I like to view my life as multiple voyages: the first is a physical one that requires me to walk the earth, the second is a journey from known to unknown. There is another journey that leaves one emotionally fatigued, and it is a need to form and nurture relationships.

For me, the thought of new voyages is very refreshing. The North Wind holds you in thrall at your first visit (to the northern areas of Pakistan); subsequently, it keeps whispering in your ear to come back. You remember the blue sky of the day, the black cloak of the night embroidered with glittering stars, and the breeze dancing over the river in summertime; its scent can leave you intoxicated.

From the end of October to the beginning of April, gales carry away the leaves; this is the windy season in the North. These fragrant winds have an effect of their own, but it is the North Wind that enthralls you and does unto you what it does unto trees: sometimes it leaves you blossoming with the colour and vitality of spring; and at other times it brings to you the ashen sadness of autumn.

In cities, at workplaces and houses, during meetings with relatives or friends, and in bazaars, we are always occupied saying something or hearing something, without allowing any real communication to take place.

A humdrum routine begins from dawn, and chases us throughout the day, exhausting all our energies.

We want to escape the pressures — the need to find resolutions, the need for dialogue, and to find solitude in Mother Nature, which would rejuvenate us to cope up with friends, relations, and the stress of city life once again.

If one is constrained by the need to earn a living, one would not have the freedom to travel anywhere at any given time. But with the change of seasons, a scene unfolds near my city which draws upon the beauty of the Northern Areas and consoles me.

From mid-February to mid-March, when the rains wash away the dust and smog, the mountain range of Pir Panjal looks very clear and so close as if the mountains were located at a distance of only a few kilometers. They can be seen from any place between Gujrat and Narowal.

For the rest of the year, air pollution takes this gratification away from us. When seasonal rains improve visibility, the dark snow-capped mountains would appear as if God had pegged nails deep into the earth.

They have peaks as high as 6,000 meters. In summer, the snow melts and they stand bare.

Sialkot, a city standing near the banks of River Chenab, is also known as the centre of artisans. Perhaps, not only the soils straddling this river, but also the people living near its banks owe their fertility to Chenab. Iqbal, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Shev Kumar Batalvi, and many other fertile minds have their roots here.

The River Chenab flows from Marala, 24 kilometres from the city of Sialkot. I’m always drawn towards rivers but the kind of love I feel for Chenab cannot be explained with words alone. As a denizen of Sialkot, I enjoy the privilege of stepping out in clear weather to speak to the River Chenab and behold, to my heart’s content, the majesty of snow-capped mountains visible in its backdrop; thus, reliving the experience of the North in my own city.

The river of the lovers, Chenab, still carries the clay that once formed Sohni’s gharha (earthenware pot). The river begins its journey in the mountains of Jammu as a small rivulet known as Chandrabhaga across the border.

In the Himalayas, the melting snow joins the rivulet, slowly transforming it into a full flowing river. By the time it reaches the plains of Punjab, Chandrabhaga gives its name to Chenab.

At the head, the River Jhelum joins in, and then further downstream Ravi and Sutlej also fall into the Chenab. This huge river is then swallowed by the great River Indus, which leads all these waters towards the Arabian Sea.

Along its 1,000 kilometre long journey, Chenab nourishes several towns and villages. It carries silt from Kashmir and clay from Sohni’s earthenware pot, its banks bear witness to many tales of love, including Ranjha’s, who once oared his boat in Chenab. Sohni drowned during the attempt to swim across the river to meet her lover, Mahiwal but she lives on in folklores. The flow of Chenab reminds me of a couplet by Mustafa Zaidi:

Kachay garhay ne jeet li naddi charhi hui mazboot kashtion ko kinara nahe mila

The earthenware pot triumphed over the stormy river Where strongly-built boats failed to find a landing

In mid-February, fertile lands near the river are covered with the blossoming flower of mustard plants. I walk among the yellow flowers, on a pathway between the fields, basking under the warm sun and looking at the snow-capped peaks in Kashmir. Their beauty takes me to another world. It is a time of the year when farmers have many tasks to accomplish and men and women can be seen working in the fields.

Sometimes, sunflowers add colour to the scenic landscape and flocks of birds find respite in the Chenab after flying for hours. They have migrated all the way from Siberia to this warmer part of the world. Among them are many subspecies of koonjs (cranes). Then, there are the geese with their long legs; standing on just one, hiding the other underneath their feathers, tilting their heads in silence as if meditating. I feel myself becoming a part of this vast, beautiful painting.

I have spent countless days and nights on the riverbanks of Chenab. Sometimes the river would play its melodious tunes to me, at other times I would shed my tears into its waters.

I like watching the boats row under the setting sun. Folklores have developed a strange taxonomy for these rivers: Chenab is the river of lovers, Ravi is the river of connoisseurs, and Indus is the river of the faithful. I often return to the river of lovers, but the fog of winter mornings would wrap everything in its haze, making the river lose its colour, appearing stagnant.

There is a boatman, Waris, who earns his living by rowing a boat on Chenab. The sun was setting, when I first met him. Waris, the boatman, has deeper ravines of anguish than the depths of Chenab, a middle-aged man with black hair and a grey beard. He is losing his eyesight, and his face is wrinkled.

A few moments ago, the sun had set on Chenab, painting the clouds a deep red. The boatmen were anchoring their boats. I had packed up my camera and was planning to leave after smoking a cigarette, when Waris came to me after he had dropped the anchor. He first inquired after my health and then asked for a cigarette.

I wanted to know more about his profession. Waris began to speak his heart out. Perhaps, he had not spoken for ages. When we got tired, he unfurled his turban and laid it out on the sand — his makeshift seating arrangement for the two of us.

The old man told me that he had rowed a boat in Jhang for 20 years. He had built it himself. But when Jhang descended into sectarian violence, miscreants burnt down his house, killing one of his daughters and his only son, his wife had already died. The old man left Jhang for good, taking his remaining three daughters with him, and arrived in Sialkot.

Now he rows a boat in Chenab and earns 400 to 500 rupees a day to feed his daughters. He talked at length about his sufferings, his concerns about his daughters, his unsteady income, and about the river Chenab for about an hour. During this one hour, his eyes alternately flooded with tears or beamed with joy several times.

I thought it was grief that connected one human being to another. There are millions of people like Waris the boatman, suffering in this heartless world.

If you go to Marala from Sialkot, a road runs along a canal, branching out from Chenab. The thick mango trees, lining the canal cool this road in summer.There are yellow, blue, and purple wild flowers everywhere. You can see swarms of butterflies circling around wild flowers.

The stretch of land from the outskirts of Sialkot to Marala is a sight to behold. If the weather permits, one could put a chair in the fields, sit and drink several cups of coffee just to enjoy the scenic views.

Once, some nomads set up their tents to stay in this area ; one of those tents captured my attention because it was set up a few yards away from the rest, as if its occupants had been cast out by the community.

One early morning, on the way to Marala, I stopped my motorcycle near that particular tent to have a look. It was 8’o clock in the morning but the day was not as bright as usual, due to thick fog. One corner of the tent had been rolled up, the other drawn down, as if a widow was attempting to veil her face. From the rolled up corner it was possible to see inside, where two charpoys (cots) could be seen. A water container lay nearby; outside the tent a couple and their three children sat in a circle.

The woman was making rotis (flatbread) on one of the two earthen stoves; a pan had been put over the other, perhaps, to brew tea. With brief intervals, the woman would blow air from her mouth to reignite the flame; the smoke would lift with the steam from the tea pot.

The man and his three children were sitting on shabby cane stools (moorhas). The children were very young and wore thick caps, which also covered their ears. The man had wrapped himself in a dirty shawl. They were trying to keep their hands warm with the fire from the stoves.

Perhaps, this was just an ordinary day for them. They were oblivious to the passersby, engrossed in their routine. The man would laugh a carefree laugh every few minutes.

From a distance, I could not make out what they were saying but I believed it was just gossip over breakfast. I watched their harmony for a few minutes before revving my motorbike. There was fog above that tent, on the road, in the sky, everywhere.

It rained for three consecutive days. I got tired of sitting at home during the weekend, and decided to roam around on my motorbike. On the way to Marala, I stopped my red Yamaha before the same tent again. The corners of the tent were in the same position as before; one rolled up, the other drawn down.

Both the man and the woman were not present. The tent had been covered with an orange plastic sheet to keep the rain out. On the threshold of the tent, two children stood with gloomy, drawn faces. Outside, the earthen stoves had broken and their clay was being washed away by rain water. I wondered if they had been able to cook food for the past three days under such hostile weather conditions.

Then one day in March, the sun was shining bright and everything was basked in its soft golden hue. Around 7am, I halted my motorbike near the tent. Its opening was covered now. Outside, a makeshift washing line had been erected, and a few colourful dresses hung along the wire.

The earthen stove had been rebuilt; its freshly smoothed clay indicated that the repair was recent. None of the family members could be seen. Perhaps, they were all sleeping inside. Reed grew around the tent, which could be cut and bundled to make brooms to sweep floors. Sparrows were perched on blades of grass, making them swing under their light weight. The gaze of the sun was ubiquitous.

In April, when spring came, I found the place that once housed that tent, empty. The earthen stove had been dismantled. The tent-settlement nearby was also gone, and so were the people who lived there. I found out that the government had evicted the nomads.

They were forced to migrate. The gypsy woman, along with her husband and children, had gone to a new place to build a new earthen stove and reignite its flames with her breath. The entire surrounding, the road, the sky seemed to have grown barren. As I resumed my journey, a tear drop fell from my eye and flew with the breeze.

On that particular day, too, a strong wind blew over the river. Whether you journey to the Northern Areas or to the outskirts of your own city, a breeze always accompanies you.

I feel as if the sound of breeze is the song of death, I believe this breeze is responsible for all separations, tales of love, sadness and defeats. Long live the breeze.

It is this light wind that spreads songs and fragrances all over the world. It is this breeze that carries with it the cries of anguished souls. In the night, when the moon seems to hide behind the clouds, it is the breeze that tugs at the clouds to veil and unveil the face of the moon.

Away from cities, towns, and villages, I watch this play and Nature reveals several closely-guarded secrets to him: neither you, nor I exist; it is only the breeze on an eternal journey.

At Marala, the combined mesmerising force of Chenab and the breeze makes your heart shudder like a helpless leaf, until it eventually breaks. It reminds me of two couplets by Munir Niazi:

Safar main hai jo azal se, ye woh bala hi na ho

Kiwaar khol ke na dekho, kahin hawa hi na ho

Na ja ke is se parey dasht e marg ho shayad

Palatna chahein wahan se, to rasta hi na ho

All photos by author | Translated by Arif Anjum from the original in Urdu here.

Syed Mehdi Bukhari is a Network Engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion.

He can be reached on Facebook

Soon after descending from the Sohrab Goth flyover, one is greeted by a sea of tents stretching far into the skyline.

Behind the tents looms a brightly lit Ferris Wheel along with a few other ominous rides. It is easy to presume that a massive carnival is in full swing, until one drives ahead and the towering billboards advertise cattle and goats.

We are at the largest cattle market in Asia, which at the moment presents a spectacle not unlike one from a festival.

Sprawled over a vast expanse of land on the outskirts of Karachi, the cattle market - better known locally as mandi- is the place to be these days for Karachiites of all ages.

As first time visitors to the mandi, the enormity of the market is a little too overwhelming for us. The dusty walk to the tents has obstructions in the form of ditches and dugouts. Having crossed those, the labyrinth of tents makes it difficult to start the journey; where to begin?

Only a few minutes into the survey, it becomes evident that we are indeed inside the ‘elite’ tents that accommodate some of the most expensive animals in the market.

These tents are never vacant, a constant flow of visitors swamp the area, eager to catch a glimpse of the most sought-after cattle, both rich in breed and muscle.

Rarely would you find potential buyers here, perhaps due to the astronomical rates demanded for the animals that are twice the size of a normal human, if not bigger.

The animals — in a variety of colours and shades — seem almost amused as the onlookers, children and adults alike pose, pat and attempt to take selfies with them.

There are a sizable number of families visiting the market, much to our surprise; mothers watch cautiously as toddlers pet cows and burst into laughter having accomplished this feat.

Channeling Afridi's 'brilliance'

An Atif Aslam song from the latest Coke Studio season resounds in the background, umpteen bulbs dazzle from the canopy, and a number of uniformed staff carrying walkie-talkies hasten from one corner to another.

The setting could well be mistaken for a concert. It is, however, just another ‘elite’ tent at the mandi.

This particular one seems to stand out both due to its grand décor and a grander collection of cattle.

A green and white marquee in which fairy lights adorn every inch of the ceiling, a large board reads ‘Afridi Cattle’.

There is not a single animal that seems to adhere to a ‘normal’ size; these are the Cholistan and Sahiwal breed cattle, lounging calmly as spectators push to get a better view of the animals.

All of a sudden, a loud cry emerges from the far end of the tent, people scramble away for dear life just in time as loud hoops and jingling ornaments signal an incoming bull.

The fear transforms to exhilaration as the crowd awaits for more. But the heavyweight bull is taken to a man with slick back hair and a navy crisp kurta exuding a sense of power and ownership. It is easy to discern that he is the central managing force of the team.

“We feed our cattle chickpeas, wheat, milk and dairy products,” says Irfan, the owner of Afridi Cattle.

“I started off with just two goats and slowly built it up to this,” he spreads his hand wide gesturing to the open marquee.

“It took 10 years but I did it.”

“Afridi means brilliance and this is what we want to achieve too,” he says and then talks briefly about seeking inspiration from the former-captain of the cricket team, Shahid Afridi.

“He hit sixes on the field and we want to do the same in the cattle market.”

‘Raised them like my own’

In one relatively secluded corner of the 'United Cattle Farm', one animal caretaker caresses a pair of two burly bulls which are a shiny black and white.

We cannot overlook the pride in Mohammad Amir’s eyes as he stands next to the animals, and inquire about his attachment with them.

We take a moment to joke about how its the Afridi vs Amir battle before the cattle owner cuts in.

“We raise them like our own…just like our children,” he tells us, adding that the unusually large physique of the bulls should be attributed to the rich diet they are fed, which includes besides other things milk, yogurt, oil and nuts.

Amir, 24, who has been in the cattle-farming business for the past ten years, continues in a wistful tone: “It is difficult to let them go after the emotional bond that develops, but what can you do?”

Upon our question about the price tag on the large-size bulls, Amir takes no time in answering, “The right one is worth Rs580,000 and the left one Rs450,000.”

The crowd is mounting and Amir and his colleagues stand alert, guarding the animals from any untoward visitors.

Despite this, the traders see the influx of visitors as a good omen.

Amir shares that this Eidul Azha in particular, after the Rangers-led Karachi operation against criminals gained momentum, things have changed for the better.

As compared to previous years, the cattle-farm owners expect greater number of visitors and more serious buyers, Amir says.

The humble Afghan

In a striking contrast to the festivities on the outskirts of the mandi, the inside market paints a gloomy picture. The area is dimly-lit and dingy after sunset, animals stand closely packed together and the crowd is thin — this is where the majority of buyers are found.

Gul-e-Bagh is a cattle trader from Afghan basti, who waits with his animals for potential buyers, but he has managed to sell only a handful so far.

“This is our main source of livelihood for the entire year. We can't afford to feed our cattle anything luxurious, they eat what we eat which is a humble meal of roti,” says Gul who is 30 and has a family of six to support.

“My animals range from Rs70,000 and they go upto Rs220,000 but market is slow and I'd be lucky if all are sold in time.”

#Girls at the mandi

Dubbed as a “men’s occasion”, it’s indeed exciting to see a sizable presence of women at the market. A 70-year-old woman clasps her five-year-old granddaughter’s tiny fingers as the child gapes at the gleaming horns of a bull. There is no shying away from the animal and no one seems to mind getting their feet dirty in the mixture of cow dung and dirt.

“We come here with the entire family to select our sacrificial animal, and we have been doing this for years,” says Rukhsana, 70, hailing from Orangi. Six other women sit on a charpoy with her, relaxing and waiting for some snacks as the sun sets.

“It has been six hours and we are yet to find an animal that can be bought in our budget.”

A younger trio of girls catches our attention as they appear deep in discussion about buying a cow. The eldest one, Safya, who is a ninth grader proudly talks about her visit: “We have coming to the mandi ever since we were kids, two of my sisters here are in fifth grade and kindergarten respectively and they’re here because they too share this interest.”

“Our mother does not come because she’s not too fond of the mandi because of the dirt and stink but we don’t mind. We make it a point to survey the entire place and compare rates. For instance, we really like this white bull but I don’t think we can afford it. We’ll look elsewhere now.”

To pat or not to pat, that is the question

Six-year-old Huzaifa tries to break free from his uncle’s strong grip as they move forward towards a black bull.

“Go ahead, pat the cow, it won’t do anything,” says the uncle encouragingly and signals to his 11-year-old brother Haris who confidently poses with his arm around the gigantic animal.

“He’s scared because he’s young, he does the same at home,” Haris being the elder brother defends Huzaifa who scurries away in the safety of his father’s arms.

“I came to see how the animals have been this year, we won’t be buying obviously because we already have our own animals at home,” says the talkative Haris who adjusts his round spectacles to get a better view of a calf standing close by.

The father, Mohammad Ali who was incessant to take a good picture of both brothers finally gives up and talks about their visit.

“We raise our own animal; preferably a calf and I make it a point to frequent the farm where it’s being raised. Children do accompany but that’s seldom. My brother and I make sure that it’s well-fed and catered to.”

Ali believes that raising an animal creates a bondage which is the real essence of sacrifice.

“When you raise them right from the beginning you do form an emotional attachment with them and I won’t say that it doesn’t hurt to sacrifice them because it does. But we have to and I believe this is what sacrifice is all about, giving up something close to your heart and soul.”

Neelum is one of the most beautiful valleys of Azaad Kashmir, and it hosts several brooks, freshwater streams, forests, lush green mountains, and a river. Here, you see cataracts falling down the mountains; their milky-white waters flowing over the roads and splashing against the rocks, before commingling with the muddy waters of River Neelum.

Athmuqam is the capital city of Neelum Valley. It has been administratively divided into two sub-districts: Athmuqam and Sharda. From Muzaffarabad, a tarred road comfortably leads you to Sharda, whence you need to travel on a rocky and curvy jeep track, which can take you to the farthest town of the region, Tau Butt.

Before Partition, this region was known as Drawah. The Azaad Kashmir government, in 1956, the ninth year of its rule, held a cabinet meeting to rechristen the River Kishanganga as the River Neelum, and the Drawah region as Neelum Valley.

The new names were proposed to the cabinet by war hero, Syed Mohammad Amin. The cabinet approved them, and thus, Drawah of the yore is now Neelum Valley of Azaad Kashmir.

When the far-flung Kashmiri villages located at the feet of the Himalayas beckoned me, I bade adieu to my job and my city before packing up for Kashmir, where lush green mountains were ready to take me in.

After we arrived in Jhelum district, I stopped on the bridge to look down into the River Jhelum. The muddy water flowed down slowly. I was going to meet the same river upstream, where it enters into Pakistan from Azaad Kashmir (and changes its name from Neelum to Jhelum). The river seemed too sluggish in the plains of the Punjab, but I knew that up in the mountains, it is furious and noisy, with green waters winding through narrow mountain passes.

Jhelum, aka Neelum, aka Kishangana. Just then the song playing in the car switched to:

♪ Kis naam say pukaron, kia naam hay tumhara ♫
(What shall I call you, what is your name)

Cities, town and villages went by one after the other; Rawalpindi was gone; then from Murree, the car darted towards Muzaffarabad. The road from Kohala to Muzaffarabad was narrow but tree-lined; the car travelled under the shadows of the trees. The surrounding mountains had worn the newly-sprouted bright-coloured grass.

There was greenery everywhere, punctuated with pomegranate trees that lined up the road and proudly held out their red petals. Against their green backdrop, the red petals seemed almost seductive. I thought of stealing them from the pomegranate trees, but the very next moment, Jon Elia intruded my subconscious, saying, “dekh lo phool, phool torro mat” (Look at the flowers, don’t snip off the flowers).

The pomegranate petals continued to dance along the road until we reached Muzaffarabad – a densely populated city, with houses literally sitting on the roofs of other houses.

After crossing over the River Neelum Bridge, I had to leave the car and hire a jeep, which was to take me to my destination, the Neelum Valley.

As I was being driven along the River Neelum, I was amused to notice how contentedly this river flowed, serving as natural border between Pakistan and India, oblivious to their animosity.

Pakistan is building the Neelum-Jhelum hydropower dam on the River Neelum. It was summertime, but the project still appeared to be frozen. The jeep entered Athmuqam and moved through its crowded streets before emerging on the other side that faced Keran. At the other end of the bridge that spanned over the River Neelum, was Indian-held Kashmir.

Travelling along the Line of Control, I felt that although the two Kashmirs had been divided by a border, they held many things in common: on the both sides of this divide, jeeps and buses play the same music; culture and cuisine is the same; the population on both sides belongs to the same ethnicity, draws water from the same river, and lives under the same clouds; the difference is seen only on the masts that hoists the national flags – the flags are different, so are the governments and perhaps the hearts, too.

The driver notched up the music volume and the song that rolled off the cassette player now said:

♪ Gham-e-dil ko en ankhon se chalak jana bhi aata hai ♫
(The grief is wont to roll down from these eyes)

We arrived in the village of Dowarian. From this point on, a trail leads to the Ratti Gali Lake. Nature probably worked long and hard to create Ratti Gali, first carpeting it with green velvet grass, and then speckling it with yellow, blue, and orange shades.

The blue waters and scenic beauty of this lake gravitate tourists with such a pull that they would battle mountains, rivers, and the hardships of trekking to arrive at this spot. A sight of Ratti Gali Lake is worth all the trouble.

The jeep continued to move along. At a little distance from the turn to Ratti Gali, a road branches out and treks up the mountain to meet the village of Upper Neelum. Perhaps, the entire valley takes its name from this village.

The jeep arrived in Sharda and stopped at its main marketplace. My eyes strayed to a few donkeys standing on the rooftops of houses and shops and grazing wild grass that had sprung up there. Seeing donkeys on rooftops particularly struck me as quite hilarious.

In Sharda, houses are built on the steep mountain slopes in a way that their roofs are partly stuck into the mountain. It allows animals to easily walk onto the rooftops. The donkeys were perhaps attracted by the sweet smell of the grass here.

Sharda is one of the two sub-division of the Neelum Valley. In ancient times, it was a seat of knowledge and wisdom. If you cross over the river bridge, you would arrive at the ruins of a site that looks like a fort but which in fact used to be an academy. It falls somewhere between a city and a village, as the basic necessities of life are available in abundance at the local stores. But after leaving Sharda, it is just villages. The road turns rough, too. River Neelum fattens up here.

Some historians believe that Sharda was the name of a Hindu temple. Research is wanting on whether Sharda was a temple or an academy. Findings by one of the Azaad Kashmir’s renowned researchers Dr Ahmed Deen Sabir suggest that Sharda and Saraswati are two wives to Brahma, the Hindu god of creation (in Hindu mythology, they are the goddesses of knowledge and wisdom). In the ancient age, temples would serve not only as places of worship and meditation but also as centres of education. Al-Beruni describes the geography and conditions of this temple:

“After Multan’s Sun Temple, Chakraswami temple of Thanesar, and the Somnath Temple, Sharda, too, is a big temple. It is a famous house of idols located at a distance of two or three days towards Kohistan-e-Balour from Srinagar.”

In the 21st century, the town of Sharda, overlooking the River Neelum, is known only as a tourist attraction. The River Neelum flows downhill, quietly touching its feet.

We resumed our journey. The tarred road came to an end, and the rocky dirt track began. Several brooks intersected our path. The jeep would slow down to cross through the water and then resume its bumpy journey.

Sitting inside, I felt as if I were riding on camel-back. The sunlight was hurrying up to escape from the mountain. The chir pine trees grew their shadows long. When the jeep arrived at Kail, a earth-scented breeze rushed to welcome me; it dallied everywhere.

