PICKING up the thread from where we had left it a fortnight ago, as it happened, all the boys who were silly enough to volunteer for the hiking trip to Kishan Gunga Valley were selected. We were instructed to climb the hillocks of Lawrence Garden every day to prepare for the assault on Ratti Gali Mountain. We were handed over a list of gear that was required for the expedition.
Most of the items listed were rather strange. Do remember we are talking of the ‘50s. For instance, ‘a rucksack’ — now, for heavens sake, what sort of sack was it and from where could we obtain it? ‘An ice axe’ — for what and why, we were not ice-cutters. ‘A pair of army boots, brown trousers, woollen army socks, a Gorkha hat, mufflers, walking sticks, a lota’ and God knows what.
We were told to look for these things in Lahore’s Lunda Bazar, where in those days you could buy the remnants of World War II. I knew this Lunda Bazar because a young and fashionable Khalajan of mine used to buy parachutes from there, and fashion her dresses as these parachutes were made of pure silk and were called ‘kulian’. In those days, these parachute kulian were a rage amongst the ladies of Lahore.
We collected the required gear, most of which belonged to the dead Brits, and then collected ourselves in the gym before the burly Khawaja Sahib. Prior to this, there was a heated debate in our family as to why I was opting to go into the wilderness where wild animals abound. After all, I was a mere baby. At this point, my father came to my rescue, and told my mother to stop crying and “let the boy go to Kashmir”.
The boys who were present in front of Khawaja Sahib had their apprehensions, and wanted to know where exactly we were going.
A dialogue ensued:
Q: Sir, where exactly is this valley of Kishan Gunga?
A: Somewhere in Kashmir, I think.
Q: If you are not sure, how will we find it?
A: We have maps and a cook who claims he knows the area.
Q: But, Sir, the name of the valley sounds rather Hinduish — Kishan Gunga. It must be in India and we don’t have passports. A: It should be in Azad Kashmir.
Q: Do we have to climb this Ratti Gali Mountain to reach this valley?
A: Most probably...
Q: Will there be snow on this mountain?
A: Perhaps.
Q: Sir, how can we walk on snow, we have never seen the thing and we will slip.
A: You will make way with your ice axes and climb, my boys, and no more questions.
Q: How will we manage, Sir, if there are no toilets around?
A: Shut up. Now carry your full load on your back and make ten rounds of the cricket ground. Yes, you have to carry your own gear and from now on you are not dear students, but dear hikers.
The D-Day arrived, and the ‘dear hikers’ arrived at the Lahore Railway Station in whatever mode of transportation available, including tongas and bicycles. Only Shafique emerged from an ancient black Opel and astounded everybody, that Opel being the only car seen on the railway station that day.
Along with the required gear, the boys who were suddenly elevated to the status of ‘hikers’, deemed it necessary to bring along quilts, tiffin carriers, water pitchers, holdalls and sugarcane to munch during this journey up to Havelian, the last railway station before the mountain range began. From Havelian, we made use of public transport to reach Balakot, via Abbotabad and Mansehra.
The village of Balakot by the River Kunhar was the gateway to the valley of Kaghan, which was rather unknown in those times. After spending a night in Balakot, we offered Fateha at the mazar of Syed Ahmad Shaheed, and then rattled on jeeps toward Naran. We thought that we would just rattle on like this to Ratti Gali, Kishan Gunga Valley, on jeeps, and then onwards to Lahore rattling on. We were, in the days to come, rattled all right, not on jeeps but on other accounts.
Naran in those days was not even a sleepy old town, as there was no town, only some huts by the River Kunhar, a Tanoor Hotel whose menu started and ended with aloo shorba, a Dak bungalow and a newly-built youth hostel in which we stayed and had the honour of being the first hikers to sleep under its roof.
Naran, indeed, was picturesque, lush green and of pleasant clime, but it was so remote and far away from Lahore, incredibly pitch dark and cold after the sunset. Whenever we ventured out of the youth hostel for a walk, we huddled together holding hands lest we get lost in the darkness.
Then we were told by the chowkidar that it was dangerous to step outside after sunset, as a certain species of bear deluded from the mountains during the night and gobbled up whatever came their way. They were specially fond of devouring young kids and strangers, or so we were told! This piece of information terrified us, and that night we shivered not only due to cold, but also due to a slight noise from outside that resulted in us calling out to our mothers in fear and crying wholeheartedly. We should have saved some of those tears for days ahead when better opportunities would come our way.
But it was not all that bad. There was this unforgettable evening in the old Dak bungalow by the river where we were served a dinner of fried trout in candlelight, and, mind you, on proper tables. The khansama who served us was yet unaware of the fact that the British had left, and spoke only in English and addressed us as sahib.
But the most memorable event was our day hike to the fairy-tale Lake Saif-ul-Muluk, which hadn’t become too well-known and was not polluted by a mass of tourists in those days. It was almost unspoiled and virgin. Needless to say, we were the only visitors bowing our heads in front of this blue goddess of the mountains that day, perhaps that month.
Come to think of it, we were also virgins, unspoiled and yet-to-be-polluted by life as it is. There is a black-and-white photograph somewhere ... on the banks of Saif-ul-Muluk, an immature lad of seventeen in army boots, a Gorkha hat carelessly adorned, a broad forehead littered with black curly hair, gazing at the horizon, not knowing what the future holds for him, a lifetime of vagabonding, perhaps.
From Naran, a couple of jeeps took us to a place called Burawai, situated in a plain lush area surrounded by high mountains and yet again by the River Kunhar. That was the end of our jeep days and the start of our miseries.
Burawai was again on a road to nowhere, desolate beyond description, decrepit and Godforsaken. Burawai was just a one-room ancient Dak bungalow, a typical lantern-bearing old chowkidar who roamed the premises during night, muttering to himself. In the Burawai Dak Bungalow, an old visitor register still existed in 1956, pages of which bore testimony to some Gora Sahib’s presence, who had ventured this far and spent a night in this wilderness.
After so many years you cannot expect me to quote the contents of that register exactly, but in the foggy vagueness of the years gone by, there are impressions of a Burawai of 1914 or 1920s when a John White, or somebody, writes: “My pony has died, how will I reach Gilgit where Patricia is waiting for me?” Or “I fear the native chowkidar who lurks around, I think I will go back to Peshawar first thing in the morning.”
Does this forlorn, lonely outpost still exist? I cannot say as I have never been that way since.
The next morning was the real D-Day when we abandoned the Burawai Dak Bungalow, leaving the road to Babusar Pass and turned right towards the mythical goal of Ratti Gali glacier and the peak beyond.
Some mules were hired for the heavy equipment and food supplies, but we were really shocked when Khawaja Sahib ordered us to carry our personal belongings. The boys who had brought huge quilts and water pitchers were the real victims. And this was the day when we realized that we should have saved at least some of the tears that were shed in Naran, but, by then, it was too late.
PICKING up the thread from where we had left it a fortnight ago, as it happened, all the boys who were silly enough to volunteer for the hiking trip to Kishan Gunga Valley were selected. We were instructed to climb the hillocks of Lawrence Garden every day to prepare for the assault on Ratti Gali Mountain. We were handed over a list of gear that was required for the expedition.
