May 11, 2003

PLODDING on with our heavy loads, slipping on rocks, falling and cursing the day when we volunteered for this horrid expedition, we struggled towards the unknown destination of Kishan Gunga valley. Blisters bloomed, scratches appeared and we were sure that some bones were broken during the falls. We had, in the meanwhile, entered a sprawling lush green valley, crisscrossed by streams and surrounded by misty mountains — but we were totally oblivious of its charms. As luck would have it, Shafique, who had only a few days back emerged from his Royal Opel car, slipped while crossing a mountain torrent and fell into the fast flowing water, hitting the stones. Finally when rescued, he was badly bruised, shivering and other no sound came from his blue lips except the whimper: “I am dead, Ammiji.”

This episode shattered us completely as from then onwards he was carried on the back of a male. We calculated immediately and found out that there were not enough mules to match our numbers so the rest of us would have to keep on walking. The master plan of the expedition indicated that during the hike we will spend our nights in Dak bungalows wherever available, and in the wilds a friendly village would be looked for to provide us with shelter. We did not carry any tents simply because in those days these present day light and easy-to-erect tents were not forthcoming. The only ‘tents’ which were available were the shamianas erected for the purpose of weddings and funerals.

On this trek, the villages, usually comprising a few huts, that we came across did not show any sign of friendliness as the whole populace, the two or three dozen souls, would abandon their village as soon as they saw us appearing on the horizon. Mind you, we were attired in army boots and khakis, and they mistook us for soldiers because only the army roamed around these areas near the border of India. They fled as soon as they saw us because they were afraid that we would confiscate their chicken and goats in the name of patriotism, pay a meagre price and then march on to confront the infidels.

Finally, we halted on the outskirts of a village, waited for the dark to come and then crept in before anybody could flee. We assured the simple souls that we had nothing to do with the army and only wanted to spend the cold night in the one-room mosque and then march on the next morning. If we were not the army, then they could not fathom what we were doing in this desolation. However, they offered us two chickens free of charge.

The one-room mosque — the wall comprising stones plied one on top of the other and with hay on the floor — was a heaven, but the valiant hikers, including the burly Khawaja Sahib, moaned and sighed throughout the cold night.

The next morning was misty and in the mist this unknown village looked mystified, the cattle moving slowly and villagers walking in slow motion. Faraway one could see the Ratti Gali peak covered with pure snow, glistening in the first golden rays of the rising sun. The sight refreshed us beyond description as it was the first time in our teenage life that our eyes were witnessing such a white spectacle. However, in this surge of ecstasy, there was a streak of gloom because Shafique, who had fallen into the icy stream, was not only badly bruised but running high fever too. He was carried back to Naran on a makeshift stretcher by two porters. Like the first casualty in a war, his departure saddened us. This could happen to any of us was the thought in everybody’s mind.

When the second day of our actual trek began, most of the boys simply refused to carry their personal loads which was duly transferred on the backs of the poor mules. Although we were lighter now, the blisters had ripened and the scratches on our bodies throbbed with unbearable pain. We walked and walked along our mule train without respite.

My agony was double-folds because the secondhand army boot I had bought from Lunda Bazar did not compliment each other in size — my left boot was of size nine and the right one turned out to be of size eleven. So my walk was akin to Lord Byron hopping and at times dragging my feet.

The evening approached and from the distant heights of Ratti Gali peak descended a chill which almost paralyzed us. The mules also became sluggish and that was the moment when we entered a paradise lost, a magical valley of deep green hues, almost plain and in the lush green plains rose small rocks here and there as if they were placed there for decoration. These rocks, the likes of which I never saw again, were like miniature hills of a Chinese painting and amongst them were pitched a few tents of nomad Gujjars, while the sheep grazed lazily around them. But the most heartwarming sight was that of half a dozen or so lit up fires. The light of these fires gave the landscape a very unearthly look.

If I say that we were spellbound, it will be an understatement. The nomads, at seeing us, a haggard and tired bunch of city dwellers dragging their feet and entering their private abode, rushed towards their tents and disappeared in them. However, pretty soon curiosity got the better of them and they started peeping from the flaps of their tents.

Finally when we started unloading our mules, they realized that we were here to stay and came out sheepishly. They proved to be a very friendly lot and soon we were sharing their fires. They offered us fresh goat milk which was a treat under the circumstances, but tasted like a goat which had not bathed for years.

“How come you Sahib log from distant Lahore have come to this desolation? We hear you eat rotis made of wheat and have plenty of ghee down there,” we were asked.

Now this was a tricky question if there was one. We had learned from our past experience that if we told them the truth — that is we came out for a bit of trekking and adventure — they will not believe us. They will not believe that anybody in his right mind can abandon the pleasures of Lahore and willingly tramp in these desolate valleys. A pin drop silence followed in which only the crackle of logs in the fire could be heard.

Then our good old burly Khawaja Sahib came up with an amazing explanation: “Dear brothers, we are also devout Muslims like you and we had heard in our city that if one goes to the valley of Kaghan and then turn right from Burawai, there, under the massive snows of Ratti Gali, a pir-e-kamil is buried and we have travelled this far only to pay tribute to this Pir sahib, offer our Salam, pray and then go back to our city. This is the sole purpose of our sojourn.”

Upon hearing this story, we paid tributes to Khawja Sahib’s craftiness in our hearts. He had heard in Naran of some Pir sahib up there and had come up with this appropriate answer. Naturally, it was a news for us too. The nomads were stunned. It so happened that this particular Pir sahib was their patron saint too and here were some young devotees who had come all the way from Lahore just to pay their respects to him. Thus, to them, we were their ‘Pir bhais’ and from then on they treated us as if we were minor pirs ourselves, offering us the best place in front of the fires to warm our bodies. Not only that, they insisted on massaging our tired bodies. During this ritual, some of the boys started laughing because they were ticklish and one or two of the boys felt threatened.

All this was going on while the fattest lamb in their stock was specially slaughtered in our honour and was being roasted on the fires. Being massaged and pampered in a distant valley, lying under the stars with the aroma of roasted lamb rising in the cold air, — these things could happen only in a paradise and we had found it. Almost 50 years have passed since then, but I can still feel the purity of that air and in it the aroma of a lamb being roasted, the fire burning and the rocks looming.

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