Half a Compass

There floats a small, white crested bird above the highways of Sindh. Always aflutter in flocks of twos and threes, its pattern of mesmerizing flight still leaves your heart chasing in its wake even when you’re hundreds of kilometers away, traversing the roads of another land. The fourth bird in the flock. Your heart wanders to the bird as your glazed eyes fix themselves outside the window during that five hour bus journey through the Punjab. Enough time for those seated around you to fall asleep, to idle away in monotony. Enough time for you to wander far, far away.

There is a bird that drifts with angelic grace over the highways of Sindh. Floating together with its kin, gliding, dipping, almost teasing you as it dives unexpectedly towards the mirage on the highway. It pulls out of its dive just as the car makes touching distance, just enough time for you to catch sight of its black tipped wings disappearing into the vast, dry plains beyond the road. Or sometimes towards the small, jagged hills in the distance.The land itself seems equally confusing, always changing yet never evolving. Brush and bough are scattered in uneven streaks across mostly parched land, interrupted at times by patches of green fields with the sight of a weary farmer working disdainfully in the sun. Villages too small to carry a name. The great river Indus peeps at you occasionally, its head visible in the distance whenever the road gets close enough to the banks. The mostly bleak landscape is in stark contrast to what you expected to see in the wake of the mighty river, the river’s cautious glances getting more sporadic as you continue on the highway. Almost as if it wanted to avoid being asked any questions.

Punjab is different. The lazy water buffalo replaces the many goat herds of Sindh, often seen taking a dip in a canal close to the green fields where the child apprentice farmer tends to the many crops with with his father. Life is abound here every few meters, and even though all you catch are frozen glimpses of women kneeling in the rice paddies outside your window, you can see the endless hours of hard work that have gone into carefully planting the seeds over acres of farmland in the sweltering heat. But where does all that hard work go? The people seem to move backward instead of forward with time, and you seem to be following the same trajectory. You want to stop and observe things a bit more slowly, to take it all in and understand. Like you wanted to do in Sindh.

Where do you begin and where do you stop? You don’t know. All you have is half a compass to guide you, and you are in love. Lost in love, a love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

Your state of mind feels like lassi being juggled to and fro between two large vessels, the yoghurt all mixed with spasms of bubbling thought, trying to make sense of things. The layer of froth on the surface. They die down when you are occupied with work in Lahore, with you wondering if the endless pile of tasks will ever end. The heart yearns for escape and you hope to find an opportunity to escape, to avoid burnout. You ask if you are deceiving youself? Is it really burnout or can you not handle it? Just like you could not handle it in Matli.

Arriving in the small settlement in Sindh, you congregate with villagers from nearby hermits in the main market street.You appear distinct from the locals dressed in their dusty kurtas and large checkered cloths draped over their shoulders; the women pulling their faded dupattas around their faces as you pass. Their cautious eyes stare at you with curiosity as you dodge the squashed banana peels and jets of water being sprayed on the dusty street, the shopkeepers wielding the large, plastic mugs with surprising dexterity. An effort to keep the dust settled. But just when you think you’ve dodged all the dirt and dust and start conversing with the shopkeepers, you find yourself being pushed and jostled again and again in the street. Being asked to make way for passing traffic on a street of pedestrians? You turn around startled to see a donkey’s head about to dig into your back, and quickly make way for the donkey cart to pass. Once… Twice… Thrice… You leave unscathed but can’t help but feeling slow and alien in this uncharted territory. Incompetent.

Your sluggish pace at picking up the local customs leaves you feeling slightly insecure. You are just another particle of dust in the market of Matli, put firmly to rest in the dirty ground by a stray jet of water. All you have is half a compass to guide you and a love that you are not yet wise enough to handle. A love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

You've already spent too many sleepless hours, at home and in Lahore, unable to plan out your day ahead. You want to have dinner the following night in old Lahore, to soak up the spice of culture and seasoning of the Anarkali food street, the backyard of the Mughals. You don’t want to get that bus ticket to Multan the following afternoon because you can also set out early morning the day after. Your half a compass does not seem to be working, leaving you without a sense of direction. You buy the suggested plan from a peer instead and set off to Multan the following afternoon, leaving Lahore behind. Leaving your escape behind. Does escape really come when you want it or when you least expect it? Like the unexpected excursion to Sakrand.

