Most readers must have gone through a short story by Leo Tolstoy, which I consider to be one of the best short stories ever written. The title eludes me but most likely it is How Much Land a Man Needs. A man is offered all the land which he can cover by foot from sunrise to sunset, he walks briskly, at time starts running to cover as much land as possible. Possessed with the greed of acquiring just a few more meters of land, he stretches himself to the utmost limits and finally collapses with exhaustion and dies while the sun is setting. He is buried on the exact spot where he dies because that is all the land a man really needs.
We can, in the same sense, wonder as to how many houses a man needs. Basically, he needs only one house and, to be precise, he needs only that space where he sleeps as a house. But the greed for more never subsidizes and a man wants more — another house in a better locality, then in a better city and then maybe in a better country, in Islamabad, London, New York, and somewhere in Thailand perhaps. Recently, I met a once-upon-a-time-a-very-close-friend at a wedding and he owns flats and houses all over the world. But he is still unhappy. “Tarar yar, I read somewhere that Marlon Brando bought a whole island and built a house of his dreams on it. Now I am a man of limited resources but I do deserve a house away from it all on a deserted island where only once a week a small launch comes to deliver the mail or household provisions.”
“Yes, yar a man of limited means like yourself deserves a small island retreat, it is not much to ask.”
I am personally in no position to condemn such a person who hankers for more abodes all the time because I am sailing in the same boat. My greed for more houses and huts is limitless. Every year I build a new house for myself, although I am also a man of limited means. The greed, mind you, is a very noble passion as even Waris shah admits: “Although I have reached the end of my life, even then my nature is not free of greed”.
I have so far built dozens of abodes for myself. And all of them are in Pakistan, the northern area of Pakistan to be precise. By the way, I have laboured day and night to build these houses, risked my dear life for them, walking through the largest ice mass in the world, grasping for breath on snowy heights, crossing deadly mountain streams, almost drowning myself to look for the sights where I can built these houses while the whole world laughed at my madness. It has not been easy, I assure you.
Most of these abodes consist of a single room built with logs or mud bricks, and I am sorry but there are no bathroom facilities — one has to go out in the forest to do the essential needful. The porch for a car is also missing because even the four wheelers fail to reach those spots. I have been so busy in building them that I have not been able to spend a single night in them so far. I am just waiting for the day when I will have enough money stacked in the bank vaults to retire from the drudgery of writing books and appearing on the idiot box for my daily bread and butter. When these golden days will be here, I will shift into one of these houses. But amongst the dozens, which house or log cabin will I chose? Now that is the problem, perhaps you can help me out if I narrate the location of some of them.
Perhaps I will opt for that log cabin facing the killer mountain Nanga Parbat on the highest spot in the fairy meadows, where on my first visit to this heavenly spot I pitched my tent. I did not face much hardship while building this log cabin. There was plenty of deadwood lying around in the nearby fairy meadow jungle. Everyday I loaded my donkey with the trunks of pines and brought them to the top of the hillock and then just placed them on top of each other. There is a layer of ‘bhoj puttar’ on the roof of this cabin which is waterproof to the extent that the worst rains and snows have not seeped through. This ancient organic form of paper is also easily available in the fairy meadow forest, one has just to peel it off the trunks of trees.
This cabin of mine has only one window. As a matter of fact, a full wall is in the form of a window, facing the snows of Nanga Parbat. In the coming days when I will be its only occupant, I will not need an alarm clock to wake me up because the reflection of the first golden rays of the rising sun from the eternal snows of this magical mountain will enter through my window and will illuminate my aging face, and I will know it is the morning. However, there will be some nights when the roar of avalanches descending for the glaciers of Nanga Parbat will disturb my sleep, but I will get used to them in time.
Another one-room cottage of mine is in the valley of Phunder, which is situated on Gilgit-Shandur Pass dirt road. The trekkers call it the little Kashmir because of its beauty and serenity. My cottage is right on the bank of the river meandering through the lush green valley like a silver snake. I have built a wooden corridor in front of the cottage door so that I will just sit there and try my hand at fishing for the silver trout. I hear that only a few fish remain in these waters due to over fishing. But this does not worry me — I am in my own cottage and can try again next morning while reciting the poetry of my uncle Ghalib loudly. If a fish has an iota of aesthetics it will willingly jump out of the water, landing right in front of me and saying, “Wah”, before going into my frying pan.
Another of my log cabins is in the valley of Sokhtar Abad, underneath the Pamir mountains which change colours during the day and turn fire red at the sunset. I am sure while this cabin is empty, the snow tigers from Pamir descend into the valley and putting their wet snouts over the window panes, peep inside to see whether that Tarar fellow has arrived or not.
Another house of mine, which, compared with my other abodes, is nearest to so-called civilization, is in Khaplu, overlooking river Shayuk. It is built with mulberry branches and mud bricks, with four exquisitely carved pillars supporting the roof. The courtyard in front has cherry, mulberry and apricot trees laden with fruit. A mountain stream passes through this lawn of mine and when the red cherries fall into its icy waters, they turn into glittering rubies.
Did I mention my single room abode in the Tarshing village, which is surrounded by the eternal snows of Nanga Parbat massif? Tarshing is on the other side of this Himalayan giant and I consider it to be the most enchanting village in whole of Pakistan. To reach the valley of Rupal, all you have to do is to cross the Tarshing glacier, a valley which is littered with alpine flowers and its inhabitants still wear ancient dresses and caps which reflect the colours of these flowers. The locals believe that the mountain of many faces, Shallmukhi, is the abode of the snow queen and in her snow palace live frogs and snakes, also made of snow and at times they come down to the Rupal valley. That is why I built my cabin in Tarshing instead of Rupal, could not take the risk of having snow frogs and snakes disturbing my solitude.
My snow lake hut is rather problematic, due to heavy snows it collapses every year and I have to rebuild it. I have numerous other huts and cabins. In Nagar valley, underneath the snows of Rakaposhi, on the banks of lake Cromber and Ratti gali, in Askole and on top of Deosai, in Kalash and in Koghzi in Chitral, etc.
Whenever I mention any of these houses to my wife, she smiles knowingly, and when she keeps on smiling without saying a word I get furious because I know she does not believe me. She thinks I have gone soft in the head and these huts and cabins are just a fantasy of my immature imagination. Well, she will regret it one day when I will just pack my little rucksack and head for one of these huts. I will never invite her there because she is a disbeliever and does not deserve my paradise.
Sometimes, I wonder as to how many abodes a man needs? Only one. And this house he does not build himself but it is dug by other people for him where he can rest in peace forever.
Most readers must have gone through a short story by Leo Tolstoy, which I consider to be one of the best short stories ever written. The title eludes me but most likely it is How Much Land a Man Needs. A man is offered all the land which he can cover by foot from sunrise to sunset, he walks briskly, at time starts running to cover as much land as possible. Possessed with the greed of acquiring just a few more meters of land, he stretches himself to the utmost limits and finally collapses with exhaustion and dies while the sun is setting. He is buried on the exact spot where he dies because that is all the land a man really needs.
