...Winter Has Come

The year that started with so much promise is ending on the worst possible note. The untimely death of my Mamoo, followed in the next few days by two more untimely and violent deaths in the family has left everyone close to me in a state of profound shock and grief. We've all gone through our grieving rituals - the women by that exceedingly cathartic process that had caused Munir Niazi to observe 'Raunaqain hain maut ki/Yeh ba'in karti auratain', the youngsters by quickly and quietly changing their caller-tunes to Na'ats and Qirats, the men by surreptitiously putting aside family feuds for a few days and the small flock of the bereaved by slowly beginning to come to terms with the vacuum in their lives. Many lives have been irrevocably changed, including mine and my immediate family's. One of the effects has been the family's decision to shift from Lahore -temporarily or permanently - to the hometown, Sargodha, in order to help my grandmother and the bereaved family in trying to adjust to the uncertain future facing them.

For a person with my weird emotional circuitry - an unusual combination of empathy and the inability to display it, topped with a propensity for bottling up and retreating into a coccoon while at the same time longing for someone to communicate with - this has proved an especially trying time. The initial shock of the tragedy was of almost cataclysmic proportions - the way the news was broken to me will probably live as the single worst moment of my life and will haunt me for years to come - and trying to find closure has been hard. I cried - for only the second time in my adult life-, busied myself with the complex set of chores and tasks that surprisingly make up the bulk of the two seemingly disparate but eerily similar major events in Punjabi culture -'marna' te 'parna', and having returned to my place of duty after the completion of my emergency leave, actively remained in touch with most of my family back home via twice or thrice-daily phonecalls. Still, the black dog that has decided to camp outside my door refuses to go away, and frankly I don't blame it. Ultimately, Time will work its twisted magic and something resembling normalcy - or a cheap substitute for it - will return to everyone's lives, before the next seismic upheaval starts the circle once again.

Of the many things I'd planned for the conclusion of this year, one of the important ones was a series of posts on Qawwali, something which'll have to wait for a couple of reasons. First because along with everything else, my laptop -virtually the only thing keeping me sane in the jungle- went kaput three weeks ago and writing on a borrowed laptop (like I'm doing now) doesn't appeal to me. Second, I think I've temporarily lost my taste for music. In fact, the only thing faintly resonating with me and the only thing that I listen to, and I listen to it almost every day, is this ....

Maze Jahaan Ke Apni Nazar Main Khaak Nahi - Bakhshi Salamat Qawwal

…Of A Secret Memory

   It was eight or nine years ago, on a trip to my Jagoka, my maternal village. I was past the age when Jagoka used to be a Mecca for all the kids in my family, but was still in love with the place. My Nana bawa and Nani ammaan were of course the two people I loved the most, the daily rituals were still there – the mandatory tablet of sweet Simco that we got from Nana to chew on, the early morning visits to the “Khooh”, the afternoon ‘70’s Indian movie in Nana’s room, the strange concoctions of Masala and milk that we had for lunch with leftover rotis – and all the kids were home for the holidays.
  Life followed a brilliant pattern there. Waking up early in the morning as the whole house was being swept, breakfast in the smoky, cavernous kitchen with Nani ammaan sitting at the stove and shouting her way to the start of the day, the post breakfast lull, the semi-proper lunch of questionable culinary origins , the uncomfortably warm afternoons in the summer and the mini powernaps in the winter, supper exactly at sunset with a choice of sweet warm milk or plain cold milk at the end.
   It was on one such visit that me and Nana bawa were resting in his room and the talk got around to Gramophone players. When I say talk, I mean another one of the various Q&A sessions that we used to have. From falling stars to caterpillars to ghosts to snakes to boar-hunting to farming, these talks were the perfect answer to the terrible curiosity I had back in the day. And as me and Nana bawa were lying in his room, staring at the ceiling and talking about Saigal, Bioscopes and other such stuff, suddenly Nana stopped as if suddenly remembering something.
   We were quiet for a while, one of those wonderful silences we used to have, and then suddenly, he started singing.
  I had never heard him sing before, and almost jolted up as his wavy baritone voice grew louder. It was an old song, a lullaby. One that I’d never heard before, and one that he was obviously recalling with some difficulty. I have never listened to anything with more attention, my ears straining to pick up every word, every attempt at recalling the tune and every breath that he took midway between the verses. Lying supine, fearful of turning my head towards him lest I break the magical moment, goosebumpy all over, I just lay there. Still.
  He finished, there was another silence, and then he told me where he’d heard the song. Apparently, in the ‘50s, he had gone to Lyallpur to see a film, the name of which he couldn’t recall. The only thing he remembered was that it was an Indian film, and Lata had sung this lullaby in it. He had heard it only once, and now had sung it to me as much as he could remember 50 years later.
  Our talk ended, our trip ended, and four years ago, Nana passed away, taking his one song with him and leaving me with my most personal memory. I had kept the few snatched words and the ragged melody of the song in my mind all this time, but couldn’t find it anywhere. Intensively searching every archive I could get to, I just could not find the song. I had gotten slightly worried now, worried that my secret memory could fade if I did not find that song.
  And then, suddenly, I found it. My secret memory is not secret any more….