After checking into the tourism department motel, I chose to sit in the balcony of my room to watch the hustle and bustle of the valley as the sun set. To my right, on a rooftop two kids were playing tennis with a green plastic ball. On another rooftop, just next to them, four boys were playing another game, perhaps Stapoo or a variation of it.

Far below in the valley, on a slope that had been girdled by wood logs, some women trod a wet dirt trail, carrying on their heads pitchers made of bronze and copper and filled with water. At the starting end of the trail flowed a clean brook; a fallen tree trunk forming an arch over it. On the banks of the brook and over the tree trunk sat a few other women doing laundry. The women who carried water on their head had filled the pitchers from this same brook, walking home in pairs.

Next to this lavoir was a field enclosed with wooden planks. Two young girls were playing in the field, they would whirl round and round, and shortly after, fall down in the unsown furrows, their heads spinning. They would keep giggling for several minutes. I could hear the sound of their giggles, coupled with the laughter of the tennis-playing kids. The girls would then get up again, spin round and round and collapse; the game continued for several rounds.

Just below my balcony, in a field, a large number of dandelions had blossomed. A brown cat pawed through them, sniffing. The rays from the setting sun had fired up the edges of the dandelions. To my right, smoke rose from the chimneys of the houses. The roof-slopes were painted red, white and orange. Sometimes, a jeep or a motorcycle would stir the rocky jeep track, which otherwise lay still and silent.

A little later, the last rays from the declining sun began to redden the puffed faces of the two clouds that had stubbornly stayed in the sky. As the red colour took over the sky, the chill in the air grew stronger. Before the red sky turned black, the lavoir had been emptied of its occupants, the children had ended their games, and the brown cat too, had returned home.

Now, the chimneys were emitting more smoke; dinner was being cooked. The weather suddenly grew colder and darkness engulfed everything. Dozens of lights begin to glitter in the valley. I, who had grown all weak-kneed from this beauty, was barely able to gather myself to go back into my room.

I returned to the balcony around 11pm. The stars had come out, the night was otherwise dark and moonless. Silence echoed through the valley. The only sounds I heard were that of a brook and my beating heart. The chimneys had fallen cold too. The town was sleeping.

When dew began to fall on Kail, the stars, too, grew obscure. Far away, dogs barked relentlessly. The valley that was quiet a few minutes ago was now echoing mysterious sounds. I returned to my room, but the moment I closed my eyes, the entire Kail valley materialised in my mind's eye. I felt dizzy and fell asleep where I had lain. The goddess of slumber had drawn the valley close to her heart, and every activity in the universe came to a halt, until the sun rose the next morning.

At daybreak next morning, I departed from Kail. The jeep continued its bumpy journey, somehow negotiating the wavy track in this difficult terrain. We registered at several military checkpoints along the way.

For a portion of my journey, the track ran parallel to River Neelum, almost touching it. The jeep was running on the track just one foot higher than the river. Then, we came across a cataract washing the road with its water, and spewing a lot of mud. As the jeep passed before the waterfall, a sprinkle of cold water washed over my face.

The road running along the River Neelum began to gain altitude again, and I felt the jeep almost taking off. The river had been left below in the mountains. Next, we were to pass by the villages of Sardari, Phalwai and Hilmet, before arriving in Tau Butt, where the jeep was to end its journey.

That day, after leaving Kail, I noticed that women in this region were very industrious. They worked hard in the fields and took vigilant care of the cattle. I also noticed that almost all of the women wore red; perhaps they favoured this colour. Eight out of the 10 women there wore red dresses.

We passed by several groups of Bakarwal nomads that travelled along the road with their flocks of sheep and goats. The animals would readily give way to the jeep as soon as they heard the engine. The Bakarwal tribes are known for taking regular long journeys from Kashmir to the Deosai plain, passing through the highest mountain passes of the Himalayas. After arriving in the Deosai plain, some of their groups would journey to Skardu and others would travel to Astore.

Since snow at the Deosai plain had not thawed yet, the Bakarwals were moving at a very slow pace, camping with frequent intervals. Making a stay near every village that they came across.

Nomadic life is quite strange. Nomads bury their dead wherever they die. Their graves can be found scattered from Kashmir to Skardu and Astore. One of the nomads told me that for centuries, their generations had lived the same life. Their elders had trodden the same path. The nomads had spent entire eras existing in unending journeys .

I saw a Bakarwal slaughtering his goat near the riverbank. The sight stunned me. I knew that Bakarwals would never slaughter their animal even if they were dying with starvation. What had led this man to kill his goat?

On inquiring, I learned that the goat had fallen off a mountain and broken both of its hind legs. The nomads carried it in their arms for one day, but it was not possible for them to continue to do so. It reminded me of Mushtaq Ahmed Yusufi who says, “In the entire Islamic World, I have not seen a single goat die of natural causes.”

The journey continued. The track crossed through streams that flowed over it. The jeep marched on. Hearing the sound of the jeep-horn, a nomad girl turned around with a start, and quickly hid her face in her palms. Behind the fingers her green eyes dilated. She was carrying a tea kettle and a transparent plastic bag, in which, two tea cups and a few dry rottis (flatbread) were visible.

I wished I could tell her, ‘If you are a nomad, I, too, am a homeless person at this hour. If both of us are humans, why should one hide from the other?’ The jeep moved on, leaving the gypsy girl far behind. In my rear view mirror, she stood still.

There was a time when I had given thought to the idea of travelling across Kashmir with these nomads to arrive at the Deosai plain, and then journey on to Skardu, enjoying the hospitality of the Bakarwals gypsies, sipping tea from steaming cups. Who knows, one day maybe this dream will come true.

We arrived in Jaam Garh, the town of refugees. When Hindu-Muslim violence had escalated in Indian-held Kashmir, the entire population of a village situated along the Line of Control, left their homes and, crossing over the river under the cover of night, migrated to Azaad Kashmir. These refugees have been accommodated in Jaam Garh by the state government.

The entire village has painted its rooftops with a single colour: orange. Every house has a tale of suffering, every person remembers someone they left behind and everyone mourns their burnt down houses. The jeep passed through the town silently; there was silence everywhere, as if the people were mute or had lost their voices permanently.

After a four-hour bumpy drive from Kail, we finally entered Tau Butt. It is an isolated, mountainous village with wood-framed houses, specifically designed for this region. The fields were enclosed by barbed wires, perhaps, for demarcation. The River Neelum flowed fast and furiously in the middle of the valley. Farmers were tilling their fields for the next crop.

A few young children looked out from the windows of the houses and waved at me. Some old men were seen gathered outside small shops. Red scarves fluttered in the fields. I was to spend the night in this village.

The next morning, soon after leaving my bed, I started walking towards the last human habitation of Kashmir. It is a village named Gagai, and you can get to this place only by travelling on foot. I went through a series of fields and jungles, meeting birds and animals, including one or two marmots.

The Gagai rivulet was running along me, furious and foamy. Soon I found myself in a clearing at the foot of the mountains, where the Gujjar rivulet flowing down from the Barzal Pass meets the Gagai rivulet, forming a single stream that would end up in the River Neelum at Tau Butt.

The sun began to shine brightly. A wild squirrel descended from a tree top, only to climb up a wood log where it then enjoyed a sunbath. The air was still chilly. I could hear shrilling marmots, which must be nearby. Before arriving at my destination, I had to pass through yet another jungle.

Finally, after trekking continuously for four hours, I was in the village of Gagai, which is home to only a few dozen people. If you continue to trek further ahead, you would arrive in the district of Astore, but not before passing through several jungles, rivulets, and many lonely places, some of them quite terrible.

This village that remains buried under snow for seven months every year, is splendidly beautiful. I asked one of the villagers, an old man, how they spent this period of hibernation. The man smirked and said, “Every home has no less than one dozen children.”

As I was about to leave the village, a man advised me to turn around and go back to Tau Butt, but I wanted to travel a few furlongs in the same direction, hoping to get a good shot. I had barely taken a few steps when I met a woodcutter coming back from the jungle; he carried his axe and a bundle of wood on his back. At the sight of me, he blurted out:

“Man, don’t go in that direction. What if someone captures and slaughters you. It would bring trouble [for us].”

I was stunned. Going back to Tau Butt, his words echoed in my head, “It would bring trouble... it would bring trouble... it would bring trouble.”

Before turning back, I drew my hand over my forehead to have a look at the snowy Barzal Pass. Snow-capped mountain peaks stood in the distance. The Brazal Pass goes through these mountains. Beyond them was the Astore district of Gilgit-Baltistan region.

My journey to the last human habitation of Kashmir had come to an end, but I knew that my destiny was planning another adventure for me.

The travel lines in my palms were growing thicker. I knew, sooner rather than later, my feet would be longing for another odyssey. Tired, I bent my head down in submission to Nature. The moment I shut my eyes, I felt my body crumble with fatigue. My knees collapsed into the soil of Kashmir. My forehead touched the land. I was prostrating before the Lord, the one who delivers one from a thousand prostrations.

Kashmir is breathtaking beauty. I toured this region as much as I could. What is there on the other side of the LoC, I do not know, except that there are thousands of graves; thousands of lost hopes; entire forests of sandalwood trees burnt down; valleys that once glowed with caravans of fireflies now host to merely dens of ants.

In the Dal Lake, the gondoliers who once sang the songs of freedom have grown old.

I dedicate this work to Kashmiris and the red scarves fluttering on the other side. To Kashmir, I bade farewell with the following extract from a poem by Faiz:

آج کے نام
اور
آج کے غم کے نام
آج کا غم کہ ہے زندگی کے بھرے گلستاں سے خفا
زرد پتوں کا بن
زرد پتوں کا بن جو میرا دیس ہے
درد کی انجمن جو میرا دیس ہے

Let me write a song for this day!
This day and the anguish of this day
For this wilderness of yellowing leaves – which is my homeland
For this carnival of suffering – which is my homeland

ان دکھی ماؤں کے نام
رات میں جن کے بچے بلکتے ہیں اور
نیند کی مار کھائے ہوئے بازوؤں میں سنبھلتے نہیں
دکھ بتاتے نہیں
منتوں زاریوں سے بہلتے نہیں

Let me write for the Mothers
Whose children sob in the night
And, cradled in tired, toiling arms
Will not tell their woes
Will not be lulled with entreats

ان حسیناؤں کے نام
جن کی آنکھوں کے گل
چلمنوں اور دریچوں کی بیلوں پہ بیکار کِھل کِھل کے
مرجھا گئے ہیں
ان بیاہتاؤں کے نام
جن کے بدن
بے محبت ریا کار سیجوں پہ سج سج کے اکتا گئے ہیں
بیواؤں کے نام

Let me write of the beauties
Whose eyes have lost their lustre
Having wasted themselves up at tapestries
For the brides, who have become weary
Of loveless living and a futile life
For the widows

کٹڑیوں اور گلیوں، محلوں کے نام
جن کی ناپاک خاشاک سے چاند راتوں
کو آ آ کے کرتا ہے اکثر وضو
جن کے سایوں میں کرتی ہے آہ و بکا
آنچلوں کی حنا
چوڑیوں کی کھنک
کاکلوں کی مہک
آرزو مند سینوں کی اپنے پسینے میں جلنے کی بو

Let me write of the little houses
The narrow lanes and the courtyards
Where the earth is so unclean
Where the shadows are so deep
That all life ebbs away like a sob, unheeded
The carmine of her garment
The tinkling of her bangles
The perfume of her tresses

پڑھنے والوں کے نام
وہ جو اصحاب طبل و علم
کے دروں پر کتاب اور قلم
کا تقاضا لیے ہاتھ پھیلائے
پہنچے، مگر لوٹ کر گھر نہ آئے
وہ معصوم جو بھولپن میں
وہاں اپنے ننھے چراغوں میں لو کی لگن
لے کے پہنچے جہاں
بٹ رہے تھے، گھٹا ٹوپ، بے انت راتوں کے سائے۔

Let me write of the students
Those seekers of the truth
Who came seeking the truth at the doorstep
Of the great and the mighty, but never returned
These innocent who, with their dim flickering lamps
Came seeking light
Where they sell naught but the darkness of long endless nights.

— All photos by author | Translated by Arif Anjum from the original in Urdu here.

Syed Mehdi Bukhari is a Network Engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion.

He can be reached on Facebook.

However, the long queues and hefty entry tickets can be a letdown. Therefore, when I get a day off from work in Istanbul, I choose to visit places which usually fall off the beaten path. Around bustling tourist attractions, there are still a few quaint stops, where you are not pushed around by fellow tourists and you get a chance to interact with the locals.

Layla, a fellow small town cousin, studies Business in Istanbul. She is fluent in Turkish and agrees to be my tour guide. Catherine, a friend of hers, and not so fluent in Turkish, decides to join us on our day out in the city.

10:30am — The rendezvous

Layla lives far off from my hotel and sets Topkapi station as our rendezvous point. After struggling with directions for a bit, I reach the station opposite Topkapi Palace but she is nowhere to be seen. I panic and order coffee at a roadside café and hook up onto its Wi-Fi to drop her a message. It turns out that there is a station called Topkapi which is actually far off from actual Topkapi Palace.

Suddenly, it strikes me that I am dependent on my little cousin for the day.

11:00am — The Grand Bazaar and the workshop

Layla comes all the way to Topkapi Palace to make sure that I don’t make any further mistakes. We take the tram to the Grand Bazaar station, where we meet Catherine. She is in Istanbul for an assignment with an NGO and has been busy exploring its suburbs in her free time, mostly on foot. She ecstatically tells us about a place which she has discovered recently, from which we can have a great view of Bosphorus.

We start our journey through a maze of streets in and around Grand Bazaar. Catherine makes a brief stop at a baklawa shop and uses her charm and not so fluent Turkish to get her free dose. Our journey ends in front of a rundown workshop. Catherine takes us up from there and leads us to the rooftop through a tiny staircase.

Let me describe the scene at the rooftop.

There are little domes on the roof, but there is still ample space to move. The sun is spreading a soft glow on the glass windows of the houses downhill. The air is clear and we can see till far away. The sanguine rooftops look pretty in the backdrop of blue Bosphorus. There is a mosque downhill and we are at eye level with its minarets.

“This is perhaps the coolest spot in the whole city,” Catherine tells us triumphantly. We nod in agreement.

The Grand Bazaar is a favourite with tourists for buying Turkish lamps and other souvenirs.

We climb through a narrow opening in a rundown building.

You can get an unhindered view from the workshop rooftop.

Another view from the rooftop of Grand Bazaar workshop.

Catherine bids farewell to her cat.

There are workshops on both ends of the corridor leading to the rooftop.

It is considerably warm and we take shelter under a small tree which has mushroomed through a ridge. Catherine finds a cat and plays with it. I take my water bottle out and gulp it down. After a while, we decide to leave because we have many places to cover. Catherine’s cat seems disappointed and raises its hand as if bidding farewell.

On our way back, Catherine looks into a workshop and strikes a conversation with the craftsmen. There is no baklawa there, but these shops are filled with handicrafts which will later be sold in the Grand Bazaar.

1:00pm — Sahaflar Carsisi (The book market)

Layla tells me that she buys her curriculum books from Sahaflar Carsisi (literally meaning 'the book market'), off the grand bazaar entrance. Unlike the rest of the bazaar, it still caters predominantly to local residents, and hence preserves the environment of an actual bazaar of yore, when traders gathered according to their trade. It is still situated in the same courtyard as the old Byzantine book and paper market. In a neat setting, there are almost two dozen bookstores that are lined up around the central courtyard, selling books and stationary.

Layla takes us to the book market which is accessible from Grand Bazaar entrance.

The Book Market is a favourite with locals.

The Istanbul University entrance.

The narrow lanes of Grand Bazaar are a delight to walk in.

1:45pm — Caferaga Madrasa

We decide to break for lunch. Catherine knows a place nearby, which was a madrassah originally, built some 500 years ago. On the way there, we walk past Istanbul University, the premier university in Turkey. We find the restaurant, Caferga Madrasa, after a bit and settle into its courtyard. The small rooms around the courtyard used to serve as student dorms, but are converted into small dining rooms now with different décor for each room.

The building also has a handicraft center. Most of the decorative items in the restaurant are crafted in-house. Layla and Catherine, both being students, are careful with the order, checking the prices on the menu first.

Caferaga Madrasa was a Madrassah of Ottoman era which has been converted into a restaurant and handicrafts shop.

The central courtyard of the restaurant.

The dorms have been converted into neat dining rooms.

2:45pm — Nakilbent Cistern (the ancient structure under the rugs shop)

After having a meaty lunch, we decide to resume our journey. Catherine buys freshly cut watermelon from a roadside stall and we eat as we walk through the narrow lanes. After a good 15-minute walk, we reach a small shopping compound which has a cistern underneath. We enter the contemporary shop through the front gate.

There is a lady sitting on one side, weaving a carpet, and there are expensive rugs, jewelry and pottery on display. Layla leads us to a staircase which takes us to the basement. Suddenly, an opening through the concrete structure reveals a huge basement full of stone arches.

Nakilbent Cistern is famously known for hosting cultural events and exhibitions.

A contemporary rug shop is set up on top of the cistern now.

The Nakilbent cistern is much smaller than the well-trodden Basilica Cistern, which is the largest in the area. These cisterns were part of a grand design built on the orders of Emperor Justinian in the sixth century to provide filtered water to the palaces and other buildings in the area.

The cistern is used for hosting cultural events now. Currently, an audiovisual exhibition is on display. The exhibition endeavours to recreate the magic of Hippodrome of Constantinople, a sporting centre of Byzantine Empire. The hippodrome has not survived the tides of time, but an Obelisk and a serpent column still stand strong in the area opposite Blue Mosque. Catherine shows me the serpent column on screen, which has been restored to its former glory. It has three heads, each sprouting a stream of water into a pond.

3:30pm — Little Hagia Sophia

We step out into the hot and humid air of Istanbul. Layla tells us that the next stop on our journey is Little Hagia Sophia, formerly the Church of the Saints Sergius and Bacchus, which was constructed in 536 AD on the orders of the great Justinian.

The sumptuous decorations on its domes and arches made its architecture second only to actual Hagia Sophia which was constructed few years later. It was converted into a mosque during the Ottoman period.

A view of Little Hagia Sophia.

The domes of the mosque are exquisitely decorated.

The Byzantine murals and patterns were removed but you could still spot some writing near the pillars.

A local sits inside a cafe inside Little Hagia Sophia.

Catherine meanwhile sketches a bird on the canvas.

There is no entry ticket and there are hardly any tourists. We enter the compound through a small opening and take our shoes off to enter the main building. There are a few families inside, busy taking selfies, as the children explore every corner of the building.

After the conversion to the mosque, most of the murals were removed, but I notice some text from Byzantine era around the pillars. After spending some blissful moments inside, we step out of the building.

On the right hand is a madrassah, which was added during the Ottoman period. It has been converted into an assortment of tiny shops now. One of the craftsmen who works with block prints, asks Catherine to experiment with designs on canvas. She sketches a bird, but is disappointed with the result as the bird ends up having small wings which can’t possibly support the rather long tail.

4:30pm — Rustem Pasha Mosque

Tucked between busy shops in the Straw weavers Market, Rustem Pasha Mosque is not exactly an afterthought. It was designed by Mimar Sinan, the eminent architect of Ottoman court in the honour of Rustem Pasha, the grand vizier of Suleiman the magnificent. A narrow winding staircase leads us to a raised courtyard, a quaint setting in middle of a bustling bazaar. It is famous for its lavish use of iznik tiles, which became an integral part of later constructions.

The route to Rustem Pasha is through Straw weavers Market.

Rustem Pasha Mosque impeccable decorations set the precedence for later built mosques.

The inside view is mesmerising for many tourists.

Locals offer prayers at Rustem Pasha Mosque.

A view of the arches at Rustem Pasha Mosque.

We take our shoes off and wander aimlessly in its courtyard. Few locals, possibly from the bazaar are offering prayers, and we sit there in silence. The domes and arches are beautifully decorated with floral patterns and the iznik tiles are coloured a tomato-red.

5:30pm — The Tunnel

Layla tells us that we will head to Istiklal Street now. I am drenched in sweat by now and take a break to drink some lemonade. Layla decides to renew her tram card, while Catherine and I sit on the footpath. Catherine takes a bottle out of her bag and sprinkles the liquid on her face.

“It is rosewater and very refreshing”, she tells me. “You look dead”, she adds further.

She takes the bottle back and sprinkles fragrant liquid on my face.

“You smell of roses now, but it is not half as bad as being dead”, she says in ecstatic tone. She sounds like a certain Yossarian from Catch-22.

Layla joins us on the footpath and tells me that she is not tired yet, that she is accustomed to long walks and absolutely loves it. “This is something that I miss back home in our tiny city”, she says wistfully.

We resume our journey and walk past the courtyard in front of the Eminonu Mosque. We have to cross the road through an underpass, which is full of people making their way to either end. There are small stalls on both sides and hawkers are trying to attract customers.

We make way through a crowded underpass.

The ground level has some popular restaurants.

After crossing a few streets, we find ourselves in a building where the first subway system in Istanbul was built, which incidentally was the second-ever to be built in the world at that time. The subway is disconnected from rest of the railroad. We get off at the far end of Istiklal Street and prepare ourselves for a long walk in its adjoining streets.

6:45pm — The street of antique shops

Layla and Catherine know Istkilal Street by heart. They stop in front of a shop which does not have password to its Wi-fi. They tell me that they know all the places here where one does not have to pay for a coffee to get free Wi-fi signals.

We decide to wander in an adjoining street of Istiklal, which are home to many antique shops. In one such street, Layla and Catherine spot some old currency, saying they wished they could use those thousands of scrap Liras at the current rate. I spot a vinyl record shop and go inside, while the girls decide to wait outside.

A view of Tunnel the oldest tram system in Istanbul.

People pose for a selfie in front of tram which took us through the tunnel.

Istiklal Street is famous for its standup artists and gypsies.

A view of Istiklal Street during the day.

The vintage Market houses many tiny shops selling vintage stuff.

We spot some out-of-circulation Turkish Liras.

When I come out, I find an aged Turkish guy speaking to Layla. He is super impressed with her Turkish and asks her if I can help him take his luggage to the fourth floor. I have heard of a lot of scams in this area and am hesitant at first, but decide to help the guy out. The narrow staircase is difficult to climb, let alone carrying baggage. I feel for the guy and run all the way to the top floor and drop his luggage. He asks us for tea, but we tell him that we need to go back.

9:00pm — Istiklal Street

We climb our way back to Istiklal Street. The sun has set already, and the street is lit up with street lights and neon signs. We make brief stops here and there to listen to gypsy musicians and check prices in the shops. After a bit, Layla and Catherine announce that they have to go back, I decide to stay on.

Layla tells me that I may struggle in her absence, since very few people here speak English. Catherine says goodbye and starts walking. Layla, in her stride, quotes Orhan Phamuk and waves goodbye.

“Life can't be all that bad. Whatever happens, you can always take a long walk along the Basphorous.”

The streets around Istiklal can prove to be a treasure trove.

I drop the luggage at fourth floor and join my fellow tourists.

We reach Istiklal back after sunset.

Other notable mentions

Istanbul Modern: Founded in 2004, Istanbul Modern is a private museum which exhibits modern and contemporary art. Set up in a warehouse along the shores of Basphorous, it can be easily accessed through tram.

Istanbul Modern is another notable mention for its contemporary art displays.

Üsküdar Antique Market: In a non-touristy suburb on the Asian side, Uskudar Antique Market is a treat for collectors. The shopkeepers here travel around Turkey to collect antiques which are brought here and displayed in an unassuming setting.

A view of Uskudar Antique Market.

— All photos by author

The use of gold in jewellery is a practice as old as time itself, but few know the labour that goes into turning a piece of metal into the intricately designed rings, bracelets, earrings and necklaces found in jewellery stores.

Jewellery making is an extensive process, with six or more experts involved.

The industry continues to provide employment for many despite the existence of machinery to accelerate the process.

Silver in its raw form, called ‘gola’ by goldsmiths, is kept aside.

