Finally the day came when we walked into the promised Kishan Gunga Valley, with the river Kishan Gunga flowing thousands of meters below us and the dark unfriendly rocks all above us. It was the valley after which our expedition was named — and it was a drab valley that was nothing short of a nightmare after the captivating Ratti Gali dream sceneries that we had passed to reach this place. We felt cheated.
Nothing exciting happened that day except that two of our boys crossed a bridge and landed right in the middle of an Indian Army base and were duly arrested on the charges of being Pakistani spies. There was no obvious demarcation of borders in those days to warn people that they were straying into the wrong side of the divide. It just so happened that a certain Major Shah of the Pakistan Army appeared on the scene, riding a chestnut horsed and twirling his brown and bushy moustaches. He was kind enough to take pity on the boys and the good chap went over to his Indian counterpart and secured the release of those ‘spies’. Needless to say, the two boys were shaken from their misadventure as they had thought that they would probably never see their homes again and will rot in some enemy jail for years.
We trudged along the river Kishan Gunga which was later to be baptised and renamed Neelam. A chowkidar of a deserted dak bungalow informed us about a myth that was related to the said river. There was, in ancient times, a giant of dubious character who poured all the water which flowed in the streams and rivers into a huge pitcher, carried it on his giant head and walked away. The people of the valley were left without a drop to drink, they approached one of the lords, perhaps Rama or Krishna, and he sent a two-pronged arrow flying towards the pitcher and pierced it. Out came two streams from the pitcher, hence the name Kishan Gunga valley.
Moving onwards, we trudged along by the river, stayed in different Godforsaken rest houses and army huts during the nights. At last, one fine morning there was a real wagon in front of us in which we loaded ourselves and it took us in an hour or two to reach Muzaffarabad, of 1956, a proper hovel to be sure and it has maintained this dubious distinction to this day. However, I would like to narrate a small but chilling incident which could have resulted in a fatal accident before the wagon ride.
We were walking along on a dirt road with Kishan Gunga on our left, down below somewhere and the gloomy black mountains up above. We were tired and fed up beyond description, a long treacherous day was coming to an end and our abode for the night was no where in sight. In the descending darkness, I walked way behind the team along with the expedition cook, he being in a sombre mood was discussing life, death and fate, when right in front of us, maybe a yard or two away, a huge boulder, rather a titanic size rock, rolled down from the mountains above and fell. Yes, right in front of us two, maybe a yard or two away, it blocked our view of the dirt road for a while and then bounced like a tennis ball and went down into the depths of river Kishan Ganga! A few steps more and we would have been unwilling mashed potatoes for sure, perhaps worst. That is fate.
From Muzaffarabd, our Lahore seemed a stone’s throw away but certainly not that stone which fell right in front of us. As I have mentioned repeatedly, this journey took place almost 50 long years ago, so if I have erred in the description of places and distances I may be forgiven as the memory dims in so many years and dreams take over. Many things take on a more fabulous aura than they really deserve, and some unappealing ones are blocked out from the memory.
Upon our safe and successful return, our families offered shukrana ke nafal and prepared some zarda daigs to be distributed in our locality. As for the Government College, it also chipped in by awarding all of us the college colour of mountaineering, which, alas, I never received in person or wore as I left for England soon afterwards.
Ashraf Aman, the famed mountaineer who has the honour of being the first Pakistani to climb the peak of K2, is a friend and always jests that I am his senior in the matter of mountains because of this undeserved and per chance colour of mountaineering bestowed upon me by Government College in 1956.
So dear readers, (if you are still reading), these were the first seeds of adventure sown in me by the trip to the Ratti Gali peak and those dreamy lakes. The roots went deep into my body and soul and from then onwards, for the rest of my life, it blossomed, tortured and tormented me. However, I must confess, this torture and torment made my life worth living — and it may be an abnormal life, but worth living all the same.
Finally the day came when we walked into the promised Kishan Gunga Valley, with the river Kishan Gunga flowing thousands of meters below us and the dark unfriendly rocks all above us. It was the valley after which our expedition was named — and it was a drab valley that was nothing short of a nightmare after the captivating Ratti Gali dream sceneries that we had passed to reach this place. We felt cheated.