...Of Erstwhile Homes

We move tomorrow.

I was born in 1987, (no, really) and that makes me what, 21 years old. In those 21 years, dad’s been posted to, let’s see…

Tabuk, Saudi Arabia,
Abbottabad,
Sialkot,
Islamabad,
Jhelum,
Sargodha,
Murree,
Rawalpindi,
Sargodha,
Jhelum,
Rawalpindi,
Abbottabad
And now, for the third time, Rawalpindi…..

Allowing for repeated postings, we have had to shift homes a dozen times in 21 years and now’s the 13th time (touch-wood). Calling it a hassle would be the understatement of the century. It’s really a credit to Mum that most of our stuff has escaped unscathed from all this moving about.. Now, the drill is being repeated again. Most of the stuff is in those ubiquitous little brown cardboard boxes, which will go into those rickety ol’ wooden crates, which will be wheeled up in those gleamin’ ol trucks and shaken, rattled and rolled to their new destination.

Practice makes perfect, and what usually took one week of frantic packing with at least half a dozen hired hands was done this time at a meandering pace with just two people working over two weeks. The whole shebang woulda been done and dusted two days ago had it not been for the 12 relatives who descended unannounced. That, of course meant hasty unpacking all the cutlery, crockery and at least three beds. How Mum kept the expletives in is beyond my imagination.

Anyhoo, the relatives are gone, all the stuff has been re-packed and all that remains to be sorted are two beds, a fewpieces of crockery….and my PC. This gets packed early tomorrow morning just in time to be loaded onto the waiting trucks.The two year sojourn ( one of my favorite words, along with gonorrhea) in Abbottabad has been a vital experience.

My grandfather died in Abbottabad, and I will be eternally grateful for the care he received at the hospital here. I lost my phone here (or it was stolen, depending on whom you believe), and bought this poor battered creature that’s been molested far more than what it deserved for it’s 13,000 Rs. price. I built most of my Dylan collection here, thanks to one of the best surprise gifts I’m ever likely to receive, namely the complete Dylan discography.

I’ve seen the price of a Pindi-Abbottabad coaster ticket go from 65 to 75 to 90 to 100 to 110 to 130 bucks in two years. The first real snowfall in ten years, the best homegrown peaches, apricots, almonds, and apples ever (In fact the ONLY homegrown peaches, apricots, almonds and apples), the delicious biting cold winters which my Mum hated, and the fact that even now, we only had 4 hours of power outages when Pindi had 7 have made Abbottabad one of my favorite places of residence. Add to this the fact that since I only came over for weekends, I didn’t do much socializing and hence no friendships to be painfully broken. Can’t say the same about my kid sister though…

...Of Rafi And Family Curses

Its 28 years since Rafi died. It’s terribly shameful that I didn’t realize this till ‘round 7 pm this evening when I came back from jogging and there was a show about him on Geo. A pretty commendable show at that, comforting in the fact that even if the Indian film community, or at least certain members of it are deliberately trying to dilute his legacy, Pakistan hasn’t forgotten one of Lahore’s greatest sons. I don’t think I need to repeat how I feel about him, but to paraphrase; I think he was inarguably the greatest singer I’ve ever heard. And if I haven’t heard a greater singer, it’s not from want of trying.

The funny thing is that each day brings forth another gem that I hadn’t heard before. Take this, for example. A silly little song with Dev Anand as an Ice-Cream vendor, and a bunch of little kids (one of whom is in quite a state of undress) dancing around him. It is what was called a filler song, of little importance, but Rafi has sung it in his “special voice”. If anyone doesn’t know what his “special” voice is, here’s an example. I had bought a brilliant CD of old Pakistani songs from a roadside CD-wala in Pindi, which is pretty mind-blowing in it’s own right, but that’ll have to wait now. It’s Rafi for a whole week now, and nothing else.