In smaller markets, most goldsmiths still prefer to employ the traditional methods of melting gold and silver and grind diamonds and other precious stones. These processes involve significant risk but allow the goldsmith to produce original, handmade designs.

A worker polishes chains until they gleam.

Though gold ornaments are accepted as a part of fashion, gold jewellery is also seen as a mark of status in South Asian families, and women of the family often wear heavy jewellery. Therefore, due to the popularity of gold ornaments, every city – and even small towns – in the country has a special market, known as a Sarafa bazaar, which specialises in the making of gold jewellery. After gold is extracted from mines in various parts of the world, it is brought to a local Sarafa bazaar in the shape of gold ‘biscuits’, and the process of moulding it into different shapes begins.

Suleman and Abdul Salam melt gold which they will hand over to designers after washing it in chemicals.

At the Sarafa bazaar on Murree road and Purana Qila, jewellers were brought gold biscuits or old jewellery. First, a goldsmith handed the gold over to experts who melted the gold. In the case of old jewellery, the process allowed them to separate brass and silver from the gold. “We place the gold in earthenware pots and melt it in an oven at high temperatures. After the metal cools, we clean it with various types of acid and hand it over to the jewellery makers,” Abdul Islam, who is an expert in melting gold and runs a workshop, explained.

The finished ornament is displayed at a store.

Waseem Ali, a goldsmith and Jeweller Association vice president, added that after this the biscuits are handed over to workmen who shape the metal. “At this workshop, workers make designs using machines, but at a local level, this work is done using traditional techniques. Often designs are copied from pictures as well,” Ali said.

Once the ornament has been designed, it is sent to a workshop to be polished. “We grind the joints of various designs and remove any imperfections. A lot of gold is wasted in the process,” a worker explained.

Some workshops use machines to shape gold.

After polishing, the gold is sent to another workshop, where workers emboss colours and stones into the design. In the fifth step, the ornament is finished and any unnecessary knots are removed. Finally, the finished piece of jewellery enters jewellery showrooms.

A Goldsmith soldering gold into a necklace.

Murree Road Jewellers Association president Abdul Qadoos said that the piece of gold jewellery is high particularly because the process of working metal into an ornament is very artistic. He said that six workers are involved in the production of jewellery, but it is up to the skills of shopkeepers to sell the finished product. He added that the demand for gold jewellery in the subcontinent would never fall because it is worn by both men and women.

Gold jewellery is also seen as a mark of status in South Asian families.

Photos by Tanveer Shahzad

Published in Dawn, August 30th, 2015

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Located about four kilometers north of Daultala town, the village houses a temple of Radhe Sham, including a water tank, more commonly known as the Narali Pond, and multiple Sikh and Hindu havelis.

The view of the Radhe Sham Temple, Narali Pond and a haveli.

The Rade Sham Temple is a very tall structure which dominates the landscape of Narali. The two-storied temple is superimposed with a shikhara – both the lower and upper storeys have arched openings.

The lower storey served as a sanctum and the upper had a statue of the deity so that devotees could have visual interaction or Darshan from a distance. This was possibly done keeping in mind the rigid Hindu caste system in which the Dalits, who belong to the lower level of the caste hierarchy and were not allowed to share the same space, could view the deity from afar.

Rade Sham Temple.

Inscription inside the temple.

I found it particularly interesting to find a large area of the Potohar region dotted with temples of the elites or the upper castes of the time, namely the Brahmans and Kshtriyas, and even the Vaisyas. However, there in not a single temple here that was built by the Sudras, Harijans or the Dalits.

The Radhe Sham Temple is noted for being the tallest temple in Potohar. With the exception of two temples (in Taxila and Rawalpindi), it is unusual to find to tall temples like this one in Pakistan.

Rade Sham Temple.

The temple is square in architectural plan. With both the lower and upper storeys, including the shikhara also square shaped. Floral paintings decorate the inner walls of the temple; unfortunately, the paintings on the outer walls have not withstood the ravages of time, only fading traces of their glory remain.

A huge water tank sits at the heart of this village. On its west wall is a staircase leading up to the pond. The southern wall carries an inscription bearing the name of the builder;

“Built by Harnam Singh, Survey Superintendent in memory of his father Teja Singh and his uncle Sant Sahib Singh in 1929”.

The Narali Pond is styled in ancient masonry. I have yet to come across such fine brickwork in any of the villages surrounding Narali.

Apart from the temple and the pond, Narali also has four exquisite havelis. One of the havelis is situated on the southern bank of the pond. This haveli, a double-storeyed building, has elaborate stucco work on it. The main entrance of the haveli is flanked by two doors; all the doors have intricate carvings. Above the central door are distinctive floral designs in stucco.

Also read: The havelis of Potohar: Pakistan's opportunity to promote heritage tourism

The havelis are all located 200 meters west of the Radhe Sham temple in a narrow alley; carrying distinct wooden balconies.

The narrow alleys of Narali.

The more imposing of the havelis are the ones with a square tower up top, a standard feature of the Potohari haveli.

The havelis of Bakshi Ram Singh in Kontrilla, Atam Singh in Daultala, Khem Singh Bedi Haveli in Kallar Syedan and the Wah Haveli all have similar towers. The wooden balconies on the havelis portray the aesthetics of both the builder and the owner.

A Narali haveli.

This haveli overlookes the Narali Pond.

A decorative niche on one of the havelis.

It was heartbreaking to see these fabulous works of architecture in ruins; especially when one realises the potential for tourism that this historic village of Narali holds.

I urge the Punjab government to put up hoardings with directions to these monuments. Moreover, the Punjab tourism department must involve the local community in the preservation of the monuments of Narali and their historical significance, lest they be forgotten.

—All photos by author

I am here with a rather odd group of people.

One of them is a commissioned officer who likes to introduce himself as the Minister of Sound and Music. The other is an engineer and has recently moved back from abroad. The Minister of Sound and Music takes the DJ’s role as soon as we cross Karachi toll plaza. He changes the melancholic tone of the playlist to that of flamenco – from Geeta Dutt to Gypsy Kings.

I am on the road again.

July is not the best time to be visiting Dadu, but I am hoping for a cloudy day. The drive on Indus Highway is scenic and without any hiccups. We reach Dadu before sunset, entering the city through the mighty gates which have been built in many interior Sindh cities as a sign of development.

On both sides of the road are dingy shops, mostly belonging to mechanics, with greasy auto parts lying in front of the shops. There are no women to be seen anywhere. We struggle with directions for a bit, but finally find my friend’s place, which is our home for the night.

We drop our luggage in the rooms. There is no electricity, so we go out into the lawn. My friend is hosting some other visitors from Rahimyar Khan, who are making an overnight stop here. We sit on lawn chairs and talk politics.

The industrialist from Punjab tells me that he feels sorry for the state of affairs in Sindh. He tells us that a tehsil in Punjab has better infrastructure than Dadu, which is a district capital. He says that he finds it hard to believe that he is still in the same country when he crosses the border into Sindh. The engineer tells the industrialist that he has a similar feeling when he crosses the border into Punjab.

After the engineer and industrialist call it a day, I am left alone with my host. He tells me that he moved to Dadu a few months ago, but did not intend to bring his family. "There is not much to do for women here, you see," he explains. "There is not much to do for men either, except for their jobs," he says wistfully. The waiter serves us green tea which we sip silently.

Suddenly, the night smells of jasmine and melancholy.

Sado Mazo – The land of legends and pre-historic paintings

We rise up early in the morning. Our host has arranged for a guide who has accompanied many eminent scholars on their journey across Kirthar range. He introduces himself as Miskeen Laghari.

The Minister of Sound and Music asks Miskeen if he is also a poet. He nods, but says that he is more of an explorer now. He is wearing a mustard-colored shalwar kameez, a black and white angoosha on his head, and plastic chappals on his feet. His face is tanned and wrinkled. He tells me that he has walked thousands of miles by now across Kirthar range.

We drive towards Sado Mazo, which is accessible from Wahi Pandi. The streets of Wahi Pandi look like a swamp and around it, a small bazaar bustles with activity. We get some water from one of the shops and continue our journey. Due to torrential rains, the dhoras (tributaries) are full of water and at some places, Miskeen has to walk through the water to ensure that our vehicle can go through.

The main street of Wahi Pandi turns into a swamp during monsoon season.

Miskeen gauges water for that rest of the entourage.

People of nearby villages gather at a stream to take a dip.

The rocks in the area are not particularly beautiful.

Tributaries are full of water due to the recent rains.

We park our cars and embark on our journey on foot towards Sado Mazo.

Sado Mazo takes its name from a local legend. The area has seen a lot of tribal conflict, which has given birth to many legends; of betrayal or trust, of bravery or cowardice, of values or the lack of it.

As we walk through a gorge, Miskeen narrates the legends. He says that the Lasharis and Rinds have inhabited Kirthar range since ages, and have been at daggers most of the time. During one of the fights, two sisters from the Lashari tribe, Sado and Mazo, asked the drum-beater to use different drumbeats to announce the result of the war.

They told the drum-beater that in case of defeat, they would commit suicide in order to save their honour. As the legend goes, Lasharis went on to win the fight, but the drum-beater, in his vile curiosity, announced defeat instead. The women, upon hearing the beat, jumped off the cliff into the ravine. The cliff is named after both sisters since.

I ask Miskeen why women are celebrated only for their modesty and sacrifice. I read him lines from Majaz’s poetry.

This scarf that covers you is beautiful indeed
It would be better if you converted it into a banner of revolt

Miskeen shrugs his shoulders and tells me that the conflicts have always been a bad thing, putting men and women of honour at crossroads.

We keep walking. It is a walk of death; the temperature must be nearly 40°C. I hear the engineer cursing the barren terrain, the unforgiving sun and much more. We take a turn and reach a water body. Miskeen soaks his angoosha in water and rounds it up on his head. It beats the heat, he tells me. The Minister of Sound and Music announces that he will go to take a dip in the water. We leave him there and continue walking.

I see a group of local people walking ahead. We meet and they tell us that they are residents of Wahi Pandi, and are going up in the mountain to fish in the torrential streams. Their feet are much quicker than ours, and they disappear into the distance soon.

We see some local people in the distance and walk quickly to catch up with them.

One of the local residents tells me that they are going up the mountain to fish.

We are not far, assures Miskeen to the engineer, who is left with us along with another local. Soon, he announces that the rock on the left is the place where the most prominent of chiti – prehistoric paintings on the wall – can be found. We climb up to see it close. The rock has eroded at few places, but we can still make sense of the paintings. The most prominent painting is that of a horse with couple of lotus flowers on its body.

We walk further and notice a cave on our left. Inside the cave, we find more paintings, presumably dating back to 5000 BC. Miskeen keeps running from one cave to another. We follow him forgeting the heat and the salty sweat which keeps dripping on our cameras.

Miskeen leads us to a cave which is full of prehistoric paintings.

He finds another cave.

Miskeen walks us to climb other rocks where prominent chiti can be found.

Prehistoric paintings inside the cave.

The engineer and a local resident looks at the paintings.

The rock has disintegrated at a few places.

View of the area from the rock.

The peak of Sado Mazo from where the sisters jumped off to commit suicide.

Miskeen tells us that the peak in front of us is the place from where Sado and Mazo jumped off the rock. The ravine below is full of torrential rainwater. We stretch out in the shadow of the peak. I tell Miskeen that I want to swim. He tells me that the water is 30 feet deep and there might be alligators in it. I doubt it, but I still hesitate.

Instead we take a dip in a nearby shallow stream. The water is refreshing. Our bottled mineral water is warm, so we gulp down some stream water instead. It is good for digestion, Miskeen assures us.

The long way back.

Going downhill towards our cars.

We decide to take a dip in one of the streams.

Wahi Pandi

We decide to return on on foot. On our way back, we find the Minister of Sound and Music swimming in a stream. He tells me that he has beaten the heat with the water and is ready to resume our journey.

We reach Wahi Pandi and take some time to rest and have lunch. Since there are no restaurants open by that time, our host arranges for home-cooked food – daal, channa and rice. Miskeen uses his angoosha to deter flies from hovering over our meal.

Children pose for a photo, while we break for lunch.

Children take a break in the shade.

We finish our meal and lie down on a charpai, while the people from nearby houses come for katcheri. I ask a boy in his mid-20s what he does, and he tells me that he plows the land with a tractor for the farmers in the area. His heavily tanned skin attests to his toil.

Peeplasar – The holy pond and unlikely waterfall

We resume our journey to Peepalasar – the holy pond which has been a popular destination for Hindu pilgrims through the ages. A deteriorating law and order situation means that hardly any pilgrims visit the place now.

The journey is taxing on all of us. The road is broken at places, forcing us to take detours. Luckily, an oil exploration company has built a dirt road connecting its wells across the area; one of them takes us closer to the site.

On our way, I see Butta Quba in the distance, which we had visited back in December. We make a brief stop at a village which looks deserted. On Miskeen's suggestion, I decide to visit the village mosque, which has colourful floral work on its walls. I find dozens of children inside, reciting their afternoon lessons. They look at us blankly. We leave the village after drinking some water from the mosque.

A mosque enroute Peeplasar.

Children take midday lessons inside the mosque.

Enroute Peeplasar we cross Butta Quba.

Enroute Peeplasar we cross Karokot which is in shambles.

A few local visitors spot us and join us on the way to Peeplasar.

A kids sells cigarettes to a customer.

After an hour’s ride, Miskeen tells us to stop. The area looks like an oasis in middle of arid land. The miracle of Peeplasar!

We start walking and after a while, notice the remains of Karo Kot, which was built by the ruling dynasty of Kalhoras. The Minister of Sound and Music is gasping for air by then, but is determined to complete this part of the journey. We see shrubs on both sides of the stream. A group of people join us midway. They are residents of Wahi Pandi and are there to spend the weekend. They tell us that they have brought nets, which they put inside the stream to catch fish for their dinner.

The path gets narrow and difficult near the pond. There is swamp grass on both sides, and we can hardly see where we put our feet. Miskeen makes way for us with the same pace, as if he has rehearsed each step before. Suddenly, we are in front of a majestic pond. There is pin drop silence here.

Miskeen enters the pond to gauge the depth of water.

Peeplasar is still a popular destination as we come across many groups of mostly locals.

The holy pond has water as deep as 30 feet.

The engineer whispers in my ears that the place has the aura of a mythical site, as if making noise will destroy it. The water appears to be deep, and I can see shrubs inside the water. There is a bunch of Peepal trees growing from the ridges, which is probably the reason why it is called Peeplasar. The engineer tells me that it is the first time that he has seen Peepal trees in Dadu district – a miracle of the holy pond, I suppose.

The Minister is absent from the scene. Suddenly, I hear his shriek. We quickly make our way through the swamp grass and to our surprise, find ourselves looking at a waterfall. We are keen on taking a dip in the waterfall, but Miskeen asks us to wait till he gauges the depth.

He takes his clothes off, ties the angoosha around his waist, and jumps into the water. The Minister tells me that he wants to buy an angoosha too, which is probably the most useful thing on planet, much like the towel from Hitchhiker’s guide to galaxy.

Making our way to the waterfall.

The waterfall adjacent to the holy pond.

We make our way through the wild weed to make space.

The greenery in the area is proof of the wonders that a stream of water could do to an arid zone.

A group of locals that has decided to stay back for the night near the waterfall.

A view of the area around Peeplasar.

View of the waterfall from the top.

Another view of Peeplasar pond from the top.

We lie there in the waterfall for a good while, absorbing the surreal, hearing the legends whispered in the faint wind.

— All photos by author

In terms of altitude, Kalam is close to Murree, but it seems far higher than the other popular hill station because you're surrounded by tall peaks as far as the eye can see. The most prominent peak is Falak Sar (5,918m), capped by pristine white snow at the top. The valley is flooded with lush greenery, so lush that all I felt like doing here was lie down in the grass and gaze around.

Kalam during the day.

Kalam during sunset.

These rapids are an hour's hike away from the Walnut Heights.

Falak Sar.

One distinct feature of Kalam is the abundance of streams and waterfalls here. The hotel where my family and I stayed, the Walnut Heights, is situated on a hill beyond the main bazaar, right next to a stream that flows down into the lower part of the town.

Every night, I lay on a sofa with my eyes closed, just giving in to the sense of tranquillity from the sound of water gushing down the hill.

But of course, it would be a waste to make a 13-hour drive from Islamabad only to stay indoors. The air is so clean, it would be criminal not to step out and fill my lungs with its crispness. Alongside my family and a hotel employee named Waris Khan, I hiked up the hill for around half-a-day. It was lovely; just an overwhelming of grass and colourful flowers, with an excellent vantage point to view the valley from.

The lounge at the Walnut Heights.

Hiking up the mountain.

Kalam, as seen on the hike.

A lone tree.

The Walnut Heights.

The most fun was had in visiting Lake Mahodand, which is roughly 40km from Kalam in the Ushu District of Swat. We went in an open-air jeep that the hotel had arranged. While bumpy and often uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have gone any other way; the lack of windows and a roof meant I could see all the glaciers and waterfalls which came in the way. Falak Sar was also nearby, humbling us with her brilliance as we got nearer and nearer to her.

Mahodand itself was a real treat. Blue waters, graceful mountains and gorgeous meadows gave it the allure of a place one discovers by accident. But in reality, it is not so secret. The day I went, other tourists were there in abundance. Many just stood around and enjoyed the sight they were witnessing, while others were busy riding horses and boats.

Lake Mahodand.

Lake Mahodand.

People having fun at a waterfall between Kalam and Mahodand.

Anakar, a village near Kalam.

On the way to Anakar.

Visitors relax at the waterside.

The presence of other tourists was slightly irksome because Mahodand is one of those places that you want to claim as your own; a private sanctuary where you can lie down and relax without a single care in the world.

Yet, the rush was also pleasing; it was an indication that Swat was back to its former glory as a tourist destination following the disastrous Taliban period.

When I told friends and family I was going to Kalam, the first question I was asked was, “Waahan pe Taliban ka masla toh nahi hai?” Well, no, turns out koi masla nahi hai.

The army’s operation in Swat, Operation Rah-e-Rast, ended successfully six years ago. Army check-posts can be found frequently throughout the Swat Valley, and soldiers go about doing their rounds on jeeps every so often. The region is now safe and stable, though the effects of the Taliban era are still felt by its people.

A view of the hill from the Walnut Heights.

A forest on the outskirts of Kalam.

A boy sitting on a rock by his lonesome.

When I talked to a 10-grader from Mingora named Manzoor, I developed a better understanding of the terrorist organisation’s rule, and the horror and hopelessness it had brought for the people of Swat.

Life was at a standstill. People were forbidden from venturing too far from their homes.

Violating any of the draconian laws in place led to public beatings. Girls were not allowed to go to school. And violence was the norm. My heart sank when Manzoor told me that he saw bombs go off on a regular basis, a sight that to this day traumatises him.

The scars of yesterday must not be forgotten. That said, memories of a bygone era take away from the pleasure Kalam brings.

While I am now back in Karachi and to the banality of a regular schedule, I am clinging to my fond memories of the serene Swat valley. The heart keeps asking the mind, will we go back soon?

Kalam.

It's easy to glance past them in the crowd for they have been internalised as an essential feature of the city. But here lies the paradox: we utilise their labour in our daily lives, refer to them by their profession, but their anonymity never seems to bother us.

Behind every 'kachray wala', 'fruit wala' and 'bandar wala' is a story waiting to be unraveled.

With a quill and parchment

Muhammad Iftikhar in his roadside shop at Pakistan Chowk.

With a pensive look and a pen in hand, Mohammad Iftikhar looks at us, puzzled, as we ask him where the art of Khatati (calligraphy) stands in the current times. He smiles, shrugs his shoulders, and shakes his head with despair.

He talks about a time when 20 to 25 calligraphers sat along the pavements of Pakistan Chowk alone. Now there are just two. The decline started in the 90’s when Corel Draw gained importance and many calligraphers lost out.

Iftikhar blushes when we ask him about the projects he had worked on. “You must have seen Pyaray Afzal and Jackson Heights? Those were my recent ones. I was also asked to make the logo for Bahria Town.”

Muhammad Iftikhar wants to set up his own calligraphy exhibition someday. He managed it once at Frere Hall, but is now overburdened with expenses.

Polishing a future

Muhammad Aqeel while working on a wooden framework for a mirror.

Muhammad Aqeel, 32, has been polishing wooden frames since he was 18. His 14 years of experience makes him one of the most skilled people in Karimabad. He looks quite old for his age, though his eyes suggest that it is merely his appearance that has undergone such change.

He works at a fixed wage of Rs 400 per day.

The roadside entertainer

Eman Allah poses with his monkey.

Hailing from Rohri Sindh, a dazed Emaan Allah firmly holds the chain clasped around the little monkey accompanying him. He orders the monkey to sit, but the little creature continues to squirm around him. It is quite apparent that the bond between Emaan and the monkey is strained, as the monkey fails to comply with basic commands.

“I used to do odd jobs earlier and came to the city with him to earn more money but the conditions don’t look too good here,” he says.

More than a decade ago bandar walas were a common sight, as were the children trailing behind this fantastical Pied Piper. Today, it has become a rarity.

Now they can sometimes be seen near traffic signals, with monkeys trained to scare passengers by climbing onto windshields, begging for money.

Emaan Allah shares a similar story.

Mending souls

Naushad Khan at his roadside spot.

Seventy six-year-old Naushad Khan has been mending shoe soles for the past 50 years but as he converses with one of his customers, it appears that he has a knack for mending souls too.

Referred to as Goldberg, the famous wrestler, the bald mochi or cobbler is reluctant to talk about his craft, which is considered one of the oldest jobs in the city and usually provides opportunity to settlers coming from the northern side of the country.

But when Naushad finally agrees to talk, cynicism takes over:

He then boasts with pride as he gives a toothless smile:

“I am from the times of Quaid-e-Azam. I have seen this place when it was not densely populated, everything was vacant and this entire place flourished right before my eyes.”

Lost in the alleys of nostalgia, Khan sahab busies himself in sewing a shiny black pathani sandal as one customer places himself alongside him to strike another conversation.

Chaat Wala

Muhammad Sarwar just got done with making his fruit chaat for the day.

Thirty-year-old Mohamad Sarwar smiles heartily as he puts down the phone and speeds up his knife cutting bananas into perfect circles piling them up in a red bucket, all ready for the fruit chaat he gives away: “These fruits will make around five to six buckets and I’ll take home around Rs. 400.”

Although he makes chaat all year round he finds it tough to deliver the order in Ramazan.

“The produce in Ramazan is limited so we are short on supplies in this month. The demand gets higher and everyone wants us to hurry and deliver the order to them,” shares Sarwar who is a father of three children.

Racing against time

On the pavement of Zainab Market.

Anis Hussain, the only watchmaker left at the footpath of Zainab Market, Karachi has been sitting at the same spot for eight years now. Cars, horse carts and bikes pass by his stall, but his life remains stagnant.

Watchmaking and repairing was a very popular and rewarding business for its times. But as Anis Hussain ages and knows no other way of income, the declining position of watchmaking threatens his livelihood.

Breaking the ice

Noor Bhai with his ice blocks.

Amidst the hustle bustle of a typical Saddar lane in the evening, Noor Bhai stands uninterrupted, dicing huge ice slabs into smaller ones.

When we asked how ‘Bhai’ became a part of his name, smiling sheepishly, he says, “I was the older one among these boys when I first came from Quetta and started working here. Since then everyone calls me Bhai.”

Working at a daily profit of Rs 1,000 to 1,500, Noor Bhai works for six months of summer. Winters are a long holiday. “We go back to our homes in Quetta and spend the winters in our warm beds, after all we worked hard during summers, selling and distributing ice.”

Living on scraps

M. Ismail Wasim asks his friend to pose with him for the picture.

On the roadside of Karimabad, a scrap collector, or Kabaria, stands by his push cart, smiling as we approach him. The cart is loaded with run-down stabilisers, broken televisions, and cracked home appliances.

M. Ismail Wasim, 46 years of age, lives in Karachi with his five offspring and a wife. To him, his childrens' education is everything.

