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Tale
1 - Pakistan/Iran/Turkey - by Malik
"Seat 26, Bogy 9, Shalimar Express, this way", said
the railway officer in snow-white uniform after checking my
ticket. I made my way muscling and steering through passengers
and porters. In red uniforms with silver badges, the porters
were carrying large boxes over their turbaned heads. "Four
Rupee per trip", the on-going rate was written on their
chests. Bogy 9 was a lower-class compartment with bare wooden
benches. Seat 26 was luckily on the window-side. A tall man
soon occupied the next one. He was dressed in a shirt worn over
a long wrap called a dhoti. First, he stacked his boxes and
a hookah (hubble-bubble). Second, he greeted me with a smile.
Meanwhile, other seats were occupied - four on each bench, facing
each other. With shoulders rubbing, knees touching, eyeballs
to eyeballs, it was difficult to conceal destinations. I was
an odd man out in a leather jacket, jeans and joggers. All eyes
darted at me to set the ball rolling. I disclosed my plan to
go to Turkey by land.
"I'm Rezi Shah. Please place these coins on Roza Imam Reza
as my humble offerings", said a fellow passenger. He had
his hand stretched, containing three shining coins. Surely I
was passing through Iran but the holy shrine was in the city
of Mushhad, not on my route. I showed some hesitation. This
brought a stunned look on his face. He thrust the coins in my
hand and said, "When you go to Iran, the Imam will call
you." Surely he did. On my return from Turkey, I stayed
in Tehran. I learnt that the Pak-Iran rail-link had been washed
away by the heavy rains. The alternate was to go via Afghanistan.
Mushhad was on the way. The high minarets of the shrine were
visible miles before. Its golden dome with inscription from
Holy Quran mesmerised me. I was drawn towards it in a trance!
With a long and a short whistle the train hauled out of the
platform. Though it was early morning, the city was hemming
with horse-drawn carriages, buses, and motor cycles with four
or five school-going kids perched on them. In the month of April,
the city was lush-green with lofty trees and spacious parks.
A lovely canal flowed throughout its length. The train passed
by beautiful old buildings and teeming bazaars. Lahore had indeed
retained its sense of history.
The train was moving fast. It made a short stop at Raiwind,
60 km away. I saw a lone mosque in the midst of thriving crops.
Come November, the winter harvest would be over. The land will
be paved and marked for erecting tents, canopies and marquees.
Over two million Muslims would gather for a three-day refresher
course in the teachings of Islam. In fact, after Haj in Mecca,
it is the biggest gathering of Muslims anywhere. Known as Tablighees,
the visitors are backpackers in the real sense. They have a
few worldly things: a stick of acacia for teeth cleaning, two
handfuls of roasted wheat as emergency rations and some bare
essentials. Placing them on a prayer rug, they would roll it
and tie it with a plastic cord. They would haul it up on their
right shoulders and set out in all cardinal directions to explain
Islam in a most simple way to their own kith and kin.
I was lost in my thoughts when I heard "Bismillah".
I looked around and found that a fellow traveller was inviting
all to share what he had for breakfast: paratha (bread without
yeast, fried in butter) and omelette with green chillies and
onion. Everyone tore off a small chunk with their right hand
not to hurt his feelings. Meanwhile, the train had entered the
most fertile land of Punjab, which means "Five Rivers".
This was the peak season for wheat, barley, gram and oilseeds.
Fairly strong and steady winds were assisting in threshing and
winnowing of the harvested wheat. The entire trip was scenically
rewarding. Orchards of citrus were in abundance where the oranges
and kinnoo were glowing in glossy dark. Camels were pulling
carts loaded with grains. Due to the good pasture land in some
places, buffaloes and cows were grazing in large numbers. At
about 12 noon, the train pulled into Multan having covered 290
km in about six hours.
Multan, 11th April 1997.
He, who travels light, travels far. Fetching the strap of my
bag, I just walked out of the station and went straight to Hotel
Silver Sand. For $12 equivalent, I got a spacious room with
attached bath. It was midday. I had a long hot shower, ate some
biscuits and slept like a log.
In the evening I changed into national dress, Shalwar Kamis
(wide trousers and shirt) and went to the bazaar. There was
an aroma of kebab's being grilled over charcoal. I gulped a
tikka, barbecued chicken piece and nan, washing them down with
soft drink. This was my standard filler, easy on the pocket
and low in cholesterol. It was a well-crowded area. Milk scented
with pistachio was being sold in rickety stands lining the street.
In smoky teahouses, people were mulling over the state of the
nation. In the dim interior of adjacent shops, cobblers, taxidermists,
bookbinders and embroiderers plied their ancient crafts. Clip-clop
of horse drawn tongas mixed well with the razzle-dazzle of the
bazaar.
Strolling in the Multan City was like a dip in the spiritual
world. Great Saints and Sufis had lived there. Mansur Hallaj,
the famous martyr of mystical love, had visited the place to
call people to God. He was later beheaded for just uttering
one word: An-ul-haqq, "I am the creative Truth". No
where else, there was such a cluster of shrines and tombs. Their
domes were visible from every direction. They were decorated
with glazed tiles. Love for God was brought near to us via sublime
words and versus. A good singer could hold his listeners spellbound
with poetry and tune.
Next morning, I rang an old friend, Yunus and asked him to accompany
me to see the handicrafts. He reached me in about fifteen minutes
and embraced me three times, left, right and left. "You
have not much changed", said he looking at me from head
to toe. Hand and hand, clinging together, pushing each other
to left and right, we moved toward his car. This might give
the wrong signal to Westerners, but it was an acceptable norm
for two friends to move together. We went from one place to
another to see craft centres. Artistic furniture was being made
with both classic and folk motifs. Brass inlays on wood was
the specialty of the area, turning raw wood into tea trolleys,
cigar boxes and salad bowls. Worth seeing was the lacquer work.
Once the wooden objects were lathe-turned and rounded, they
were lac-layered in fast rotation and patterned by etching out
one colour beneath another. Lastly, we went to a sweet shop
famous for its Halwa, made with green flour, butter, pistachios
and sugar. Its recipe handed down from generation to generation.
I tasted freely many varieties, oblivious of warnings by my
doctor to keep the cholesterol low. Afterall, one has to die
one day, why not die with a mouth full of sweets.
Meanwhile, we heard the wail of the muezzin, a call to prayer,
long and passionate. Vehicles and camel-carts came to a screeching
halt. Many people went to the nearby mosques; others spread
their prayer mats on the ground facing Mecca.
Hafeez ur Rahman Malik, Karachi-Pakistan.
Submitted: 30 November 2002
Next: Tale 2 - Pakistan/Iran/Turkey |
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Malik
- Pakistan
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