…………………………………………………………………………..

The Lalis are an endemic clan, with Jhang and Sargodha their areas of greatest concentration. A storied tribe, with bloodlines linking them with Sultan Tipu, the Lion Of Mysore, as well as quite a few prominent Muslim saints. A few may have made Lahore their home, but the nucleus of the clan is the little town of Lalian, an hour’s journey from Sargodha on the Sargodha-Faisalabad road. Around a hundred odd years ago, their activities included bothering “peaceful” Sikhs and Hindus, having a go at Bhattis and Sipras, and during the World Wars, receiving the “Acknowledgement And Appreciation Of The Viceroy And His Britannic Majesty” for generous donations towards the Red Cross.

These traits have now been substituted with even more admirable ones like drug-trading, stealing canal-water and selling off huge tracts of land. But two things have remained with the Lalis form the days of Gaji Khan (Ghazi Khan, our oldest common ancestor) and those constitute the Lali Family Curse…..Obesity and Male Pattern Baldness!!

The main clan, the cadet branches, even the poor unfortunates who married into the Lali clan, all are inflicted by this curse. The baldness of course is the sole property of males, but the obesity is pretty equally distributed amongst both the sexes. In my case, the baldness stayed on one side and the obesity on the other side of the gender divide in case of my grandparents, but my uncles and aunts have been more equitably blessed with varying combinations of both.

So I’ve been aware ever since I was a tyke that one day I too would be struck down by any one, or God forbid, both of these afflictions. There was a faint glimmer of hope when my kid brother started losing hair like nobody’s business. A year later, the temples began receding, and now the poor sod is earnestly saving cash for a hair transplant. But though his hairline was betraying him, the waistline was above reproach. Sadly I resigned myself to the worse of the two curses (the curse of the two verses???), namely the potbelly.

I wasn’t too worried over hair-loss though, a benevolent Kismet (gimme another word for it if you can), and plenty of head-shaves in infancy had given me good hair, albeit with the consistency of obstinate barbed wire. I was beginning to believe that I would be like one of those lucky uncles of mine who went through life without a toupee to hide their shame. And thus I earnestly set out to achieve the second of the major family traits, and I’m pleased to report that a beer-belly is already developing and ‘tis but a few more weeks of hard work that keep me from a pot belly.

But the sense of security was a false one. Around the time my 4th year exam cycle started three and a half months ago, the unthinkable happened; I began to lose hair. And as it never rains but pours, began to lose ‘em aplenty. Now I’m a pretty strong hearted kid, and don’t get unduly alarmed by much (I think the snakebite and shotgun wound have something to do with that) , but I was darned well frightened. I consider combs to be unnecessary luxuries, and consider a few strokes of my fingers sufficient to make my hair presentable (the Oxford English Dictionary even has a pretty fruity name for people like me; “finger waver”). But now each “wave” of the fingers brought forth further follicular fatalities (hehehe).

I persevered as well as I could during my exams, losing many a precious hair in the process. Finally, as my exams ended, I faced a grim decision. Carry on in the same vein and be the proud owner of a shiny pate in a couple of years, or take the plunge. After a few days of hesitation, and much to my mum’s consternation, I took the ultimate step.

As of exactly 1200 hours today, I am officially a skinhead (no, not one of the neo Nazi, National Front, White Power twits) and I must admit, it feels ultra-groovy…

Now if only I could jog that waistline back to its senses……

...Of Summer Trip 2.0

Before I start, let me say that “Kahin Dil Pe Na Jadoo Kar Jaaye” by Masood Rana is my new favorite song.

As I sit here writing this, my four month long exam ordeal is over.It has been an inhumanly exhausting and nerve racking experience. From the early reports, I don’t appear to be in danger of flunking any of my subjects, which is more than good enough. Examinifitications not being the pleasantest of topics, I shan’t linger on them for too long. The highlights of the three week long finals were I think,

- The beer-belly that munching on endless Cheetos brought about, and I’m trying to get rid of now.
- The beard that appeared somewhere during my pre-Pre-Finals break and now appears to be a fixture, and my mum’s trying to get rid of now.
- Watching Kung Fu Panda and the new Aamir \Imran Khan thingy the same day and enjoying both immensely.
- Late night laptop borrowings to watch Chori Chori and Fantasia. Yes the Disney one, not the Idol one.