One could easily tell from his attire that life had been unkind, but Ismail doesn’t shy away when he is asked of his daily income. “Profit is meagre. Bilkul jaise aatay main namak. Almost Rs. 300, everyday.”

That still doesn’t keep him from sending his children to school. Three of his boys and two girls, all go to a nearby school. “My eldest one just gave his matric exams, he is going to Dubai now, to learn taxi driving. Better times are coming.”

There was nothing but hope in his gleaming eyes.

Traveling is the best way to cast out depression, to run away from the suffocation that surrounds you – travel to far flung mountains, where there are no people, only snow, mountains, trees, and the fragrance of wet leaves filling the atmosphere. Where there is endless solitude, and the sound of your own breath whistles in your ears. In a valley, which lights up as soon as the night falls.

It doesn’t matter whether the different hues of evenings are splattered on the horizons, or if plain foggy white is the only colour you see. If you just want some respite, even one colour is enough.

Sitting on top, watching the thin traffic in the valley as the freezing wind blows, then walking up the long and winding mountain path – that’s the recipe for escaping from the world. Returning back you see you surroundings, your home, your job, your society with new eyes, with new hope; the hope that things can change, they can be different. The hope that sustains life.

If nothing changes, the road to escape will always be there. The traveller will escape back to the mountains, where their snow-covered darkness will welcome him with arms wide open. Here, your own voice echoes back to you, and even the kraa-kraa of a crow sounds like the coo-oo-ooh of a koel.

Shandur Lake

The desire to embrace nature has pushed me to travel extensively, but when I passed through Ghizer, it felt, for the first time, that this was where the circumference of nature’s sphere lay.

I have seen countless such scenes inside and outside the country, which, when relived later, fill my mind and my heart with their colours and fragrances every single time. But among these mental memorabilia, the most sensuous ones belong to Ghizer.

With the strange fragrance of Deosai, I will always stay in love. Especially the musky scents of Ghizer, and the way the soil smells after the first rains. I have a habit of breathing in deeply whenever I pass from here. I left the serenity of the Phunder Valley on one such rainy noon. Now, I am going through Ghizer’s settlements: Teru, Gulaghmuli, and Langer, all the way to Shandoor Pass, and the Kalash Valley beyond that in Chitral.

Autumn in Ghizer.

Near Phundar Valley.

The rain stops for a few minutes, and I unpack my camera for a little photography alongside my companion, the Ghizer River. The sun is setting in Teru, and the day’s luminosity is slowly turning into the night’s darkness.

The birds are returning to their nests, but the valley seems to bustling with life – men returning from the fields, the children playing in streets, youngsters busy chatting; everyone is now returning to their nests under the gray sky. The river, too, has become calmer, perhaps it is tired after a whole day of flowing.

Then, night falls. The orangish rays of the setting sun make the yellow-turning leaves of poplar trees look like burning matchsticks lined up. The last rays of the sun are still dancing on the summits of the Shandoor Pass, and the Hindukush Peaks are wearing a metallic red shade.

Heading to Shandoor, I am thinking of the people I left behind in Gilgit-Baltistan. What sceneries those were! There are certain evenings when you recall these memories and your heart skips a beat. On these days, the journey down the lane of memories are most radiant.

I drive by Teru and now enter Gulaghmuli. This small village too, is enveloped in the sadness of the night, and even the children are in their homes rather than playing in the streets. I see Gulaghmuli’s Government Primary School Building. Last I was here, spring had returned to Hunza and the flowers of the cherry trees were blooming everywhere. I had come to Ghizer all the way from Hunzah in mid-April. I had wanted to go to the Shandoor Pass even then, but the snow hadn’t melted there yet.

Teru.

Spring in Gulaghmuli.

Winter in Gulaghmuli.

On my way, I saw this school for children. The weather was extremely cold, with chilly winds from the nearby snow-covered mountains filling up the valley. When I stepped inside the school premises to take a few photographs, I ended up crying. The two female teachers of the school thought I was from the media, and told me about the problems that the children and the school faced.

The children were from farmer families. In this extreme cold, when I was shivering, they neither had any shoes on their feet nor adequately warm clothes on their body. Many didn’t have sweaters. I couldn’t help myself but salute the ambition of these young children, who were immersed in their lesson, without a trace of worry or discomfort on their faces.

The national flag waved in the courtyard as the little angels sat on the ground, seeking knowledge.

A teacher asked the children to recite the national anthem. I couldn’t keep my eyes off this particularly shy little girl, her blue eyes filled with pure innocence. While reciting the national anthem, she would should louder than the rest of them the line, “Kishwar-e-Haseen Shadbaad” (May this beauteous land remain happy and bountiful), and all the students broke into fits of laughter. Seeing the children happy, at school, despite all the hardships was extremely heartening. I turned to leave before my eyes teared up again.

A school in Gulaghmuli.

A school in Gulaghmuli.

During the next leg of my journey, the little girl remained on my mind, who didn’t have any warm clothes, yet her face exuded warmth. After several months, I passed by the valley again, and stopped by the school with presents for children. The girl was absent that day. I didn’t know her name so I could only ask, “Where’s Kishwar-e-Haseen Shadbaad?”

I leave the school and the memories of those children behind. Gulaghmuli is now in my rear-mirror. As the road turns near Langer, I can see River Ghizer spread out in the openness of the valley ahead. In the winters, I have witnessed hundreds of yaks grazing below from this same point. Then, the mountains were fully covered with snow, and the yaks looked like tiny moving dots. The valley was silent that day, and it is silent even today in the enveloping darkness. As I cross the bridge of a mountainous stream, I can see the vibrant red sky in the water.

Near Langer.

Langer.

Langer.

Yaks grazing on the fields.

As the sun sets, I can see the full moon. For the Chukar Partridge and the traveler, the moon is a superlative attraction. A small caravan of the nomads pass by, a man from the caravan waves at me. I keep looking at them until they dissolve into the darkness. The Shandoor Pass is coming closer, and very soon the jeep will start scaling its heights. It’s the start of November, and it is getting colder as the daylight goes, as does the sound of the flowing water; I switch on my jeep’s headlights.

By the time Shandoor’s heights end, the day has completed its transformation in to nightfall. The army outposts at Shandoor are also surrounded by darkness. In front of them is a one-room hotel on the mountain slope. This is the stop for the Natco buses, where tourists rest for a while, freshen up, and resume their destination. An old hotel owner comes out wearing a long coat and a muffler – for a second he appears to be a villain right out of a Hollywood movie.

Near Shandur Pass.

Near Shandur Pass.

Shandur Pass.

Night at Shandur.

The room is warm and comfortable inside. The old man’s stories continue long into the night, and I don’t know at what point exactly I fall asleep. When I wake up, it’s early morning, so I head out to photograph the Shandoor Lake. The temperature is in the negative, and the morning is dawning in very very slowly. As I pass from the Shandoor Polo Ground, I reminisce those great days when I used to come here to watch the Shandoor Polo Festival.

The Shandoor Polo Festival takes place every year from the 7th to the 9th of July. At the height of 12,200 feet, this is the world’s highest polo ground. Lower oxygen levels make breathing difficult, but the strong men of Gilgit-Baltistan and Chitral have been playing here for a long time. Every year, there’s a match between the polo teams of Gilgit-Baltistan and Chitral, and the winning team celebrates for an entire week.

Horses are specially bred and trained for polo at this height, because at 12,000 feet, this is not an ordinary horse’s game. Even trained horses sometimes die during the games here. When I had first arrived at Shandoor to watch a polo match, the air was filled with dust. The festival seemed like any other festival, lines of tents with stalls at every next step, the roaring of generators and spectators alike was everywhere.

People from the stretches of Gilgit-Baltistan and Chitral come to watch the match. These are the people who have learnt to live in the harshest of colds, secluded from the rest of the world. Life in Gilgit-Baltistan and Chitral continues because of these very people. For centuries, they have lived without sumptuous meals, comfortable homes, and any proper education and health facilities. For centuries, they have been playing polo.

Shandur Polo Festival.

Shandur Polo Festival.

Shandur Polo Festival.

Shandur Polo Festival.

With the passage of time, things have changed. Education is now more accessible, with the literacy rate sharply on the rise. The standard of living and awareness has also improved, though these people are still deprived of many of their constitutional rights, as are many others in this nation.

Right now, the polo ground is deserted and a dim blue light has spread on the horizon. Seeing the ground in this blue light is bringing my spirits down. When you have once seen a place brimming with life, seeing it without that life becomes a sad experience.

Night at Shandur Polo Ground.

The sun rises from behind the mountains, and I can see its shimmering rays on the Shandoor Lake. The frozen water at the shore begins to melt gradually.

The sun is now high, the heat has warmed me so much that I can feel the humidity on my face. The dew, which had frozen on my face and hair, is now melting. All of a sudden, a wave from the lake wets my shoes. I’ve been longing for this morning in Shandoor for a very long time.

Shandur Lake.

Shandur Lake.

Shandur Lake.

Shandur Lake.

As I leave the Shandoor Pass and go down a steep slope, I hear nothing, due to the pressure building up in my ears. Unconscious of my situation, my driver keeps talking, but I can’t hear him. Soon, we find ourselves in the Sorlaspur Valley. By the time we reach Boni town, I feel my backbone has shattered in to pieces; the road is full of bumps and craters. As I reach Chitral from Mastuj, the night has completely enveloped the mountains. I am so tired from the rugged journey that I decide to spend the night in Chitral.

Located in the Hindukush mountains, Chitral was known as the Riyasat Chitral, or Chitral State at the time of Pakistan’s creation. This state was previously part of the British Raj, and comprised of all the valleys of Chitral, and district Ghizer. A representative of British Raj was sovereign on the area, and the Mehtars of Chitral would represent him. Chitral was the first state to join Pakistan after independence, unconditionally.

Paragliding at Shandur Lake.

A frozen Shandur Lake.

Sunrise at Shandur Lake.

Sunset at Shandur Lake.

The next morning, my destination is the Bamburet Valley of Kalash. People here are known for their traditional black ornamental dresses and a belief system which has brought the name “Kafiristan” (Land of Infidels) to this place. Locals trace their roots to Alexander the Great and Greece. On my way to Bamburet, I can see the Ayun Valley and the lush greenery on the mountain slopes.

Ayun Valley.

In the middle of Shandur and Boni.

Kalashi children.

A Kalashi girl.

The road to Kalash is bumpy, the wayfarer is constantly accompanied by the River Kalash. After a two-hour long journey, I arrive in Bamburet, the central location of Kalash. Apart from Bamburet, Rumbur and Birir are two other valleys of Kalash. The indigenous people of Kalash are the custodians of a unique set of rituals and festivals.

As I reach Bamburet, I can see the corn fields in all their green glory. Kalashi women and girls, adorned in their traditional black outfits, are sitting in small groups under the shades of these trees. Young men and elders are walking or sitting at the shops. You don’t have to walk too far to find shade. The silence and serenity of the valley makes you forget everything; the only fearsome thing here are the black mountains across the fields.

Kailashi girls.

Bamburet.

Bamburet.

I spend the whole day walking the streets of Bamburet. There are two and three-storey homes, built in vintage style. Visible in some of the windows were girls wearing blue necklaces and colourful caps; they would start to giggle when they saw me, but would vanish as soon as I’d turn to look at them. I see men and women walking with bundles of fodder on their heads. Children ask me “Esh pata”. I don’t know how to respond, until someone explains to me that they're inquiring: “How are you?”

A boy from Bamburet.

A boy from Bamburet.

The day is nearing its end, and I can hear the flowing water clearer than ever before. With every passing hour, there are lesser people in the streets. I am sitting next to the river, looking at my face in its clear water. I can see the sunburn.

Bamburet.

Bamburet.

Bamburet.

Bamburet.

After the 32 autumns of my life, I can see my hair turning white gradually. White hair, black under-eye bags, subdued emotions, lost relationships, all combine to make me feel like a traveler standing in the middle of the nowhere, with no place to go.

If the average age of a human is 60 years, then I have lived half of it. Even if the traveler looks behind, he can’t see his tracks, just like dust clouds from your jeep that make it impossible to see the road. In this same dust, several of my friends, relationships, my parents, and my loved ones are buried.

Friends have gone farther in search of better careers and lifestyles, and I am right here, chained by my passion. A working person can travel only to the extent his job permits him, and that is what I do – travel as much as I can with my job in parallel.

Photography is of secondary interest. The real joy is the travelling itself, which makes a man conscious. Some of the companions along my trips have a permanent place in my memory, others never made a place in the first place.

A stream.

Going home.

As night approaches in Bamburet, I continue to sit under the shade of a tree. The cool mountain wind plays with my hair, and refreshes my soul. I can't help but recall a fascinating free verse by Aslam Ansari, titled Gotam Ka Aakhri Wa’az (The last sermon of Gotam):

میرے عزیزو میں جل چکا ہوں

میرے عزیزو میں بُجھ رہا ہوں

My friends, I am all but burnt

My friends, I am all but extinguished

ميں اپنے ہونے کی آخری حد پہ آگيا ہوں

وجود دکھ ہے، وجود کی يہ نمود دکھ ہے

I have reached the last stage of my existence

Existence is sorrow, this show of existence is sorrow

حيات دکھ ہے، ممات دکھ ہے

يہ ساری موہوم و بے نشاں کائنات دکھ ہے

Life is sorrow, death is sorrow

The entirety of this fragile, empty cosmos is sorrow

شعور کيا ہے؟ اک التزامِ وجود ہے، اور وجود کا التزام دکھ ہے

يہ زندہ رہنے کا، باقی رہنے کا شوق، يہ اہتمام دکھ ہے

What is consciousness but just a precursor of existence; existence of necessity is sorrow

This desire to live, to survive; this plan is sorrow

سکوت دکھ ہے، کہ اس کے کربِ عظيم کو کون سہہ سکا ہے

کلام دکھ ہے، کہ کون دنيا ميں کہہ سکا ہے جو ماورائے کلام دکھ ہے

Silence is sorrow, who has been able to bear this sorrow?

Words are sorrow too, for who has been able to express the unworded sorrow?

يہ ہونا دکھ ہے، نہ ہونا دکھ ہے، ثبات دکھ ہے، دوام دکھ ہے،

میرے عزيزو تمام دکھ ہے

This happening is sorrow, not happening is sorrow, lasting is sorrow, eternity is sorrow

My friends, everything is sorrow.

—All photos by author | Translated by Bilal Karim Mughal from the original in Urdu here.

Syed Mehdi Bukhari is a Network Engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion.

He can be reached on Facebook.

Glazed clay pots with a wide mouth known as Handi, were traditionally used for cooking. These pots lend their name to a popular meat dish called Handi, cooked and served in these pots.

Before the partition of India, this bazaar housed almost three dozen potters’ shops and workshops. Today, the number of these shops has been reduced to around 10, with three selling clay utensils and seven shops which sell earthenware ovens or tandoor. Potters set-up their workshops in places where water is plenty and it was the proximity of this area to the Leh Nullah, which attracted the potters.

Traditional clay pots called Matkas are used all over India and Pakistan to store water and keep it cool.

“In the past, a potter would set up his workshop on the banks of a stream or river and at the time when this bazaar was established, Leh Nullah was a stream of clean water. You can still see the Dhobi Ghat on the banks of the nullah, where dhobis would use the water from the stream for their laundry,” said Hussain Butt, the owner of a shop on Kumhar Road.

Mr Butt explained that most potters who had shops in this area, before the partition of India, were Hindu and left for India.

Earthenware dishes piled at the back of a shop on Kumhar Road.

“The Hindu potters would make earthenware idols and some big and small temples built by them in this area, still exist,” he said. Today, he said, most shops no longer have workshops attached and goods for stock are brought from Gujrat, Gujranwala, Attock and other cities.

A potter has added a touch of paint to lend colour to this clay pitcher.

“Local potters now only make flower pots and ovens,” he said. The workshops , he said, were shifted because kilns for firing the clay can no longer exist in cities. Among the items lining the racks in his shop are clay water coolers, complete with a plastic nozzle. “This is a fairly new invention to replace clay pots used in most houses to keep water clean and cool. Using clay utensils for water storage is a healthier option than plastic bottles,” he said.

The perforated surface of this electric lamp is decorative and lets out light.

An unbaked clay teapot used mainly for decoration.

Photos by Khurram Amin

Published in Dawn, July 26th, 2015

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HAVANA: For eight years, Cuban boxer Namibia Flores has leaned in with a clenched jaw and raised guard to throw punches against all male training partners.

Flores follows the same preparation as her male opponents. She lifts the same truck tires and waits for the same opportunity to catch a break and get the chance to fight for her country.

But the 39-year-old woman with a body sculpted by grueling training is in a unique race against time to achieve an athletic dream in a country where female boxing is not recognised.

“I don't see what is so dangerous for women,” Flores says, hair pulled back tight as she dons a foam helmet and steps into the ring to take on a male opponent.

Battling against odds and time, Flores punches on, hoping to fight for her nation, be an ambassador for the sport and an example for the women she hopes fight next.

Boxing is wildly popular in Cuba and the country has won 67 Olympic medals in the sport, more than any other nation apart from the much larger United States.

Flores trains at a gym in Havana. — AFP

Flores trains at a gym in Havana. — AFP

Other sports on the island are much more open to females, but boxing remains a redoubt of machismo and women are barred from competing.

Flores has likely already missed her chance to compete in the Olympics, which added women's boxing in 2012 with an age limit of 40.

While the subject of women's boxing isn't frequently discussed publicly by sport authorities, sources close to the country's boxing federation told AFP the opening of boxing for women was under negotiation, giving Flores reason for hope.

Feminine 'beauty'

Inside a decrepit gym west of Havana, Flores is drenched in sweat in the ring during a sweltering Caribbean summer.

She throws a straight left trying to get through the defense of her partner and then follows that with a powerful right, exhaling loudly.

“Namibia has good physical strength, good technique, she hits hard,” says her sparring partner of eight years, Jonathan.

“There are women like Namibia who have such adrenaline, they need to release that energy,” comments Flores's coach Isidro Barzaga off to the side.

“She hits hard.” — AFP

“With boxing I can remove the negative energy” — AFP

Flores is in a unique race against time to achieve an athletic dream. — AFP

By watching his protegee, Barzaga hopes other women will be inspired to box.

But women's boxing still faces an uphill battle.

In 2009 as the sport was beginning to take off around the world, Pedro Roque, then a technical director of Cuban boxing, said that to protect feminine “beauty” it is necessary to keep women from taking blows to the face.

“I don't see how boxing deprives women of their femininity, women are feminine at any time in any sport,” Jonathan said.

For Flores, boxing is an indispensable part of her life.

“With boxing I can remove the negative energy that builds up home, at work, day after day,” Flores says.

Crossing gloves with men daily gives her a thrill unlike any other.

“I dominate some,” she says, but “others surpass me”.

Last March, Flores traveled to the United States to attend a screening of documentary about her called “Boxeadora.”

While in the United States, she traveled to numerous cities and received offers to join American clubs.

But Flores says she won't abandon her home nation.

“Why fight for the United States... if where I learned boxing is here,” she said before joining her coach in another intense training session.

Up close with Sadequain

Possibly the easiest destination to show anyone visiting Karachi, we start our journey from the Frere Hall. This photographer is not amused with the idea and tells me that she’s been there many times with her family and knows every possible thing there is to know about the Hall. I ask her if she has been to the wooden platform inside the main hall and seen the famous mural by Sadequain up close; in response, her face lights up with excitement.

We negotiate our way to the top and make a brief stop at the wooden platform to celebrate Sadequain’s genius.

Taking measurements at the Empress Market

I always wondered why an ordinary Karachi walla should long for colonial structures such as the Empress Market. I could never come up with an extempore answer but the question remained stuck in my head. It was only when I read the prolific Intizar Hussain that I realised that people connect with these buildings because they play a great role in the social scene.

Slowly and gradually, they become a part of our lives, our stories and our folklore; as Intezar sahab puts it, these buildings become trees with their roots within the people. Therefore, a Karachi walla feels compassion for the Empress Market even if it is named after the queen of a usurper nation.

We step out of our car and meet the architects at the front of the gate. It is still early in the day and shopkeepers are setting up their stalls and opening their shops. We walk through the aisles, taking photos of every nook and cranny. The architects specialise in conservation and have picked up their thesis on the Empress Market.

We take special note of all the encroachments which have deformed the original structure of the bazaar. In one of the lanes, we see a grocery store which is closed. There is a board hanging on one of the doors, which reads 'Paradise Store'. Someone tells me that it is the original Paradise Store, which was later shifted close to Schön Circle in Clifton.

We walk past the vegetable section which is crowded even for an early hour. The architects are interested in documenting the fish and meat section. They tell me that the Empress Market was one of the earliest hyper-marts in the region, with exceptionally well-planned sections consisting of all the basic amenities.

We walk towards the end of the vegetable section and turn right towards the fish section. Abandoned a long time ago, I put my head inside a window and see a few drug addicts inside. I am hesitant but my entourage does not mind and gets busy taking measurement of the windows.

We step out of the fish mart and enter the meat section, which is bustling with activity. Freshly skinned calves are dangling from the chains and butchers are converting them into neatly cut pieces. There are bikes parked inside and a few people are reading the newspaper. They look at our group curiously, and thinking we belong to the media, they start telling us about the issues around the place. I am disinterested and turn to look at the photographer, who is taking photos of the trail of the blood flowing from the chains into the drain.

We climb the narrow staircase to the clock tower. I am uber excited as I have never been up there. We enter the first floor, which is empty, but gives an aerial view of the Empress Market. A narrow staircase leads us to the clock tower. The ancient machinery stands in the middle with a pipe going out in all four directions. It is not functioning anymore but still looks elegant.

Another narrow staircase takes one to the top, where political daredevils have put up flags of their respective parties. The photographer wants to climb it, but the staircase looks shaky and we decide to go back.

Stepping out of the Empress Market, the architects want an all-encompassing shot of the façade but we can’t capture it in all its length. The photographer suggests that we take the picture from one of the buildings opposite the road. There are shops on the ground floor and residential quarters above them. I am a little apprehensive but the photographer is gung-ho about it.

We cross the busy road with the photographer leading the way. We enter the building right opposite the Empress Market and climb the staircase to the top. It is in a dire condition and there is garbage everywhere. We climb to the top floor and knock on the door of the quarter which faces the market, without knowing who will appear.

It turns out that that particular quarter is occupied by a Pukhtun family who happily volunteer to help us. The elder of the family only allow the lady architect and the photographer into their premises, since his family is inside. I get a little apprehensive but hand over my camera to the architect and tell her and the photographer to finish the job quickly. Both of them disappear inside the door.

I strike up a conversation with one of the kids from the family. He tells me that they have come to Karachi from Peshawar and are very happy here, that there are no electricity breakdowns and water is available all the time. He offers me tea and tells me that all his family members work in different businesses set up around the Empress Market.

The architect and photographer appear from the door and I take a sigh of relief. The architect tells me that she was able to take photos of the Empress Market’s facade from the balcony. As we step down from the staircase, the photographer tells me that the quarter was cramped up with a number of families living inside the tiny flat.

Getting a traffic challaan

We say goodbye to the architects and sit back in our car. As I listen to the photographer telling me of her adventures in Rome and Florence, I take a left from Empress Market and immediately get a ticket from the traffic warden. It turns out that the road is one-way and I entered it from the wrong direction. I pledge my ignorance with the warden, while the photographer looks at us with a smirk on her face. She tells me that I am an awful driver and she expects another ticket during our journey.

The churches around Regal Chowk

We make a brief stop at St. Brookes, which is adjacent to the Gulbai Maternity Home. It was set up by an American soldier D.O. Fox, who accompanied the 56th Regiment of the British soldiers along with other American soldiers in 1873.

It is rather humble in comparison to the mighty St. Andrews opposite the street. The glass and woodwork, however, is as intricate as the one found in other churches around Saddar. The church premises have offices and some residential quarters; the compound is used for hosting events during festivities.

We walk across the road and step inside the mighty walls of St. Andrews. The photographer tells me that she has seen some of the most wonderful churches in Italy, but the context makes Karachi’s churches more intriguing.

