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Tale
3 - Pakistan/Iran/Turkey - by Malik
Sukkur, 15th April 1997.
Next day, I got up early and walked along the river facing east.
Soon a tip of sun appeared on the water spreading its crimson
shafts all over. The sun was rising, its red ball getting higher
and higher. It was awesome but there were few on-lookers, some
fishing and some jogging. Milkmen were peddling hard on their
bikes fitted with large containers. Donkeys were laden with
vegetables, their backs bending with the load. Soon Indus Barrage
was in sight stretching well over one thousand metres. I could
count its spans, 46 in all. It fed seven canals. One of the
canals was wider and longer than the Suez or Panama canals.
A little further away, a suspension bridge could be seen. It
was extremely beautiful and linked Sukkur with a town on the
other side, Rohri.
On return I walked through a long strip of gardens running along
the river. I had my breakfast at a roadside cafe: milk tea (only
milk, no water, no sugar) with freshly baked nan, heavy neither
on the pocket nor on the heart. Afterwards, I resumed my stroll,
getting away from the river and nearer to the city centre. Sukkur
was a sprawling town with beautiful mosques, gardens and shrines.
A desert-oasis town, it could boast of many havelies (mansions),
decorated with geometric and floral designs painted in a variety
of bright colours.
It was still early for the bazaar. A few shops were open. Nevertheless,
it was a rare opportunity to walk through the empty winding
lanes. Wandering aimlessly, I reached the Shrine of Ms'sum Shah
Bokhari, a landmark of Sukkur, its high tower glittering in
the morning sun. There were more women than men, a sharp contrast
from the scenes in the streets. Men wore embroidered caps with
tiny mirrors. A red cloth slung over their shoulders. It was
hand-printed from vegetable dyes and cow dung. Women were clad
in richly patched and stitched dresses. Many were behind their
veils, each having a different pattern identifying their tribes.
Dupatta was worn over the head and wrapped around the shoulders.
As the day wore on, more and more devotees were entering the
shrine. Many were barefooted in dusty clothing from travelling
through the desert, their faces squeezed with thirst. Inside,
people were whispering their secret wishes to the saint. Desperate
women, under threat of divorce, prayed for a son.
On the way to Quetta, 17th April 1997
I got a wakeup call at 5 a.m. followed by a steaming hot tea.
I went to the railway station and occupied my reserved seat
in an air-conditioned coupe. The scene inside was different
from the economy class of Shalimar Train. Young ladies had no
cover and were oblivious of any stare at their faces. No one
talked to me nor did I venture to. They belonged to high society,
cocooned and wary of any contact. I felt suffocated and looked
out through a green glass window but it had already distorted
the true colour of the land.
After about two hours, the train stopped at Jocababad, the hottest
place in the world where the temperature could rise much beyond
48°C in July. I got out to see the real life. Men wore big,
baggy trousers and shirts with or without a turban. Women were
in kurtas decorated with delicate mirror embroidery bearing
a testimony to their dexterity and skill. On the first whistle,
I got back in and resumed my armchair travel. The train started
and steadily went uphill. The area was scarcely populated, mostly
by nomads chasing short-lived greenery followed by an odd shower
of rain. One could see their tents looking like big beetles
in the oases. The landscape was brown and treeless except for
needle-leafed tamarisk and thorny bushes. The sun rose higher
and higher burning all colours to half tones.
Into the compartment entered a ticket checker. Unexpectedly,
he asked, "Any one for Iran?" When I nodded, he came
towards me. "An old man wants to go to Tehran. He knows
nothing. Be kind to him. God will protect you from the evil-eyes."
I had no choice. Soon he led an old man in who was scared stiff.
"Consider me your slave. Here is all I have," said
he placing a passport and a fist full of dollars in my lap.
By this gesture, he begged me to rob him here if I had such
intentions. In tears, he beseeched me not to ditch him in a
foreign land devoid of any near and dear. We reached Quetta
at dusk. Situated 1,700 metres high, it was a pleasant escape
from heat and dust.
Quetta, 17th April 1997
We stayed in a Railway Retiring Room for just $2 a day! Iran
was 732 km away. A bus would take 24 hours while a train would
take 36 hours. One more problem on the rail, either you met
smugglers or nice people going for pilgrimage, two worlds poles-apart.
Because of the old man, I decided to go by train which, being
weekly, would leave on the 19th of April 1997, two days away.
This afforded me an opportunity to move in and around Quetta.
Being a transit for Iran and Afghanistan, the city was hemming
with activities. The shops were loaded with fresh and dried
fruits. Roads were lined with trees. Teashops alternated with
stalls selling green onyx carvings. For lunch, I had sajji,
barbecued lamb-leg. It takes a lot of preparation, with only
well-fed, tender and plump lambs chosen. Their meat is marinated
in salt for two to three hours before roasting. The lamb leg
is skewered and posted around slow burning firewood. It is turned
clock-wise after short intervals. The process takes 2 to 3 hours
making it so delicious that one would like to swallow the whole
leg with the bone, hook line and sinker. Green tea with cardamom
is a must after a belly full of sajji!
In the evening I went to Hanna Lake on a local bus. It passed
through low brown hills. There was an open-air restaurant beside
the lake. I sat on a chair facing west. As sun sloped down,
the lake water turned turquoise and then emerald green. A shrine
on the small island in the midst of the lake was cast in stark
relief by the last light of the day.
Hanna Lake near Quetta
To Iran, 19th April 1997
The train started at 8 a.m. Our compartment was full by people
and bales of second hand clothing. We had to travel with a group
of smugglers who consider the world as borderless. It was otherwise
quite a spectacular trip. The desert was flat and vast with
undulating sand dunes looking like water waves. The mountains,
sky blue in colour, seemed very distant. A well-paved road was
running along the railway line with a lot of trucks and fish-eye
buses. The train stopped in the afternoon at Naukundi. We had
a traditional lunch; a tasty spread of local bread, mutton and
sauces. The train had to give long long whistles to bring back
its passengers from open eateries. On the way, we saw modern
nomads moving in a group of 12 or more on tractors with everything
in the trailers - wives, children, animals, firewood, tents
and foods. They would look for grass and pitch their tents.
The train stopped about four kilometres before the border town,
Taftan. It used to be caravansary (camel stopping place). There
were no more camels and the town was almost deserted now. We
had to walk the remaining distance to reach immigration and
customs. Soon we crossed into Iran. Though a neighbouring country,
I felt tense as I was no more among my own people.
Hafeez ur Rahman Malik, Karachi-Pakistan.
Submitted: 10 December 2002
Next: Tale 4 - Pakistan/Iran/Turkey |
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Malik
- Pakistan
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