As George Harrison (my favorite Beatle, dontcha know) sang, “All Things Must Pass”, my exams have passed and I hope to heavens that I do too. My attention turns back to the start of my Pre-Finals holidays and the Annual Summer Trip.

Twenty-one days had seemed woefully short to prepare for the 4th Year finals, what with there being two extra subjects and the holidays being at least ten days shorter than the normal thirty we get.. So I wasn’t very eager when dad kept asking me if I could spare three or four days at the start of the holidays for the Annual Summer Trip. It appeared that ‘round 18 relatives (and quite a few of them were very round indeed) were gonna be joining us this time and that the trip would be a very elaborate affair, complete with production numbers and chorus lines. The only incentive for me was the new 8 megapixel camera and remembering how great the last trip had been.

Road-trip-mixtape-making is one of my favorite things to do,but as anyone who’se done it knows, time consuming. And with the trip starting the very next day from the end of my pre-finals, it seemed that Road-Trip-Music was in danger. God bless the Chinese !! For apart from their child restriction programs and state approved exercise regimens, they also make those delightful little cassette thingies that you can plug an ipod into and with a few whacks on it’s side, play in any decent car deck. The added advantage was that I could carry all my music with me. The disadvantage was that I forgot my wall charger back at the hostel and so could only use the darned pod in the car and not anywhere else. Aah well…

A picture’s worth a thousand words, as they say, so I’ll just let the pictures do the talking. All the following were taken by me with the 8 megapixel camera and I’m pretty proud of them if I might say so myself….

……As I write this, I’ve found out that Bob Dylan’s new album, “Tell Tale Signs- The Bootleg Series Volume 8” is coming out on the 7th of October…..

A Bearded Chappie In White Trainers

A Bridge Over Troubled Waters

Mist Mountains

The Kunhaar




The Spider In The Mist



The Spider By Day

Saif-ul-Mulook

The Cold Stranger

The Three Brothers


The Three Sisters




Islands In The Stream



Songs Of The Week,The new Ahmed Rushdi\Saleem Raza CD.
Books Of The Week,"The Last Lion:Alone",William Manchester
Movie Of The Week,"The Bicycle Thieves"

....Of Home

There's this porcupine that's proving to be a thorn in my side(lame,I know).It lives in our village graveyard,has a strange penchant for digging up graves,sleeping in them and generally going about like it owns the goddamn place.Now I'm all for animal rights,no matter how hideously revolting an animal is.I mean,hey the human race ain't all that pretty itself.But when the aforesaid quadruped constantly snuggles up with long dead relatives and disturbs their eternal snooze and so forth,it's time to defy the critter.

It's easier said than done.I mean you can't just step up to the varmint and say"I Defy You !!!" Steps need to be taken,measures need to be implemented,bums need to be gotten off of.So,as I leave for my village this Eid/Winter Holiday season,my mind's working in overdrive.A veritable Rube-Goldberg device consisting of jumper cables,fishing nets,electric batteries,sattelite-dish-mesh and little jingly bells is all sketched up and ready.This time the little son of Belial won't know what hit him.Muahahaha...


Each visit back home,and by home I mean the village home,continues the metamorphosis that started almost three or four years ago.First a bit of background.I mean I can't just go gabbing on about tube wells and shot-guns and bunyan trees while the readers (yeah,right) sit there scratching their heads.Now there's two villages,the maternal village Jagoka,and the paternal one,Wallah.You can pronounce them anywhichway you want,they still sound musical to me.


Now Jagoka'd been the Mecca for me all my childhood.The reason was simple,it was full of cousins.And Nano's homemade pickles.And the curious red Masala that could wake you up with one sniff.The place was a bustling metropolis,ruled over by Nani Amman and Nana Bawa,the best grandparents anyone ever had(apart from Dadi Amman and Dada Bawa of course).Our uncle had millions of sattelite dishes and there was Telly.Every holiday,me and my brother would pester our parents to let us go to Jagoka and not the paternal place,Wallah.


Wallah,our place,wasn't such a bad place,but to our jaundiced childhood eyes,it was pretty drab.No children.No telly.But there were the attractions too.Dada Bawa was the best tickler in the world,but as I mentioned in an earlier post,his moods could change.Dadi Amman was the sweetest little creature in the world.Warm and tender,with that wonderful old-people-skin hanging from her arms and neck.She always had huge chunks of sweet,white Misri for us,and we would suck and chew on it for hours.