St. Andrews is an Anglican church which was built in 1868. It was designed by T.G. Newnham, who was a resident engineer for the Sindh Railway and was later associated with the Indus Flotilla, a steamship company which was used in conjunction with Sindh Railway to transport goods downstream to the port.

My partner tells me that the building is designed in a gothic style and she has seen a similar style in Scotland. We walk around the building, a few pigeons fly off the arches. We capture the moment instantly. We step inside the church and it takes our breath away.

The arches which are a prominent feature of the church distinguish it from rest of the churches in the city. We walk towards the rostrum to see that there is intricate glass work on either end. The light filters through it and leaves a colorful spectrum on the floor.

There are balloons hanging from the pillars, presumably for an event that must have been recently organised. Someone tells me that the wooden musical instrument on the left of the rostrum is one of its kind. Sadly, it has not been functioning for some time now.

Radio Pakistan

Next, we negotiate our way inside the Radio Pakistan building which was home to the Pakistan Broadcasting Corporation since 1949. This is where eminent media personalities such as Z.A. Bukhari worked and laid the basis of a successful entertainment institution.

On October 2007, a fire had broken out on the first floor of the building, possibly due to an electrical short-circuit which burnt down the entire first floor along with archives and equipment of historical significance.

We walk aimlessly around the compound, absorbing the surreal scene. In these very studios, some of the most famous music shows and dramas were recorded, which inspired and entertained entire generations of our nation. They stand abandoned today, and perhaps, for a very long time.

Café Mubarak

We take a break and stop at Café Mubarak. The waiter asks us if we want to go to the family section upstairs, but the photographer insists that we sit in the main area. She is amused with the cutlery on display and orders tea.

She tells me that she moved to Karachi a few months back and wishes she could walk its streets freely. The idea of self-restrain is already putting her off. I tell her that I sometimes wish that I was somewhere else reconstructing the city in my imagination without all its imperfections, but it is a good idea to be a little apprehensive while walking its streets. She tells me that I sound old and wise but she does not agree with my assessment.

We finish our tea and step outside to resume our journey.

Old and wise, young and reckless, but somehow we were still the same.

—All photos by author

We had turned into a narrow lane with cars parked on either side, when our coach driver turned to inform that he was pulling up here, as attempting to go any further would risk the vehicle getting stuck and unable to turn around.

'Is it far from here?' I asked, while stepping towards the coach exit and he gestured ahead to say that it was right here.

Then, why couldn't I see it?

Well, that was because of the heavy encroachment in the surrounding land. The extent of vandalism and illegal construction all over the place could be judged by the fact that some uncaring souls had even broken down one side of its outer fortified walls – made of mud, covered by baked bricks – to build their houses there.

Yes, Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhoro's mausoleum was right there. The oldest building in Hyderabad is in desperate need of conservation and restoration, or it will soon disappear from the face of the earth.

One of the most powerful rulers of the Kalhora Dynasty in Sindh, Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhoro's rule began in 1757, when the Kalhoro chiefs appointed him ruler of Sindh in place of his older brother Mian Murayab Kalhoro. He ruled this region when it was a part of Ahmed Shah Durrani's Afghan empire.

Besides dealing with internal tugs-of-war over his throne, Mian Ghulam Shah's rule was characterised by strategically crafted military victories that resulted in the expansion of Sindh.

Also see: A photowalk through historic Hyderabad

Between 1762 and 1765, he led three decisive campaigns against the Maratha Rao of Kutch, which earned him the title of 'Samsamuddaolah' (sword of state). He was also entrusted to pacify various rebellions in the derahs of the north, for which he was rewarded with a portion of Dera Ghazi Khan, along with the subordination of its governor. He was also given the title of 'Shah Wardi Khan' by Ahmed Shah Durrani.

Seen as a visionary, Mian Ghulam Shah was responsible for the construction of several great monuments throughout Sindh. Two of these architectural marvels are the Sufi poet Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai's mausoleum, built in 1762, and of course the second being the establishment of the city of Hyderabad, which he built on the ancient foundations of Nerunkot, and made the new capital of the Kalhoro Dynasty. This is marked by the construction of the massive Pacco Qillo (strong fort), the largest military garrison in the region, in 1768.

The third architectural endeavor also sadly turned out to be his last. This was in 1772, when he ordered the foundations of the mud fort to be laid on a hillock in Hyderabad. But that hillock was sacred to the saint Haji Mohammad Makai.

The construction required a number of graves of Makai's followers to be destroyed. People say that this is what earned him the wrath of the saint. That very year, Ghulam Shah was struck with a severe paralysis attack, which eventually led to his demise.

Shah's own mausoleum has had plenty of bad luck thus far. Trustee and Secretary of the Endowment Fund Trust (EFT) for the Preservation of the Heritage of Sindh, Mr Hamid Akhund, who is looking to restore it and has already started some work there, said that as a child, when he used to play cricket nearby with his friends, they could see from afar that the mausoleum was missing its roof.

“The roof, in fact, had collapsed sometime in the 1890s and was not even repaired by the British,” he informed.

Explore: The crumbling tombs of Talpur Mirs

With no picture or drawing available of the mausoleum in its complete form, its repair and restoration brings up plenty of challenges. Therefore restoration is only possible after a thorough study of the contemporary tombs of the area and the material used in building them.

Earlier, restoration attempts had done more damage than good. The now non-functional Federal Department of Archeology and Museums tried its hand at some kind of repairs, but the work was carried out in cement, which instead of arresting the decaying process, it accelerated the pace of deterioration.

What the EFT, in collaboration with the Department of Culture of the Government of Sindh, intends to do now is consolidate the mausoleum's areas threatened with unrecoverable loss, waterproofing the structure, restoring the deteriorating exterior and interior kashi tile work, flaking the interior frescoes and damaged white marble tombstone, along with its railing and giving the building its missing dome.

In this regard, they held an open house discussion at the site recently, where various conservationists, art historians, architects, engineers, artisans, students and thinkers were invited to give their input on how to go about the conservation work in a way that does not harm the monument.

Many useful suggestions came up. Some also pointed out that encroachments had left the monument so hidden that most people from even Hyderabad had not visited it yet. Some suggested starting study tours for school children here, some hoped for the involvement of local students of architecture in the project. Mr Akhund agreed that this was a good idea and said that if any students wished to help in the project, he would arrange for them to receive a stipend from EFT.

On display on the floor outside the tomb lay some pieces of kashi work from the walls.

“We picked up these pieces of fallen off broken tiles from here and there and tried putting them back on the walls but it's all like a puzzle. It cannot be conserved, obviously. It is just too old so there is a need for reconstruction,” Mr Akhund pointed out.

Inside the burial chamber are two graves. The big one in the centre is that of Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhoro. It is erected over a marble platform measuring 14'-4” in length and 11'-6” in width.

The other, rather small grave erected over a low platform near the western wall is that of Fazal Ali, his grandson. Inscribed on it is the year 1764, when Mian Ghulam Ali was still alive. Actually, he died in 1772. Either the date has been wrongly inscribed or he was buried later, beside his young grandson. Therefore, either the mausoleum was erected during his lifetime after the untimely death of his grandson, or it was constructed later after his death and burial next to the child.

The interior also has paintings, glazed tiles and Quranic calligraphy. The murals adorning the interior of the mausoleum are lined with pure gold, which became evident during a recent process of cleansing with mild beauty soap.

The marble cenotaph of Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhoro's tomb was damaged when the dome above it fell down. The height of the present flat roof of the mausoleum is around 44'-4” from floor level.

Outside in the courtyard there are a few more graves, all in need of repair and where no one comes to offer fateha anymore.

—Photos by author

After waiting for 70 years, Karanveer Singh, a pilgrim from Hoshiarpur in India, is finally allowed to visit Pakistan. Mixed feelings of nostalgia and reverence overtake him as he pays homage to Maharaja Ranjit Singh on his 176th death anniversary. In the midst of rituals and preparations, he yearns to meet someone from Toba Tek Singh, his childhood town before partition.

Karanveer is among 400 pilgrims or yatrees from India who were given visas to travel to Pakistan to commemorate the occasion this year at the Gurdwara Panja Sahib in Hassanabdal, a site of immense importance to members of the Sikh community.

Embedded on a rock in the gurdwara is the sacred hand print of Baba Guru Nanak, the founder of Sikhism.

The Punja [hand print] of Baba Guru Nanak.

Pilgrims flock around the symbolic Punja.

Thousands of yatrees arrive from across the world to visit enter the grey sandstone building on religious festivals.

As part of the Sikh rituals, families bathe in what followers of the religion regard as holy water. The water surrounds the gurdwara which is perched on an elevated platform where fresh spring water gushes out from behind a rock and flows into a large pool.

In the backdrop of the beautiful three-storied architecture of the gurdwara, 80-year-old Karanveer narrates the story of when he left Pakistan.

Karanveer Singh (R) with other pilgrims.

Only 12 years of age during the Partition, Karanveer’s memory of the time when Muslims and Hindus lived together in harmony persists. He says that although the conflict of Partition created a divide between different religious communities at the time, such clashes were not seen in Toba Tek Singh.

Karanveer says he harbours no ill feeling towards Pakistan and adds that in fact, for him, his life in Pakistan remains a core memory of his childhood that has stayed with him.

Uprooted but attached

Karanveer’s story is not entirely unusual. Several other Sikh yatrees having similar tales to tell; separated from their roots, yet holding on to memories of the past, they co-exist peacefully with Muslims even in their present homes outside Pakistan.

Karanveer says back in India he celebrates Eid with his Muslim friends.

“One evening, my mother told us that we were going to Hoshiarpur in the morning with other Sikh families to replace the Muslim families that were leaving India,” Karanveer reminisces about the night before his journey to India.

Much to his dismay, Karanveer’s visa allowed him only 10 days to spend in Pakistan. Although that time could have been enough for him to observe Maharaja Ranjeet Singh’s death anniversary as well as a visit his childhood home, he could not do so due to the conditions listed on his visa.

Karanveer is afraid that he may not be able to take a trip to his village and relive some of his childhood memories before departing from this world.

“It looks difficult because the visa restrictions from the Pakistani government only allow us to visit Lahore, Nankana Sahib and Hassanabdal during our stay,” he says.

Karanveer recalls that his house was near a gurdwara and that the displacement to India was difficult for him as a child.

“I was not interested in leaving my town for Hoshiarpur because we were very happy in our village. But elders from Sikh and Hindu families had decided to leave after Partition to avoid possible clashes. The decision to leave was made as there had been reports that members of the Sikh, Hindu and Muslim communities were going after each other,” Karanveer explains.

Longing to visit the land of their forefathers

A woman reads 'Guru Granth Sahib', the holy book of the Sikh religion.

Like Karanveer, there are numerous devotees who are visiting Pakistan for the first time and long to connect to the birthplace of their parents and the home of their forefathers. One such pilgrim is 60-year-old Dilmir Singh Bajwa.

“My parents were born and raised in Jhelum. They shared many stories with me and my siblings from their hometown before they passed away,” Bajwa narrates.

“Before my father died, he longed to visit Jhelum but could not get a visa to travel to Pakistan. However, he asked my siblings and I to visit Pakistan at least once in our lives if we managed to get the chance.”

Having originally applied for a visa in April to partake in the Baisakhi festival which was refused, Bajwa was happy he was granted one later to commemorate Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s death anniversary.

Dilmir Singh Bajwa is visiting Pakistan for the first time.

He states that thousands of Indians wishing to visit religious sites located in Pakistan are unable to do so because obtaining a visa is not easy.

“Although I am unable to visit my father’s village in Jhelum, I still feel blessed that I am getting to visit Pakistan to see the gurdwaras in Lahore, Nankana Sahib and Hassanabdal," Bajwa says. With great sadness in his voice, he wonders whether it would ever be possible for the people of India and Pakistan to visit each other “without any restrictions”.

Similar sentiments are echoed by Sohni Ghuman, 74, a resident of Ambala district in Indian Punjab, who like Karanveer was born in Pakistan and wants to visit her birthplace in Gujranwala.

Sohni Ghuman, 74, a resident of Ambala district of Indian Punjab.

“I try to remember my childhood days, but it is difficult. I was just six years old at the time of Partition,” narrates a pensive Sohni.

"However, I would still like to be able to visit Gujranwala, Sohni says, adding that the governments of India and Pakistan should adopt a policy of visa free travel for their citizens."

"If there are any issues that stand in the way, both countries should resolve these through dialogue,” says an emotional Sohni.

Sikh pilgrims bathing in the holy water at Punja Sahib.

A ‘remarkable welcome’

Although not every would-be yatree manages to secure a visa, those who do arrive have been surprised at their treatment by the Pakistani government.

Pertab Singh, a 58-year-old resident of Ludhiana district, who is visiting with his wife says he was not expecting “such a remarkable welcome”.

Pertab Singh, 58, is visiting Pakistan with his wife.

“The government of Pakistan has made excellent arrangements for Sikh visitors. I will try to bring my children next time,” exclaims a joyous Pertab.

Pertab’s parents left their home in Chakwal in 1947 but have always missed their native town, especially on occasions such as Baisakhi.

“Contrary to what we see in the news, I don’t find Pakistan to be any different from home. I feel like I am in Ludhiana,” he says.

Some 5,000 Sikh pilgrims visit Pakistan each year for religious events. Among these, the event that most Sikhs aim to partake in is the Baisakhi festival which brings together a religious festival, a harvest festival as well as the Sikhs’ New Year.

Other events include the birthday celebrations of Baba Guru Nanak and the death anniversary of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, who united Punjab as a Sikh empire in the 19th century after the death of Aurangzeb.

The yatrees coming to Pakistan are looked after by the Evacuee Trust Property Board (ETPB).

ETPB Chairman Siddiqul Farooq says the board also takes help from the Pakistan Sikh Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee (PSGPC) to make arrangements for the pilgrims’ boarding and lodging.

Farooq says the government has made arrangements to ensure the provision of maximum facilities to Sikh pilgrims.

But although, several of them may be satisfied with their handling by the Pakistani government, their discontent over travel difficulties and visa conditions persists.

Against all odds, Karanveer remains hopeful:

“Some day day India and Pakistan may adopt a policy of visa free travel for their citizens. Maybe then my grandson will get a chance to see my town - my Toba Tek Singh”.

Sights of the homage to Maharaja Ranjit Singh

Women take 'parshad'.

Sikh pilgrims bathing in the holy water at Punja Sahib.

Sikh pilgrims eat 'langer'.

Sikh pilgrims eat 'langer'.

'Parshad' is distributed amongst the pilgrims.

Pilgrims bathe in holy water.

All photos by author

To connect the people of the city, and especially its youth, with its history and culture, the “Hyderabad Photo-Walk” was organised on May 30, 2015. I was a part of the initiative, which was backed by Pakistan-US Alumni Network and Lahooti Live Sessions, and led by Sana Khoja, a Hyderabad-based youth activist. Our team comprised of Ahsan Abro, Asif Ansari, Omar Qureshi, Muazam Memon and Furqan Buriro.

Enthusiasm was the keyword on the day of the Photo-walk. —HPW

Participants being told briefly about the history of Hyderabad before the start of the walk. —HPW

Sana Khoja, who led the event. —HPW

The main event was preceded by a photography talk a few weeks before, by renowned Pakistani photographer Danial Shah. Danial guided the participants and shared his experiences with them, along with photography tips and tricks.

The session on photography. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

Renowned photographer Danial Shah answered questions during the session. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

On the day of the main event, over 100 participants gathered, along with the team of the photo-walk. The participants belonged mainly to Hyderabad, while a few were from places such as Nawabshah, Karachi, etc.

The participants were taken to different spots of historic, cultural and social significance, facing the scorching sun throughout the course of the event.

The first spot was the set of the Kalhora tombs, including the tomb of Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhora, who laid the foundation of modern-day Hyderabad in the late 1760s, and gave the city the name it has today. He built it over the ruins of an old fishing village called Neroon or Neroonkot.

Traditional buses were used as transport. —HPW

Team Hyderabad Photo-walk posing with the participants. —HPW

The wall around Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhora's tomb. —Rahul P Maheshwari

Participants at the Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhora tomb complex. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

The participants were then taken to Hirabad, one of the oldest parts of the city. Hirabad is filled with buildings built during British Raj by Sindhi Hindus. Participants photographed the old buildings, including a Shiv temple which was first built in 1895 and then rebuilt in 1945.

Next up was Rani Bagh, a botanical and zoological garden in Hyderabad where we all had lunch. Then came Niaz Stadium, a historic stadium where the first ever hat-trick in One Day Internationals happened in 1982. The bowler was Pakistani right-arm seamer Jalal-ud-Din, and the opposition was Australia. Pakistan has never lost a Test or ODI on this ground.

The Shiv temple in Hirabad. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

A house in Hirabad built in 1923. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

Participants interacted with the people too. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

Niaz Stadium, Hyderabad. —HPW

The final spot of the photo-walk was none other than the historic Pakka Qila, built in 1768 by Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhora. Participants photographed the crumbling remains of the once-majestic monument.

One of the most wonderful things about the photo-walk was the participation of girls and women, whose enthusiasm knew no bounds.

Pakka Qila ruins. —Rahul P Maheshwari

On June 14, a one-day exhibition titled “Tale of Hyderabad” was organised at the Sindh Museum (Hyderabad), where the photos submitted by participants were showcased. The 57 entries (chosen from a pool of over 150 photos) were judged by artists, photographers, teachers and intellectuals.

Khudeija Ansari’s photograph of a group of children wearing traditional prayer caps was judged as the best of the lot. The one that came in second was taken by Fazila Amber, of a ladder inside the temple.

Khudeija Ansari with her prize-winning photo. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

Runner-up Fazila Amber with her photo. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

The exhibition featured over 50 photos taken at different places throughout the city in a day. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

The exhibition was visited by over 200 people. It also included the session “From Neroonkot to Hyderabad”. I headed this session as the photo-walk’s guide, and used it to discuss the history of Hyderabad.

The participants shared their experiences of the photo-walk, followed by a folk-music performance by Faqir Zulfiqar, who sang the poetry of Shah Latif Bhitai. Another highlight of the event was musician Saif Samejo (of the band Sketches, and the mind behind Lahooti Live Sessions), who has been backing the event since the very start.

The music session was one of the highlights of the exhibition. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

Fakir Zulfiqar performed Sindhi folk songs, which included renditions of Shah Latif Bhitai's poetry. —HPW

Halar Khoso, one of the participants, said,

In such a congested society, where people are fighting for their basic rights and everyone has the fear of going out on streets, an initiative like Hyderabad Photo-walk is a breath of much needed fresh air for youngsters who love history and want to explore it through photography.

Another participant, Ali Raza Soomro said, "It (Hyderabad Photo-walk) provided a platform for newcomers like me, and I felt like writing a story while capturing the photos. I never knew Hyderabad had so much to tell."

The Hyderabad Photo-walk team were also made a cake by Hira Brohi, one of the participants who also happens to own a small baking company.

The Hyderabad Photo-walk cake, made by one of the participants, Hira Brohi. —Syed Zeeshan Ahmed

Group photo taken at Mian Ghulam Shah Kalhora's tomb. —HPW

It was quite admirable that the enthusiasm of participants showed no signs of letting up even in the face of intense heat during the photo-walk. By all accounts, the walk was a success and ended up as the grandest event of its kind in the city's history.

Most of all, it succeeded in its prime motive: Connecting youth with the history and culture of this glorious city.

To know more about the Hyderabad Photo-walk, you can visit their Facebook page or find them on Twitter.

Syed Zeeshan Ahmed loves exploring the past and beyond.

He blogs at www.iamzeeshan.blogspot.com. And tweets @ImZeesh.

When I entered the tomb of the saint, an elderly woman yelled at me, telling me to first seek permission to enter. She asked me to wait until she had cleaned the floor of the shrine. Then with a watery smile, she said:

This saint is only mine, you need to seek my permission first.

I waited at the door for her approval. She turned back to cleaning the floor. I wondered why she was cleaning the already sparkling floor of the marble courtyard.

After she had finished and allowed me in, I asked her why she was doing it. “I know that it’s clean,” but it gives me sukoon (relief) when I come to pay homage and brush the grave and floor with peacock feathers.”

At almost every shrine in Sindh, one is bound to find elderly people like her, either leaning against the walls, reciting the Holy Quran or sleeping on the floor of the shrine; these shrines are source of solace for them.

The Shaikh Birkhio shrine complex.

The tomb of Shaikh Birkhio.

Spires on the domes.

The facade of Shaikh Birkhio's tomb, covered with glazed tiles.

Located 25 kilometers southwest of the Tando Allahyar town, the shrine complex of Shaikh Bhirkio is one of the important Suharwardi (a sufi order) centers in Sindh.

I have always been greatly mystified by the dual identities of shrines. The Sajjada Nasheen of this shrine told me that Shaikh Birkhio was also venerated by the Hindus as Raja Veer.

Before the partition, Hindus swarmed the shrine during the mela. Now, only a few families visit the shrine, a majority of them belonging to lower Hindu castes.

This is not the only shrine in Sindh which carries dual identities. There are over a dozen such shrines in lower Sindh. For instance, Shaikh Tahir is also called Uderolal by his Hindu devotees, Pir Patho is called Makhdoom Naimatullah by his Muslim followers, Mangho Pir was Lala Jasraj for Hindu Nath yogis, Ram Jago in Samaro (Umerkot) is venerated as Makhdoom Shafique-ur-Rahman.

Shaikh Bhirkhio was a sufi saint who belonged to the Suharwardi order of Sufism. He lived in the 16th century and travelled to many parts of Sindh, Punjab, Kutch and Gujarat to convert a large number of locals.

The shrine as seen from the nearby mosque.

A distant view of the entire complex.

One of the distinctive features of the Suharwardi shrine complex in Sindh are the grand mosques and tombs there, all adorned with ceramics and paintings. At the Shaikh Bhirkio complex, there are two mosques in addition to the tomb of the saint.

The tomb is decorated with enameled Hala tiles. The interior of the tomb is painted in fine taste, but recently whitewashed, thus wreaking havoc on the murals. Sadly, the interior of a nearby three-domed mosque has also been whitewashed.

The mehrab of the mosque has the painted names of Allah.

A view of the shrine and the mosques.

The three-domed mosque adjacent to the tomb.

A closer look at the painted names of Allah.

Luckily, another nearby mosque stands with its original beauty intact. The wall of the mosque is painted upon and the ceiling decorated with ceramics. The wooden pillars and fretted panels are a peculiarity of almost all the mosques built by the Suharwardi sufis of Sindh.

Suharwardi shrine complexes like these can also be seen in Bukera Sharif and Kamaro Sharif in the Tando Allahyar district.

The other mosque.

A closer look at the paintings.

The beautiful interior of the mosque.

Artwork on the walls.

The mehrab.

Another view of the exquisitely designed walls.

Painted ceiling.

Calligraphy.

A painted panel.

Intricate designs on recesses in the wall.

Each time that I have visited the shrine, I have seen both Hindu and Muslim men and women at the shrine of Shaikh Bhirkio — an equal source of succour for them all.

When I was leaving the shrine, I heard a Hindu woman murmuring,

Yeh pir sirf mera hai.

—All photos by author

Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro is an anthropologist and teaches tourism, globalisation and development at the Pakistan Institute of Development Economics, Islamabad.

He tweets @Kalhorozulfiqar.

Where else can you clamber the rocky cliffs that have been carved out by humans, or venture into the cool interior of a monastery or a church dug in a mountain eons ago (with altars and baptism pools) and decorated with colourful frescoes (actually 'seccos' – a type of mural painting where paint is applied to dry plaster on the wall)?

Where else can you see the famous hot air balloons rise just before sunrise or explore these stunning valleys on a rented bike or on foot?

Where else but in Cappadocia, Turkey? It is a holiday destination like no other!

Cave dwellings.

Love valley with its phallic rock formations.

Pyramid shaped rocks strew the landscape.

Uchisar castle from a distance.

View from Uchisar castle.

The first thought to cross my mind after I saw the huge, 100-feet or so, phallic-shaped rock formations popularly known as the "fairy chimneys", was: what would our mullah brigade make of this hilarious feat of Nature? The landscape of Cappadocia, in Turkey's eastern Anatolia is literally littered with these rocks. There is just no escaping them.

