For whom the bell tolls

The 16th day of April in 1853 is special in the Indian history. The day was a public holiday. At 3:30 pm, as the 21 guns roared together, the first train carrying Lady Falkland, wife of Governor of Bombay, along with 400 special invitees, steamed off from Bombay to Thane.

Ever since the engine rolled off the tracks, there have been new dimensions to the distances, relations and emotions. Abaseen Express, Khyber Mail and Calcutta Mail were not just the names of the trains but the experiences of hearts and souls. Now that we live in the days of burnt and non functional trains, I still have a few pleasant memories associated with train travels. These memoirs are the dialogues I had with myself while sitting by the windows or standing at the door as the train moved on. In the era of Cloud and Wi-Fi communications, I hope you will like them.


The Aalif Laila of the wood remains untold. Sheherzad and Sheheryar, are themselves lost in time. Inside the city, one of the streets houses the last of the Pirjhas, Akhtar. He trains his apprentices in this art but their craft is restricted to the heavy furniture of dowry, a commodity that could never graduate to become an artifact, no matter how artistic.

In one corner of the shop, sits a model of the Taj Mahal made by Pirjha. This wooden replica is probably the closest any artist could get to the real wonder and can qualify as a resting place for any Mumtaz Mahal.

In another corner, Pirjha has placed the recently filled admission forms. His son Anas Ali is set to join an engineering college in RawalPindi to study Mechatronics. Pirjha believes that instead of excelling in ancestral craft, his son should graduate from a universal faculty. Pirjhah silently mourns the death of a heritage, while the city lies indifferent to the fallen jharokas of Gulzar Mahal.

From Chiniot, the rail moves to a desolated station. Almost 40 years ago, this station saw a small feud which eventually grew into a persecution; the honest account of which is neither told in public nor written in history. The place is Rabwah. Those who named the city, had a verse of the Quran in mind and those who desecrated graves, had the constitution to uphold. Nobody, however, recalled that somewhere in 1944 at Sri Nagar, Muhammad Ali Jinnah had something to say about it.

The road that links Sargodha with Chiniot cuts Rabwah in two halves. On one side, is the graveyard which is almost mythical for the children in the neighbourhood and on the other side, is the deserted city. The names of various settlements are reminders of medieval boroughs but the derelict appearance defies those. The opulent houses look neither vacant nor lived in. A day of wandering in the city registers only handful of faces. This state of the city is attributed to both, the devotion and hatred that stems from religion. Till time tells who is on the right side of faith, the city will, probably continue to live in this desertion.

Rabwah, Chenab Nagar or Chak Digian (whatever the constitutional committees chose to call it) gives way to Lalian, a city that claims political descendants from Tipu Sultan, and a police station from the year 1867.

Subsequently comes Dhoop Sari, now known as Sargodha. The city is a candy store of stories but the deserts of the South strike the same chord as that of the peacock that craves to be seen. Going any further is not an option.

After Jaranwala, the train halts at Tandlianwala. There in one of the graveyards, rests Naz Khialvi, in eternal peace. The legendary lyricist’s claim to fame was Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s "Tum ik Gorakh Dhandha ho". The train whistles past Rehmay Shah and then halts at Kanjwani, a town famous for its mela. The fair, which was once a Baloch nomadic tradition, is now a Punjabi celebration.

Almost all participants bring a human dimension in to their relationship with their cattle. There are oxen that have been raised as sons and horses with phenomenal lineages. Often, the roosters and quails raised for the show, take precedence over blood relations. But, of late, the politics of democracy and dictatorship have made their ingress in these dimension as well. The Balochs, Jats and Syeds who once rode the wild stallions together are now more aligned on caste lines.

Staying away from the waters of Chenab and drawing close to the mystery of Ravi, the train reaches the Kot of Kamalia.

A dense jungle by the river was all that could be said about Kamalia centuries ago. On the river bank, Khokhar boatmen had established their settlements. Apparently peaceful, the Khokhars had what it took to defend their land, so when Alexander attacked them, they gave him tough battle. The account of this battle is not mentioned anywhere specifically, except for a hint of the glorious resolve here and there; the fact that remains, however, is that Alexander now finds a mention in the history of Kamalia.

After almost a millennium, Raja Sircup ruled the area. Known for his brutality, he played polo with heads at stake. The notorious Raja manipulated easily to see the opponent lose his head, a trophy he would decorate on the walls of his fort. That was until he came across Raja Rasaloo, the son of Raja Saalbhan of Sialkot.

Despite his manipulation, Rasaloo won the game and had Sircup’s head and as a matter of ritual, his daughter, Rani Kaukalaa. Rasaloo, in this folk lore, appears to be an adventurous spirit who spent his time hunting and building palaces near game grounds. Dhoosar was one such palace, where Rasaloo had housed Kaukalaa, when the Raja of Attock, Bikram saw her. The two met accidently, but fell in love instantly. Before the romance could prosper, Rasaloo became aware of it. He had Bikram killed in the woods and sent Kaukalaa, the kebabs made up from his meat. Devastated, the queen jumped out off her window to her death.