This polarity remained for a significant time,undisturbed by our parents ' constant reminders that we'd have to learn to like our place because it was after all OUR place,whereas Jagoka of course belonged to our maternal clan.But did we listen,erm no.Slowly,imperceptibly,things changed.Dadi Amman died,and the guilt I had felt for not being there for her in her last days as much as I should've,made me rethink a couple of things.


This was after all OUR place.It had the Big Red Trunk,the orange grove,Dada Bawa's horse and a lot of other small things that slowly endeared that place to me.And after Nana Bawa died two years ago (the only time i've cried over somebody's death),suddenly Jagoka didn't seem that inviting anymore.The cousins are still there,the telly's still there and the uncles are as brilliant as ever.And there's the added attraction of Nani Amman,the only grandparent I have left.But now I can sense(and i'm pretty shrewd at sensing stuff) that it's just a matter of time before the place starts closing it's doors on me.


So now it's me,heading off to make up for lost time at my new/old home.I have my air-gun to shoot the lizards,my books to while away the hours I have to spend on the Dera socializing(being the eldest son and all that),my pen and paper to list all the people I have to distribute Zakat to before Eid,and of course my cellphone to keep in touch with football.With a little bit of work,this place could feel like home.


And then there's this small matter of the porcupine too...


Movie Of The Week,"Monty Python And The Holy Grail"
Song Of The Week,"Salaamat Raho",Rafi.
Book Of The Week,"The Moon's A Balloon",David Niven.

...Of The Great Summer Trip

If ever I have any children,a pretty slim chance,as I'll come to later,I know what I'll do on long winter evenings.

I'll sit the little buggers on my knees,give 'em something to eat so that they keep their mouths shut.And then I'll start my story...

"Today,me lads,daddy's gonna tell you the story of how he went on the first great trip of his life"




And they'll all squirm,look at each other and roll their eyes,as if saying,"Oh heavens,not again !!"




"Keep still you little varmints,and listen.This is how it all began"

DAY ONE...







I woke up in front of the PC.I had fallen asleep on the wicker chair recording the tapes for the trip to Shogran(see previous post).Grudgingly I put the final tape into the console and finished the seven hour recording session.Now was the time to pack.As always,mine was minimalist;a toothbrush,a Vonnegutt and my cellphone,plus the trusty inhaler for emergencies.The three cars were soon loaded up as we set out round about one in the afternoon.And this is where all the headfone-wearing bore its reward as Abida Perveen blared from then stereo.My cousins,caught unawares,quickly covered their ears and hid for cover...




We rolled along,smooth as can be,and by and by we came to Balakot.It's been one and a half years since the terrible earthquake of 8th October,but the land still hasn't healed.The mountains lay bare their scarred and bruised bodies everywhere one looked.The city itself was a jumble of blue-roofed prefab homes,a sign of the world's generosity.The Kunhar,the red river,still flowed in all it's roaring majesty.It cut and clawed at the already ravaged land,forcing a new path for itself amid all the sliding and slipping rock.





We passed on,along the makeshift one-way bridges.
The roads,once glistening two lane affairs,were utterly ruined.At places,almost unpassably dangerous,it was a miracle that the three cars managed to navigate them safely,their prodigious cargoes intact.Finally,we reached better roads,amid wonderful foliage,and snaked up the road to Shogran.Here,one of the cars which had drawn the short straw and was carrying the,er most generous load,finally gave up.It refused to go any further,citing the Geneva Conventions,unloading all who sat(applying the term very loosely) inside.It was for the rest of tha caravan to take turns depositing the whole traveling party to their destination.I was urged(shoved) out of my seat to make way for one of the others,and waited by the side of the road for the car to return.I whiled away the time by admiring the magnificent foliage,especially the fern forests.

Finally,I was there,Shogran.At a height of 2500 metres,a vast green plain nestled among the mountains,looking out to the snow-clad Kaghan mountains.

Our accomodation was reserved in a marvelous Forest Department rest house,a lavish new building constructed after the original one had been destroyed in the earthquake.It was cold,calm and windy,in short perfect for Frisbee !! An hour later,invigorated by cold sweat,sitting out in deck chairs,sipping tea,I saw one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.

The sun set over the mountains at a quarter to eight,and the twilight lasted another half hour.Our appetites whetted by the mountain breeze,not that mine needs any whetting,I quickly wolfishly gulped down a hearty dinner,and had mangoes afterwards.(Just had to mention the mangoes,dontcha know !).