Called hoodoo (a thin spire of rock that protrudes from the bottom), these formations range anywhere from 1.5 to 45 metres (4.9 – 147 feet). It is said these spires are made of a light, porous rock, and are a result of consolidation of volcanic eruptions. Later, the wind and rain chiselled them into sculpted valleys with sinuous cliffs and pointy fairy chimneys.

These rock formations are drawing hordes of tourists from all corners of the world, armed with nothing more than a hat, a cell phone and a selfie stick. According to news reports, a record one million people visited the region in 2013.

Atop Uchisar castle.

Bird's eye view of Goreme from Uchisar Castle.

Fairy chimneys.

Tourism, in Turkey, is the third biggest earner in the $820 billion economy, generating $35 billion annually.

So, if you're heading for Cappadocia, make sure you have a good pair of walking shoes for that is all you will be doing for most of your stay.

From the Uchisar castle, the highest point in the region and from where you can get a 360 degree view of the Nevsehir province, to the Rose (at sunset, the rocks take on a pinkish hue, thus the name), Pigeon (hundreds of pigeon houses riddling the cliffs) and the lush riverside Ihlara Valleys (boasting the deepest gorge in Asia Minor), to Goreme and Zelve open air museums, to the Byzantine-era monastries and churches, nestled in the cliffs – it is walk, walk and walk. By evening, you'd be aching everywhere, but it will be a good ache, trust me and it is not a difficult trudge.

Rose Valley.

Cave dwellings in Rose valley.

Homes of the elves.

Ihlara Valley with monastries.

Goreme open air museum.

If you're not with a tour group, you can do Cappadocia in three to four days, but if you have a car, you can cover a lot of ground much quicker.

There are around 30 to 40 or so underground cities (when the Christians were persecuted, first by the Romans and then raiding Muslims, they often went into hiding here) and more coming up as we speak, but not all are open to visitors.

We visited the almost 3,000 year-old labyrinthine city at Derinkuyu, also the deepest. Extending to a depth of approximately 60 meters, experts say, it could have sheltered approximately 20,000 people at any given time, together with their livestock, water and food stores.

Derinkuyu, the underground city.

Ceiling of a church in Ihlara Valley.

Wild flowers abound on the Rose valley trail.

Farming in the Rose Valley.

A local family.

Handmade dolls made by local women.

While snaking your way through a web of tunnels and stairways, it may get frustrating and you may feel trapped if there are big tour groups at the same time. A note of warning for those who are over six feet tall: you will be ducking at several places where the rock ceiling gets shallow and walk bent in tunnels or on stairways.

The pièce de résistance of your trip will be the hour-long hot air balloon ride.

It is truly a mind-blowing experience. Try to book the 'before sunrise' slot, which means you will be picked up at an ungodly hour of 4:00 am and it will still be dark when you get to the site, but it is well worth it.

More than looking down at the province that comes alive in all its splendour and colour, people end up looking at some hundred or so colourful balloons dotting the sky that fly all at the same time. The whole process of how the balloons are readied and then let out is another fascinating experience.

Caves carved out in Rose Valley.

When the sunrises.

Hundreds of hot air balloons dot the skies as they take off at the same time.

How to get there:

Cappadocia is just over an hour away from Istanbul by air. The airport to land at is Nevsehir, that is what we did. But if you're in Ankara, you can travel by bus, train or car. A bus to Nevsehir departs from Ankara's main bus terminal, ASTI, every two hours. It is a 4.5 hours (with a 25 minute stop) journey.

When to go:

Because there is a lot of walking to do, make sure the weather is pleasant. April to June and September to November are ideal for pleasant temperatures.

What to wear:

Comfortable clothing, a hat and closed, hard-soled shoes.

Tourists enjoying the backdrop.

School children at Rose Valley.

Tours vs. Exploring Cappadocia on your own

Once you start looking online, you will find tons of information on organised tours. But, if that does not sound exciting, and you do not want to stick to a schedule, the best way to see the region is by driving around on your own.

It is best to book a car in advance and get it at the airport. You will never get lost, it is easy enough, the traffic is thin, roads are smooth and you will have the freedom to stop wherever and whenever you want to.

Roses grew everywhere.

Rings galore.

Rugs sold on the roadside.

Where to stay

Most people want to stay in boutique fairy-chimney or cave hotels as did we initially, as it is a unique experience. The decor is regal (at times opulent) and the rooms huge but in the end, we decided to opt for a hotel, one in Avanos (a chain of modern hotels) and were glad we did. But, this is an entirely personal choice.

While cave hotels have all the modern amenities, not all rooms are alike and what you may see on the internet and like, is not what you may get. The windows may be small and one may feel claustrophobic. So when booking, make sure to ask if the room has a few windows, direct sunlight, and the air is not too musty and how much you'd have to climb every day to get to your room after a long and tiring day of walking.

—All photos by author.

Zofeen T. Ebrahim is an independent journalist based in Karachi.

She tweets at @zofeen28.

I believe there is only one such place in this land that would fit the narrative and knows of the heart’s desire to be united with those who live in the land so close and yet so far – Kashmir.

The destination for our annual company trip this year was set to Neelum Valley. Situated in the Azad Kashmir region, the valley stretches from 50 kilometers north of Muzaffarabad to the existing LoC between Azad Kashmir and Indian-held Kashmir.

En Route Keran. —Marvi Soomro

Kundal Shahi en route Keran. —Marvi Soomro

Nearly 120 colleagues from Lahore and Islamabad set forth for a weekend getaway. As we ascended, the lush green mountains and gushing rivers of Neelum accompanied us. The breeze turned chilly and the sunlight shone on the valley like a million little glittery specks.

Our first stop after some 10 hours of travelling was the dense green village of Keran.

This is the closest you can get to Indian-held Kashmir today, which runs just across the River. The Keran View Hotel has a spectacular backyard that touches the Neelum River; its clear blue waters separating you from the banned side.

The Keran View Resort. —Marvi Soomro

At the banks of the Neelum River in Keran. —Marvi Soomro

Standing by the riverside and looking across, you realise life is not so different on the other side; the neatly aligned wooden houses are exact replicas of the ones where I stood, among women working in the fields and children playing by the banks of Neelum.

The absence of mobile signals/internet services is a strange and wonderful liberation. The focus is no longer on a social network check-in, instead it is on the serenity of this place, sinking in until you are separated from the rest of the noisy world.

For adventure-seekers, Keran is usually a mid-stop before ascending further up, and so was the case for us. After a round of garma garam chai and pakoray from a roadside shack, we were all set to travel to our next destination.

Chai at Keran. —Marvi Soomro

On a 3.5 hour travel from Keran is the quiet village of Shardha, said to be named after a legendary princess. Just off the main road and connected by a suspension bridge, the village is an epitome of serenity.

As we set camp, the night awed us by an unadulterated blackness, the twinkling skies, and the reflections in the river; the morning too, stunned us with a view of the snow-covered Noorinar peak, standing tall in the background.

Contrary to when travelling in Gilgit Baltistan, the Neelum Valley does not offer you many options in terms of where you can stay and what you can eat. This part of Pakistan lags behind not just in tourism facilities, but also in the number of tourists it receives each year.

A desi breakfast of omelettes and parathas with cups of tea to wash it down is all you will find around this area, but it’s enough to fill your stomach and charge you up for the adventures ahead.

Locals en route Keran. —Marvi Soomro

Locals at Shardha. —Marvi Soomro

The Neelum River. —Marvi Soomro

Starry skies in Shardha. —Asif Mahmood

A trip to Neelum is incomplete without taking up on at least one of the adventurous hikes the region offers. From Shardha, we began a two-hour bumpy jeep ride to the Kel Village.

The road to Kel, wide enough for one vehicle to pass at a time, often experiences landslides. The majestic views of the valley can be best seen on the way to Kel, with the noisy blue waters of the Neelum River flowing on one side, and crystal clear waterfalls on the other.

You'll see glaciers camouflaged as muddy mountains melting and merging with the torrential waves of Neelum. And the scattered local houses and people working in their terraced farms going about daily affairs.

Locals at Kel. —Asif Mahmood

The village of Kel is located near the Line of Control, so you will see a lot of Pakistan Army commuters on this path. Sitting on top of the jeep watching a military truck pass by, the “jazba junoon” that Ali Azmat sang of could not be restrained, we crossed by shouting slogans and saluting the jawaans and received warm smiles and waves in return.

From Kel, a two-kilometer trek through the mountains to a hilltop takes you to the village of Arang Kel, the last mountain in this area, beyond which lies Indian-held Kashmir. The trail is followed by the blue waters of Neelum before it is enveloped by dense forest growth.

The trek to Arangkel. —Asif Mahmood

Trekking in Kel. —Marvi Soomro

Shaista, a grade-5 student at Kel. —Marvi Soomro

The beauty who gifted me her Kashmiri cap. —Marvi Soomro

With the local schoolgirls. —Marvi Soomro

The trek is strenuous, but not too difficult on normal days. However, if it rains, the story is entirely different as the trail turns muddy and slippery.

The universe had conspired to give us the adventure that we had asked for and we got the latter. Wet and mud-caked, we made our way to the top of the mountain and what we saw left us speechless.

Lush green meadows spread out as far as the eye could see. Small but neatly constructed wooden houses standing out in contrast to the greens of the village. Snow-covered mountain peaks laying a siege all around us. The tussle between the sun and clouds giving the meadows a dreamy look and a chilly breeze to complement it all – this is the village of Arang Kel.

The picturesque Arang Kel village. —Asif Mahmood

Huts in Arang Kel village. —Asif Mahmood

Farmland, houses and mountains. —Asif Mahmood

Waterfalls in Arang Kel. —Asif Mahmood

Some stone, some wood: A house in Arang Kel. —Asif Mahmood

The return hike from Arang Kel was everything an adventure junkie dreams of. By the time we began the descent the sun had set, the post rain trek was the kind that sucks your feet in. Each step was a fight against the grubby and grimy ground to be taken with caution.

Walking through the trek in daylight gives you picturesque views of the peaks, waterfalls and the Neelum River. Walking through it at night with torches as the only source of light, leaves you mesmerised. The ginormous trees give off a mythical feel, casting spooky shadows. With the sky a black canvas of glittery specks, the torrential voice of the Neelum River is your only guide to how far you are from the finish point.

More wooden huts at Arang Kel. —Asif Mahmood

Sun and shadows. —Asif Mahmood

Snowy tops, wooden huts and green meadows in Arang Kel. —Asif Mahmood

Starting the journey back from Arang Kel. —Asif Mahmood

In today’s fast-paced world of commercialism and perpetual digital connectivity, Neelum Valley is the perfect getaway. Stand by the banks of the noisy River and let the silence fill you with peace.

Life is simple here. And magnificent. It pleases the heart to see the smiles and experience the cordiality of people who have lived here, on the brink of war for all these years.

This 200-kilometer-long bow-shaped valley sings songs of pain which yearn in unison with songs of splendour. This 200-kilometer long valley is, as my great grandfather would say, truly paradise on earth.

Marvi Soomro is an IT consultant, who survives corporate monotony by travelling the world and capturing its words and pictures.

She is a patriotic at heart who is passionate about travelling across Pakistan and bringing to light the rich natural and cultural heritage of the country.

During my frequent visits to the village, I met many oral historians who narrated stories from the pre-partition times. Of these, Gulzar Khan, 85, was one of the more well informed persons.

Gulzar gets up early in the morning and goes to sit with his friends under the old banyan tree in the village, recalling memories of the pre-partition days. He still remembers his old Hindu and Sikh friends from childhood. In the community, he is greatly respected for his knowledge of history and oral traditions of the Potohar region.

In fact, he is considered an expert on the oral history of Gulyana village.

Sikh samadhis in Gulyana.

A closer view of the Sikh samadhis.

A Sikh haveli in Gulyana.

A Sikh haveli.

Gulzar Khan of Gulyana Village.

During my conversations with him, I learned that Gulyana was predominately inhabited by Hindus and Sikhs before the partition. Diwan Prithvi Chand, Tek Chand and Bakhshi Moti Ram were the notable Hindus of this area, who controlled the business of Gulyana and its neighbouring towns.

I was amazed at his descriptions of the minutest details on the nobility and the monuments of Potohar.

From the names of rivers, hill streams, lakes, monuments to dignitaries and tribes, I recorded everything that Gulzar shared with me. He also knew the names of an entire list of Muslim, Hindu and Sikh merchants and philanthropists in the area. Two of the eminent Sikh merchants of Potohar, Bali Singh and Tara Singh, belonged to Gulyana; they built schools, hospitals, havelis, temples and gurdwaras.

Explore: The havelis of Potohar: Pakistan's opportunity to promote heritage tourism

Today, the buildings constructed by the Hindus and Sikhs break the skyline of the village. There are about four havelis, one temple and two samadhis, all preserved very poorly.

The haveli of Tara Singh, which still stands out in the landscape, is three-storeyed and noted for its wooden windows and ornately carved doors. The main entrance to the havelis is decorated with floral designs.

The main entrance to the Tara Singh Haveli.

A carved wooden door in the Tara Singh Haveli.

The two samadhis lie one kilometer east of the village. Of these, one is larger, with shikhara (superstructure). The interior of the samadhi is decorated with paintings depicting Sikh and Hindu mythologies.

On the southern wall is the painting of Baba Guru Nanak, with his two companions Bala and Mardana. And, on the western wall are depictions of Ram and Sita with Hanuman and Laxman. Hanuman, the monkey god, is shown paying homage to Ram and Sita.

The southern wall depicts the stories of Krishna, with gopis (milkmaids) and Radha. The northern wall depicts Shiva with his wife Parvati and Vishnu with Lakshmi.

Depiction of Baba Guru Nanak with Bhai Bala and Mardana.

Floral painting in a Sikh samadhi.

Paintings of Rama and Sita with Hanuman in a Sikh samadhi.

Floral painting in a Sikh samadhi.

A depiction of Radha and Krishna in a Sikh samadhi.

Shiva and Parvati.

On the western and southern sides of the samadhi are three old wells, two of which are still used by the locals for irrigation. On the northern side is another small samadhi. Gulzar Khan and Abdul Rahan (another oral historian in the village) confirm that two Sikh notables were buried inside these samadhis.

To the west of these Sikh samadhis stands a Hindu temple. Intricate floral designs decorate the interior of this temple.

A Hindu temple in Gulyana.

A closer view of the temple.

A painting inside the Hindu temple.

The temple is believed to have been built by Bakhshi Moti Ram, who was the grandfather of Tek Chand. According to Gulzar Khan, Tek Chand embraced Islam after the partition. He had three sons, Roshan, Bhera and Shal, who migrated to India.

Sadly, all of these magnificent buildings lie in complete neglect; the locals use the samadhis to store firewood. The walls are decaying and so is their glory. There is an urgent need to initiate their preservation and appoint a night watch to protect this heritage from vandalism.

Until that happens, these structures will die a slow death and eventually, so will Gulzar Khan's stories.

—Photos by author

Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro is an anthropologist and teaches tourism, globalisation and development at the Pakistan Institute of Development Economics, Islamabad.

He can be reached on Facebook.

The human mind is like a photo album; once you've opened it, you can not help plunging deep into memories of the past.

Science has advanced so much, it can do miracles to provide comfort to the human body, but what about the soul which is invisible, and habitually restless? There are no gadgets to comfort the soul. The only way to achieve that is to travel, to see, to feel and admire the nature that has borne it in the first place.

Gilgit is like a square. From here, paths lead on to beautiful valleys, rivers, springs, waterfalls, plains and ancient settlements. Before Gilgit, a road turns to Skardu, and another to Naltar. The third one takes you to Hunza and all the way to Khunjerab Pass.

The fourth leads you to Ghizer. A wayfarer travelling along with the Ghizer River reaches the Shandur Pass, after which comes Chitral.

Ghizer is the land of colorful waters. Dotted with trees, this area is literally paradise on earth, and the Phunder valley (also spelled Phander), is the feather in its hat.

It is Muharram when I decide to visit Ghizer during my stay in Gilgit; an autumn sadness has enveloped the entire valley.

As I leave Gilgit and move forward, the Karakoram mountain range is left behind. The jeep is now throttling ahead to the Hindu Kush mountain range. As soon as I get on to Ghizer Road, the Ghizer River joins along to give me company. Its cold waters filled with trout fish. Across the river are small settlements housing the locals.

We move forward from Sher Qila and the towns of Gahkoch and Puniyal welcome all travellers on the main road. Gahkoch is the centre of this district. After Punial, there’s a small settlement on the right of the river, named Gich.

The entire village is covered with grapevines filtering sunlight and filling the air up with the fragrance of grapes; this village is said to produce the most grapes in this region. You can't help but fall in love with the grape clusters hanging off vines that crawl all over the village.

I know Gich only for its grapes and soothing shades. I love walking in its streets, in the shadows of tree leaves. This village is completely isolated. Nobody leaves the main road to come here save the locals. That’s why the villagers are surprised to see a new face, children run away with shyness and elders do not stop staring. It is strange to describe but once here, there is a vibe urging you to leave it to its isolation.

Ghizer shares its borders with Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. On one side are the high mountainous regions of Swat, while on the other side is Chitral.

This district is also connected to Tajikistan through Yasin valley and Karumber Pass. The population mostly comprises of Gujjars. The word Ghizer is derived from local language’s “Gharz”, which translates to “immigrant”.

The rulers of Chitral were known as Mehtar. The people they didn’t 'approve of' were exiled to Gupis in Ghizer. These people soon occupied most of the Gupis. When the royal system was abolished due to the political reforms of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, Ghizer was granted the status of a district.

The district has remained under the influence of several Rajas. It has been ruled by the Katuray, Brushay, Khoshwatay families in the past, and was ultimately divided between Chitral’s Mehtar and Kashmir’s Maharaja. After 1895, Ghizer was merged with Gilgit agency, which was under the control of the British Raj.

Gahkoch’s crowded bazaar is now left behind, and my jeep moves forward through small settlements once again, until I reach Gupis. There’s the Khalti Lake near the road. This lake was formed when the river water stopped at a plain. The river keeps flowing by the lake. A few children are selling boiled potatoes at the road. Potatoes around here have their own unique taste.

I leave the road and head out to the lake. Peering in, I can see small fish swimming happily underneath the reflection of these massive mountains.

Soon after, clouds begin to cover up the sky. Strong winds ripple up the surface of the lake. At a little distance, I spot a couple of men fishing. The first raindrop falls and my heart flutters, wiggling faster than the tiny fish under these waters.

It is now raining. The day is soaked and so is the traveller by the lake. Rainwater starts flowing down the mountainsides; the valley is enveloped in an eerie silence.

Soon enough, the rain stops and the sun rays find their way from behind the clouds. I so want to see a rainbow and one is probably about to take form too, when nature takes one look at my entranced state and decides to fold up its colours for the day.

The already cool day has become even cooler. I leave the place, and my jeep starts moving forward on the wet road.

The Ghizer River is my companion in the journey once again, the second one is Abida Parveen’s voice. My other companions are the groups of children, shy smiles of little girls, the smiling elders and the surprised faces of women.

One after the other, places and settlements came and passed. Again, there is a downpour. Again, the sun wins its way back through the clouds. A farmer stops ploughing his fields to wave at me.

I am looking outside the jeep’s window. The sight is so breathtaking that I forget to blink. Now, my companions are the colours: The green of fields, the red, yellow, orange, and amber of autumn itself. The khaki of the few fields that had been harvested. The gray of wet electric wires. The stone and crimson of walls. The deep blue sky from behind the clouds.

I feel as if I am riding not a jeep but a boat in a sea of colours. Suddenly the sailor lowers the anchor, and the boat stops.

Right below the spot is a body of deep blue, still water, with autumn-hit poplar trees on its banks. This is Lake Phunder; I have arrived at Phunder Valley. I remember visiting this valley before. At that time, the sun was going down, and the shadows of the poplar trees were growing taller. Half of the valley was lit up, and half of it dark.

The sky clears up once again, with only a piece of a cloud lingering on. I keep looking at it to see if it has moved an inch or two perhaps, but it never does. The poplar leaves keep breaking off their branches and blowing in the wind. Suddenly, I hear the flapping of wings. I look around, but there’s no bird. I look at the cloud again, which is still there.

Again, there is a flapping of wings. This time, I see a bird fly past and perch itself on a tree branch in front of me. This is the Bird of Paradise. It has blue wings and a foot long tail. This bird lives in Pakistan’s northern areas, but its sightings are rare. As it flies away, I start looking at the cloud again.

The valley starts lighting up; the cars on the road turn on their lights. The cloud patch is turning redder and ultimately turns black. Sitting on a hill and watching the valley being enveloped in darkness is an out of this world experience!

When, with every second, the shadows grow longer, an eternal sadness takes over within — night is falling in the Phunder valley of Gupis. The lanterns light up, and chimneys start giving off smoke. The cloud patch is now nothing but a silhouette, still lingering at the same spot.

In the morning, things get livelier. Men and women work in the fields, the older children help them out in the fields, while the younger ones play. A man hunts a big bird near the lake. He doesn't know the name of the bird yet, but does know that its meat is delicious and its feathers are used as adornment in traditional Chitrali caps.

Half of my day has been overcast, but by the evening, the sky is fully clear. Located right above the Phunder Lake, the Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation (PTDC) Motel is crowded today.

Roaming outside after lunch, I see a French man with a think beard and long white hair. At first, I wonder if he is a dervish or a hippie. He addresses me in broken English and I walk up to him. He sits puffing a cigar, looking at the lake below.

He tells me that his son was a big admirer of Pakistan’s northern areas, and eventually died here. His son was inspired by Reinhold Messner (renowned mountaineer) and was an experienced mountaineer himself. His dead body couldn’t be brought down from the K2, and when finally it could be, his mother buried him in Austria, where she herself hails from.

Now, the father comes to Pakistan every once in a while, and since he himself is unable go to the K2 after crossing the Baltoro Glacier, he spends some time here in the northern areas before returning.

He tells me that on his first visit to Pakistan, he was full of hate. He hated Pakistan and mountains but then he gradually fell in love with the very valleys which had taken his son's life. As his story ends, I say a few words of comfort and take leave. I don’t want to come in between the memories of his son, his cigar, and his view of the lake.

I sit on a chair, at a helipad behind the PWD Rest House, and look out at the valley. The very thought of death in the northern areas of Pakistan is very romantic notion for me. Especially when the sunlight slides down the mountains and the sky changes colours, at that moment I can't help thinking, 'I have to die one day, why not in a place as beautiful as this?'

The night gets darker and I feel the chill settling inside my bones. I head indoors. Thus ends a day at Phunder.

After Phunder, my next stop is Teru. It is a small village with numerous small islands in River Ghizer. There is green velvety grass on these islands and some trees, everything always shining under the moonlight and starlight.

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I feel cold walking by the River Ghizer. It is a night of deep silence, I can’t hear anything save for the roaring of the river. In the dim moonlight, the once visible islands are now just silhouettes. It is indeed a joy to place my hands inside my jacket and walk alone in the valley, looking out for shooting stars.

Teru is a magical land, and magical is the night here. As I write this article on a hot night of June, I raise my head occasionally and sense my wall turning into a screen, with apparitions of the beautiful scenes from that night forming up one after the other.

Ibn-e-Insha's Chand Nagar is half-open on my bed. He has extensively used the metaphor of the moon in his poetry. I wonder what inspired Insha Ji to do so, for in the light-polluted metropolises, stars are seldom visible. I enjoy watching the north star in the night; it looks at me and I look at him.

The north star is always found at the same place. It doesn’t change its position, though I do, and have, over time, been looking at it from different locations. The north star may be shining over Gilgit Baltistan and at the same time, its reflection would be shimmering in the Sheosar Lake, and on the sleepy homes of Hunza Nagar. It might be visible in the lakes of Ghizer, or from the high valley Naltar, on the settlements of Ghanche, and on the fields of Rama village.

There is a similar star in the south, but too dim to be seen easily. That star might be shining over the city of Jhang, for which someone had left the throne of Hazara. These two stars are the metaphors of love, and are always found in the same place. The Moon is the metaphor of wilderness, and remains in journey throughout the night.

