Deep in the heart of Pakistan lie the remnants of a British past that can very well be the next Murree
PERHAPS the British should have never left the subcontinent. In the teeth of opposition from intractable locals, who clung with great tenacity to intangible dreams and impractical traditions, the colonizers, acting in a purposive manner, laid a vast network of railway tracks and highways criss-crossing the piece of land they had conquered by simply outwitting those who had ruled it previously. Judging by the dilapidated condition of roads and railways tracks, especially in the rural hinterland of Pakistan, it can be said that those who succeeded the British after the partition of the subcontinent did little to preserve, let alone improve and expand, the communications network bequeathed to them.
These sacrilegious thoughts crossed our minds as we, a motley group of six weary travellers, moved towards Fort Munro in the Dera Ghazi Khan district. The six of us were packed like sardines along with other passengers in a rickety vehicle, which, defying gravity, trundled sluggishly over the road that snaked its way up through the Sulaiman mountain range.
Harried by the oppressive heat of Multan, where our Bahauddin Zakariya Express had disgorged us, we could not wait to get to Fort Munro, more than 6,000 feet above sea level. Our van driver, a diehard fan of maudlin Indian songs, played the latest tracks at full volume. We recited the Kalama under our breath as he recklessly negotiated turns at hairpin bends.
Unfrightened by the perils of a sharp drive up the mountain with a steep gradient, our botanist friend spotted a few chilghoza trees on the hills. However, we sat tight-lipped, too terrified to tell him that we had already learnt about the lie of the land in an official document, compiled painstakingly by dutiful British officers. Highlighting the physical features of the Sulaiman mountain range, the gazetteer of the Dera Ghazi Khan district (1893-1897) says: “The highest peaks towards the centre of the district are Ekbhai, 7,462 feet, Fort Munro, 6,300 feet, and Dragul, 5,385 feet.The mountains are formed of sandstone with occasional outcrops of limestone, and as they are completely bare of trees except some of the higher summits in the north of the district, they yield readily to the action of rain and present jagged and fantastic outlines.”
Situated on the crest of the Sulaiman mountains, Fort Munro is the last town in Punjab. Still a sleepy underdeveloped town, it was built by British colonial officials in the 1920s and the 1930s as a summer resort. It was Sir Robert Sandeman, agent to the governor-general and chief commissioner in Balochistan, who gave the town its name. In Colonel Sir Robert Sandeman: his life and work on our Indian frontier, his immensely reverent biographer, Thomas Henry Thornton, writes: “He (Sir Robert Sandeman) selected for his summer quarters a hill 25 miles outside British territory, between Barkhan and Saki-Sarwar, with a view to increase his influence over the Marris, Bugtis and Khetrans, and prepare the way for re-opening the old trade route between Kandahar and Punjab via Tal and Chotiali. To this hill he gave the name of Fort Munro, in honour of his commissioner, Colonel (now General) A.A. Munro, who heartily sympathized with his objects, and after years of valuable service on the frontier in important posts, has retired, highly esteemed and honoured by his fellow-workers and the government he served.”
A visitor to Fort Munro is not presented with a wide variety of accommodation options. For us it became a little more difficult, for our arrival was shortly followed by sunset. However, after a bit of running around, we did find a sparsely furnished rest house on the Anari Hills, formerly known for large pomegranate orchards. Exhausted after a stressful journey, we all opted for an early dinner, which proved a frugal affair, and went to bed.
Our visit to the old Christian cemetery the following day was extremely rewarding. (We paid no heed to the unsolicited advice of a well-meaning neighbour in the rest house who urged us, drawing on her husband’s thorough familiarity with the place, to visit the last resting-place of Colonel Munro. For all her husband’s local knowledge, he did not know that Colonel Munro is not buried there.) The graves at the cemetery speak volumes for the adventurous spirit of British colonizers who, overcoming their longing for hearth and home, spent comfortless days and nights in the wilderness of the subcontinent discharging their duties to the best of their abilities. One tombstone read: “Rev H.H. Smith of Grahamstown, South Africa, who sank when bathing at Fort Munro, 1900, aged 30.” The inscription on another tombstone with a small grave read: “James Fredrick, the infant son of Captain and Mrs J.W.C. Hutchinson. Born 23rd Sept, 1897. Died 26th April, 1898.”
Standing in the midst of those sombre graves, we recalled that Sir Robert Sandeman’s child, an infant a few months old, and his wife had died of diphtheria in the Dera Ghazi Khan district. Our botanist friend, an avid reader of travelogues, told us about an account, contained in Rail Kahani by Raza Ali Abidi, of Sir John Jacob’s death in Sindh.
We decided that the Dame’s Lake would be our next port of call. (The spelling of the lake’s name is a moot point. The otherwise efficient Isobel Shaw omits to mention the place in her much-consulted Pakistan Handbook. The Lonely Planet guidebook spells the name as Lake Damvess. A signboard next to the lake calls it the Dame’s Lake.) The lake, which is probably fed by streams carrying the melted water down from the hills, is small and encircled by trees. Our botanist friend gave us a lecture on the aquatic plants of the Dame’s Lake.
Our petulant and work-shy van driver hurried us, saying that another picnic point in the vicinity was more scenic than the lake. The picnic point turned out to be a small cave where water has been dripping from the roof for years. The continuous impact of the waterdrops on the ground has formed a bowl-like structure. Appropriately, the place is called Piyala. Our botanist friend was overjoyed to find lichens in the cave. He told us that a lichen is a dry flat creeping plant, often grey or yellow, that grows on rocks, walls and trees.
A sturdy-looking Balochi, with a gun slung over his shoulder, followed us into the cave. He insisted that we fire at the bull’s eye drawn on a rocky outcrop opposite the cave for a nominal sum. He assured us that the echo of the gunshot would be music to our ears. We declined politely, and explained to him that all of us were too peace-loving to employ the firearm. Instead, we offered to take his picture. Jan Mohammad, for this was his name, took out a comb and started straightening his moustache. However, he left his hair on the head dishevelled. Through a terse fashion statement, he made his priorities clear.
It became evident during the few days we spent at Fort Munro that water is hard to come by at this hill resort. The area would have seen remarkable development had it been made the capital of Pakistan, as pointed out by Orestes Yakas in his book, Islamabad: the birth of a capital. The writer has quoted in his book the suggestions of a sub-committee reviewing the plusses and minuses of the places which could be chosen as the country’s capital. The committee noted: “A capital city located somewhere further North will give the stimulus needed to develop land communication between us and central west Asia. In this respect, the following places are worthy of our consideration: Quetta, Peshawar, Fort Munro, Sakesar, Rawalpindi. Quetta is favourably situated to influence Afghanistan and Iran. It is much too near the border and lacks water resources, essential for a capital city, and communications. Peshawar, likewise favourably situated as far as influencing Afghanistan is concerned, is too much on one side. Fort Munro, Sakesar and Rawalpindi are the three places with balanced advantages.”
Unable to become the capital of Pakistan, Fort Munro might be turned into a clone of Murree. The Punjab tourism minister recently announced a raft of uplift measures aimed at developing Fort Munro the way Murree has developed over the years. Though discerning city planners may disapprove of the manner in which Murree has been dirtied and polluted by careless tourists who descend on the hill station every summer in their hordes, this is indeed good news for Fort Munro.
Deep in the heart of Pakistan lie the remnants of a British past that can very well be the next Murree 