The night ended with everyone huddled up in the giant sitting room for a sing-along.Nano couldn't stop laughing at all her brood singing themselves silly in the night.then it was time for bed..

DAY TWO...

I was woken up at the ungodly hour of 4.30 am,and went out into the biting cold to watch the sunrise over the snow-clad mountains.My dad had assured me that it was going to be worth the lost sleep.Unfortunately,the clouds had different plans,and crowded out the whole east face,turning it into a kaliedoscope of light and shade,like something Rembrandt would have turned up if he had decided to take up landscapes.A single glimpse of the sun was all that was afforded us in that sunrise.

That day was earmarked for a trip even higher to a place called "Sarri Paye",a series of two mountains that in their confusion,had gotten topsy turvy,with Sarri on a lower altitude than Paye.We were all urged to partake a hearty breakfast,especially us dunces who had volunteered to forsake the jeep trail in favour of a nine kilometer hike.Me,my brother and the most,let's say,well endowed cousin collected the camera,the water flask and a pack of Wrigleys and set forth in advance of the rest of the family who would follow in jeeps up the trecherous track.My brother,the sly devil,quickly ran off ahead,leaving me to lumber up the mountain with my cousin at snail's pace.The poor sod would stop every ten paces with pitiful cries of"Ouch,my legs!","Ouch,my knees!","Ouch,my feet!","Ouch,my bum!"

Anyway,we trudged along.It was a sheer climb,slippery,steep and muddy,with not a bit of plain level track along the way.But it was as beautiful as could be,with vistas opening up at every bend,revealing the fabulous valley below in splendid detail.

The mountain sun blazed on my neck all along.the trek seemed to be never-ending,with every bend in the road exposing further stretches of the track.Halfway up,just as I was fed up with my cousin's whining,one of our jeeps met us and picked him up,thus relieving both of us of our misery.Instead,dad got out and decided to keep me company for the remaining four and a half hours.It was a very difficult hike,but we finally managed to make it to the top,albeit not without a heavy price.The damage my,ahem,family jewels took on the way set me halfway along a future devoid of the pattering of tiny little feet in the tiny little homestead.
But what awaited me on the top was well worth the sacrifice.As I trudged my now insubordinating limbs to the crest of the peak,a marvelous sight awaited me.Acre upon acre of the most flat,the most green,and the most flower-carpeted terrain I had ever seen.It was colourful enough to burn my retinas,after they had been greyed into oblivion by the mundane terrain of the plains.there were little lakes of rainwater,each fifty feet across,clear blue,with the green of the moutains reflected in them.All around were sheer drops into the valleys down below.




And that was not all.For rising from the plains was the Crab Mountain,"Makra" to the locals,which was still wearing a tattered mantle of last year's snow.All that snow re-awakened our hiking spirits that had been dampened somewhat by the nine kilometer climb.

Taking an empty water bottle,we wowed to trek up the mountain and bring back some of the snow.It was farther than we had thought,a total of five kilometres.Finally we reached the snow.It was dirty,in a rocky depression quite a long way down,and difficult to reach,but we were nothing if not resilient.We finally managed to gather a fistful of snow and brought it back like spoils of war.

We finally managed to gather a fistful of snow and brought it back like spoils of war.After three hours up at "Paye",we headed down to"Sarri" for a traditional mountain lunch,again courtesy the forest department.A mix-up with the jeeps meant that there wasn't anyone to bring the rest of the family down to "Sarri",and they all trudged down in groups of two or three.Everyone was tested to their limits,most of all,my Nano.She's hypertensive,diabetic,and as she let everyone know along the way,well versed in the choicest Punjabi expletives.Everyone was worried out of their skins at the thought of her climbing down the steep tracks and heaved a huge sigh of relief when she made it to "Sarri" safe and sound,although a little worse for wear.Everyone attacked the food with gusto,especially the silly hikers.

In a moment of madness,I had decided to opt for the jeep,instead of hiking down,thinking that my knees had already taken enough of a beating.I had thought that the trip in the jeep would be tranquil compared to the gruesome hike,instead,it put the fear of God into me !!The jeep swayed and rolled,jumped and flew down the bends that seemed ten times more treacherous.All the while,finishing the good work that the upward hike had started on my,er,you-know-whats.That's the moment I resigned myself to a life of sterility.I got off halfway,and in damage control mode,hiked very gingerly down the slopes.Once again,the valleys were generous in the views they provided me.

