 for videos. “The scores of foreigners milling around have been charged more,” he whispers, “for they are not our Musalman biradaran.” Half-pleased to be of the chosen people, I and my wife enter the courtyard to peruse India’s largest mosque commissioned by the definitive aesthete, Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan.

Quite unlike anything we had seen at our Badshahi Masjid in Lahore, we noted with some astonishment, a sizeable community of squatters, hippies and tired tourists sprawling in the colonnaded galleries adjacent to the courtyard. The courtyard itself gave a rather unkempt look, what with durries and reed mats scattered shabbily. Tangles of electric wires hanging between chandeliers, loudspeakers and junction boxes were equally unsightly and, reflected poorly on the mosque management, ie the Waqf Board which is constituted under the government’s Waqf Department. It may be noted that the Archaeological Survey of India, on the other hand, has done a good job in care and maintenance of historical sites in Delhi, most of which hark back to the Islamic era.

The structure of the Jama Masjid is eye-catching indeed and at first glance, one notes the pinkish hue of its sandstone compared to the more ruddy appearance of the Lahore mosque. The Jama Masjid is archetypal of the Mughal mosques, with a lofty main portal, huge courtyard, tall minarets, a prayer hall capped by three domes girdled by minor kiosks and, a well-embellished arched main entrance flanked by numerous smaller ones. The Jama Masjid’s main entrance to the prayer hall is, however, disproportionately large and obscures three-quarters of the central dome when viewed from the main portal across the courtyard. The Badshahi Masjid suffers from a similar imperfection, though not as gross. Only the main entrance of the Taj Mahal seems to have got the proportions right with respect to the central dome, as both elements can be seen complementing each other, like a perfect ensemble.

Unlike the Badshahi Masjid, which has four tall minarets at the corners of the courtyard and another four short ones at the corners of the prayer hall, the Jama Masjid has only two minarets at the front corners of the prayer hall; four squat bastions or burj with Rajput style chhatris and arched pavilions dot the courtyard corners. The courtyard of Badshahi Masjid is over two-and-a-half times larger than that of Jama Masjid, so the scheme and number of minarets seem eminently suited to the respective dimensions of the two mosques.

The white marble domes of Jama Masjid have thin black stripes, which make them look more natural and organic, if you will: Emperor Babar’s much-loved musk melons would not be a wholly inapt description, I thought! White inlaid stripes are also echoed in the two minarets, emphasising verticality whilst subtly alleviating the monotony of red sandstone.

As we walked towards the prayer hall, we looked through the arched colonnades and spotted the Red Fort in the distance, with its main Lahore Gate beckoning us Lahoris for a visit which was undertaken shortly afterwards. While we are at arches, I am reminded of an impressive view from one of Badshahi Masjid’s colonnade arches, which frames the Minar-i-Pakistan like a lighthouse in a sea of Sunday revellers. A badge typifying the Islamic Republic of Pakistan could not come out better.

The Jama Masjid’s prayer hall is slightly smaller than that of Badshahi Masjid but is equally imposing, and is richly embellished. White marble inlay (pietra dura) exquisitely decorates the red sandstone outer walls, while stucco work, flowing arabesques and bright floral themes on inner walls and ceiling, leave no doubt about the supremely refined artisanship under Mughal administration.

Akbar’s grand mosque at Fatehpur Sikri (completed 1572 AD) has served as the basis for the design of Shah Jahan’s Jama Masjid (completed 1656 AD) while in turn, Aurangzeb’s Badshahi Masjid (completed 1674 AD) is well-rooted in the Jama Masjid’s design. We saw no harm in architectural ideas being creatively shared within the Mughal family!

The Jama Masjid environs are regrettably quite messy, with no green areas, no worthwhile car parking and, plenty of rubbish that keeps none but the omnipresent kites and crows in good cheer. An ambitious municipal plan to beautify the place has not quite taken off, though it promises to restore some glory to this otherwise remarkable mosque.

The Badshahi Masjid has done much better on this account, with better overall cleanliness, at least in the immediate vicinity. The well-maintained Hazuri Bagh provides a comforting welcome to the visitors, though the cold drinks kiosks and ice cream freezers lining the garden perimeter do their bit to blight the scene. A little afar, the comprehensively potholed parking lot that precedes the Roshnai Gate is a makeshift affair and, being unpaved, remains practically a dust heap. Razor wires and the senselessly placed star barriers (now, akin to national symbols in Pakistan) pay lip service to security, without regard for busloads of sightseeing schoolchildren who have to fend for themselves around these atrocious barricades.

It is gratifying to see the two famous Mughal mosques still fully functional and, in a reasonably good state of repair. Multi-religious India sees the continued glory of Jama Masjid as an affirmation of its secular ideals, while Pakistan showcases its Badshahi Masjid as a perfect manifestation of its Islamic heritage. Emperors Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb had, on the other hand, sought to display imperial splendour wrapped in innocuous layers of faith and piety – an effort that served its purpose well. Today, quite the other way round, the devout find it intensely satisfying to seek faith and piety under harmless imperial splendour.

Who knows, the excesses committed by the emperors might pale in the shadows of the two glorious mosques, for they continue to echo His name three-and-a-half centuries later.

Astola's Primeval Charm

2011-01-16T19:11:00.010+05:00

I have tried asking several of my friends if they knew about Astola. The replies have been as diverse as any bunch of schoolboys might give. "It is the name of a movie", one said. "It is an ancient king’s name", guessed another. The closest somebody came to, was its being the name of a city. Well, you can’t blame them when no school geography book mentions it as our forsaken largest island, nor do the superannuated tourism mandarins care to enthuse the countrymen with anything more than Shalimar Bagh and Jahangir ka Makbara!

I first got to see the splendid island a couple of decades ago, while skimming the waves at over 500 mph. Looming like a gargantuan aircraft carrier, the island caught the fancy of the squadron-mates; it soon became a must-visit waypoint for updating our Mirages’ inertial navigation systems while on coastal strike missions: that was official. The unofficial purpose was to explore the prospects of a squadron outing, some day. The idea of wallowing in its enchanting creeks and coves and, dipping in the sparkling blue-green waters, kept turning into a collective obsession.

