You are enroute to another city, away from home, late for a meeting. The car shifts gears, building
momentum with every passing second. You struggle in the backseat, camera
eagerly poised out the window. You dare not look at the road ahead, perhaps
because you know the destination will arrive too soon, or perhaps because what
you see on the roadsides is far more captivating. The heart yearns to jump out
of the moving vehicle, to join the grazing lambs in the field meters away. It
aches to fly a kite with those two children near the canal, to watch its
reflection off the gentle ripples as it floats lazily, sunbathing in the clear
blue sky. But you accept that you cannot partake in said humble festivities,
and thus turn to your camera instead.
A blur of fields and rural life on the GT Road. |
___________________________________________
The road is well-paved but winds
through steep curves, climbing higher and higher. Pine trees flank the route...
above you, below you. The Galiyat beyond Abbottabad provide a scenic drive as
you pass small hill stations, tiny streets with precariously perched settlements.
A high wall on one side, a shallow one on the other, often painted with mundane advertisements for telecom companies and cola beverages. Between the
settlements, the roads are mostly devoid of people. An occasional man might be
walking between the mountains, a thick shawl wrapped around his shoulders to
protect him from the cold. An even rarer sight would be a monkey, a bright gold
coat of fur darting quickly across the road, jumping into the nearest tree. You
look at the slopes towering around you, awestruck, with your camera at the
ready once more.
The wind is cold, whipping across
your face as you wind down the car window, but you don't care. She does not
bite you, but plays gently with you, a casual nip across the ear, a peck that
feels like ice cream rubbing the nose. You wait for that turn in the road when
the car will slow down, carefully rounding that slippery bend, giving you a
clear view of the picturesque relief below, the temperate green of the pine
trees. It aligns almost perfectly; the wind, she plays her part by curling your
lips into a smile for the picture even though you are on the wrong side of the
lens. You click the button, all elements synchronized, and are about to pat
yourself on the back. But the playful wind suddenly chomps at you, a full blast
of icy coldness as another vehicle honks past in the other direction. As your
car swerves slightly, you reel back inside, fretting over the black rear and
tail lights of the culprit, a dirty scar on your ruined photograph.
Glacial snow clings on in final embrace. |
___________________________________________
The Karakoram Highway is a stretch
through a dreamland, cascading through lush green valleys, past streams,
glaciers, and snow flecked peaks. You listen to what the people say as you
venture out upon it. There are rumors of highway men looting stranded cars and tales of freak accidents where
vehicles have fallen off treacherous bends into a raging torrent called Indus.
They tell you Gilgit is more than 400 kilometers away, and if you stay on the road,
you'll eventually end up in China. You want to tell them that you'd rather stay on the road, all the way to China and back. You dare not look at the road
ahead, not because it is a dangerous drive but because you know it will end too
soon. Long before you reach the first pass. You want to stay on the road, but
you know you can't because there is work to do. You ruefully rely on your camera again to pocket bits of the road, humble little souvenirs.
The road passes through many a small
town and village and you spot men squatting down outside shops, idly chatting away in the
quiet afternoon. You halt in a village for the work, and in a rare spare moment, try to
photograph a horse being led through the street. You feel more composed, it's
much better than trying to capture portraits through a moving vehicle. A man
approaches you, a look of alarm on his face. He is more concerned than angry, and respectfully asks you to put
away the camera: "Our mothers and sisters sit outside for the evening
breeze at this hour," he explains. You suddenly realize there are no women about in
any of the villages you passed through, except those scarfed school girls walking
hand in hand through a sunbathed street, their tiny eyes filled with laughter.
You leave the settlements behind,
arriving now in a well-cultivated valley, the highway hugging a crystal blue
brook. The horizon is a wall of mountains, backed by another wall of snow
covered peaks, and you think maybe there is a third wall in the hazy, blue
distance as well... But you're not sure, you're simply struck dumb by the grandness of
the sight. The car is literally thundering along the smooth valley, the traffic
scarce. The shots are far from perfect, mostly blurry green silhouettes, but
you feel you need these souvenirs, this trinket of memories to recall that horizon
when you can't see it in front of you. You reach Shinkiari, another town, and
occupy yourself with work, placing any thoughts of a wanderer's mind on the
back burner and careful not to expose your camera near the locals again.
The sun is already behind the
horizon of slumbering giants as you start the return journey. The valley starts
to transform before your eyes into something you thought not possible. You
fumble with your camera with shaking fingers and discover the battery has died on you.
Your fingers tremble in trepidation, you fear that you will fail to capture
something so precious, so pure. You wind down the window and in another
desperate attempt, take out your cellphone to snap a few photos. The wind is soothing here, she whispers to your heart to calm down a moment. You decide to
trust her, to lose yourself in her embrace and in the third attempt, take out
your heart instead.
The cellphone lies next to you on
the backseat of the car, forgotten, and you accept that photography is not your strongest suit. Your arms rest on the sill, head
propped up in the open, car window. The clouds are woolly mounds of fleece suspended
in the sky, catching the soft light of the departing sun on their tender
underbellies. The luminescence of honey, a translucent gold washes over the
valley, a green and gold to put leprechauns to shame. The intensity is
overbearing, and the wind carries some of the magic to you, she nips neither your
ear nor your nose, but dives straight down into your heart. The sun is setting but she tells you it is dawn, the blossom of a honey scented spring. Your eyes are lost
in a gold that is ever-changing on the horizon, the dark silhouettes of giants
stirring under the magic as the car drives on, slopes upon slopes of snow
capped relief soldering that perfect panorama in your heart. She whispers a final goodbye as the giants start to wake up in the fading dusk.
"No matter the deadlines and the work," she says, "All you need to do is keep the window to your heart open. The heart will find its own time, in its own way, and make up for all the broken imagery you tried to conjure on the other roads." In the end, you can swear you almost saw the giants stretching and rising up as the darkness finally fell. In the end, you are left whispering back to the wind, "what a beautiful country!"
"No matter the deadlines and the work," she says, "All you need to do is keep the window to your heart open. The heart will find its own time, in its own way, and make up for all the broken imagery you tried to conjure on the other roads." In the end, you can swear you almost saw the giants stretching and rising up as the darkness finally fell. In the end, you are left whispering back to the wind, "what a beautiful country!"