The present name of Kamalia is derived from the Kharal chief, Kamal Khan. In the early years of the 14th century, Kamal Khan met Rai Hamand Khan, the Kharal ruler of this land, then known as Hindal Nagri. The latter introduced him to Shah Hussain, the saint. Kamal Khan presented a khaddar khais to Shah Hussain, who reciprocated by foretelling him as the ruler of the jungle. Months later, Ibrahim Lodhi replaced Hamand Khan by Kamal Kharal. The new state founded by the Kharals at the site of Sircup’s city is now known as Kamalia.

During the war of independence in 1857, the city remained, with the freedom fighters for almost a week. After the war was over, trade through the rail added to the development of the city. The atrocities of the Raja and the injustice of the Raj would have prevailed in public memory for longer had the country not had its chance with democracy and dictatorship, both of which overcast the tyrannies.

Now famous for its khaddar, the city is as introverted as the spinning wheel. At the dawn of the last century, Khaddar became the insignia of the "Saudeshi" movement (all things local) and subsequently, the emblem of the "Swaraj". The coarse cloth defined nationalism and the spinning wheel symbolised tradition, where a mother explains the ups and downs of life to her daughter while they spin. As religion and culture fell to politics, khaddar resigned to the confines of Kamalia.

When the two countries gained independence, khaddar also bore the fruit of a free economy. It has graduated from the spinning wheel to shuttle-less, power looms. Brand names like khaadi on this side and fashion phenomenon like In Sync on the other have brought new realities to khaddar. This insignia of the nationalist movement is now a feature at international shopping malls.

Next up is Pir Mahal, a city established in the memory of Pir Qutub Ali Shah. When the Pir wanted to build a house, his devotees obliged. They baked each brick themselves to construct the palace. The city was properly planned after the arrival of the municipality. With a block each allotted to Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs and named Masjid block, Mandir block and Gurudwara block, respectively.

The Masjid block has retained its name, while the other two blocks have been renamed to Makkah block and Madina block.

Throughout this journey, the stories from the other side of Ravi remain untold.

Read this blog in Urdu here.

Listen to this blog in Urdu:

Muhammad Hassan Miraj is a federal government employee.

The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.

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Comments are closed.

Comments (17)

sangeen ali
September 16, 2013 7:50 pm

reader feels swinging and swaying between centuries as he reads the article through. especially the story of Rabwah with a perfect description of the city is so fascinating that i felt myself so involved that i thought i was the only person wandering in the middle of the city and the wind flying the dry leaves in the deserted streets before me. very nice article.

Gulbaz Mushtaq
September 16, 2013 7:54 pm

Dear Sir,

First of all welcome back and thank you for sparing time to write for us.

"Excellent, Great, Very Good" and other words of praise does not seem to me appropriate to convey my feelings qua your writings. Your words are just matchless. I have no feeling to praise them. I always enjoy them. And today after long interval, I enjoyed them even more. May Allah give you happiness, health and long life.

Waiting for untold stories from other side of the Ravi.

Thank you, Gulbaz

Aouchitya
September 16, 2013 10:10 pm

I love it

makraja
September 16, 2013 10:11 pm

wa sirjee what a narration yet again. already lost for words and parables I must salute to your unflinching love of the land which brings places like kamalia to life as they were the centre of the universe. I guess it is all in narration like the dicksonian way of telling how the drawing room tapestry looked like or how the english romanticsed their rivers which are mere brooks compared to whta we see

SBB
September 17, 2013 4:37 am

Welcome back Mr. Miraj! You were missed, and you responded with yet another wonderful article! Thank for for this.

Khan Wali
September 17, 2013 10:04 am

MHM.............after a long interval!

Blister
September 17, 2013 2:10 pm

WOw....that was a long wait man! Mind blowing as ever though. You give such a beautiful picture of those times gone , one wants to be there to see it again with our own eyes. Beautiful. Keep it up but dont make it sooo slow. :)

Dr Mazhar Masood
September 17, 2013 2:45 pm

Miraj sahab thanks for another piece after a long and painful absence. I hope you are planning for your book containing all your stories we have read online. It will be a "zabardast" collection and will be an instant hit. Do you need more convincing ???

Random Passerby
September 17, 2013 4:06 pm

Finally something to look forward to on the pages of this newspaper. Good to have you back.

Rabia Shoaib
September 17, 2013 4:08 pm

Simply beautiful. God bless Mr. Hasaan..

Manan
September 17, 2013 7:06 pm

Although i have never commented on any article before, but can't help myself. You Sir, are a legend. Loved all of your pieces, specially the ones about Jhang.

SBB
September 17, 2013 8:09 pm

@Gulbaz Mushtaq: Very well said, and you're right.. words of praise like "Excellent, Good", etc. don't really convey the happiness we feel reading this.

kaif khokhar
September 18, 2013 1:59 am

raising havoc!!!!!

Linus
September 18, 2013 6:30 am

I live very far from the place you mentioned, and reading this lively narration makes me to discover more facts about all those places and hope to visit all these place , hope you will give us all this and more soon in a priceless book. Thanks

Linus
September 18, 2013 6:40 am

Excellent

vijay
September 18, 2013 10:08 am

Welcome back Miraj. Every time I read your article, I feel something tugging my heart. A small typo- It is not saudesh- It is swadesh.

Masroor
September 18, 2013 9:43 pm

Listening to this block in Urdu is more fun. Good job.

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