The first of my several visits was three decades ago – a jaunty ride by boat hired from Pasni. No pleasure craft that boat, as only fishing vessels plied the seas for the most part, as they still do. In the eighties, a deal for a round trip to Astola worth a few hundred rupees would bring immense joy to the poor folk; now the rates have shot up ten-fold but they seem unsatisfied – clearly a sign of these cheerless times. A puttering outboard motor spilling oils and all sorts of lubricants into the sea was the standard propulsion gear then. No change, whatsoever, has taken place since. No GPS, no two-way radios, no life jackets. Neither have fortunes of the fishermen changed much, as their tattered clothes clearly substantiated.

The second time, in the mid-nineties, I got a chance to hitch a ride on a Navy helicopter during an exercise. I, along with a few colleagues, was quite literally dropped on the island – from a hover at five feet – as landing at Astola would have been considered an ‘outstation’ trip, hence unauthorised! (Recovery was in hover mode again, suitably lowered further, but without a hint of a landing.) On the island, we sauntered in the scrub and dipped in the sea; cruelly tanned, hungry and with nothing better to do, we scribbled graffiti on the rocks. It is a wonder that fifteen years later, a sweetly etched K+S still survives, as I discovered to my delight in the latest trip by boat.

Drowning the noise of the motor, a sudden miserable lyric, almost a wail, went off that we took a while to comprehend. “Saat pehar Satadip mein; athwan pehar Hinglaj….,” it went. The boatman, seemingly well-versed in local lore, explained like a teacher, that in terms of cosmic time, Satadip deserves a stay of seven parts while Hinglaj the eighth – the former being the name of Astola in Hindi and the latter being a venerated mountain in Makran Coastal Range, that houses the famous nani ka mandir where Hindu pilgrims from afar visit regularly.

Astola Island is located 25 miles south-east of Pasni, being part of the administrative Sub-Division of the same name. Satellite pictures clearly show the contours of a submerged hill that is capped by an outcrop of rock shaped like a grotesque crocodile. Its shape and layout is not too different from the ‘hammerheads’ at Ormara and Gwadar. Astola is 2.5 miles long and half a mile wide; the all-around perimeter is about 6 miles. The highest point on the gently sloping, but largely flat, island is 240 feet above sea level.

Our boatman explained that the island serves as a way station for fishermen during the fishing season, as they can extend their range with an overnight stay there, rather than having to return to Pasni every evening. The ice cabins in boats can preserve the catch in the hottest of seasons for up to 36 hours. The fishermen carry their own water rations in the absence of fresh water supply on the island.

Going by the drought-like conditions prevalent on the island, any suggestion of a tourists’ permanent dwelling, seems a non-starter. Day-long tours staged through Pasni, with self-supplied rations, portable shelters and some entertainment wherewithal, are the only option for the time being. A float-plane service from Karachi to Astola and other coastal cities of Makran comes to one’s mind, but with the cost of living going right off the charts, there may not be many takers of this proposition.

Saw-scaled Viper

The island’s flora and fauna has evolved in salt-laden moist winds, merciless sun and little rainfall. Devoid of trees, the island is mostly covered by tamarisk, acacia and sea-blite shrubbery. Seagulls and terns are a common sight. An endemic snake sub-species, the deadly saw-scaled viper Echis carinatus astoli is unique to the island, and is found mostly in the deep clefts and rocky crevices. The threatened Green turtles and Hawksbill turtles have been spotted in sandy shoals in the egg-laying season. Sea snakes are said to infest the waters around the island, but there have been a few intrepid scuba enthusiasts visiting from Karachi who seem unruffled by these dangerous slithering creatures in their midst.

A big nuisance on the island is the feral cat. Introduced by the fishermen as ordinary domestic cats to get rid of huge-sized rats that stalk their camps, the felines have multiplied and, have assumed menacing habits while living in the wild. They are the biggest threat to eggs of sea birds which nest on the ground and, need to be thoroughly culled under supervision of wildlife experts. There is also a need to make the fishermen aware of the consequences of upsetting the island’s eco-system through a concerted campaign. Unfortunately, an overall lack of education in Makran towns makes matters difficult for the environmentalists.

Of the only two structures on the island, one is a pir’s ‘mazaar’ near the north-western shallows, said to house the mortal remains of the legendary patron saint of sailors, Hazrat Khizr alayh-assalaam. Our boatman told us that every sailor who disembarks at Astola, first visits the pir’s mazaar. “The prayer helps us with a bountiful fish catch and also keeps us from harm at sea”, he maintained. The remains of what was possibly a Hindu temple, with some swastika signs still visible, are located not far from the mazaar.

The other structure is actually a compound that houses a solar powered lighthouse installed in 1987 to replace an earlier, gas powered one, rusting nearby. This point is also the highest elevation benchmark of the island. The powerful revolving beacon is reported to have a visibility range of 16 miles – when serviceable, it must be added!

No account of travel in Pakistan is complete without Alexander the Great doing a round and, Astola is no exception. In Arrian's Indica, which describes the westward journey of Alexander’s fleet after the Indus Valley campaign (325 BC), Admiral Nearchus is quoted as having anchored by an island named ‘Carnine’. Some scholars have assumed Carnine to be Astola Island, without considering the extreme aridity and lack of fresh water which renders the place inhospitable. In all likelihood, Carnine was the name of a mud flat isle in the inland sea, presently known as Khor Kalmat. This latter conjecture supports Nearchus’ coast-hugging voyage (which would have kept him well away from Astola), a compulsion meant to provision Alexander's army that was supposed to have marched out along a coastal route; in the event, the forlorn army found itself astray in the hills and vales of the interior before finally managing to get out of treacherous Gedrosia (Makran).

Astola Island is one of the last frontiers of Pakistan that retain their primeval charm, though litterbugs have done their bit to remind us of the influences of modernity by leaving a trail of juice packets, disposable bottles and the ubiquitous ‘shopper’ plastic bags. It would be a sad day, I thought to myself, when the first commercial hoarding gets erected in this still-pristine island. The Balochistan Government would do well to immediately declare the island as Astola Nature Park. This would be the right step towards conservation of the island’s endemic flora and fauna, as well as resetting the ecological balance that is clearly in doldrums. It would also pre-empt any efforts by various vested parties to gobble up real estate for crass commercial gains.