Gilgit Baltistan had ended. After this, it was Shindoor, from where Khyber Pakhtunkhwa starts. That is the land of Chitral, and home to the Kalash people.

I cannot see Insha Ji’s moon today, but I recall a couplet from his book Chand Nagar:

اب کوئی آئے تو کہنا کہ مسافر تو گیا
یہ بھی کہنا کہ بھلا اب بھی نہ جاتا لوگو

Ab koi aaye to kehna ke musaafir toh gaya,
Ye bhi kehna, ke bhala ab bhi na jaata logo?

If someone comes now, tell him the traveller is gone And also ask him, did he not wait for too long?

Syed Mehdi Bukhari is a Network Engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion.

He can be reached on Facebook.

Translated by Bilal Karim Mughal from the original in Urdu here.

Every time I had a break from studies or official work, I rushed to Gujar Khan, Kallar Syedan, Sagri, Daultala, Sukho, Dora Badhal, Beval, Doberan Kallan, Hazro, Kot Fateh Khan, Qutbal, Harnal or Haryal to visit the wondrous temples, gurdwaras and havelis.

Haveli of Bakhshi Ram Singh at Kontrilla.

Havelis in Narali village.

A View of Atam Singh haveli at Daultala.

The distinctive features of Potohar's havelis have always attracted me.

These havelis belonged to Muslim, Hindu and Sikh notables. The word 'haveli' is of Persian origin, meaning a great mansion associated with wealth, status and size. In architectural terms, the haveli was merely a very grand version of the modern urban house.

A small list of the havelis in the small and big towns of Potohar include the Khem Singh Bedi haveli in Kallar Syedan, Atam Singh Gujral and Jeevan Singh havelis in Daultana town, Sikh and Hindu havelis in Narali, a haveli of Bakhshi Ram in Kontrilla, a haveli of Ratan Singh in Sagri, and several others in Gulyana and Dora Badhal villages.

Inscription in haveli of Bakhshi Ram Singh, Kontrilla.

Front facade of Jeevan Singh haveli in Daultala.

Children looking out from a window in Jeevan Singh haveli.

Haveli of Bakhshi Ram singh at Kontrilla.

Some of the common elements which stood out in all havelis were the 'jharokas', carved wooden doors and wall paintings, reflecting the taste and aesthetics of the builder. One such ornately carved door can be seen in the haveli of Dr Zaman in Basali village, Rawalpindi district.

An old man of Kontrilla who narrated the story of the Bakhshi Ram Singh family.

The jharoka held an important place with both the artist and the owner. These small, enclosed balconies were generally built on the upper floors, and used by both males and females.

Locals, including the present occupant of the havelis told me that the central jharoka was always occupied by male members of the family, while the flanking jharoka was used by the women. Chaudhry Sajjad Hussian, an oral historian in Gujar Khan, explained that the number of windows and jharokas indicated the affluence of the owner.

A window in Atam Singh Gujral haveli in Daultala.

Jharoka in Jeevan Singh haveli in Daultala.

Jharoka in the haveli of Bakhshi Ram Singh.

Then, there are the towers; splendid towers surmounting the top of the havelis. The most beautiful ones I have seen are found in the havelis of Bakhshi Ram at Kontrilla and in a haveli in Wah town. They were designed to offer a panoramic view of the town or village.

Also read: Footprints: Soojhan Singh Haveli in ruins

Passing through the narrow alleys of Kallar Syedan, one gets to the imposing Khem Singh Bedi haveli, which was turned into a school after Partition. I appreciate that the school staff or students have taken care not to defaced any of the figures decorating the haveli's interior. Most of the haveli's rooms are adorned with paintings depicting the Sikh Gurus, saints, Baba Sri Chand (the eldest son of Guru Nanak and founder of Udasi Panth) and Hindu deities.

View of Khem Singh Bedi Haveli at Kallar Syedan.

A painting inside the Khem Singh Bedi Haveli.

Another painting.

A depiction of the Golden Temple of Amritsar in Khem Singh Bedi Haveli.

Depiction of a Sikh woman.

A Sikh woman looks herself up in the mirror.

Another painting of a Sikh woman.

I often wonder why the government of Punjab is not making serious efforts to promote tourism in the Potohar region; the only known tourist destination in Potohar is Katas Raj.

Like in Rajasthan, where the havelis have been turned into hotels to promote heritage tourism, the Punjab government too should follow the same model and declare all the havelis here as heritage sites. Not only will that promote heritage tourism, it will also create more job opportunities for the wonderful locals of Potohar.

—Photos by author

Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro is an anthropologist and teaches tourism, globalisation and development at the Pakistan Institute of Development Economics, Islamabad.

He can be reached on Facebook.

It is hard to miss the men and women sitting on footpaths on either side of this road, creating craft from reed and bamboo sticks. You’ll see their handiwork spread out beside them: chairs, blinds, tables and wall-decorations.

This is a common sight for the residents of Hyderabad; they frequent these roadside artisans with specific designs and detail for custom-made furniture and house decorations.

A Jogi male smiling despite the odds.

Jogi families work together. Their women make sure the families end the day's work in time.

Precise measurements are important. Once the reeds have been cut according to these measurements, the next phase begins.

Two or more people work in unison when making reed-blinds.

A decorative fan. Such objects are quite popular in Sindh.

The exhibition of their handiwork speaks volumes of their talent. But who are these people? And why do they spend their days on the city’s footpaths?

This group of talented individuals call themselves ‘Jogi’. Fascinatingly, these people have a diverse set of roots, hailing from places such as Rajasthan and Gujarat in India and Tharparkar in Pakistan. Jogi is a colloquial term for Yogi, a Sanskrit word. The word Jogi suggests a sense of hermitage and religious devotion, but in this context, Jogi refers to the community itself. Seemingly, they have adopted this title after decades of being together.

Mostly, the families are Hindus. According to them, their forefathers used to have their own houses in the area where they currently live, but those were taken away from them.

Land belonging to them was snatched, and tall buildings were erected where their homes once stood. Initially, they were promised reimbursements but literally decades have passed and no help has been offered.

All he wanted was a good photo, nothing else.

Initially shy, she started smiling once a fellow jogi encouraged her. He even helped her adjust the headdress.

These kids hope to get an education some day.

The most curious child of them all. He followed me around for more photos and laughter.

Life is difficult for these craftsmen. Narang Das, one of the members of the settlement, spoke about the issues they face, “It is difficult to live in these conditions. We have been promised so much but nothing has happened. We want to live better lives.”

They spend their nights in tiny quarters. With so little space, it especially gets difficult to get any sleep in the summers. A few of them then come back to sleep on the pavements.

Ashok, another member of the Jogi settlement, remarked that he doesn’t see much hope. He, along with a few other men, want to leave Pakistan and settle somewhere in India and start a new life.

The constant social pressures are only adding to their misery. Ashok also said that their grandparents lived respectable lives, and they were here before the creation of Pakistan. Sadly, no one wants to listen to their stories.

Stories of how they create beautiful crafts on footpaths under a scorching sun all day to feed their families. How their children, who could be studying in schools and universities, now have to work alongside their parents. Ashok also expressed his disappointment in the government of Sindh, which promised free education to their children, and never delivered.

Narang Das wakes up early every morning, and lives for the day.

Jogis make reed-blinds more commonly known as 'chiks'. They also make wall-decorations, chairs and tables out of bamboo and reed sticks.

Jogis also include photos, ajrak prints and little mirrors into the wall-decorations, which are part of the Sindhi art.

Jogis also include photos, ajrak prints and little mirrors into the wall-decorations, which are part of the Sindhi art.

Special orders can include complex flower designs, maps, images of a religious/political nature, calligraphic texts and so on.

On the footpaths, they wait for customers. There are long stretches of days when they won’t get even one order, and when such a time comes, they pick up their handiwork and walk through the streets of Hyderabad, hoping to sell some.

There is also a Christian family in the settlement. Their roots are Goan. While talking to Leon, one of the children of the family, I learned that they speak fluent English, apart from Urdu, at home.

It is indeed saddening to see how these people are being treated in the land where their grandparents once lived.

Considered of no importance by their countrymen, their struggle continues, as their hopes diminish.

—Photos by author

Syed Zeeshan Ahmed loves exploring the past and beyond.

He blogs at www.iamzeeshan.blogspot.com. And tweets @ImZeesh.

There is neither a military check post, nor any signs of civilian settlement here. This is the Pak-China border, and I am standing at the Khunjerab Pass, with my face towards Pakistan’s brother, China.

The Pakistani segment of the Karakoram Highway, which is also dubbed as the eight wonder of the world, ends here. From here, this highway goes through the bluish waters of the Karakul Lake, settlements of nomads, and through the areas harbouring wild mountainous camels with two humps, and finally ends at Kashgar.

From here, a road leads to Yarkand, and another leads to the Taklamakan Desert, which is the world’s second largest desert, with shifting sand dunes.

The border is protected with barbed wires. As I stand, a flock of sheep appears in sight, moving aimlessly, and then entering the Chinese territory for grazing. The sheep stop by the grass, covered with tiny snowballs, sniff it, and move ahead instantly as if expressing dislike. There is no herdsman with the flock, which is usual in the northern areas. The birds and animals have no borders, but I have to return from this point.

My next destination is Attabad Lake in Hunza.

Among the blackish and forsaken mountains of Karakoram, there is this lake, which came into being purely by chance, it is one of Pakistan’s biggest fresh water reservoirs. This 22-kilometer long and 220-feet deep lake is filled with the blue waters of River Hunza, when a landslide in 2010 blocked its flow, creating a landslide dam. Strong winds in this narrow mountain pass create ripples in the blue-green water of the lake.

With the creation of this lake, more than 18 kilometers of the Karakoram Highway has been submerged, lost somewhere in the depths, suspending transportation by road. Now, the only option is to cross the lake, reach the Hussaini Village, and get on the Karakoram Highway again.

The lake is terrifying. Not only did it drown several villages and people, but it has also affected trade with China. Now, the lake has its own ‘traffic’, boats, big and small, which transport humans, vehicles, and goods from here to there. The sailors are happy with the money oozing out of their pockets. The disaster has proven to be a tragedy for some, and a blessing for others.

As the boat is fully loaded, the sailor lifts the anchor. You couldn’t hear the person next to you in the terrible noise of engine, so everyone is involved in himself. The journey is 45 minutes long. As the boat makes a sharp turn, I see Passu Cones, a series of mountains pointed as nails.

Strong winds rock the boat, my heart easily skips a couple of beats. The sailor observing my face, smiles. I look past him at the Passu Cones, just to not feel the fear, I tell myself. The boat finally reaches the bank, and everyone gets off. The sailors are mostly Pakhtuns, who have come here to earn a living. I had a brief exchange with the sailor. He happened to have sailed in the Kabul River once, now the Attabad Lake is his second home.

I have reached the Hussaini Village. In the bright sunlight, the Passu Cones are bathed in gold.

This entire area is called Upper Hunza or Gojal. The Gojal Valley borders China and Afghanistan, with its border meeting the Chinese border at Khunjerab — 15,397 feet above sea level — and remains covered with snow all year long.

In the north west, there is Chiporsun, whose border touches the Wakhan region of Afghanistan. Wakhan is about six square miles in area, after which starts Tajikistan. The Karakoram Highway which connects Pakistan to China also passes through Gojal Valley and enters China at Khunjerab.

Before 1974, Gojal was part of the Hunza State, and was governed by the Mir of Hunza.

Gojal enjoyed tremendous importance owing to its strategic and agricultural value. The Gulmit Vvillage of Gojal was the summer capital of Hunza, where the Mir of Hunza used to hold his court and deliberations were made on a range of issues. Local music and dance programs would also be organised here, and Polo would be played in the vast rectangular ground in front of the palace.

Mir Muhammad Ghazan Khan, the Mir of Hunza announced an affiliation with Pakistan, but it enjoyed autonomy as a separate state till 1974. In Z. A Bhutto’s tenure, the political reforms brought the so-called fall of Hunza’s princely state. Since then, Gojal is identified as a Tehsil in the subdivision Hunza of Gilgit-Baltistan. Locally, it is also known as Upper Hunza, but in official documents, it is named Gojal.

As I exit the Hussaini Village, I see children crowding the road. Golden hair, blue eyes, and faces so red they could outshine apricots! Riding along the river, I reach Gulmit, Gojal’s most populated village.

It is autumn, and it feels as if the entire village is asleep in the cool afternoon. The blowing wind frees the leaves from trees, and this is the only sound I can hear.

The Passu Cones were in sight constantly. The fields have been harvested, and the farmers are resting in their homes. I pass by a few elderly women, wearing traditional caps, followed by naughty little children. In return to my salutations, I receive countless prayers. When my jeep moved forward, I could see the children waving in my rear view mirror.

Just one kilometer ahead, the Borith Lake appears. There is an old hotel at the bank of the lake, the taste of its food still fresh in my memory. The bank had tall grass; in the backdrop, there stand snow-covered mountains, and their reflection would cast a spectacular white in the murky water. Four waterhens lazily float on surface.

The lake is coloured black, and I feel joyous at the sight of these swamp chickens. But as Mustansar Hussain Tarar says, “What do four waterhens have to do with happiness?”. Happiness comes from somewhere inside. At some point in the past, the lake was home to waterlife and migrating birds, but now the level is reducing and the lake is gradually drying up.

The gang of waterhens flies and vanishes somewhere far away in the mountains. Happiness has nothing to do with them, but I sense my own fled with them. An elderly man came out of the hotel, welcomed me, and said: “Terrorism has badly affected tourism. Not many people visit such faraway lands now. Once in a blue moon there’s a random traveler, who becomes the source of my bread. You must click some nice photographs and show them to the world so that tourism once again gains momentum. Come, I will feed you some great meals.” His sweet bribe made me teary as I smiled at him in response.

A Danish girl approaches me and we start conversing — she is a doctorate student who is doing a thesis on climate changes in the Karakoram Mountain Rrange. She told me that she liked the lake so much, that she had been staying here at the Borith Lake for the past three months.

Then she asked me if I had ever seen the lake on a full moon night. I responded negatively. She insisted, “you won’t that photograph anywhere else.”

My driver and I eat, while she talks. When I am finally about to leave, she says, “Your country is beautiful, do go to the Batura Glacier if you happen to visit the Passu Village, I have seen swans gathering on the white snow of the glacier.”

My driver is astounded by her revelation and tells me. “Sahib, I’ve been living in this area since forever. I have never seen swans on glacier.”

I said, “She must be a passionate nature lover, and such lovers can see even pigeons on glaciers, I too have seen fireflies on the River Chenab”. My driver smiles at my response, and we arrive at Passu.

Darkness is enveloping the valley as our jeep enters the Passu Village. I check-in at a hotel and rest for a while. Then, I go out in the dark to countless stars shining in the sky like jewels. Outside, people have decorated their homes and worship places.

Men, women, children, elders, all walk towards the Jamat Khana for the birth anniversary of their religious leader. The night was cold but the people were out in the streets in high spirits. The sky was decorated with stars, and the homes with lamps.

I see the full moon, intricately placed at the tip of a mountain. I am suddenly reminded of the Danish girl, and her description of the full moon at the Borith Lake.

In the morning, I witness the same joy and fervour as last night. It was just like Eid ul Fitr. Faces filled with happiness, toys in hands, prayers on lips. This autumnal morning of Passu seemed even more beautiful.

My camera is in my bag. I have always felt that one should always avoid taking pictures during local festivals, especially when they are of religious nature. You are a stranger among them, why give them an excuse to object?

I had to leave this beautiful place, even though I really didn't want to. When you are travelling towards Sost from Passu, a jeep road turns to Shimshal. This is a vast area and its borders touch both China and Baltistan.

Pamir is also in the Shimshal Valley. Due to its hard terrain, it was disconnected from rest of the world until a jeep road was built here. The locals have given many sacrifices for the construction of this road.

Shimshal is famous for producing the country's finest mountaineers, including Samina Baig, who is the first Pakistani woman to have climbed Mount Everest. Shimshal’s Rajab Shah and Meherban Shah have scaled Pakistan’s highest summit. Experienced mountaineers in Pakistan mostly hail from Shimshal.

Sost, the last town of Pakistan, is filled with motor workshops. There is no other settlement on the Karakoram Highway when you leave Sost for China. After Sost, there is the Khunjerab Pass at 15,397 feet above sea level, where China and Pakistan’s border is located. Apart from Pakistan Customs office, there’s a dry port in Sost, where goods to and from China are stored.

A large number of traders and labourers from different areas of Pakistan dwell here, which has given rise to economic activities more than other places in the region. After Sost, a jeep road turns to the Chiporsun Valley. It’s northwestern part is connected to Afghanistan’s Wakhan area through the Irshad Pass.

Ahead of Sost is Khunjerab, which is the last Pakistani territory. The name actually is combination of two words Khun (blood), and Yeraf (glacial stream), and literally translates to 'Stream of Blood'.

It is said that an ancient psychic had once prophesied that a battle would be fought here, and that the bloodshed would be so great that the horse riders’ feet would be dripping with blood. Thus, the area is named so. This region is home to several rare species, including snow leopards, bears, and the golden eagle.

At Khunjerab, the snowfall is constant, enveloping streams, springs, roads, mountains, everything. I raise my head to look at the sky, soon my eyelashes are covered with snow. As I wipe my eyes, my driver states: “Sahib, Pakistan ends here, let’s go back home.”

He turns our jeep around, and I say to him: “Sharif, Pakistan doesn’t end, it begins here.” On my right hand, there is a sign which reads “Welcome to Pakistan.”

Translated by Bilal Karim Mughal from the original in Urdu here.

Syed Mehdi Bukhari is a Network Engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion.

He can be reached on Facebook.

I insist that we spare a day for sightseeing in the city where I spent most of my childhood. My acquaintances are not too thrilled — many assume Interior Sindh to be barren and boring. It is far from that.

Sindh takes its name from ‘Sindhu’, the Sanskrit word for ocean and a rather apt name for the gigantic river which traverses through its heart and fuels greenery and prosperity.

The construction of barrages, especially the one at Sukkur, has amplified the river's impact on the livelihood of Sindhis by manifolds.

The influence of the British regime can be felt strongly in Sukkur. The city prospered under the British rule, taking glory away from historical towns of Larkana and Shikarpur.

The construction of Sukkur Barrage and the railroad network firmly establishes Sukkur’s position as the hub of commerce and bureaucracy in upper Sindh.

Sukkur Barrage and Lab-e-Mehran

Sukkur Barrage is nothing short of an engineering marvel. The 5,000 feet long barrage was completed in 1932, irrigating more than 10 million acres through its seven canals.

The construction of the Sukkur Barrage acclaimed a new era of prosperity in Sindh after which, a number of Punjabi, Balochi and Pathan migrants settled in interior Sindh.

Unlike Karachi, all ethnicities blend in a manner that makes it difficult to tell them apart. They speak the same dialect and lead a lifestyle that is native to the area.

So much so, that the clan of Pathans in the interior are known as Sindhi Pathans.

Lab-e-Mehran, the park with a walkway along the left bank of the river is a famous getaway for the citizens of Sukkur. On a regular day, one is likely to find families gather around food stalls or enjoy a boat ride.

We settle at a British era guesthouse in an irrigation colony. Recent renovation has left the rooms gaudy and soulless.

The framed picture on the wall depicts a waterfall somewhere in the North of Pakistan. The windows are draped with thick dark curtains. The frequent breakdown of electricity has forced the municipality to limit electricity usage in public spaces.

Lab-e-Mehran - View from the left bank of river

Lab-e-Mehran - Waiting for visitors.

Masoom Shah Po Minaro

As we gather in the dining room the next morning, a variety of omelettes are served to us for breakfast. Our first destination is Masoom Shah Jo Minaro, which once served as a watch tower under the reign of Masoom Shah who was appointed as the governor by the Mughal Emperor Akbar.

We drive through crowded lanes around Neem Ki Chari, the central bazaar in the heart of the city.

We park our car and enter the boundary wall through a narrow opening that is seemingly lost between the busy shops.

A number of families are relaxing around the compound that consist of a baradary and a graveyard alongside the original tower.

I am told that Masoom Shah commissioned the tower in 1582, but that he passed away during the construction and was buried under the shadow of an incomplete tower.

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - Climbing the top

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - Here lies Masoon shah

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - The inscriptions inside the *baradary*

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - View of baradary and graveyard from the top

Masoom Shah jo Minaro - where Masoom Shah is burried

His son ensured the completion of the tower in 1607. The caretaker tells us the tower is 84 feet high and has 84 steps. We hand over our shoes to him and wait our turn to climb the ascent.

After waiting for some time, we finally enter the tower through the narrow gate. The circular staircase is narrow and steep.

There is no electricity inside and the only sources of light are tiny windows. People are climbing down at the same time and one has to make way for them.

Once we reach the top we further fight for space with a crowd of women and children. The women are sitting inside the small canopy at the top and the children are dangling from the iron cage installed along the viewing deck.

The view from the top is breathtaking. You can see most of Sukkur from here; Jamia Mosque, Sukkur Barrage and the river, clock tower, Adam Shah ji takri( The hill of Adam Shah) and the frenzied expansion of the city. I have known this city for ages and its current landscape looks unfamiliar to me.

Masoom Shah jo Minaro

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - Sukkur Ghanta ghar

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - Children swinging.

Masoon Shah jo Minaro - Intricate work inside *baradary*

After sight-seeing and taking photos, we climb down and head towards our car. Our host’s guard insists that we buy a souvenir from a nearby shop. He takes the novelist to a shop, which is quite similar to the shops at Sunday Baazar in Karachi.

People in the shop look curiously at our group. The shopkeeper asks me if the sahib with me is a minister.

At first I do not understand but soon realise that he is asking about the CSS guy who is dressed in white shalwar kameez, ajrak and golden Ray-Bans.

I chuckle and tell the shopkeeper that he is the Minister for Sound and Music. He asks me if the Minister sahib has brought me along to take his pictures. The hunter hears this and laughs hysterically.

Sadhu Belo

The Indus water looks so calm and serene. People tell me that the water has been steady for a while now though during the time of the 2010 floods, Sukkur was on high alert and water levels were monitored every morning.

The city has encroached upon the left bank of the river. We are here to take a ride to Sadhu Belo, an 18th century temple on an island off the Indus River.

According to a legend, a Sadhu by the name of Baba Ban Khundi, settled in this island in 1823 to preach Hinduism. Mir Sohrab Khan, the then ruler of the area, gifted the island to him as the Sadhu won his heart with his wisdom.

A boat waits for us while we seat ourselves. A Hindu pilgrim, accompanied by a woman and a child, sit next to us. He tells me that he visits the shrine regularly and has brought his wife and his granddaughter along today.

Sadho Belo - View from the boat

Sadho Belo - Waiting for the boatman

Sadho Belo - Walking leisurely across the buildings

On one end I can see Sukkur Barrage and on the other, I can see Lansdowne Bridge, which connects Rohri with Sukkur.

On a lucky day you can even get a glimpse of an endangered blind dolphin in the murky waters.

A priest at the shrine greets us. I am instantly awestruck by the intricate marble work on the façade of the compound.

On one side of the entrance I notice a couple of tableaux, which remind the visitors of the consequences of their choices.

Sadho Belo - Tableaux depicting a scene from hell

Sadho Belo - The view of residential quarters and offices

Sadho Belo - Various sculptures were carved out in pillars and plinths

One depicts a scene of naked sinners being tortured gruesomely while the other depicts righteous queuing in front of the gate of heaven.

I have never seen such graphic details before this at Hindu shrines in interior Sindh.

We walk past the entrance, there are beautiful balconies on each side of the alley, that make me feel like I am in Rajasthan.

The priest then takes us inside a compound where Shivling is kept on a marble floor. The intricate handcrafts on the walls and the roof are dazzling, but there is not much light for me to take a perfect shot.

I step out and look for the carvings done on pillars, as the marble glows in the shining sun.

The priest notices that we have a novelist amongst us and so decides to take us to the library on one end of the island.

