At St Peter's in Vatican

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!

© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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

Don't Rush in Vientiane

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!

© M KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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

Magnificent Amber Fort

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.

© M KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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

Enchanting Jaipur

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 is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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

Hasanabdal of the Mughals

“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, almost four 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 a rest and recreation 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.

© M KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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

Bay Watch at Ormara

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!

© M KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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

Never Too Late for Soon Valley

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!

© M KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.

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