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Tale
2 - Pakistan/Iran/Turkey - by Malik
Tibbi, Village of Yunus, 13th April 1997.
In the evening, we headed for the village, about 145 km away.
A good road, a new Toyota Corolla, and an experienced chauffeur
made me feel as if time had stopped. After about an hour and
a half, we turned to a side road. The sun had dipped behind
the trees when we reached the village. There was no telephone,
not even electricity wire was seen nearby. Yet many people and
a donkey were waiting for us. "Do you come here every Monday,"
I asked. "No but I did send a message through a friend,
about 5 km away from here". In a while, a middle-aged person,
in tattered and dusty clothing saluted Yunus and told him, "I
rushed on my donkey when asked to take the message of Bara Sahib
(Big Boss)." Yunus puffed up with pride on being elevated
and fished out some cash for the man. I thanked God, the donkey
was not for my ride. In old days, the donkey was used to disgrace
a thief. His face was blackened with charcoal and he was forced
to sit on a donkey for parading throughout the town. Perhaps,
one would prefer life imprisonment.
The village was small but the houses were large and spacious,
built with mud bricks and clay, just like they were made centuries
ago. We were led into an open courtyard of the house and offered
wooden cots covered with embroidered bed sheets. An old lady
took a brass pot to milk a buffalo tied in the corner. She brought
back two bowls full of foaming milk. It was delicious and I
praised her. "I am milking buffaloes since I was knee high",
said she beaming with pleasure. We had dinner and slept on the
same cots. Yunus rose early the next morning and woke me up.
"There are no toilets here, we have to go out in the fields",
he whispered. I knew it well; I was son of the same soil.
Carefully, tip-topping on the toe-path, we moved for high crops.
On the way, Yunus remembered his childhood, "My mother
used to get up early and her first duty was to grind grain in
the chakki (stone-mill). Its sound was very soothing. A poet
had it well described: 'Chakki is working, night is fading,
and dawn is breaking'."
After breakfast, Yunus asked me to stay on while he went back.
The village was quite small, population in hundreds, engaged
in land cultivation in age-old ways. There were no tractors
nor tube-wells but bulls, wooden ploughs and Persian Wells.
A villager led me to a back street where a cow was being given
a bath. Young girls and ladies in their fanciful attire were
singing songs. "This is a golden bath", said an elderly
lady. "Golden! This is ordinary water", I showed my
amazement. "No ordinary water, we have dipped our golden
ornaments in it to welcome the new arrival", a young girl
chipped in. While in cities, women are rarely seen out, they
roam here freely. They work un-veiled in the fields or stitch
bits of cloth to make rilli in bright and dazzling colours.
A Hitch-Hike, 14th April 1997
In about three hours I decided to leave for my next destination,
Sukkur. The highway was about three kilometres away. To reach
the bus-point, I had three options: a donkey or a camel or the
backseat of a motorcycle. I opted for the camel. In a moment,
a camel was saddled and forced to sit before me. The cameleer
was Masti Khan, a Baloch by decent and Turkish by look. He helped
me to mount on. The camel lifted itself up with a jerk, oozing
and gargling as if to protest. I became frightened and wanted
to dismount. This brought a burst of laughers from kids. I waived
them good bye and left the village.
Anyone for a camel ride?
With reins fastened to the camel's nose peg, the steering seemed
easy. We passed through a semi-desert filled with sand dunes,
shrubs and tiny cultivated fields. Young boys and girls appeared
from nowhere. They were herding sheep and goats. There were
bells around the necks of the animals. The desert silence and
occasional tinkle of bells were quite romantic. A camel ride
was the best way to see the desert. A vehicle would be like
a cell. The constant noise of the engine would blur the solitude.
Our speed was hardly 6 km/h, slow enough to appreciate the magnificent
surroundings.
We hit the highway in about two hours. I boarded a waiting bus
and saluted Masti Khan and his camel. I reached Khanpur covering
90 km and contacted a nearby sugar mill over the phone. A bank,
where I had worked for 30 years, had financed the plant. Soon
a jeep arrived and I hopped on and was taken straight to the
rest house. I was dead-tired, my legs were cramped and my back
was aching from the camel ride and jolts from the bus with weak
suspension. A hot bath and an aromatic tea relieved me to some
extent.
This was off-season for the sugar mills. The chimney was cold
and giant crushers were lying dead. Farooq, a young engineer
from the mill, met me in the morning. I told him that I wanted
to go to Sukkur, about 275 km away. He said, "No problem,
we have lot of jeeps. Bux, our Chemist, would accompany you".
"You mean a Chemist would drive the jeep," I was startled.
"No sir, he would just accompany you", said he and
added in a whispering tone, "He has his wife there".
The road was excellent and shaded by trees. We drove through
Indus Plains, formed of thick alluvial soil. When irrigated
and fertilised, it became very productive. Many modern factories
and well-populated towns were on the roadside. With a little
detour, we saw a beautiful mosque with mosaics of tiny mirrors
on the wall. In the adjacent bazaar, there was a grand display
of pointed-toe leather sandals with beadwork . On the way, we
crossed many sandy ranges. The dwellers were tall with sharp
features, living in large round mud huts, usually atop sandhills.
The landscape became luxuriant as we neared Sukkur. Bux dropped
me at Inter-Pak Inn, near Indus River. Then he shouted at the
driver to rush up and crush whosoever came in the way. It made
sense. He was about to meet his young wife after an abstinence
of 3 months.
Hafeez ur Rahman Malik, Karachi-Pakistan.
Submitted: 5 December 2002
Next: Tale 3 - Pakistan/Iran/Turkey |
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