There are many rooms around the compound. They tell me that it is used for housing pilgrims, who flock in thousands around the days of the festival at the shrine.

The caretaker then opens the library gate to let us in; the room has plenty of windows but they are all shut.

Sadho Belo - Doors to the hostel

Sado Belo - Residential Quarters

Sadho Belo - The view of library from outside

Sadho Belo - The library from inside

He starts looking for a light switch and turns it on and we find ourselves in the middle of a well-stocked library which reminds us of ancient times.

It mainly contains books on Hindu mythology in various languages.

The novelist opens the visitor book and starts flipping through the pages. The first page is signed by Zia ul Haq, an unlikely visitor, we think to ourselves. Later in the book, much to our surprise we find Vikram Seth’s entry. He has been here recently!

Sadho Belo - Rajhistani Jharokas

Sadho Belo - Rajhistani Jharokas

Greeted by the priest at the entrance

After the novelist has his time with the books, we step outside and take al leisure walk around the bank of river.

The island is dotted with Neem, Acacia, Peepal and other local trees, which I am unable to identify.

The setting is picture perfect for a postcard shot - peaceful and serene - like one of those where you would like to lie down and spend the whole evening without caring about anything else.

We quickly take a tour of various small temples on the island, which belong to Hanuman, Ganesh and others.

Sadho Belo - The Priest explaining the significance of Sadho Belo

Sadho Belo - Inside the temple

Sadho Belo - Krishna

Sadho Belo - Waving farewell to the priest

Sadho Belo - Waving the hindu priest goodbye

Lansdowne Bridge

Lansdowne bridge

Abode of Seven - Backdrop of Lansdowne bridge

Abode of Seven - View of Lansdowne bridge from the river bank

From the boat, I see a graveyard on the right bank of the river. The boatman tells me that this place is known as Satyun-jo-Astaan: The Abode of Seven.

After reaching the halt we decide to get here and discover the history the place beholds. We drove through Lansdowne Bridge which was constructed in 1889 and named after Lord Lansdowne, Viceroy of India. Below we can see the shrine of Zindapir.

There are all sort of legends associated with the bridge. Some say that the British engineers who designed it were not sure of its stability so the first train that crossed the bridge was full of prisoners waiting for capital punishment. The train crossed the bridge successfully and the British Sarkar let go of the punishment for all the prisoners on board.

And of course some people tell stories of its survival during 1965 war when the bridge was a prime target of Indian bombardiers.

According to them, Zindapir stood on top of the bridge and directed bombs into water. And then again someone speculated that there lied a hidden key somewhere that could be used to split the bridge into two halves.

Abode of Seven

We continue driving towards the shrine and park our car under a Neem tree in front of the brick facade.

A staircase takes us to the shrine entrance. There we meet the caretaker, a middle aged man who tells us that centuries ago this place was immortalised in folklore when seven pious women made this place their eternal abode.

According to a legend they were followed by a prince who wanted to abduct them. They reached this place and finding no refuge prayed to the lord for protection. Miraculously, the land ripped apart and swallowed them inside.

“What about the maharaja?” The minister of sound and music inquires.

“What about him?” The caretaker was not expecting such a question.

“Why did not earth swallow him instead?” The minister of sound and music inquires further.

The caretaker does not know the answer. He shows us the entrance to the compound where symbolic graves still exist.

Only women are allowed inside. It is a popular shrine amongst women who believe that a visit to the abode can cure their sufferings.

We walk further to the top of mound. There is a graveyard at the top overlooking the Indus River.

The graves are made of yellow stone with beautiful carvings. The caretaker tells me that the one of the graves belong to, the then governor of Bakhar, Mir Abul Qasim.

There stands a decaying wall on one end which possibly serves as the boundary wall.

There is a beautiful arch which probably lead to a viewing deck back in the day. Blue tiles are used to decorate the arch and the wall.

Abode of Seven - A boatman arrives at rivers bank

Abode of Seven - Caretaker telling us the legend

Abode of Seven - In the shadow of sun

Abode of Seven - climbing the staircase

Abode of Seven - Tile work on the facade

Abode of Seven - Tomb stones

Abode of Seven - Carvings and calligraphy on the tombs

Farewell note

We drive to the highway to continue our journey towards Lahore. I remember a friend telling me to visit these places with an open mind, or else the people and the buildings and even the skies and the landscapes will seem imperfect.

I must admit; Sukkur fills me with immense happiness.

Khalil Ahmed’s life story sounds like it could have come straight out of the plot of a Bollywood flick, but it didn’t. And that makes it all the more inspiring.

Residents of the sleepy town of Gambat, 500 km from the Pakistani port city of Karachi, where Ahmed was an all too familiar face, may not recognise the 12-year-old today.

Wearing a clean, pressed uniform and polished shoes, his hair oiled and neatly combed, and his fingernails immaculately trimmed, he is a far cry from the scrawny, dirty, bedraggled young boy of eight who, just four years ago, could be seen clutching his grandmother’s hand, pleading for alms from passersby.

Sometimes he would even beg outside the Behram Rustomji Campus – the school where he is now enrolled as a pupil.

Currently in the fourth grade, his teachers say he is one of the brightest kids in his class of 20 students, 13 of whom are girls.

Khalil Ahmed pictured in his classroom. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Khalil Ahmed pictured in his classroom. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Khalil Ahmed pictured taking notes at his school - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Located in Pipri village, where over 95 per cent of the roughly 1,000 households earn their living by begging on the streets, this humble institution has given Ahmed a rare chance to receive an education, in a country where 42 per cent of the population aged 10 years and older is illiterate.

In this remote village, 45 km away from Sukkur city, the third largest in the Sindh Province, Ahmed and scores of other children like him are moving gradually away from the begging bowl and closer to pencils and schoolbooks, implements far more suited to young children with any hope of a decent future.

Students of the TCF Gambat school peep put of their classroom window. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

The TCF school in Gambat. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Students at the Gambat TCF school pose for a picture - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Rampant illiteracy

The school is run by a non-profit organisation called The Citizens Foundation (TCF), created in 1995 by a group of ordinary citizens who were appalled at the dismal state of Pakistan’s education system.

True to its pledge, TCF today runs 1,060 ‘purpose-built’ schools all across the country dedicated to serving the most marginalised communities and to removing class barriers that hinder opportunities for the poor, who comprise 22 percent of this country’s population of 180 million people.

Prior to enrolling at the Behram Rustomji Campus, Ahmed was both the product and the image of the vast inequalities that plague Pakistani society, hindering its efforts to reach the United Nation’s Millennium Development Goals (MDGs), whose deadline expires later this year.

Poverty and illiteracy are among the most severe challenges to Pakistan’s development, and although some progress has been made to level the playing field and give all citizens a fighting chance, huge gaps still need to be closed.

For instance, according to the Pakistan Education for All 2015 Review Report, published in collaboration with the UN Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (Unesco), an estimated 6.7 million children are currently out of school, the majority (62 per cent) of whom are girls.

Of the roughly 21.4 million primary-school-aged children currently enrolled in schools, only 66 per cent will survive until the fifth grade, the UNESCO report predicts, while 33.2 per cent will drop out before completing the primary level.

The situation is worse for street children, who in order to help their destitute families make ends meet, are forced to wander for hours eliciting spare change.

The Society for the Protection of the Rights of the Child (SPARC) believes there are about 1.5 million children living and working on Pakistan’s streets.

Few will ever see the inside of a school, or find decent work. Most are simply condemned to a life of poverty among the ranks of the 22 million people here who earn less than 1.25 dollars a day, according to the World Bank.

Experts are agreed that absent a decent education, children born to low-income families are far less likely to climb the socio-economic ladder.

A little girl who is a student at the TCF Gambat school smiles for the camera. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

A young student smiles for the camera, she plays in the school ground during recess. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Students look into the camera during a cllass at the TCF Gambat school. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Tackling inequality in the classroom

Luckily, TCF schools are helping to turn this tide by offering a “pay as you can” option for families who cannot afford school fees.

“Our minimum fee is ten rupees (about 0.09 dollars) per month, and the rationale for this is that people value a service that has some monetary cost attached to it,” Ayesha Khatib, content manager at TCF’s marketing department, explained to IPS, adding that the average monthly expense borne by a family amounts to no more than 30 rupees (0.29 dollars).

While this amount is not negligible to those living on the brink of starvation, to kids like Ahmed it is a small price to pay for the world of opportunity it allows.

“I didn’t like what I was doing,” he confessed to IPS. “I didn’t want to be seen as a beggar. It hurt when people hurled abuses, or said nasty things.”

With Ahmed now spending most of his time studying, his mother has joined his father on the streets to make up for lost income. Between them they earn a few dollars a day, money that generally goes immediately on buying food for the family.

Khalil Ahmed pictured with his family at his home. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Khalil Ahmed's family pictured at their home in Gambat. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Khalil Ahmed pictured with his sister at his home in Gambat. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

And they are not alone in their woes.

Rabail Abbas Phulpoto, the school’s 25-year-old principal, told IPS that 85 per cent of her students come from families who beg for a living and were thus reluctant to lose their breadwinners to the blackboard.

“I started engaging with the community about three years ago,” Phulpoto explained. “There was resistance at first but after eight months of persistent dialogue, I found [parents] relenting.

A few sent their boys, but not their girls, and I found out that even those kids were continuing to beg after school.”

Today, 235 of the 350 students in the school are former street children. “The importance of education has finally sunk in,” she said, “and each [child’s] story is more inspiring than the last.”

Ahmed, for instance, worked for a mobile phone company for a while. Now he has learnt how to fix phones, and wants to use his education to become a computer engineer when he grows up.

Perhaps most importantly, the social barriers between the well-off students and their less fortunate peers are slowly breaking down. Whereas once the more privileged kids had avoided even sitting next to children from beggar families, now there is more fluidity, and more understanding, Phulpoto said.

A girl revising her lesson during class. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Khalil Ahmed pictured before starting a football match - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

A girl smiles for the camera during a class at the TCF school in Gambat. - Photo by Mustafa Ilyas

Baela Raza Jamil, director of programmes at the Centre for Education and Consciousness (Idara-e-Taleem-o-Aagahi, or ITA) and coordinator of the South Asia Forum For Education Development (SAFED), referred to this initiative as transformative, both for the children and their families.

“I am sure each day they bring home newfangled ideas […],” she told IPS.

“They are learning to do everyday mathematics, so they can help parents keep daily accounts.”

She hopes eventually discussions on earning options beyond beggary will ensue.

For children like Ahmed, that change has already come.

“I wish I’d grow up fast,” he told IPS, “so that my parents don’t have to work at all.”

This article was first published by IPS

As I make my way to the courtyard, I take a look around and get a sense of despair; the pale construction is massive, but it is discomforting to see half the place covered in sand, while the rest is wrapped in cobwebs. Broken bricks are scattered all around, who took down the blocks? I wonder.

Standing alone and empty, the Sir Henry Eye clinic in Shikarpur, was once crammed with hundreds of patients in a day, who would come in for treatment from all over Sindh.

Renowned for saving the sight of over 100,000 people, Sir Henry Tristram Holland, a British medical missionary, travelled across India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, providing ophthalmologic surgery and care.

The hospital in Shikarpur was established when a Hindu philanthropist, Shri Hiranand Mendha in 1909, requested Holland to treat patients in Shikarpur. Holland agreed to treat the patients free of cost but asked the philanthropist to help him build a hospital.

In just a years time, the hospital became one of the largest eye clinics in the world, treating up to 600 patients at a time. Its success became widespread and soon, eye specialists from all around the world from India to the United States came to the hospital for training.

With additional help, about 3,000 operations (1,400 for cataracts) were performed at the hospital during the two months it was open for each year.

It is recorded that Holland alone performed up to 70 cataract operations a day. Since the Shikarpur hospital's establishment, over 150,000 eye operations have been performed, including 77, 600 successful cataract extractions.

The building, which is declared as “Protected heritage” by the Culture Department, Government of Sindh is now falling apart, and allegedly occupied by a land mafia.

Holland's team hoping to keep his dream alive, still come here once a year to perform operations. Since the building cannot be used, they set up tents and tables to treat patients.

It is said that hundreds of patients from Shikarpur and neighbouring areas gather for free eye treatments each year when Holland's team visits.

It is well known that the city of Shikarpur, rich in culture and history was famed for its architecture and grandeur, making it one of historical cities of the sub-continent.

Keeping in view the heritage value of Shikarpur city, the Culture Department declared the whole city of Shikarpur, including houses constructed up to 1950, and its wood and iron works as “protected heritage” as defined in the Sindh Cultural Heritage (Preservation) Act 1994.

Despite such efforts, this eye clinic continues to be striped off its glory. The Sir Henry Eye Clinic branch in Quetta have the responsibility of maintaining the eye clinic in Shikarpur as well, but no one seems to come in for inspection. The building now lies barren and isolated, with only a marble plate reminding one of a place that was once a thriving hospital.

Also read: Requiem for a city

The author is the Sr.Special Projects Manager at Dawn.com

Follow her on:

Instagram - Twitter - Flickr

Public attitudes are often uncaring or misplaced and informed by stigma and widely held myths. For many families, the difficulties involved in dealing with other people’s reactions means that they are loath to expose their children to the public gaze.

Compounding the issue is a lack of facilities for disabled children, particularly in education. In Pakistan, an estimated 1.4 million kids are deprived of any form of schooling simply because they have no access to it, increasing their disenfranchisement.

However, there are institutions out there seeking to bridge the gap, and harness the potential of children with unique abilities.

This photo essay is the result of two days I spent at one such academy.

The aim is to raise awareness of special needs issues among children, show the human face of disability and work towards removing the stigmas and misconceptions around it.

Joining lego.

A child is helped down the stairs by his teacher.

A boy peers over a textbook.

Laughter during class: A student with Cerebral Palsy.

A child with Attention Deficit Disorder uses toys to help him learn.

Learning to write.

A group of kids take some time out.

A physiotherapy session.

Writing in braille.

A child shows off his classwork.

Posing for the camera.

Walking support in the physio room.

Disabled body, able mind.

Glancing through the doorway during class.

Alternative forms of learning.

A child with Down Syndrome separates himself from the other children to enjoy his lollipop.

—Permission was sought from parents of children and the institution for photos taken by the author .

Usman Ahmad is a British freelance writer based in Pakistan. He writes mainly on issues of human rights and minorities.

He tweets @usmanahmad_iam.

Some things are beautiful in their simplicity; others in their intricacy.

In the north of Pakistan lies an absolutely stunning district; Hunza Nagar, previously known as Brushal, this place is a lakeside paradise. Hunza and Nagar used to be separate princely states parted by the River Hunza which marked the border between the two states.

The small states of Hunza and Nagar were notorious for looting trader caravans that would come from China.

The British wanted to expand their trade to Russia from here, but the states wouldn’t allow them to. Thus in 1891, Nagar was invaded by the British Army led by Colonel Durand. British surrounded the Nagar’s Nalt Fort, and eventually seized it six months later.

Frame from Nagar.

A pathway in Nagar.

A view of Nagar Khas.

A view of Nagar Khas.

A view of Nagar Khas.

Soon power was transferred from the British to the Maharaja of Kashmir, but owing to the long distance, locals continued to live freely. Dongs, the capital of Nagar, was in Nagar Khas where royal courts and palaces of marble still exist. It remained the capital till the last royal of Maghlot Dynasty, Mir Shaukat Ali Khan, was in power.

Hooper is the most beautiful place in Nagar, a land of snow-clad mountains, but the sheer power of glaciers to carve out new landscapes makes them intricately gorgeous too. In Gulmit valley lies Rakaposhi Mountain whereas the Diran Peak stands tall in Minapin.

An Aerial view.

On the way to Hooper

Garden on the way to Hooper.

On the way to Hooper.

Rakaposhi view from Nagar.

Sunset on Altar peak from Nagar.

A cattle is pictured grazing

A cattle is pictured grazing

Heading towards Hunza through the Karakoram Highway, I notice a long line of vehicles standing in queues due to a massive landslide blocking the road near Minapin. My driver takes an alternate route through the Minapin village, as I watch the stunning scenery race past. From the precariously narrow and bumpy route my driver takes, I lookout for the Karakoram Highway.

After a two-hour drive, we finally manage to get back on the Karakoram Highway. While the engine accelerates briskly on our way to Hunza, for the first time ever, I see Nagar.

Luscious green grassland with Golden Peak in the backdrop, I see happy faces peering out, local children playing, women stretching their backs into the sunshine amid work, and animals grazing fields — Nagar is known for its serene village life.

As soon as one leaves Hunza and crosses the river bridge after Ganesh village, a road turning right leads to Hooper. Before Hooper is Nagar Khas, which used to be the centre of Nagar. The area is flecked with fruit trees including cherries, apples, and apricots.

Nagar Khas is full of hard-working, soft-spoken people with small homes and shops. A road from the Nagar Khas Bazar leads to the last village of north, Hispar, and another towards Hooper, which houses glaciers and the Rush lake. There is no human settlement after Hooper.

A child in Nagar.

A child in Nagar.

Golden Peak.

Under the tree.

View of Golden Peak.

Golden peak in background.

Going to Hispar, I see open-air courtyards built around homes of stones where children and domesticated animals play and live together. Just staring at the bright courtyards makes me want to spend a night here.

A little after the settlement is a waterfall with water as pure and sweet as honey. The people here are heart-warming and like to offer walnuts, apricots and other delights to tourists.

Children play outside their homes as I photograph them. A huge pear tree stands tall in the courtyard, laden with pears. Crisp copper leaves tumble from the trees and sway gently in the Autumn wind.

“Hey, get me some pears, won’t you please?” I jokingly ask. Unaware that someone inside the house can possibly hear me.

Just a few minutes pass and a young woman appears from behind the door, hiding her face behind a red dupatta she hands me a basket full of pears. As I thank her, she laughingly points at a leaf in my hair and disappears behind the door.

The pears are extremely sweet, I must share them with my driver!

A local at Nagar.

A child in Nagar.

Woman from Nagar.

A child in Nagar.

Autumn in Nagar khas.

I reach Hispar at sunset. The village does not seem like it belongs here. It looks as if it’s cut off from the rest of the world. A strange silence and coolness surrounds the air. I decide to stay here for the night.

As I stand in the valley shaking with cold, I see a shooting star. Scared, I close my eyes as I sense it approaching towards me, as if it’s going to drop any second but the next moment, it’s gone. It was frightening, but I long to see it once again.

In the wilderness, close-calls to death are a thrilling experience too. These ditched lands are not only filled with beauty and serenity, but also with terror and fear.

It’s a chilly morning up in the north. To get to Gojal’s village Hussaini, I have to cross the Attabad Lake.

The bank of the lake is crowded and everyone seems to be in a hurry to get to the other side. One side of the bank plumbs a lake formed due to a landslide blockage that holds back the flow of the river. On the other side lie black mountains. But I’m curious about the depth of the lake.

As I see my jeep being loaded onto the boat, I take a seat. The ancient-looking boat makes me dread the voyage even before it began. The life jacket is of poor quality and looks scarier than the boat.

Enroute to Hisper.

Enroute to Hisper.

Enroute to Hisper

Autumn in Hisper.

While reminiscing my childhood days, I zone out. Back in the day, on one of our family trips to River Jhelum, mother refused to let me go on a boat ride. I cried and cried, but there was no way she was going to let me sit on a worn-out boat. While I sat down by the river Jhelum and wept, the others enjoyed their ride.

I snap out of my bizarre memory as the journey comes to a halt. With children of the Hussaini village warmly waving at me, I leave behind my dejections, my fear of wrecked boats and the lifeless life vest.

Walking on the road.

Cherry blossom in Nagar khas.

Cherry blossom in Nagar Khas.

Garden in Nagar.

Attabad lake.

Translated by Bilal Karim Mughal from the original in Urdu here.

The writer is a network engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion. He can be reached on Facebook.

Earlier in my writeup on Deosai, I mentioned a grave of a young man. The valley is enveloped in darkness as I leave the place, my next destination being Astore.

Several trees grow along the trail with large shrubs running along each side of the route from Chillam to Astore. The course is just like any other mountainous route — uneven and bumpy. Passing through small towns and villages on the flank of the mountain, one can see a stream of ice-cold water gushing out from Deosai.

Ever since the dawn of civilization, humans have not only preferred living close to water but have also preferred travelling parallel to it for easier access. Walking through these vacant lands I can see dozens of villages and communities situated next to water springs, and then no settlements for long stretches.

Walking in the wilderness through small landslides along the Southern ridges of Nanga Parbat, there is no sight or sound of human beings for miles. Local men seldom show up with their herd of sheep and goats.

Going straight on Ratu is Astore, a small city and the central location of the district.

It is said that a mountaineer named Ghazi Makhpun arrived in the area and married a girl from Skardu’s royal family. His four sons became rulers of Skardu, Astore, Rondu, and Kharmang, and eventually the Dogras became powerful.

The Astore Bazaar brims with life. It is a town filled with noise and excitement and feels just like Peshawar. The sounds of jeeps, barbers, workshops, fruit and vegetable vendors and others surrounded the life around Astore.

But as soon as the sun hides behind the mountains, it gets so quiet, it is as if no human has ever been here before. A road from the bazaar takes you to Rama village, and right after this village is a beautiful and serene plain called Rama Meadow.

If you ever happen to find yourself in plain, ice-cold and milk-white water flowing in streams, sheep and cows grazing in peace, pine trees, Chongra’s ice-covered peak in background, and Nanga Parbat’s southern ridge is in view, then you are probably in Rama Meadow.

Just a little ahead of Rama Village, which is 11 kilometers from Astore, is Rama Meadow.

Since it had higher ridges than Astore, the jeep takes more than an hour to reach here, although there’s not much distance between the two. Women working in potato fields, happy children, and a scented atmosphere are the characteristics that define what we call, Rama village.

From Rama Meadow, a jeep road turns to Rama lake. You may miss the lake at first sight, but it is a fun ride up till here with Nanga Parbat in front and the forests alongside creating a strange sensation.

I decided to stay in the rest house of the forest. It is so cold here even in the summers. As the sun sets, I pick up a lantern and hit the meadow. There is no one there, except for a few people. The memories from the night are fresh in my mind to date.

There are only two motels in Rama Meadow; one is the Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation (PTDC) and the other, the Forest department.

One evening while sitting in the lawn of the Forest department's rest house, a group of female students of a Peshawar university decide to come and set camp.

The group of about 200 girls set their camps in no time, but forget to make an arrangement for washrooms. Since some military men are staying in the PTDC motel, it is inaccessible to anyone. Now there is only one washroom available, and that is in my rest house, next to my room.

The group manager, who is a doctor himself, and a very nice person, asks my permission to use the washroom. There isn’t any option but to say yes. Now I have to sit in the lawn the whole night; I am shivering and cursing myself.

The next morning there is a knock on my door again, and I get the silent message and decide to leave Rama.

My next stop is Naltar Valley. A paved but narrow road goes from Astore to Karakoram Highway, parallel to the river. The river and the road, both are equally frightening. Astore River merges in River Indus from here. Naltar is famous for its colorful lakes, it is situated at a drive of 2.5 hours from Gilgit. World’s tastiest potatoes are cultivated here. Covered with pine trees, this valley doesn’t seem to be a part of this world.

The population of Naltar mainly comprises Gujjars. Move ahead of the town, and there are lakes. The water is crystal clear with green plants easily visible at the base.

When I reach the lake after days of struggle with the Naltar’s snow, which hasn’t melted yet. The sunlight makes the snow softer, my feet stick in it easily. At some points, my legs are getting completely stuck in snow but this does not stop me from making it to the beautiful lake.

Suddenly the weather changes, and the sky becomes cloudy. I am finally here, turquoise waters with small islands in the middle, with strange shaped stones shining on the islands.

Small fish welcome me here. I don’t know which species they belong to, but in the mountains, one feels lucky to meet a life other than his own.

If you really want to experience paradise in this world, you should visit Naltar at least once. This place will make you fall in love with it.

Translated by Bilal Karim Mughal from the original in Urdu here.

The writer is a network engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion. He can be reached on Facebook.