From the paved streets of Islamabad to the serene surroundings of Kashmir, the road to Somani is filled with village innocence and breathtaking beauty
LATE in the night, braving chilly Islamabad, me and my friend Shakeel were snuggled tight in our beds. We were saving all the energy for almost three days travel that lay ahead of us.
We had already covered more than 20 hours in our travel from Karachi to Islamabad. The next morning jostled our way into the front two seats of our van for an unimpeded view of everything that would come our way on the GT Road. After travelling for over two hours, we took a left turn from Dina, shortly from where we found ourselves in close proximity to Mangla Dam. This was a region dotted by irregular mountains, miles beyond which lie Shakeel’s village.
Near as those hills appeared, one could have just walked straight up to them. “Why not, but this would take us three days to reach there!” Shakeel quipped. And I realized this only when we had consumed two more hours to get to his home. After snaking our way through the mountainous surface, we had entered Azad Kashmir, after almost a whole day of travel. We were finally on an hour’s sojourn at Jatlan.
The town of Jatlan runs along a water canal with shops located on the bank. We were at one of these shops having tea and waiting for the last evening bus to take us to the village, which was another eight kilometres from here. It was still daylight, the sun shyly obscured behind the dense overcast. And by sunset we were lumbering through the labyrinthine pathways of Panjeri, where life seemed to have come to a standstill with the approach of the dark.
Dense foliage and wild bushes cover the paths of this hilly village to which Shakeel belongs. Houses are perched atop the connected mounds, and the only one or two wells on the land below have been abandoned after the availability of pump system. But one wonders why would these people leave the vast plain land below and dwell upon the mountains, from which to fetch even a pail of water must be a Herculean task.
“This goes back to the days of Muslim-Hindu conflicts in pre-Partition days. Whoever got to the top would be able to repulse enemy attacks — it is easier to keep watch from the top,” said a fit and sturdy 80-year-old. Climbing up and down is what keeps these people healthy and active. Children hop around and collect a thousand stories to narrate at the end of the day. Groping through their huge repository of anecdotes, they’ll enchant you with freaky myths that seem to have emanated from the sombre wilderness of a dark night. So, at midnight, we were getting to listen to some of the best-selling eerie tales about churails spotted in the village, while being warned of the potential nooks we should avoid lest we run into them. Surprisingly, this was not the view of children alone!
Bright fresh mornings were too tempting to laze around in bed for long in the winters. A heavy breakfast invigorated us for the day, and treading the land that came within the radius of two or three miles from the village was an everyday adventure. Youngsters were an emotional lot, fired-up by sentiments and ready to undergo any risks as long as a thrilling time was guaranteed.
That morning we were headed for Bhimber, a small remote town that preludes the beautiful way ahead to the areas bordering the Indian side of Kashmir. However, the first thing that I wanted to know on arrival at Bhimber was whether there was any possibility of a cyber cafe to check e-mail. We tried our luck, wondering if a remote place as this could have anything even close to the Internet. Even if it did, the question was how many would be able to understand what we are looking for in the first place. So, resorting to body language, we tried inquiring a passer-by if he knew what I wanted.
“It’s called a cyber cafe, which is there, next to that shop,” the person proudly educated me. My amazement drew a grin from Shakeel.
People of these valleys may not be very educated as per urban standards, but they make very fine human beings, being with whom is a cherishing interaction. The deeper you go into such regions, the greater the earnestness and hospitality you experience. Among themselves, villagers are like a family — their level of trust in each other is exemplary. I was surprised to learn that people let their cattle graze in empty valleys and forget about them for months. “And we find them as we had left them...they don’t go far, and no one will ever lay his hands on anyone else’s livestock,” Shakeel’s uncle told me.
After a short stay, we left Bhimber, loaded with fruits, cigarettes for those who smoked, and packets of chalia only for Shakeel — something he cannot love without! The one-track road gradually took us up on an endless range of mountains that only grew higher with every acute winding. The boys in full party mood spared no one in the fusillade of taunts and jokes that continued within.
Outside, it was quiet breeze, and a misty land below that was etched upon by small streams of water shimmering in the afternoon sun. The only vehicles that came from the other side were army vans, possibly because there had been a firing incident on the border at Somali. With such heavy vehicular traffic, we started wondering if we could make it to Somani. But the locals with us assured that we could go as far as just two mountains short of Somani, to a most famous darbar that rests on one of the highest cliffs in the region, and from where a breathtaking view of the entire area is possible. The distinction between religion and ritual fades away in such places. People come here from all over to celebrate the birth of a male child, sacrifice a goat and feed the gathering. In the past, caravans would walk for days to reach this holy place. For some, it’s a rite observed religiously, but for many accompanying those some, it’s a picnic full of fun.
We crawled up the peak of the mountain to see the land from the top. It took us half an hour but was worth the toil. Straight ahead we saw the valley of Somani, a sparsely populated stretch of land where people live under the threat of Indian guns that open time and again. The snowy peaks of Kashmir were faintly visible on our left. Behind us the sun was sinking fast into the hazy horizon. We were soon driving down the quiet dusty road to Bhimber, as life of the valley returned to its abode.
From the paved streets of Islamabad to the serene surroundings of Kashmir, the road to Somani is filled with village innocence and breathtaking beauty 