© KAISER TUFAIL

This article appeared in the daily newspaper The News International on 16 January 2011.

Sakesar - A Quaint Little Hill Station

2010-11-12T18:53:00.016+05:00

Off the beaten track, nestled in the hill forests and, ringed by beautiful lakes, Sakesar would be an inconsequential village, were it not for the salubrious alpine weather, seemingly incongruous in the hot and dusty plains of Punjab. Located at the western edge of the Salt Range, Sakesar is an important Air Force Base. Formerly a hill station and the summer headquarters of the Deputy Commissioners of Campbellpur (Attock), Mianwali and Shahpur Districts, it was transferred to the PAF in 1961, when it was found that an unhindered line of sight could be offered to a powerful new radar from the highest point (4,992 ft elevation) on the Salt Range. But for a mere eight feet, government officials would have been entitled to the ‘hill allowance,’ I was reminded with a sigh! Today, Sakesar houses important air defence units in a setting that would be the dream of any naturalist, so the air defenders conveniently get to mix business with pleasure, so to speak.

The Soon Valley, which fans out eastwards and southwards from Sakesar, is home to the Awans, a tribe much known for its military prowess in the Great Wars. Nowadays, while the military remains number one choice for most job-seekers, some who prefer to stay closer to home undertake profitable off-season vegetable farming. In yester-years, those who were not well-heeled for the military found a position with the British civil administration as camp followers, attendants and peons. Today, the PAF continues to be one of the biggest employers of local villagers.

Last month, my course-mate Shaheen Hameed and I decided to visit this little-known hill station that we had heard much about. From the motorway exit at Salem for Sargodha and, then on to Khushab took us about one-and-a-half hour. As we headed north to the small town of Naushera (another hour’s drive), the road became narrower, with the usual potholes, stray dogs and scruffy men idling in the middle of the thoroughfare. We drove past Mehria Hotel (no stellar rating) at Naushera; it was later learnt that the hotel has tolerable service and, can take care of all but those who are overly picky about pillow case embroidery and sanitary-ware colours! A district government rest house at Phulwari, not far from Uchali Lake, is about as far as one can expect to get to Sakesar unless one is in, or has served in the blues. The rest house is a two-room affair, neatly tucked away in the foliage wherein the white-cheeked and red-vented bulbuls melodiously jostle for territory. It offers splendid views into the Nammal and Soon valleys on the western and eastern sides.

Birds of Uchali Lake, illustration from
Birds of Pakistan Helm Field Guides

A trip to the picturesque lakes of Uchali and Khabbeki can be managed comfortably over a weekend, though a day-long trip from Sargodha would be just as well. The brackish lakes fed by seasonal run-offs skimming the salt-laden hills, are part of the Uchali Wetland Complex that also includes the minor Jhallar Lake. The 3,000 acres of this complex are a birdwatcher’s delight, being home to numerous varieties of birds, especially during the migratory winter months. White-headed Ducks, Greater Flamingos and a variety of grebes are a sample of aquatic birds that can be found especially in this complex. During our visit to Uchali Lake, we were able to see a large flock of hundreds of Black-necked Grebes bobbing over the serene waters.

Fishing in the lakes is prohibited, just as hunting of birds and other animals around. Recreational boating is also not allowed, as the leaky outboard motors are known to spill too much toxic oil in the lake. At Uchali Lake, we met a local volunteer conservationist who owns a small boat. He told us that poaching is rife and influentials still fish and hunt discretely. “If I was as a wildlife guard, I guarantee that up to fifty violators would be caught every month, instead of the two or three who are prosecuted presently,” he said. We were not sure if he was offering his credentials as a job-seeker or was a serious conservationist!

For history and archaeology buffs, the outing would be incomplete without a visit to Amb, where the ruins of a 10th century (AD) temple hark back to the heydays of the Hindu Shahi dynasty. The temple is one of a series of monastery-like complexes that include Malot, Ketas and Nandna that stud the Salt Range. The road to Amb is somewhat circuitous, as one has to first proceed to Quaidabad, about 45-km west of Khushab, thence north to Amb, over a 25km bone-jarring stretch that is best negotiated by a four-wheel drive vehicle. On our way back, we were surprised to see a wedding motorcade of about 40 cars – all white Toyota Corollas, interestingly – and several buses, loaded with revellers of all ages heading towards Khushab, over some of the roughest Salt Range terrain.

The hills here, as in much of the Salt Range, are laced with ferrous oxides giving them a reddish hue. Depending on the time of the day, colours can range from pastel pinks to muddy maroons, which are magnificently contrasted by the varied greens of kao or wild olives (Olea cuspidata), phullai (Acacia modesta) and sanatha (Dodonea burmaniana) that swathe the hills aplenty. Higher up on Sakesar top, pine cones litter the ground under a dense canopy of chir (Pinus longifolia).

PAF authorities have done a creditable job at forestation and fruit cultivation at Sakesar. In addition to caring for the trees and shrubs that grow in the wild, we were shown luscious orchards of apricots, apples, cherries, grapes, loquats, olives, pears, persimmon and, even a few walnut trees that have been tenderly maintained.

Ever clean as military establishments are, Sakesar has some unusual scavengers which, hand-in-glove with the authorities, ensure that no morsel, no packet of juice remains strewn out in the open. While jungle crows get to work during daytime, wild boar, porcupines and jackals clear up any litter at night. Living in harmony with the residents, these animals have seldom been nuisance enough to justify a cull. Strolling after dinner one night, we suddenly found ourselves in the company of a dozen boars of all sizes, emerging from the bushes at a rather close range. Just as we braced ourselves for a possible charge, they trotted off with heavy grunts, seemingly assuring us of their compliance with a tacit ‘live and let live’ arrangement!

