Mosaic of Broken Photos

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.

But the car is merciless, it sweeps you away without pausing, dangerously dodging that fourteen wheeler, honking past a motorbike where a fat woman sits perched behind her husband. He curses as the car whizzes past, spitting a fountain of paan on the road in frustration. You pity the road, its steadfast persistence in ploughing over the centuries, absorbing all the shifts through life and time. The Grand Trunk Road. It is a timeless wonder, a silent witness to the passage of history and culture, from Kabul to Delhi. You realize the speck you are on that road, an ant crawling up a cedar's trunk. Respect follows. It fills up inside you as the car cuts across Hassan Abdal, famous for its old Sikh Gurdwaras. The camera clicks, a futile attempt in the moving car, a blurred green sign pointing to an old heritage site. Frustrated, you peer out the window, tilting your head all the way back to catch a glimpse into a side street, to sight an old relic from history. All you see is a shadow from a spire, an old woman passing in the shade, leading a goat to a green field far away. If only you had clicked the shutter a moment later.

___________________________________________

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 wind is not gentle after that, her mood suddenly awry. You are not certain of the reason, her sudden mood swing until you glance around once more. Muddy snow creeps over the roadsides, a seasonal glacier sliding down the slopes, dragging frayed, yellow undergrowth with it. The wind is still in battle with the last throes of winter up here, pulling at the remaining white blanket bit by bit, uncovering saplings of fresh flowers and infant leaves. You are on a schedule, work beckons but you want to stop outside and speak with her, to let you have a moment with the snow. But you can't, and decide to make do with what you have. Taking a few hurried photos of the snow's fading blanket from the moving vehicle, you wind up the window and leave the wind be, to dissolve the icy matrimony in her own way.

___________________________________________

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!"

 

A sunset of wonder, where sleeping giants weave magic in the valley.

Stealing Into the Theater

The last uncles had left the masjid for their homes after Fajr prayer, and it was still dark when I set out this morning. My eyes scanned the sky continually in the silent minutes before the sun’s advent upon earth. I set out of my apartment building and out of the street so I could find a proper view of the Eastern horizon; I knew where to go, the main playground next to the neighborhood masjid.

Sky tinged with pink, as I made my way to the main ground.

 In the cover of darkness, I silently walked and set out for the ground. A very faint streak of pink tinged the sky to the east. Something was different in the air, a sense of calmness and peace lingered as I entered the sand and gravel-strewn field. In the dying cover of darkness, I concealed myself from the Watchers of the Night and the Guardians of the Day. The place was deserted… On the road behind me and the ground in front of me, not a soul was in sight. The only figures I could make out were a few people in the Masjid courtyard far to my right.

Like a street urchin who has stolen into a theater where he isn’t supposed to be, I stood in the shade of darkness and waited for the show to begin. The serenity grew paramount as all spotlights focused on the horizon, the curtains were about to be raised. Like a lost child discovering a wonder for the first time, I steeled myself for the change of guard. The Guardians of the Day had already made the first move, with the ever so slight hue of pink visible just above the horizon. The Watchers of the Night slowly complied, exposing the underbellies of the clouds to the pink radiance. Even though the Watchers still kept control of the dark sky, they entrusted the clouds to the care of the Guardians first. The transition was sublime, the clouds coming to life, waking up from their slumber at the guardians’ touch. The touch of pink spread to clouds who rested further from the dark horizon, and the streak of pink in the sky started to increase.

Just before dawn... the view to the East beyond the neighborhood Masjid.

Glued to his spot on the edge of the field, the street urchin watched. The fear of being caught by the performers was not important; all eyes were fixed on the stage as the action unfolded. The Watchers had started to withdraw from their shift; the darkness was giving way to the blue of the sky I knew all too well. My awe-struck eyes scanned the stage, afraid that I might miss something… then I discovered a star, a diamond shining bright in the Watchers’ armor. As they slowly loosened their grasp on the sky, I kept my eyes fixed on the jewel in their armor… I wanted to watch them hand it over to the guardians. Ever so gracefully, I watched as the performers went about their change of shifts; it was a moment of pure tranquility as I watched the diamond being presented to the Guardians… the spreading blue overwhelming the Watchers’ cover, the star fading into the cosmos.

The Guardians were now really starting to turn up their stride, this was clearly their show. The serenity and peace now gave way to some sweet music. I heard one note from behind me, an unknown bird calling into the dawn… a few moments passed, the Guardians gave a fresh signal to the stage orchestra, another note followed from somewhere to my left. The Watchers had now completed their handover of the clouds to the guardians… Little swirls of grey, they stretched themselves awake in the pink of the dawn.