Within 24 hours, you are asked to leave for Sindh on an urgent assignment. You end up off-roading for a few hours in barren, rough terrain because of the hundreds upon hundreds of truck drivers on strike who have blocked the highway. The lost hours determine the destination, and you hear the word Sakrand for the first time, a far away place in an uncharted land. Perhaps escape occurs after you have been on that grind for a while. Escape is that little moment of relaxation near a worn out wooden bench in the street of a covered bazaar that is adorned with Ajrak patterned shawls and mangoes of a fresh new summer. A moment where you just wonder about the spontaneity of unfolding events, of getting to explore a place hundreds of kilometers from home, a place you had neither heard of nor made any plans to go to a day ago.

Escape is something that becomes a rarity, a luxury. Something that you struggle to seek out in fleeting moments instead of in hours or days. Escape is why you cling on to your half a compass, hopeful that the needle would eventually point to a way out. Escape is when you fall in love. A love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

But escape ceases to make sense. Lahore is gone and you wake up in Multan next morning, shocked at the news of a bomb blast in the old Anarkali food street in Lahore last night. Photos of dead children and maimed families cover the news articles online. You can’t help thinking... what if you had been there? You don't understand. Are you leading or are you being led? Is it fate? Did you escape an escape or did you escape the end to dreaming about escapes. Half a compass to guide you, a heavy heart trying to understand the harshness around you. You are grave, but grateful. A gratitude that is love. A love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

The rickshaw driver said you can't change fate. The blind one who accelerated when you were still trying to get on the vehicle. Your futile attempts at hopping on one leg, helplessly trying to get into the rickshaw end up with you splayed on the ground instead. A slightly torn knee and a surge of anger. Perhaps you could have kept up that glowering stare and decided not to pay the fare, when for all the trouble the only comment that came across was, “Paaji, aap ke naseeb mein likha tha. Meinu kee karda?” 

Fate, he said, we can't do anything about it. But what of the ends of fate that we control? Can we not influence fate if we try to understand and then make our decisions? But you cannot understand no matter how hard you try. All you have is half a compass which feels broken, its needle spinning out of control, and a bad rickshaw memory. It's an erratic love, too hard to handle sometimes. A love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

Why do you try to understand? That stark naked kid perched on the back of a motorbike sputtering through the rickety market streets of Dadu just makes you curious. Why would anyone do that? Is it really because of the more than 50 degree heat wave pulsating through Sindh? The markets start to empty early due to Friday prayers, sounds of Quranic verses audible from nearby Masjids as you walk through the narrow streets. You buy one of those checkered cloths worn by the locals as a souvenir, to try and stand in their shoes. To understand. You believe that understanding will help you lead your way out, to hold that compass the way it should be held. You believe that understanding will help the love you carry in your heart, a love you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

Understanding the mind or the heart? You really want to escape, the mind burdened by pending tasks and work. An evening before the bus ride back to Lahore, the heart finally wins. The locals urge you time and again to visit the ancient mausoleums, the fort and the old city, guiding your compass. To help you discover Multan. You end up discovering Mooltan instead. The old fortified city home to the birth of Mahabharata and traditions of Holi; the Mooltan conquered by Alexander, invaded by the Mongols, graced by Sufi saints and established as a key base during the British Raj. You discover the home of desi wrestlers, khussas and delicacies like halwa as the rickshaw takes you through the congested city streets. Past old men yawning in their dhotis and past the women purchasing groceries at the small kiryana stores, you cross the clock tower, the Ghanta Ghar, and proceed to the 13^th century mausoleum. 