In ‘Letters from India,’ Lady Anne Campbell Wilson wrote home about Sakesar in the year 1889. “Blessings on the man who dreamt about Sakesar and made it an English home. I am delighted with our new quarters. You can’t imagine the kind of material pleasure one has in material things that simply look English…. We look down from heights on valleys and mountains, the whole vista sometimes concealed by mists, perching us high above the whole world! …… Our hilltop is sparsely covered with olives and wild figs, acacias and a few stunted fir-trees, and has a narrow footpath running around it, giving us a two-mile walk in the evening, with tennis on the one little public tennis-court as an alternative form of exercise…… Dotted along the northern side of the hill are four bungalows, one called the Bannu Bungalow, another the Deputy Commissioner’s, a third the Mission Bungalow and the last the Policeman’s.”

More than a hundred and twenty years later, the Deputy Commissioner’s bungalow, much renovated, is the residence of the PAF Base Commander, while the three other bungalows -- in their original form still oozing colonial charm, but awash with ghoulish ghost stories -- house some strong-nerved junior officers and their families. We visited an old, unoccupied colonial bungalow that could not have been very different from Manderley of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. A long driveway heaped with rustling dry leaves brought us to a creaky gate. Shrubbery had grown to monstrous heights and gnarled roots had grown insidiously into concrete pathways. The fantastic view of the valley was only obscured by low branches of stunted oaks. It was here that a certain Mary resided, whose ghost lives on and frequents the bungalow on dark windy nights, we were told. Till a few months ago, this place was occupied by an officer’s family, we learnt with amazement. Devotion to duty, surely, has many shades!

Weather records of Sakesar, available in the Imperial Gazetteer of India (Punjab Province), mention temperature readings taken in the summer season of 1866 indicating that “the average temperature was 75º(F), or one degree less than summer heat in England.” We could have added that the autumn temperature too, is similar to England’s, for only a day before our visit, Sakesar had experienced an unusual October hailstorm that left the ground like a white sheet for over an hour!

Municipal, development and conservation authorities of other hill stations would do well to take a leaf from pristine and unspoilt Sakesar, which in this age of wanton commercialisation, continues to exude an old-world charm so delightfully described by Lady Anne of yore.

This article appeared in the daily newspaper The News International on 21 November 2010, under the title 'Pristine and Unspoilt'.

Our Trip to India

2008-11-23T12:13:00.012+05:00

Me and my wife Samar came back after an incredibly fruitful trip to India, (in April 2008) which we shall surely relish for a long time. We got a chance to visit our parents' ancestral homes in Jalandhar, alongwith virtually every monument and landmark in Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. Visit to the latter city placed us amongst the privileged few “….them as has seen the Taj…” (Lear). We enjoyed all the sights and sounds of the enchanting places we chose to visit. We were well looked after by our hosts who must number several hundred, as we seemed to be everyone's guests, going by the warmth with which we were received everywhere. There was no untoward incident anywhere and we felt safe and very much at home. For an ex-Air Force officer, it was also quite something to swap the aeronautical targeting maps of yester-years with tourist maps and, romp around in India’s heartland! Here are some snippets of our visit:

Some Anecdotal Observations About India

The first thing that caught our eye on the way to Amritsar airport was a sari-clad woman scooterist complete with a helmet and a handkerchief for a mask. Then a bevy of college girls went scooting past on their way home after classes. This was in stark contrast to Pakistan where, we had heard a few days earlier, of the first-ever batch of eight female Lahore Police motorcyclists who had graduated and supposedly made history of sorts. In India it is a not at all an unusual sight to see women scooterists and cyclists on the road, specially in small towns where public transport is not as good as cities like Delhi.

At Amritsar airport we keenly read a prominently displayed notice which exempted only 27 key government functionaries including the President, Prime Minister, Supreme Court Judges, Governors, Chief Ministers and Federal & State Ministers from security checking. The list did NOT include members of Lok Sabha, nor did it include Service Chiefs of Staff!

VIP culture as we have it, is non existent in Delhi as well as other cities that we went to. Display of arms is strictly prohibited and private guards usually have just a baton. Only one shooter in a group of guards is authorised to keep a firearm with limited rounds. All government officials travel in the busted up and ugly looking ‘Ambassador’ a copy of Morris Oxford of the fifties. This includes the Prime Minister, Ministers and Service Chiefs. It is also not uncommon to see even Wg Cdrs and Lt Cols going to work on scooters.

Indians are not ostentatious like we are. During our two weeks in Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Jalandhar, I saw just 5-6 odd Mercedes, no BMWs and no sports cars. Everybody drives a Maruti, Tata Indica, Suzuki Swift or scooters and motor bikes.

Indians dress up very simply and their women are not given to gloss and glitter like ours. Women dress up in saris, shalwar/churidar-kamiz and jeans-tees in about equal numbers. Men are mostly clad in trousers and shirts. While I am on dresses, I must say that the glamorous sari is not what you see in films and on TV. In real life, most sari-wearers are quite fat, but the wonder is how brazenly they show their guts (pardon the pun)!

We found the average Indian rather docile compared to our adrenaline-high countrymen. With the general level of education being better than ours, and respect for authority evidently greater, it seemed that civility was coming of age in India. The attitude of shopkeepers was very welcoming and friendly and, they spent every effort to rope in even the most die-hard window shoppers.

We witnessed an incredible sight during our early morning train trip from Delhi to Jalandhar. On both sides of the track, one vast open air toilet ran for miles and miles. There was no consternation as pigs and dogs rummaged around and trains whistled past. It was also sad to see humans degraded to the level of animals. But that is India. As the train rattled past Panipat, we were reminded of Emperor Babar’s disdain for such things Hindustani!!

Talking of trains, I must not omit mention of the excellent service that we found in our travels to Jaipur and Jalandhar. The Shatabdi (Millenium) Express is as good as it gets in South Asia. This train was clean, seating was comfortable, newspapers and magazines were plenty, the food was a delight for a vegetarian like me and, not the least, the hostesses were most courteous and smart. I must also add that the train was an absolute stickler for punctuality, an attribute little cared for in our part of the world.

Environment-consciousness is strong in India. All Delhi buses run on CNG; so do rickshaws. Parks in Delhi are numerous where families and dating couples can cavort without fear of molestation. Trees abound in the city and municipal laws prohibit cutting even a branch without permission. Most cars are parked outside on the streets and, as a consequence, bird droppings are a nuisance to car-owners. There are NO billboards in Delhi and Jaipur. Jalandhar has some, but small-sized ones. None of the mega-sized ones that have utterly spoiled Lahore’s skyline.

