Is It a teaching of the Lord Buddha or does the thought slip in from somewhere else? I am not sure but I remember reading in Gore Vidal's volume of memoirs titled Palimpsest (dictionary-meaning: a manuscript or piece of writing on which later writing has been superimposed) that it's a good idea for a man to take to the road at age 50.
By which he means that the man in question should have successfully fulfilled his worldly and social obligations - marriage, the raising of children, the pursuit of career - before donning a pilgrim's cloak and chucking everything aside. It's an appealing thought. It certainly is to me. Carefree, bound by no material ties, not having to worry about paying the bills, just walking from place to place, or shrine to shrine, and getting by on what is put in your mendicant's bowl. I know I won't do it but when the shadows of life close in on me - as I am afraid they must on all of us - this will remain one of my deepest regrets.
The closest I came to taking to the road was about 20 years ago while on a visit to Quetta. Picking up the morning papers I learnt that the urs or annual gathering at the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar was underway in Sehwan, deep in the heart of Sindh. Without further ado, I got on the next train headed that way, undeterred by the prospect of summer heat, it being then the month of June when the subcontinent is like a baking oven.
Where would I stay? I had no idea. Sehwan is a crowded place during the urs and it is not easy getting suitable or any other kind of accommodation. But the gods were kind for the first person I encountered as I got off the train was the assistant station master who on my inquiring offered me the hospitality of a room in his small house, a generous offer I was quick to accept.
The three days I spent in Sehwan passed in a dreamlike state. All by myself, I would walk round the shrine seeing gypsies dancing, including some very striking damsels of the desert. Then I would venture into the shrine and just sit in a corner watching the world go by. There was a lot of music and singing. The heat I felt not a bit but it must have told on me because when I returned to Islamabad and the one-room apartment which I then kept, I looked no better than a wandering gypsy of the desert myself.
I have never been to Sehwan since but how I long to retrace my steps. From Chakwal several busloads of people go to the urs every year, including some regulars from Basti Malangan, a small mohallah on the south side of Chakwal, some of whose residents (Natts by caste) are professional singers. A distant cousin of mine goes with them. On several occasions I have been invited to come along. I suspect the time is drawing near when I will take up this offer.
What is worse, being prisoners of routine or of one's fears? The art of living - which I think boils down to living as you want to, instead of according to social custom - doesn't come easy. Nor does it come to everyone. About myself too I know that if ever I take to the road, chances are it will only be in my imagination. Yet, setting out with nothing but a cloak on my back, a stave in one hand (to keep away the village dogs) and a begging bowl in the other is a thought that has always held me in thrall.
Escapism or philosophy? I think a touch of both. The dictatorship of responsibility which can mean a great deal to most people has never held much attraction for me. It's not enlightenment I seek but the pure joy of being able to behave like a bum.
But there are some problems on the way. I can't do without a minimum of toiletry: toothbrush, toothpaste, oil and shampoo for hair and, since I am particular about nails, a proper nail-cutter. For my hands which chap easily, some good skin lotion. I'd also have to wear my spectacles, with their grey lenses, for my eyes fare badly without this protection. Would these comforts look incongruous beside my begging bowl? They would certainly raise some eyebrows for I have yet to see a sadhu or fakir wearing spectacles of any kind, let alone photo lenses which darken in the sun. But there's always a first and I'd have to get used to this.
A few more essentials as well. Notebook and writing material, a few books - some well-thumbed favourites - to keep me company and, wait for it, a computer notebook with internet access (for which I'll need a mobile phone) on which to write and send my columns. Even while on the road I would still like to receive my monthly paycheck as items like toothpaste cost money. Food one can beg but not toothpaste.
How will I look? A true fakir is burdened with nothing. I'll still be wired up to cyberspace. But, no, this can't be helped. I'd like to take to the road but in some comfort. If I want to check into a hotel I should be able to do so. Which reminds me, I'll also be carrying my credit card. Also my passport with the usual range of visas stamped on it. For, suppose I am somewhere near Lahore and I am hit by the urge to visit the great shrine at Ajmer Sharif on the other side of the border. Shouldn't I be able to go there? There's no point in being a bum if you can't do as you please.
All the same, there is no such thing as total escape. For wherever you go you carry your self with you. Also the burden of memory although change of scene or distance can help lighten this particular load. But who wants total escape? The prospect of being on the road is good enough for me and if I can do this in some comfort, not to talk of style, there's nothing like it. Walking from place to place, not knowing where evening will come, sleeping every night under a different roof, getting up while it is still dark and then taking to the road again: can there be a greater joy than this?
When only half-seriously I wrote recently to a friend in Delhi that I was thinking of visiting some of the famous shrines in Punjab and Sindh this winter, she wrote back to say that she'd be happy to come along and carry my computer notebook for me. Tantalizing thought and one well worth exploring.
Gypsies travel in groups, their womenfolk with them. But a couple on the road without the usual accompaniment of a donkey carrying household stuff would look decidedly odd in our parts. Or would it really? Near my village of Bhagwal there are some gypsies I have known for the past 20 years. I see some of the younger men going about with their women (no doubt their wives). It is also a common sight seeing Afghans walking with their women a few paces behind. So what's wrong with someone carrying my notebook for me?
Nothing at all except that no one from Delhi or anywhere else is going to come along. Maybe then I'll just stick to the idea of going to Sehwan this winter. These days bus services are very good in Pakistan and can take you almost anywhere. Or maybe, using my credit card, I'll fly part of the way, perhaps to Sukkur or further down to Hyderabad, and then walk the rest of the distance or board a bus. Of course without forgetting my mobile phone and my notebook to keep me connected.
What am I waiting for?