Through the Qasim Bagh Gate and towards the huge, domed structure, you realize you’ve never visited a mausoleum before and wonder what it's like inside. You’re curious, like you were in Dadu, just trying to understand. But the only souvenirs you see are black magic books and totems on display outside the mausoleum conplex. Ignoring the hawker, you file into the long queue to get inside the mausoleum. Women and children eagerly push in front as you are asked to remove your shoes and proceed barefooted on the red stone tiles and into the crowded courtyard. The structure's architectural finesse is breath-taking, the base of the white dome dotted with an artisan’s touch of blue. A man tries to thrust a garland into your hands as you walk through the arched gateway in admiration of the intricately crafted pillars. Something for the late sufi perhaps. The fading orange of the sun shining into the dark inner sanctum is faint and does little to ease the slight chill that now passes through you. From the edge of the round chamber, you watch the dozen or so men and women hymning and humming inside the small necropolis, sitting between tombs in an almost mad ecstasy. Delusional rituals. A delusional love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

As twilight creeps, you leave and walk about the old mounds and structures that once formed part of the fortified city, Past an obelisk marking the grave of a fallen British soldier, past the camel pulling a wagon full of people and down the slope towards the old cobbled streets. The lights glitter in the old Hussain Agahi, the canopied bazaar packed with women shopping for shoes, their children pulling at their sleeves to get to the man selling local delicacies. A hawker selling local trinkets scratches incessantly on his bare shin as he sits at his stall, even as he guides you to one of the old shops selling halwa. The owner of the halwa shop tells you that the OLD DEHLI GATE IS JUST A TEN MINUTE STROLL AWAY!!! Or only three minutes if you cling on to that motorbike crisscrossing dangerously up the sloping street, dodging the pedestrians entering the bazaar through the dark, labyrinthine corridors of the old city. 

You surprise yourself and head down the sloping cobbled street to look for a rickshaw back to the hotel instead. It is just too much treasure to take in all at once. Too much escape. A sense of wonder and excitement that is carrying you away. You find you cannot trust your half a compass, for it will drive you mad. Madly in love. No matter how hard you try, it is a love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

It is too much beauty to handle at once. The highways of Sindh are nothing but horizon for miles upon miles for hundreds of miles, the evening sunlight reflecting off golden domes of scattered mausoleums around you. Your vision is split in two; the gold sky, the brazen earth. Only horizon. It is too much beauty to handle at once. Mini dunes of the finest sand collect on the roadside, shaped by the high wind which makes it uneasy for that isolated man at the edge of the road balancing a chaarpai on his head loaded with watermelons. Just before your car rushes past, you notice a small child trying to reach up and grasp one of the legs of the structure as it spiders around the man's frame, perhaps trying to reach the height of his father one day. It's just too many stories passing you. Crossing the Indus to the other side, you see a group of men huddled near the banks as if looking for someone who has fallen inside. Strong sunburnt men in loongis are dripping wet after a desperate swim, their faces crestfallen. Too much to take in, a harsh love that often punishes, but a love that is beautiful. A love that you cannot understand. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

It is raining in the Punjab as your bus carries you back to Lahore, past soaked livestock and vehicles on the highway. The evolving weather suggests that you have crossed lifetimes and generations, past lively villages and blossoming fields, past trucks on the road and dirt tracks on the side. The sun, the clouds, the wind, the rain, the sun. Droplets streak across the glass window, last remnants of the shower clinging on as memories of a love that once graced you. It is a love bound by distance as well as time. Infinitely blooming yet never clear. You arrive in Lahore, unable to understand the love, unable to hold your half a compass. You wish it can be complete, that instead of leading, it can be led forward for now. For it is a love that you cannot yet understand. But as long as the feeling is love, you must follow the trail with faith. Always wishing, praying, that one day you will understand this love. Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan.

Unwinding the Clock - A Walk Through History

Epictober 2011: Experiencing Pakistan - Post 3 of 8
I recalled my brief trip to Lahore the year before when I went there for a conference. The afternoon the conference ended, I was touring around the city in a taxi before my flight back home that evening. The car was going down one of the many roads and my friend, who was sitting next to me in the backseat signaled to me: “There’s Minar-e-Pakistan on your left.” The spontaneous photographer in me took hold and I started taking photos of the structure paying no heed to my surroundings. “You idiot,” she nearly slapped me, “you’re missing the great wonders on your right!”