Active mosques are managed by Muslim trustees, but their state leaves a lot to be desired. The Jamia Masjid, Delhi is a pale reflection of its counterpart in Lahore, largely due to mismanagement and corruption by the former’s executive body. The Archaeological Survey of India has, however done a good job in preserving all monuments, understandably, as they are magnets for tourists and bring in substantial revenue. Muslims are nearly 50% in Old Delhi area, but unfortunately, their condition is pathetic. Mostly they are rickshaw pullers, carpenters, car mechanics; the rest are content with being idlers, waiting for better times by the Will of Allah.

A Visit to the Taj

“Agra Taj, Agra Taj…,” so went the cacophony of the wagon conductors as we passed by a wagon stand on the outskirts of Agra. The calls were reminiscent of exactly similar ones we often used to hear at our own wagon stops while driving to the PAF base at Mauripur, for Agra Taj Colony is a dense locale not too far from there. This time it was surely different, as we were driving to the actual Taj in Agra, while carefully skirting an IAF base that lies a few miles away from the famous mausoleum.

Accompanied by my wife, we had hired a private taxi for a Delhi-Agra round trip. We set out early in the morning, with a very talkative and confiding driver named Anwar, for company. A historian of some substance, Anwar was ever-ready with a commentary about any monument, temple or mosque that was visible from the roadside. After a three-hour drive from Delhi, over a highway studded with the most stubborn truck drivers, we stopped for a coffee break at McDonald’s near the huge Mathura Refinery complex. One could catch the whiff of petroleum in the air for miles. Mathura, the birthplace of the legendary god Krishna of the Hindu pantheon and also an ancient centre of Buddhist learning, was visible from a distance. The gleaming Jamia Masjid built by Emperor Aurangzeb clearly stood out on the skyline. Anwar was quick to point out that the mosque shares a wall with the Garb-Griha Mandir, without any fuss.

Driving further on, we stopped by at Sikandara near Agra. The small suburb houses Emperor Akbar’s mausoleum, said to have been designed and started by Akbar himself, but completed by his son Jahangir. The tomb’s entrance portal has four white marble minarets which are said to be precursors of those on the Taj Mahal. These are, however, disproportionately tall and contrast oddly with the main red sandstone structure. Any comparison with the Taj ends right there, as we were to find out soon.

Anwar advised us for an early lunch at Agra and it did not take us long to spot Bikanervala’s, the famous multi-menu eatery chain that boasts just about every culinary delight India has to offer. A hearty South Indian veggie fare filled us up and we hastened towards the Taj, lest the ticket booths there closed down for a one-hour lunch break. As we drove through Agra, it was hard to believe that it was once the imperial Mughal capital. Now a disorderly and dirty city with bubbling sewers and broken roads, it was only the Taj Mahal that beckoned weary travellers like us.

The ubiquitous touts, so often seen chasing tourists in the sub-continent, were busy beckoning in a chatter all too familiar. (Guide chahye? Photo khichwayee ga? Achha dikhaen ge sab kuch, ispeshal … and so on). As we approached the ticket booths, an overpowering stench started to numb whatever remained of our sniffers. Litter, camel droppings and rubble were equally sore on the eyes. We wondered if our senses would be up to speed for the impending study of the world’s most beautiful building. At the booths we got a concessional ticket of Rs 200 for being a SAARC member, compared to the other foreigners who are charged Rs 700 a peep. Locals pay Rs 35.

While walking towards the portal of the Taj, we noticed that we were inviting odd stares, which got us wondering. The mystery was resolved a short while later when we overheard a few ladies who seemed completely beguiled by the style of my wife’s shalwar-kameez, as well as the lawn print. They couldn’t resist asking us if we were Pakistanis, because such lovely ‘salwar suits’ were not seen in India, they admitted. Suitably flattered, we thought it to be just the right note to start the tour.

Determined not to follow the hackneyed ‘visual’ cliché of the Taj as seen in the stereotype frontal images, we approached the monument cautiously. The Taj complex essentially consists of the imposing entrance portal, the beautifully laid lawns and fountains, two identical red sandstone structures facing inwards on either side of the Taj (one a mosque, the other a mehman-khana or guest house), a museum and the glorious mausoleum itself. Judgements as to the beauty of the building have been made ever since 1653, when it was completed and, I know of only one bigot of a philosopher called Aldous Huxley who described everything about the Taj as ugly. We had no preconceived notions and saw no harm in agreeing with the multitude about its beauty.

The structure, abutting the meandering sand banks of River Yamuna, is indeed, immensely attractive and pleasing to the eyes when seen as a whole ie, together with the large expanse of gardens and fountains as well as the minarets. Perfect proportions, delicate balance and extreme symmetry cannot be missed by any, but the most callous observer. Exquisite inlay work consists of colourful geometric and floral designs along with precious stones that embellish the somewhat sombre white marble. The extremely fine calligraphy along the walls and arches is cleverly executed so that the size of Quranic verses increases with height, giving the illusion of a uniformly flowing script. The minarets particularly seem to act as sentinels, much like the military guards at modern tombs. I felt, however, that these could have been better embellished for they seem somewhat drab as far as decorative elements are concerned. No inlays, no calligraphy, no trimmings. One gets the impression that the minarets were done at the end, when two decades of drudgery had taken a toll on the workers as well as supervisors and, they wanted to get over with it, after all.

Well, that critique should suffice as I am no expert purveyor of fine art and architecture, really. Personally, I would lay more emphasis on the concept than the structure itself. Might one suggest that the Taj is one of the most beautiful funerary tributes ever?

Our Roots

The high point of our trip was the search for our roots in Jalandhar. First we went to my wife Samar's grandparents' (nana's) house in the city. It was easy to locate, despite some place & road name changes. The shopkeepers of the locality known as Guru Bazaar started filling us up with refreshments, the sooner word got around that someone from Lahore was amidst. The owner of the house Jagdeep Singh Thakur took us around after another round of refreshments. We saw a marble plaque on the front facade which read “Shams Manzil”, with the grandfather's name (Rehmat-ullah) and the date of construction 1331 AH (1909 AD).

