In the old Islamabad area around Kohsar market, there are these pine trees that have grown tall over the years.

If one were to stand at the base of one of these trees and look straight up, one would feel that the canopy is touching the sky.

It seems like an optical illusion but to Abdul Rashid, a gardener by profession, the trees might not be touching the sky but one should not presume that they are "untouched by the sky.”

In a career spanning 30-40 years, he has seen these pines grow in front of his eyes. He talks about them as if they were his children.

Through the course of his career he has co-experienced the direct influence of the sky on them: the change of seasons, the setting and rising of the sun and the coming of rains, all have had a direct effect on the trees and greenery of Islamabad.

For Abdul Rashid – who has tended trees for a living –it is no exaggeration when he says: “The bread and butter I put on my family's table is a gift from the sky.”

Ideally one would have a longer conversation with him but the old gardener's eyes are panning the sky.

The sun, which he calls his ghari (wrist watch) is already facing westwards, towards the ancient ruins of Taxila –which once upon a time just like Islamabad was a bustling metropolis.

In an hour, the sun will be behind the Margallas.

It's a sign that he must begin his homeward journey. Abdul Rashid lives in a village in the Margalla hills and for many years has trekked down to Islamabad in the morning, and walked back up in the evening.

Rashid departs and an hour later, the hills completely take the sun in its embrace. Darkness descends upon the city and lights begin to illumine the streets and houses.

One house shadowed by the pines is where all the activity is going on tonight.

The owners of the house are hosting an annual dinner. A dinner that has been hosted for decades now to mark the end of summer. It is a tradition that dates back to the time when the pines were first planted in the neighbourhood.

And the tradition appears firmly rooted. By 10pm the house is packed with people. The host looks at his guests like a gardener surveying his plants and vows that if the skies don’t fall, he plans to pass this tradition on to his children.

The continuation and ‘growth’ seems preordained. The host's son, who is a senior banker in the city, is already falling into his role, as he is in-charge of all the arrangements.

It is a formal event, suit and tie, and being a terraced affair –from where one has a clear view of the Margallas – one feels dressed for the occasion.

One person who is a regular at this dinner is a journalist and year in, year out one bumps into him on the terrace.

The journalist is also a television personality, whose career one can say has grown like the pines of Islamabad.

He had come to Islamabad on a motorbike in the seventies and now readers of his Urdu columns know that he is in a position to pay for his children's education abroad.

He is famous for his political predictions. Over the years he has mastered the art of making predictions.

An ideal political prediction should have a fortune cookie type feel; it should be general and have the potential of multiple interpretations; in case one turns out to be wrong, one can immediately give it another interpretation.

But political predictions, whether made by a soothsayer on the other side of Margalla – Taxila –in 5th century BC or by a modern day political analyst on the Islamabad side in 2012 AD; the prediction sought remains the same: will the King stay or go?

Although this particular question on the terrace seems irrelevant as the PPP government is on the verge of completing its term.

But how is it possible, as on this same terrace, five years in a row people predicted all kinds of end game scenarios for the PPP government?

One guest remembering the late Fauzia Wahab, quotes that she had thanked the anti-democracy elements in the media for the longevity of the PPP government.

At first it sounds like an odd theory. When asked for an explanation, the following is given: In the past, twice the PPP government was removed and each time the PPP insiders were clueless of a conspiracy, till the last minute.

But this time around a coterie of journalists aligned with – powers that-be – high on their own supply of information, revealed each and every conspiracy through their articles and talk show appearances, before the conspiracy could go into effect, giving the PPP ample time to re-strategise.

The theory is too outlandish and is rejected out rightly by most guests enjoying an evening on the terrace.

But it gives way to conversation and polemics flow beyond the midnight hour. The final dissenting note on Fauzia Wahab's theory comes in the form of a question, by a guest who has smoked an entire cigar over the conversation: “How could two opposites – PPP and anti-PPP journalists – complement each other?”

The question goes unanswered because by this time the discussion has turned stale and traffic on the terrace is beginning to thin. It's basically time to call it a night.

In a few hours, the sun will rise and Abdul Rashid will again trek his way back to the city.

One wonders if the same question, "How could two opposites complement each other?” was put to the old gardener, what would he say?

Not much. Abdul Rashid has no formal schooling and still looks at the sky and the earth the way a resident of ancient Taxila looked, thousands of years ago.

But for him the sky and the earth have never been opposites, they have always been part of the same narrative: two pages of a single book.