I dragged myself back to the hut,and fell headfirst onto the bed,thinking I would never regain the use of my battered legs after a total of 23 kilometres up and down the mountains.Elsewhere around me were similar sights to see.Everyone was nursing their legs,arms and other assorted body parts.I lay down that night expecting a deep,healing sleep.Instead...

DAY THREE...

I woke up at two in the morning to the scariest sound I had ever heard.Gale force winds were tearing through the rafters,with sleet crashing on the windows and awesome flashes of lightning that burned up the whole sky.I dozed off again,waking up on the final morning of our trip,expecting to see signs of last night's tempest.But a different sight awaited me as I stepped out into the bitter cold morning.The sky was clear,the distant mountains were fully exposed and bore on their backs a sparkling white burden of fresh snow.Hitchin up my sagged jaw,I called up the rest of the family to feast their eyes on the sight.

That sight,with the whole clan,the oldest member at 66 and the youngest at 5 summers old,gazing in awe at nature's handiwork,capped off a wonderful trip..
A few parting snaps,and we loaded up our stuff to head back.Thankfully,the road back passed without any incident.We stopped in Balakot to offer Fateha at the grave of Syed Ahmed Shaheed,who had laid down his life back when Jihad really meant what it meant.After that it was a smooth drive back to Abbottabad,with wonderful music playing all along the way.

"So,that me lads,is how your old dad went on the first great trip of his life.Wasn't it exciting,eh lads?."

"Lads ?? Where've you run off to ??"

"Lads,LADS !!"

N.B,All the photographs were taken from my mobile phone,apologies for the picture quality.

...Of Road-Trip-Music

The "BIG SUMMER TRIP" is upon us finally,praise the Lord !!.

Sitting at home watching barnacles grow on my derriere,although an admirable pursuit,soon loses charm.And with a brigade of seven cousins,two uncles and two aunts straining at the bit,things start getting cagey unless some excursion diverts the attention.So,tomorrow,taking advantage of the strategically placed Long Weekend,I'm off.Off to Shogran,as pretty a place as can be.The sleeping bags,long mothballed,finally get their moment in the sun,or rather moon.The picnic baskets are being packed,the motel reservations completed.The three cars are being prepared for the ordeal of their lifetimes,namely,lugging 600 pounds of prime Sargodha meat and sinew up the most treacherous roads in Pakistan.May God have mercy on their souls...

The best part of the summer trip ?

The respite from heat ?
No.

The beauty of the magestic mountains ?
No.

The basketfuls of mangoes ?
Err...maybe

The music playing along the way ?
Spot On !!

One of my oldest memories is driving down the old Jhelum bridge one night,just me and my dad,with Faiz playing in the car stereo.Then there's the Elton John album that was playing one rainy morning when our car skidded on a road in Chakwal and hit a tractor.The first time I heard John Denver singing,"Country Roads" somewhere in the foothills of Murree.Jagjeet Singh,Kishore,John Denver,Faiz,Faraz,Ghalib...the first time these names entered my mind was in the back seat of a car when I hesitantly asked dad to turn up the volume and asked him who that voice was.

It's been a vital part of my education,this roadtripsong.How many couplets have I heard,only to be asked a moment later by dad to paraphrase or explain it.My many stumbling responses awoke the appreciation of poetry in theHow many folk songs have I listened to,trying to make sense of the obtrusely elegant Punjabi,only to be revealed in wondrous detail on the next trip.How many songs are part of my family album,just because Nana hummed along with them,or Dadi Amman rememberd them from a Bioscope seen long ago...

Soon the tide turned.It was now my job to get the music for the roadtrips.Dad was introduced to Clapton,Sinatra,Lobo,Ella and many more via me.I was told to take trips to Islamabad to buy this CD of Kafis from Lok Virsa,that cassette of Talat Mehmood from Bombeat etc.And then there's today...

Daunted by a five hour trip up the mountains accompanied by a bunch of noisy kids,dad's asked(read ordered) me to make five tapes of his favourite stuff out of all the tons of stuff in my PC.After two hours of exhaustive selection,I stand ready to make these tapes ala High Fidelity.To make 'em,tentatively titled "The Tripped Out Tapes Vol 1-5",I've been presented with a behemoth of a recording console.It's old,it's clunky and it's short circuited,and I have before me at least six hours of headphone-wearing,monitor-staring fun.Here's to making music..