An aside to the visit was my phone call, later in the day, to Thakur, requesting him to let us have the marble plaque. He surprised us with an immediate response by saying that it was really our house and we could collect the plaque next morning! We visited the next day again and collected the plaque which weighed 15 kilos! Carrying such a heavy item in suitcases that were already exploding wasn't a good idea, so we went to some marble cutting factories in the outskirts of the city, to have the plaque sliced across, but their suggestion to send it to Rajasthan for such drastic cutting got us to rethink the whole thing. We decided to take a chance with the Indian Customs at Wagah. The problem was that a plaque carrying Urdu script was sure to be construed as an antique from a Mughal monument. We had photographs to prove our point and also, we could have the Customs officials talk to the house owner if needed. But when we converted the Islamic-era date indicated on the plaque, we were horrified to discover that it was 99 years old and, we were precariously close to violating the Antiquities Act which penalises someone for taking out items older than 100 years! In the event, nothing happened at Wagah, the babu wished us a happy end to our journey and.....voila..... the plaque has come home!

The next stop was at the small town of Uggi (in Nakodar Tehsil) where we went looking for my nana's house. At a traffic crossing we asked a passer-by if he knew of a settlement known as Baupur. When he told us that everybody in Baupur, except one family, had moved out to a new colony by the roadside, we were crestfallen. He said that the sole family lived in a house that is known as 'Inspector ki kothi'. Suddenly our ears lit up, for my nana Badr-ud-din was a Police Inspector who served in Delhi but somehow, chose this place for his house in 1935. We drove off to the one-family settlement of 'old' Baupur which was just 3 km away. The sight of a massive banyan tree seemed to confirm my mother's memory of the place. We were received by a very genial but surprised Gurdial Singh, the 'numberdar' of Baupur. When we told him that we were probably in our nana's house, his eyes moistened and he became emotional. Then started a round of lassi, followed by nimbu-pani and tea. Lunch was ordered but the lady of the house was spared the hassle after great pleading. Elders from the nearby colony were summoned and they started narrating tales about my nana's family ("Inspector sahib was so tall that you could wear his shirt to the ankles!") They narrated how Inspector sahib had once killed the notorious dacoit Bhajna in the hills of Himachal, and was awarded two squares of land for the deed. A nearby grave of a Muslim saint by the name of Billay Shah was pointed out by Gurdial Singh, which was later confirmed by our elders. Gurdial still lights a ‘diya’ on the grave every Thursday out of respect for someone who loved God. Later, partition and its horrors came under discussion.

While we were at it, I brought up a long-forgotten bit of lore in my mother's family about a pretty girl who had been snatched by the Sikhs as the families migrated. The girl was 17 then and her family was known to my mother's. Not having the slightest clue about anything more than this, I was surprised when Gurdial Singh pulled out his cell phone and called up someone to reach there immediately. After about 30 minutes, a youngish-looking chap arrived and claimed that he knew of this incident. His auntie (‘tai’) was the daughter of the kidnapped girl whose name was Rehmat bibi at the time of partition. Before we could understand what was going on, this fellow also pulled out his cell phone and asked someone to reach there immediately as there were visitors from Pakistan. Half an hour later a middle-aged woman and her 30-ish son arrived. We were told that this lady was Surinder Kaur, daughter of Rehmat bibi!! Rehmat had been married off to the kidnapper's son and, over the years had five daughters, the eldest being Surinder. Now this was filmi stuff, too surreal to digest. Surinder then broke into tears and hugged Samar for several minutes. We told her that her uncle Ibrahim (Rehmat bibi's brother) was alive and we would put her in contact with him when we got back. We took many pictures and hope to pass these to her relatives in Pakistan. Surinder told us that while her father's family kept her mother with a lot of affection and care, she lived a sad life and often cried. We learnt that Rehmat bibi had been contacted by her brother sometime in the fifties and, he asked his sister to return to Pakistan. Rehmat bibi refused as she thought that there would be no future for an ex-wife of a Sikh and, that her daughters too would have no prospects. It was such a moving tale that women were weeping, to be soon followed by the ‘numberdar’ Gurdial Singh and even our taxi driver. Phone numbers and addresses were exchanged and leave was taken on a sad note. It was, indeed, an incredible visit to Baupur.

Our next stop was the settlement of Bagga near Shahkot where my grandfather (dada), Muhammad Bakhsh, used to live. The place has changed completely and there are mostly new houses except for a few old ones. We were put in-charge of a 90-year old village elder by the name of Kesar Singh. We had no more clue than what my father remembered about his house being on the highest ground in the locality. Surely, Kesar Singh knew every mound and cranny, so he walked us to what is still known as “patwari’s kothi” in the then Muslim half of the village, pre-partition. Not much remains of the structure except a room and a barnyard in front of it, but the actual residence of the present ‘patwari’ is adjacent to the old one. We took a lot of pictures there too. Discussion with Kesar Singh revealed some interesting bits of history as he seemed to remember my grandfather’s brother Ali Muhammad very well. When I showed Kesar Singh’s picture to my father on my return, he immediately recognised Kesar Singh.

We were also lucky to drop by my mother’s school in Uggi, where we were welcomed by the headmistress and teachers, who were quite amused to have us Lahoris in their midst.

I had been planning the trip to our ancestral homes for quite some time. I must say that Google Earth was a big help, besides the bits and pieces of trivia handed down by the elders. We were able to chart out our routes with the help of satellite maps and some excellent Indian Punjab websites which were a great help. Our taxi driver Bal Kishan was the key figure who was as excited as we were in searching for our roots.

Our relatives, specially the elders are absolutely enthralled by our staggering finds and, for some time now, it is mostly heritage and roots that we have been discussing.

A portion of this article viz, 'Our Roots' appeared in India's weekly magazine, The Sunday Indian, 8 Aug, 2008 issue.

A portion of this article viz, 'A Visit to the Taj', appeared in the daily newspaper, The News International, under the title 'Agra Taj, Agra Taj...', 13 Feb, 2011.