Look closely... a flock of birds above the minaret is visible.

The Guardians’ influence now started to spread beyond the stage that was the horizon. Black silhouettes with wings darted across the sky now, speeding to the Guardians who had now begun to stretch their dominance across the heavens. The pink had faded to a stronger gold; the Watchers were retreating now, their duty complete. The darkness only remained part of the skies further from the horizon, all melting away as the guardians prepared for the eminent arrival… the rise of the sun. In a final ritual, the Guardians summoned their orchestra players on stage for a final crescendo. The birds rose high in the sky, circling above the Masjid minaret… their black silhouettes visible against the pale, early morning skies.

A crow’s loud caw brought my eyes back to earth. Two or three of them swooped over my head, and I looked around me, startled. It had become bright, the darkness had all but faded and the Watchers had departed. Caww! went the crows again… My cover had been blown. The Guardians had discovered the street urchin who had stolen into the theater and were forcing me to leave. The show was almost over, and I stood my ground, adamant to see the climax. The sun had not come up yet!

But alas, it was not meant to be. The Guardians ordered the grey clouds to keep cover over the East… There shone an aura of gold from behind the thick mane of grey, but the sun never came. The curtains sealed shut in my face, and I was asked to desert my stolen seat. It was a grey morning as I accepted defeat and left the theater; I could not help but feel that such performances were reserved for the few. A chance wandering after sehri time was not the way to experience the change of guard between the night and day. For all it was worth, it made sense that the right to experience this show needed to be earned. The Guardians of the Day may have chased me away this morning, but I plan on earning a proper audience and a better seat for this sublime change of guard, the crossing of the heavens between night and day. It is needed more than ever to release my heart of the irony that was now settling in: the irony of witnessing the dawn, yet missing the sunrise.

Messi's Magic and the Spirit of Football

Brazil vs Argentina (June 9th, 2012) at the Metlife Stadium, East Rutherford, New Jersey. You get match reports all over the internet, this is the matchday experience report. :)

As I sat in the subway train, en route to New Jersey for the big game of football, two men entered the train at one of the stops and started playing a Spanish song. The South American flavor early in the morning set the tone for the day, as my excited father, siblings and I looked on at their performance in delight. Street performers and interesting subway passengers are a common sight in New York which I have come to expect at every visit. But as far as sport goes, even after many visits to the United States, the stereotype persisted that the major sports were basketball, baseball and the OTHER football. THE sport of football as we know it, and soccer as it is known there has a relatively smaller following. Even though the beautiful game has largely grown in popularity and following in the United States over the past few years, my expectations of the game atmosphere were largely influenced by the stereotypical image of the average American Sports Joe.

As the Spanish song ended, and the performers parted ways at a following stop, one of the Joes entered. With every stop, the number of Joes in football jerseys became a recurring sight on the train, making me excited about the game. Joe, who is a big sports buff in America, is mostly focused on the NBA and NFL for the most part, but is a casual follower of soccer. Hence, Joe would appreciate the big game not like the frenzied crowds of Europe, Africa or South America, but the casual first-timer on the way to his first football game, very much like me. Even though I am a football fanatic, I soon discovered that a football game in the stadium is very much different from the games I watch on TV.

At the New York Penn Station, where we had to catch the final train for the stadium, long queues for train tickets abounded, the station packed with fans. I immediately knew I was in the right place as I got in line behind all kinds of people clad in different football memorabilia. Time passed quickly in the long queue as fans shared their thoughts on the game, the players, and placed some bets.

“You’ll buy a Brazil jersey when Argentina wins,” a guy challenged his friend standing in front of me in the queue.

“Right!” he replied, “And I expect the same from you: money on the Argentina jersey when Brazil lose.”

The waiting lounge for the train was packed, and a stampede followed as soon as the platform number for the first train was announced. We joined the throng, eager to beat the traffic to the stadium. As the crowd started moving toward the train, the magic started. The Joes had started to cheer and sing anthems, which raised the ambiance of the train station considerably. Once we were part of the flowing traffic, there was no need to even take a look at the direction signs above us. We sang and cheered our way to the train, and climbed on board.

Queueing outside the Metlife Stadium.

Twenty emotionally charged minutes later, the excitement spilled outside the train as we walked toward the Metlife Stadium, which now loomed over us. Making our way to the entrance, I saw that the audience for the game composed of a varied mix of people. The wide appeal of a Brazil and Argentina game was not to be under-estimated, I thought. The melting pot of the Big Apple had spilled out its global mix of populace, who had all formed their alliances in yellow, or blue and white.

