June 6, 2004

Once upon a time, Lundi Kotal was the most fabulous town this side of Khyber Pass. Not because of its dusty and forlorn situation, like Timbuktu. But due to the ready availability of all kinds of smuggled goods in its haphazard bazaar. Kindly, do remember that in those days these smuggled goodies were not found in every nook and corner of the country as they are today. Every Begum in Pakistan dreamed of the day when she could roam in the bazaar of Lundi Kotal and buy herself French Chiffon, Chinese silk, Japanese kitchen gadgets or Swiss chocolates for that matter.

Almost thirty-five years ago, when the very first wedding in our family, that of my sister was being planned, my mother insisted that the trousseau will not be purchased from Anarkali or Rang Mahal, as was the custom then. Rather, it will be procured from Lundi Kotal and will consist entirely of imported cloth.

My mother was a chaudhrani to the core and there was no way anybody in the family could deny her command. So with the help of a close friend, who at the time happened to be a police officer in Nowshera, we, my mother, my sister and myself, found ourselves in the glamorous small town of Lundi Kotal; brimming with smuggled goods of all kinds and excited Begums of all kinds.

After the hectic shopping spree, a local trader very kindly invited us for lunch at the back of his shop. Two huge Karhais, blackened with smoke and grease, filled with sizzling mutton, tomatoes and green chilies were placed in front of us. My mother immediately declared, naturally in a whisper, that she is not going to touch this dirty hotchpotch and abstained from eating.

When the host kept on smiling and I kept on waiting for a plate so that I could put the meat in it and try to eat it, I was informed that the dish was called Karhai Gosht and was eaten directly from the pot. This was the first time I came across the term karhai gosht, it was slightly raw for my Punjabi taste but delicious all the same.

In these times when the karhai culture has become a universal phenomenon — there isn’t a single capital in the world where you wont find karhai gosht, karhai fish, chicken — how many people are aware of the fact that it all started from this far-off Khyber town of Lundi Kotal?

However, the golden days of Lundi Kotal are a thing of the past, as I witnessed during a recent visit there. The glory of smuggled goods has been replaced by dirty shops, roasting in the sun.

The residence of the political agent was on top of a hill overlooking Lundi Kotal where a lunch was arranged by Mr Habib Khan, Tehsildar of the area. This colonial residence was a sharp contrast to the desolate, dusty and forlorn landscape surrounding it.

Sprawling lawns, all kinds of trees reaching out to the sky, a cool wind, an unknown fragrance and a whispering silence. This is indeed an ideal place for Paulo Kohlo, Garcia Marquez or Jose Saramago to write his next novel.

Inside the quite and comfortable residence there was an array of historical photographs decaying with age depicting the moments of history witnessed by this residence and the surrounding area including some rare photographs of the Quaid when he visited the area upon the request of local tribesmen.

After our sumptuous meal we were invited to visit the famed Khyber Rifles Mess. A museum of bygone days, every dignitary who came this way honoured the place with his august presence. Although I was rather flattered by this sudden rise in my stature, but afterwards, when I had the opportunity of viewing those dignitaries’ photographs, I fell flat from that status. I was indeed better of as I was.

As soon as we reached the Mess the huge gate barred our way and the guard simply refused to let us in, as there was some sort of arrangement going on for an army function. For the Khasadars this was a God sent opportunity and they jumped out from their vehicle pointing their guns at the guard as their boss Habib Khan argued with him.

“Look Khan sahib I am not that keen to visit this Mess. Let’s go back.”

“But Tarar Sahib you are an honoured guest”, Habib Khan thundered. “I will talk to the commandant.”

Finally it was the presence of fierce looking Khasadars and their itchy-trigger fingers that most probably did the trick. And the gate was opened.

The Khyber Rifles Mess was a huge disappointment as it was littered with useless mementos, trophies and group photos of unknown minor dignitaries who had ever stepped into it. Although there were some kings and queens, princesses and Presidents but they were in a minority. There was a whole wall decorated with once upon a time generals of Turkish army; another wall was honoured with the photos of American Generals (as if we did not have enough generals as it is). The Shanshah of Iran and his crown prince adorned another wall. Attired in Khyber uniforms, they looked down upon us lesser mortals.

If anything this Mess was a lesson in history; whosoever landed their country and people in a mess were present there. The only redeeming feature was a two-seater sofa lovingly preserved on which the great Quaid sat when he visited the same Mess, it still glowed with his presence. Our final destination was Torkham and we could not go beyond that because that is the Pak-Afghan border post. Present day Torkham was a far cry from the border post enshrined in my memories. It was a lonely check post in those days, a few custom barracks and an iron gate beyond which the whole world awaited my arrival. Today, however, it is a sprawling haphazard collection of shops, houses and army encampments. There was almost a traffic jam of vehicles crossing into Afghanistan.

The so-called border gate was wide open and from the looks of it, I don’t think it was ever completely closed. There were hordes of people including burqa clad women; they could be men inside who knows. Children running inside Pakistan and then going back. Then the Afghan guards, in their ill-fitting uniforms, started beating the children with sticks. But the kids instead of being frightened, enjoyed the lashes. I did not see a single person amongst the hundreds who were crossing into Pakistan being checked or interrogated. It was a free for all coming and going. A Pakistani guard told me, “They come and go freely because they belong to the tribes that inhibit both sides of the border. Hence they are not stopped; the guards recognize each and every tribesman or woman.”

That seemed slightly far-fetched to me. “But why are they beating the poor kids so mercilessly?”

“They are not kids, they are little devils. They carry iron scrap from Afghanistan and sell it in Pakistan, (hardly) making Rs40 or 50 in a day.”

“They just beat them but never stop them from entering Pakistan?”

“This is just a restrictive measure. If they don’t beat them on their way, there will be thousands of kids doing the same whereas now only a few dozen are brave enough to bear the beating.”

The Custom people arranged a small tea party for us in the back-garden of their offices where fresh plums and peaches straight from the fruit trees were offered to us.

After tea I decided to take a short walk around Torkham on my own. Huge trailers filled with food and beverage for the American troops in Afghanistan were roaring by, stocked with all those meals that the poor troops were accustomed to having in their native country; meats of all kinds including the one forbidden to us and all those drinks including those forbidden to us as well.

Many years ago, I used to cross over this border, walk into Afghanistan, with a passport and visa naturally. At times I just used to stay in Kabul for a few days, mostly to vagabond beyond. But this time I did not want to into the new and liberated Afghanistan, even if I had the opportunity. I was after all just an ordinary vagabond and across the border, international players were busy in their games. I turned back from Torkham.

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