Erupting Shrine

2008-11-23T10:19:00.007+05:00

Many years ago, while on a reconnaissance sortie off the Makran Coast, I had flown over what seemed to be small volcanoes spewing out a slushy liquid. When I reported the strange geological phenomenon to my squadron mates, they promptly shrugged it off as a flight of fancy. However, when I got to fly over the same area again, I made it a point to record the spectacle with the on-board video camera. During the replay, there was a full house in the video room and everyone was awe-struck at the weird and wonderful ways of Nature. The volcanoes soon became a must-visit way point for the squadron pilots during all coastal missions. A high speed run over the volcanoes was one thing, but a close-up look at the vents had always enthused me.

In January 2001, I, along with a few colleagues, got a chance to see and hear the bubbling froth and, heard tales about intrepid Hindu visitors for whom the mud volcanoes are sacred. They are commonly known as ‘Chandra Kops’ or cones of Ramchandra (a Hindu moon deity). Besides the three volcanoes near the coast, there are four others scattered in the Hara Mountains further inland.

Located about 220-km from Karachi by road, the journey to the Chandra Kop trio is not for the faint-hearted. Though an excellent coastal highway has been completed by the Frontier Works Organisation, it will be some time before ordinary tourists feel secure enough to drive down to the volcanoes, in addition to gazing at some of the most unusual topographical features the country has to offer.

After a bone-jarring journey through harsh, forlorn countryside, which had seen us retrace Alexander’s ill-conceived and ill-fated return route to Persia via Uthal-Bela-Averan-Turbat-Pasni, we switched east to Ormara for our return journey to Karachi. The journey requires a four-wheel drive vehicle and, quite literally, a spine for adventure. A good night’s rest at the Coast Guards' check-post at Aghor was just what we needed for the next day’s journey.

Breaking off from the road near a place called Sangal, we detoured south into the stark shrub-dotted wasteland that was occasionally cheered up by a chirruping lark. After driving for twenty minutes or so, we picked up the outline of the larger volcano through coastal haze. Rising to a height of 100 metres, it is about a kilometre in diameter at the base. Grey, muddy liquid could be seen oozing from the vent of the volcano. As we approached closer, the two smaller volcanoes also became visible in the vicinity. Though modest by volcano standards, the Chandra Kop trio is considered to be large-sized amongst mud volcanoes.

Nearing the large volcano, we were obviously excited to have a peek down its vent. Fifteen minutes of fast climb left us panting, but it was worth every gasp because it was truly an astonishing sight. Methane gas could be smelt, as well as seen to be bubbling from the fluid that was oozing from the vent. The spilt slush had left the rim slippery and one misplaced step would have us hurtling down the slope. All the same, one step too close and a horrid, grisly end was nigh. In fact, our driver told us about a mishap that had taken place some months ago when three Hindu pilgrims who had ventured too close to the mouth, slipped and were gobbled down into the thick gooey sludge. Incense sticks placed close to the rim testified to the risk that some visitors had been taking, but confirmation of the accident from any other source could not be had. A somewhat safer ritual involves tossing of coconuts into the vent, akin to appeasement of gods at a Hindu shrine, which the volcano is considered to be.

Hindu lore is not uncommon in Baluchistan, indicating a sizeable presence of Hindus sometime in the past. The exquisitely named Sri-Mati Hinglaj Temple, (more commonly known as ‘nani ka mandir’) deep in the hills north of Aghor, is another revered shrine, which attracts pilgrims from overseas.

Mud volcanoes resemble magmatic volcanoes in so far as they erupt powerfully, with flaming hydrocarbon gases reaching great heights; they also occasionally throw out tons of mud. During the Makran tsunami and earthquake of 31 October 1945, the volcanoes were seen to be throwing up flames which shot up several hundred feet in the air. At night it was said to be a most eerie spectacle.

There is said to be a direct relationship between petroleum deposits and mud volcanoes. They resemble super-deep exploration wells, providing valuable information of oil and gas. The near-exclusive occurrence of mud volcanoes in oil-rich countries like Azerbaijan, Iran, Malaysia, Mexico and Venezuela seems to confirm the petroleum linkage. Oil and Gas Development Corporation would do well to send some prospecting teams to do a survey, if not already done.

Research done by a visiting team of scholars (1997-98) has found that the larger of the Chandra Kop trio has a conduit going down about 30 metres, into which fluid feeds a funnel-shaped mud lake. Being a sort of an underground reactor in which oil, gas and various minerals are synthesised, the volcano is also a source of some unusual substances. The oozing liquid is said to possess curative properties for the treatment of a range of diseases, although mud baths in health spas would be most incongruous in Baluchistan, in present times. A more promising prospect lies in including the Chandra Kops on the tourist map, while somehow ensuring that crass commercialisation does not spoil these geological wonders of Nature.

This article appeared in the daily newspaper, The News International, 27 May, 2001.

On the Coast of Harappan Times

2008-11-23T10:08:00.017+05:00

During a trip to Pasni in 1984, I had attempted to locate an ancient Harappan settlement of Sokhta Koh. Based on scanty information gleaned through Sir Mortimer Wheeler’s “Indus Civilisation,” I had attempted an exploratory foray “some 8 miles north of Pasni,” as the book stated. Breakdown of an ill-suited Suzuki pick-up and a near shoot-out with heavily armed Baluchi tribesmen was what came out of that sojourn. A decade later, I got another opportunity to visit Pasni in connection with an Air Force assignment. After a few abortive attempts at locating the site, I was glad to bump into Jemadar Musa, belonging to the semi-nomadic settlement of Sindi Passo in the vicinity of Sokhta Koh. He was sure about the settlement of the “matkah wallahs” as he put it and, after a couple of minutes drive from his village, he led me to the site. My first impression was that the hill had been aptly named Sokhta Koh (meaning “burnt hill”) and, that Musa’s naïve description of the ancient settlers could not have been better. I visited the site almost daily for about a week and have been able to put together an amateur account of the observations along with aerial and on-site pictures.

The site was first discovered by an American archaeologist George F Dales in 1960, while exploring estuaries along the Makran coast. A similar site at Soktagen-dor lies about 30 miles inland, astride Dasht River, north of Jiwani. Their position along a coastline that was possibly much farther inland goes well with evidence of overseas commerce in Harappan times. These coastal sites were also the source of some exotic shells used for bangle jewellery by the Harappan elite.