Every Asian, Christian, child, African, Muslim, European, Jew, woman, American, atheist, man, and Arab got neatly into new queues outside the stadium gates. A loud cheer erupted from this diverse assembly of enthusiasts, all clad in the colors of football; we were nearly in. The unanimous roar from the crowd was like a vuvuzela honk that jolted my sixth sense awake. There was an unearthly presence rising up around me which I had never experienced before. My soul felt elated and excited as I spun my head in all directions. The people went in one by one, but those waiting in line were rejoicing: colored wigs were put on with cheers and laughter; some musical notes were played on trumpets and drums. A large group of people had already made it inside the gates, and a loud cheer could be heard from their direction; the groups waiting in line followed, louder this time. The light clouds parted, bathing us in sunlight for a brief moment in the pleasant afternoon. It was the spirit of the beautiful game, the crowd’s rituals and excitement had summoned the spirit of football in all its high energy.

The fans climbing the escalators in the stadium.

The last barriers parted, and we entered the sea of fans making its way up the escalators to the stands. The spirit was much stronger here, and the escalators were packed with energy. Fans above us, below us, all waved their flags in the air; and then came the singing. In the melodies above me, I could make out a few words like: “Ole Aalay Oa Argentina!” but most of the words dissolved into the spirited ambiance. The Brazilians below us on the escalator heard some of the Argentine songs, and started off louder with their own as we continued to move further up. On the outside, we could see the queues at the gate getting longer, a field of yellow and blue getting bigger and bigger. The American Joes proved my stereotype wrong, and I saw that the football spirit was alive in America as well. In fact, she dictated an ambiance of unmatched energy and enthusiasm which can only be found in a football match.

I was nearly jumping on the escalators with excitement; a weird voice in my head wanted me to push the guy in front of me off the escalator so I could run on ahead. On the landing, we searched frantically for our stand. I spotted the directions and marched on ahead, leaving my brother to catch up behind me. Other fans darted from side to side in front of me, buying hot dogs, beer and popcorn from the concession stands. Loud music started blaring from inside the stadium as I counted the stand numbers passing over my head: 327… 326. Suddenly, the queues for the food disappeared as the fans started running.

THE TEAMS WERE ENTERING THE ARENA!!!!!!!

325…! 324… FINALLY!!! The atmosphere suddenly spiked as some of the loudest roars I had heard erupted around me. All the games I had ever watched on TV, all the FIFA matches ever played on my PlayStation, all the football documentaries I had ever seen, had never prepared me for THAT moment. As I turned left into the stand entrance, the high sun glare blinded my vision for an instant before I could catch sight of the field. One blinding glare later, I stood dumbstruck. Numb. Feet frozen. Jaw dropped. Eyes popping out of their sockets.

The flair and energy of a packed stadium, so alive, cheering, screaming, and singing, just coming out of a dark tunnel and hitting you in the face for the first time was a mind-blowing moment. I just stood there and took it all in, the sea of fans above me, below me, all around me; all seated around a gleaming, green football pitch with two shining goalposts at each end. The loud orchestra music overwhelmed the stadium into a state of frenzy, mixing in with the roar of the fans; the loud cheers fueled the game’s spirit as she ushered out the two titans of football. Both teams filed out in the center of the bright, green pitch as we looked on, frozen for a moment at the stand entrance. My heart had never beaten faster, and I nearly dropped my camera to the floor. As I opened my mouth to say “OH MY GOD!”, “Woah!” or “WOW!” the desi in me took over and what came out was a long, “OYE HOYE HOYE HOYEE!!!”

As the national anthems for both teams began, I started walking up the stairs to find my seat. Walking upstairs, I noticed how many of the fans knew the words of the instrumental national anthem music playing. The audience was not merely composed of casual fans, but hardcore Brazilian and Argentine fans from their native countries. This made the atmosphere even more exciting, and I felt the adrenaline rush as I took my place on my seat and geared up for kickoff. What followed in the next ninety minutes was one of the best games of football in recent history.

Kickoff!

The game kicked off, and the spirit went to work immediately. She used both, the action on the pitch as well as the sea of fans, to command the power and excitement of the arena. The tempo for the game was set in the opening minutes when both sides started playing some high quality, fast paced and open-ended football. The Brazilians commandeered the ball in the opening minutes to push Argentina back into their own half. The spirit was an invisible puppeteer in the arena, pulling on the strings of her players with one hand and pushing up the sound levels of the crowd higher with the other. Considering it was my first experience watching a football game from the stands, it became hard for me at points to pay attention to the action on the field. The surrounding chants, shouts and cheers were too enchanting to ignore and I succumbed to their magic as a stranded sailor to a siren’s song. The spirit flew around the stadium as the fans rose to create Mexican waves. A giant oscillation of magic, you could see her move as the fans’ arms shot through the air. I rose up excitedly as she went the entire length of the stadium and gave my raised arms a high-five.