Song Of The Week,"If You Gotta Go,Go Now",Bob Dylan
Movie Of The Week,"Invasion Quartet",1961

...Of The Start Of The Summer Holidays

The first day of the summer holidays.


You wake up at five in the morning.An ungodly time,a relic of those disturbed sleep patterns that I detest the most about examinations.

Outside,the mountains are shrouded in white mist.You nibble on a couple of fresh plums from the kitchen garden,inhale a gallonfull of mountain air and say to your immortal soul;

"I say,old chap!Jolly good place this,innit? Smashing weather,what?".To which the jolly old immortal soul replies,

"You said it,old horse.Topping weather.Topping !!"

A sudden rush of Pickwickian benevolence gushes through you as you think of all your chums sweating it out on the plains.A couple of phone calls,and they're all invited for a trip to the hills.You lounge back in the deck chair,with a feeling of "something finished,something done".Pick up your Kerouac and smile in the expectation of a nice hour of reading,when suddenly,there is a car outside.

Me;"I say,any idea who that could be,old I.S?"

Old I.S;"I'm as blank as you,old horse.But I'm getting a rather sinister feeling..."

Then I see the first one.Then another,and finally the whole clan.

RELATIVES !!!!

As seething horde of humanity streams through my gate,it seems that the whole family have suddenly realised four things.

1.It's way too hot down here in Sargodha

2.It must be much cooler somewhere higher up,like say,Abbottabad.

3.Hey,dontcha know,we've got a relative up there.And doesn't he run some kind of school?

4.Come to think of it,aren't our children just at the schoolgoing age?

It doesn't take Einstein to add it all up,and Voila !!,here they all are.In a mass exodus from Sargodha,a host of Uncles and Aunties and Cousins and Maids and Servants.
Fat uncles,rotund uncles,obese uncles,portly uncles,each one a marvel of creation.And the aunties...
Once they were the meaty Mutiaars of Punjab.Now there's no sign of the mutiaar anywhere,only meat.And plenty of it.
And then there are the cousins,those little critters with fish-like goggling eyes.They stare at you,as if saying,"Here I am smearing marble cake all over your computer,tearing up all your Wodehouse,and there's nothing you can do about it."It's not that hard to break under the strain and give them ten of the best with the backside of a hairbrush down where it would do them the most good.But no,we've got to keep it together,ain't that right old soul?

"Absolutely right old horse.It's just not done,just not cricket.Stiff upper lip,old top.Stiff upper lip !!"

Now I'm not saying I don't like my relatives.But there are cousins,and then there are cousins.There are those with whom I've spent my childhood,played with them,ran with them as grandpa's sandals whistled past our ears,stolen their fruit,twisted their ears,and this creates a bond.And then there are those,whose faces I have never before seen.And in the case of a couple of Winston Churchill-Boris Karloff combinations,faces I wouldn't ever want to see in my lifetime.

But it's not all gloom and doom,fair reader,because these uncles and aunts don't come empty handed.They bring MANGOES !!

Crates upon crates of those golden delights fill our kitchen.I had thought that getting posted up here in Abbottabad,I'd be deprived of these wondrous gifts of summer.But no,this sudden onrush of visitors has brought me mangoes beyond my wildest dreams.And that's not all.Three course meals morning,day and night.Souffles and trifles and cakes and creams,enough to stock up on blubber for two or three winters.

As I write this,the rain is incessant.The mountains are all hidden behind the roving clouds and I'm thinking up a rather beastly rhymed abomination that shows my fevered state..

The 'lectricity's gone and the raindrops patter
As the uncles smoke and the cousins chatter
While I stuff my face and keep getting fatter
'S wonderful up here but that doesn't matter
Cuz a few more days of this,and I'll be as mad as a hatter...

I.S.,"I say old horse,was it you who wrote this bilge?
"Yes I was old top."
"Tsk Tsk,I think you'd better lie down,old boy."
"I think you're right,old chum.I'd better lie down"



Movie Of The Week,"Rosemary's Baby"

Books Of The Week,Finished: "Dear Me",Peter Ustinov.Started,"On The Road",Jack Kerouac

Song Of The Week,"Kaun Aya Mere Man Ke Dware",Manna Dey

Movie Dialogue Of The Week,Peter Falk,"Surely,you can't be serious."
Leslie Nielsen,"I am serious.And don't call me Shirley !!"
Airplane(1980)