BORN in the rumpus and racket of the boisterous city of Lahore, I spent my childhood in sleepy and secluded Islamabad. In those days it served primarily as the den of the bureaucracy and the slumber yard of the generally compliant and peaceful people.
With the infrastructure in place, slowly but surely, Islamabad was taking gingerly steps towards development. Devoid of the clamour and chaos of most cities, it was an ideal city for children. There was plenty of room to run about, virtually no danger of being crushed by some speeding car, a conservative education was being dished out to me at a signature model school; and I was content in growing up with Islamabad. “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive/ But to be young was very heaven!”
The days of my girlhood were slipping away in the oblivion of innocence when there came suddenly a hiatus in the Islamabad experience. Fate swept me away to the greener pastures of Holland. My formative years were spent in the chill of what I discovered to be a charming country of mostly genial people. Years later, we came back to make our home in Islamabad.
It has revealed itself to have matured a great deal and despite all the subornation, the CDA deserves praise for having done an admirable job. The progress has been complemented by changes in the sense that what was once a dreary desolate expanse of wilderness has blossomed into a genuine capital. Now, Islamabad is never deserted as it used to be in those days when one could sit in the middle of the road, do yoga and not be disturbed. Today, Islamabad can boast of its own generation of those who were born and bred here.
A singular feature of this city is the greenery and foliage which is well on its way to becoming extinct in Pakistan. The well laid-out boulevards are nestled between tracks of grass and lofty trees. Its bracing fresh air is a blatant distinction from other cities. It is a virtually fumeless city (except for the rush hours at Zero Point) which boasts of bouts of unpolluted air which sink into the lungs and serve as a safe and soothing sedative. Ambling through the streets, one feels that the city must have been designed by people with a sense of geometry for it is well-planned. This is probably the only city in the world where the area has been divided into alphabetically labelled sectors. As new sectors continue to mushroom, Islamabad persists to expand. Yet, considering the appalling state of public transport here, it seems that this is a city which was designed for the motorcar, without the possession of which you might as well become a recluse. In a few ways, this city evokes the redolence of my Dutch experience, in the sense that the residents are mostly uncommunicative and even neighbours live distant lives. Whatever happened to bhai chara?
There is a popular saying that Islamabad is 10 kilometres away from Pakistan, and driving down Jinnah Avenue one might be led to believe this until you come across Christian Colony, French Colony, hutments behind ADBP (now ZTBP), all of which are poor peoples’ dwellings. Abject poverty and abysmal living conditions bear testimony to the fact that Islamabad is a part of Pakistan.
The days in which Islamabad was thought to be a moderately cool city are past, yet it remains a city of the seasons. It comes to life in the spring when flowers appear from nowhere and traffic islands are submerged under a sea of roses. White and yellow jasmine bushes blossom and green grass sprouts all over. The lawns of posh bungalows are swathed in flowers. As nature flushes and the city blushes in its romance with Mother Nature, Islamabad breaks into a symphony of colour and lustre. The Margalla Hills in the backdrop embellish with shades of green and lavender. Yes, Islamabad may not have the meadows which Wordsworth spirutualized and admired, but it does offer impressive scenery.
As summer approaches the merciless sun scorches the town and its inhabitants in its sizzling heat. Although being baked black, as the monsoon season approaches there is reason to stay on. It is a rewarding experience to feel the waft of cool air blow from the north and see pomps of cotton clouds come hovering down the Margallas in the wake of a downpour. The vistas then become a spectacle fit to paint. No wonder Ghulam Rasool, the celebrated landscape painter, decided to settle here! As azure winds ripple through dark trees, as the sky bursts into a collage of colour, russet here and indigo flames there, there are not many who can resist the “natural high” these sights offer. As summer slips into autumn, green transmogrifies into gold, a tinge of rust creeps up all foliage and trees raise their bare branches toward the cobalt sky like arthritic fingers. The unique splendour of the capital must strike a chord in the hearts of those who care to pause and look. Then, as the hounds of winter grip the city, cold winds from Murree sear through and life slows down.
Islamabad may well be an illusion for those who dreamt of Pakistan, yet it has the potential of becoming a mirage in relation to the decadent crux of our system. As stylish Toyotas file past and trendy Land Rovers speed by, a mindful eye can detect the divide between the rich and the poor. While the plutocratic bask in luxury in their villas, the privation of the deprived living in patched jhuggis is a sharp social comment apparent in the posh upcoming sectors of F-10, F11, G-11 and I-8.
Sometimes, in my secret ruminations, looking through the kaleidoscope of reflection, I feel that although the Capital has come so far, in its ulterior it remains a soulless city. But then, we are a nation which has lost its soul somewhere along the way. As night falls over the Margallas and quietness broods over the moon-drenched land, there are many who are sleepless in the solitude of Islamabad.