Sokhta Koh is an outcrop of rock in the Shadi Kaur (river) valley, surrounded by jagged, stratified hills north of Pasni. Presently, the river flows just next to the site while loops of old riverbeds meander nearby. Small rivulets and nullahs mostly fed by rainwater, empty into Shadi Kaur, itself rather anaemic in this stark and dry countryside. The nearby present day settlement of Sindi Passo is sustained by small-time agriculture, with barley crop livening up the cheerless landscape, as it must have done several millennia ago.

While the hill is about three kilometres in circuit, the habitable remnants of the visible settlement towards the east occupy about 17 hectares. The settlement itself is difficult to appreciate from the ground since no structures stand out in relief. Except for a few sporadic digs, the site has not been extensively excavated.

Aerial View

I got an opportunity to photograph the site from the air with a hand-held camera. This became possible since the site is near the holding point for recovering aircraft. Dry ravines, which mark out the northern and southern boundaries, traverse the site. Also visible are several circular features that, as later survey revealed, were signs of open-pit ovens buried under rubble. Another noteworthy point is the lack of visible evidence of walled fortification from the air, although traces of a portion of a wall are visible; this may have been a compound wall defining functional or social spaces in a portion of the settlement.

Buildings

In the absence of detailed digging, little can be said about the architecture and buildings. However, at several places, erosion by elements reveals remnants of rooms in which stratified rock was used as a base, over which mud or mud-brick walls were raised. Absence of baked bricks, despite a well-established pottery industry, indicates that rainfall may have been low and hence not a threat to mud structures. Riverine flooding, if any, was also probably not a factor due to the siting of the settlement atop hillocks. The foundations indicate that the buildings were aligned along the cardinal points of the compass. Foundations of approximately 70 buildings can be counted from aerial pictures of the site. (Reconstruction of settlement in adjacent picture has been done on the basis of foundations visible in preceding picture.)

Pottery

The site is strewn all over by thousands of potsherds which constitute the visible detritus of the extinct settlement. The sherds are of kiln-baked ware that includes jars, plates, pierced colanders, lids with knobs and fine terra cotta bangle-shaped pieces. The pottery is wheel-turned and mostly pink, with a few buff samples. Some wares, particularly jars, have a reddish glazed band around the neck. The designs are a decorative feature of most pottery and are only of black colour. Designs are restricted to geometrical shapes and include horizontal lines of varying thickness, fish scale patterns, intersecting circles, comb-like patterns and wavy lines. Human and animal motifs are notably absent. Pottery styles suggest that the site was contemporaneous with major cities of Mature Harappan Phase (2600BC-1900BC).

Out of the samples collected, two very interesting ones stand out. One is the broken rim of a jar with etched marks in the shape of the letter ‘V’ and several oblique and vertical strokes, possibly a potter's insignia. On another sherd, small fingerprints over wet paintwork are evident, perhaps those of a child who may have been playing around. The complete absence of toys, seals, statues and jewellery, at least at the uppermost level, indicate a rather utilitarian environment, though it is also possible that these may have been scavenged over the millennia. Further excavation is bound to reveal at least some elements that might mitigate the seeming socio-cultural isolation of this Harappan outpost.

Excavation of Storage Jar

After rummaging through the debris for several days, I, along with our very keen and perceptive squadron lascar, the late Salahuddin, came across a circular patch of earth with a somewhat different hue. On scratching the surface, I discovered the rim of what seemed like a pottery vessel. Further digging revealed a large jar (about 70 cms high, 45 cm wide) with a pointed bottom, carefully propped by potsherds. While trying to access the jar, the area around it had to be dug out as well. This resulted in another bonus, as a rock base of two walls emerged, making it out to be the corner of a courtyard in which the vessel had been placed. The jar was of course full of mud, but a few bones were also found in it. It is possible that the jar may have found a secondary use as a rubbish bin! Jars of similar shape have been found at several Indus sites. (The jar was handed over to the Mr Rafique Mughal, then Director General of the Department of Archaeology and Museums.)

Discovery of Copper Seal

A decade later in 2004, during yet another surface survey, I came across a fragmentary copper seal, which was found broken and now resembled a heart shape. In its original shape it was about 3cm square. It had a four-foil design with concentric-circles. The seal had a pierced knob at the back for passing a cord through it. Copper seals are rare artefacts at Indus sites so this one, from a far-off coastal site, was indeed an unusual find. (The seal was handed over to the co-Director of Harappa Research Project, Jonathan Mark Kenoyer, for further analysis at University of Wisconsin, Madison.)

Abandonment and Relocation

Sokhta Koh may have been abandoned due to recession of the coast caused by forces of nature in several ways. Firstly, deposition of alluvial soil into the harbour, by Shadi River would have caused gradual silting over centuries. Secondly, sea wave action would have deposited sand into the harbour accentuating the previous effect. Finally, geological plate tectonics, which is an active phenomenon along the Makran Coast, is likely to have caused catastrophic uplift, heaving the estuary floor and leaving the dockyard with a lowered water level. It is speculated (by this writer) that Sokhta Koh was then abandoned and the locals moved south to a new location of Prahag, near the present day town of Pasni, at the mouth of Shadi Kaur. The site at Prahag is littered with potsherds, like its predecessor.

Challenges for Future Explorers

A coastal site is unique in many ways and, from the standpoint of an archaeologist, it offers many prospects. Location of a dockyard or other maritime wherewithal, discovery of hitherto unknown designs of sea-going vessels marked on pottery or in the shape of toys, and studies of the extent of maritime trade and cultural exchange with the Sumerians of Mesopotamia, are some possibilities at Sokhta Koh. It would also be worthwhile gauging the extent of political integration of far-flung peripheries like Sokhta Koh, by comparing designs of artefacts and degree of their standardisation compared to the Harappan heartland. Sumerian, Elamite and Iranian influences on local customs and myths could be better understood, given their relative proximity to the Makran Coast. It is also not too far-fetched to imagine evidence of bilingual commercial transactions in the shape of clay tablets etc, that may be found in a coastal settlement like Sokhta Koh – a “Rosetta Stone” perhaps, that could help break the code of the enigmatic Indus script.

This is an updated version of an article that appeared in the daily newspaper, The News International, 17 May, 1996.