Metlife Stadium, June 9th. 81,994 fans were in for a treat.

Ba-ba-ba ba BANG!! *whistle*

A man further down the row on my left was drumming hard on the plastic seat in front of him. The seat’s occupant was standing, whirling a blue and white scarf in circles above his head, oblivious to the drumming on his seat.

The drummer, with a Brazil flag tied around his head like a bandana, went at it again: Ba-ba-ba ba BANG! Two rows down, directly in front of me, another spectator took notice, and put a whistle to his lips, a shrill note escaping his lips after the last bang. They caught each other’s eye, and the drumming went louder this time: BA-BA-BA BA BANG!!! *WHISTLE*.  Among the flurry of colors and people, more banging on seats joined the chorus, always followed by a whistle.

Brazilian fans rejoice after the scores level at 2-2.

Down below us, the action on the football field grew more fluid and dynamic. The enigmatic Brazil side pulled a series of good passing moves to push past the Argentine defense and shot an attempt on goal. Each pass fueled a nerve of adrenaline in the stands, the drumming hands seem bent on breaking the seats, and the whistle got lost in the moment when everyone reflexively jumped after the final pass of the move, the striker closing in on the keeper. Sighs of relief and disappointment followed from both sets of fans as the ball went wide of the posts.

Similar displays of fan power followed in the mercurial game, the balance shifting from one side to the other. Brazil took an early lead but Argentina recovered to make it 2-1 at the break. The stadium was abuzz at half-time, long lines for food and the restrooms ensued; nobody wanted to miss the second half. The atmosphere was exciting, and the spirit seemed to be at work brewing something special for the second half.

Her presence was overwhelming as the crowd roared louder than at the start of the game, and both teams upped the ante after the break. Brazil bounced back to make the score 3-2. But within a few minutes, Argentina shocked everyone by coming back into the game to make the score 3-3. The spirit flew high around the stadium, a smile on her face as half the people in the stadium jumped to their feet.

Had we seen it all? The crowd’s chants were resonating; the noise could hardly be any louder now. Most fans, including myself, did not sit down after that point in the game; there was not much time remaining.

The cheers were not dying down! I questioned myself again: will there be a winner? The spirit’s smile broadened with every passing minute as the stadium of yellow and blue fans glittered, cheering their heroes in the afternoon sun. The banging on the chairs had died, and the man with the whistle had taken over, shrill notes escaping his lips: fee- fee- fweep fweep fweep! Nearby fans started hooting with the whistle, many took to swirling flags and scarves over their heads.

An Argentina fan waves a scarf in the air after their 3rd goal.

Time slowed down, and the minutes crawled by as both teams continued to give some breathtaking displays of football. The spirit seemed to be orchestrating all the sound in the arena now, the players matching the tempo of the game with the noise level of their fans. Her eyes glinted; did she have a final secret in store? It was on the center of the field, in the dying minutes, when Messi got possession of the ball; her broad smile stretched from ear to ear as Messi dodged the first player. I instinctively rose up from my seat, along with everyone else around me. Should I make a video? No, my hands were too rubbery to hold the camera. He started sprinting with acres of space in front of him. My brain lost contact with the rest of the mortal world, my eyes fixed on the action unfolding below me. The spirit’s orchestra was rising to a crescendo, her puppets and performers all mesmerized in the final act.

Messi was flying… My mouth was half open… The spirit soared high above the stadium!

Next moment: the ball had wings… My hands were reaching to pull out my hair in disbelief… The spirit had tied the Brazilian goalkeeper’s strings in a knot and fixed him in a halfhearted futile dive.

The football was in the back of the net…  The spirit was pulling my invisible strings, forcing me into uncontrollable jumps… A volcano erupted as the crescendo peaked! The lava was finally flowing now, a mosaic of blue and white, all jumping, cheering and singing. A clash of the titans indeed, the game between these two giants lived up to all its hype.  

The match experience was simply above and beyond my level of expectations. All the roars from the crowd, the wild jubilation and energy was simply magical. I figured the spirit of the beautiful game held an eternal presence, from the streets of Karachi to the shores of America. That day was just one of those days when she was out stronger and clearer than before. 

And a very Happy Belated Birthday, Lionel Messi! Your hat-trick that day added the perfect seal to one of the greatest experiences of my life. May your performances keep blurring the boundaries that define the great and the impossible. :)

My siblings and I... Hat-trick!