THE New Year’s eve was one of the coldest and wettest nights of the season in the capital. Big hotels were asked not to arrange any functions. But private parties were held at different people’s houses in the posh sectors of the city. In spite of the heavy downpour, people came out on the streets and in the Jinnah Market, the heart of Islamabad, where restaurants remained open for dinner and it was impossible to find a parking space for one’s vehicle. As they say Shauq da koi mol nai, soaking wet, people were seen running, looking for parking spaces and being ushered into different restaurants by umbrella-holding guards.
The combination of weekend, the New Year and snowfall forecast made people throng Murree for the weekend, not only from Islamabad and Pindi, but also from different cities of Punjab. For the occasion, room charges at a five-star hotel in the region soared to Rs15,000 per night, almost three times higher than normal. And still you needed a source to book a room which was not available to the common man. To everyone’s disappointment, it was only wet and not white in the hills when the clock struck 12. But in a matter of minutes, only half an hour past midnight, snow started covering the hills welcoming 2005.
The snowfall continued over the weekend and taking advantage of the situation we packed our bags and left for Doonga Gali early next morning. Crossing Murree, we continued our ascend onwards to Doonga Gali. Here the snow became heavier and the wind chillier. There was hardly any traffic on the road, everything was white covered with fresh snow. “This is what you call as white as snow,” said my daughter.
The first sign of danger came when our car began to skid off the road. A jeep or two passed by, but they had chains tied to their tyres. Scared to be stuck in this storm of wind and snow, we decided to return, not knowing the drive downward would be much scarier than we could imagine. Driving very slowly we finally heaved a sigh of relief when we reached Murree. It was hard to believe that there were no warning signs on the road for the common man. People have to make their own judgment whether to use a certain road or not. With so many army personnel spread over the place, there should be a warning sign for those who intend to visit the area.
REMEMBERING PARVEEN SHAKIR: Dec 26, 2004 marked the 10th death anniversary of Parveen Shakir. Ten years ago the young poetess died in a tragic car accident on the Margalla road near the Faisal Mosque, leaving behind a son, many friends and millions of fans. Parveen Shakir was one of the few poets to attain fame at a young age and was immensely admired for her talent, elegance and beauty. Young people could relate to her bold and simple poetry. I still remember my first encounter with her at Dr Mohammad Afzal’s house who was then Pakistan’s federal minister for education and happened to be our neighbour. I was a college student, greatly impressed by Parveen’s talent, beauty and confidence. Dr Afzal, a true educationist was (and still is) a great source of inspiration for those students who were keen on continuing their education. Introducing me to Parveen, who had recently taken her CSS exams, he said: “You know the book she got to review in her Urdu exam was her own collection of verse, Khushboo.”
“But I gave no clue to the examiner who I was or that I had anything to do with the book, but criticized it referring to myself as musanifa,” was Parveen’s spontaneous defence.
To pay tribute to her dear friend, Parveen Qadir Agha, chairperson of the Parveen Shakir Trust, organized a reference evening at the National Library. Mrs Sehba Musharaf, chief guest of the evening, could not make it to the occasion and sent her message as her tribute to the poetess.
Fatima Suarraya Bajia presided over the function and paid glowing tributes to both Parveen Shakir and to Parveen Agha for her efforts in running the trust. It was a relief to see Bajia recovered after a long illness and treatment.
Ms Agha said that poetry was Parveen Shakir’s natural passion, as she loved to articulate simple feelings into beautiful poetic expressions.
Wasim Sajjad gave away Aks Khushboo Award, 2004 to a young poetess, Nargis from the NWFP. Parveen Shakir was an Urdu poetess, but strangely enough both Wasim Sajjad and Parveen Qadir Agha spoke in English on the occasion.
The function ended with Hamid Ali Khan singing a selection of poetry from Khushboo, her first book and Mah-i-Tamaam to a packed audience. In the morning a group of writers, poets and friends offered fateha at her grave.
THE New Year’s eve was one of the coldest and wettest nights of the season in the capital. Big hotels were asked not to arrange any functions. But private parties were held at different people’s houses in the posh sectors of the city. In spite of the heavy downpour, people came out on the streets and in the Jinnah Market, the heart of Islamabad, where restaurants remained open for dinner and it was impossible to find a parking space for one’s vehicle. As they say Shauq da koi mol nai, soaking wet, people were seen running, looking for parking spaces and being ushered into different restaurants by umbrella-holding guards.