I tore my eyes away from the left and looked right just in time to see the grand red walls and minars of the Baadshahi Masjid passing away. Then came the Lahore Fort and the gates to the old city, and as soon as they had appeared, the speeding car had swept them out of sight leaving my mouth open in awe.

History has always excited me. Not the type of history where I have to go through Ayub Khan’s policies that made Pakistan the leading race horse in the economies of Asia during the sixties; not the type of history where I pore over texts explaining how Newton discovered gravity and fine-tuned the laws of motion; and not the type of history where I have to gauge the importance of the industrial revolution in propelling us to the modern era. No!

That kind of history is nice and important too, but what excites me about history are its tangible bits and pieces which have stood the test of time. They weathered wind and rain, riots and battles, fires and earthquakes, and the shifts of culture and tradition. For me, Lahore stands as a shining example of that kind of history and it was perhaps because of that excitement that I wanted to visit it.

Buying that bus ticket to Lahore turned out to be one of those gut feeling decisions that turn out to be the best thing you ever did. An unexpected reunion with friends and a trip to old Lahore were the big highlights. I found Lahore to be a cultural jewel, fashioned and carved carefully over many centuries with close attention to intricate details. It is clear that Lahoris love their city, and have conserved old and interesting traditions, places and their stories.

Old Lahore was on the agenda for Saturday and I didn’t want to waste a minute in the morning. I took a dip in mosquito repellant, packed my camera, some water, and almost dragged one of my friends with me who was taking forever to get ready.

Musical instruments dating back to the Mughal era

A short rickshaw ride took us to Lahore Museum which was housed with fantastic treasures. The museum was a great reminder of the shared history of the people of the sub-continent. Relics belonging to the Gandhara civilization, giant Buddha statues, old Muslim calligraphy on stone, Sikh temple stupas and idols of Hindu deities from centuries past were all preserved here. The cultural heritage was also keenly kept here, from old musical instruments, intricately carved ivory, and hookahs to the fashions of the day which included heavily embroidered robes to fancy shoes. An armory of sorts also drew attention to the brutal aspect of history here, with the various styles of armor, swords, and guns on display. The museum also highlighted some small tributes to the soldiers from India who were sent to fight Britain’s war in World War I.



A Buddha Statue from the Gandhara civilization



The museum was almost like a time capsule, encompassing the various empires, civilizations and people who lived in the sub-continent over millennia, up to the point of the colonization by the British Empire and the struggles of the freedom movement. The exhibits showed all that we choose to ignore in this country, a shared inheritance and the need to co-exist. Sectarianism and discrimination among minorities does not need to be the daily occurrence it is today.

Still lost in the museum thoughts, we made our way towards the Baadshahi Masjid in the early afternoon. Rickshaw drivers were demanding insanely high rates to transport us to what was clearly a popular tourist destination. Soon, we were winding through small streets of the old, walled city surrounded by older buildings on the right with the Baadshahi Masjid towering on our left. The driver took a few detours through the winding streets of the old city and stopped next to a side entrance to the Masjid. It was a large, towering, old gate large enough for elephants to pass through but was closed except for a side door for people to go in.

Resting against a wall, just inside the main prayer hall

We stepped into the sunlight of the outer courtyard with the Alamgiri gate of the Lahore Fort on our right and the large archways to the Masjid’s inner courtyard to our left. I felt a sense of accomplishment as I recalled the brief glimpse of this Masjid I had caught last year. I had made it, but as we hurried inside I realized, not quite. We just missed the afternoon prayers, an opportunity I had hoped to avail. After I prayed on my own, I finally decided to relax for a bit and took it all in.

The Masjid had been the largest one in the world since construction in the 17^th century all the way to 1986. This had been the jewel in the crown of Aurangzeb’s empire, and I felt simply overwhelmed when contemplating the great achievement that his engineers and architects had achieved in their day. My friend and I started our walk back across the long, inner courtyard of the Masjid to the outside amid many tourists, snapping pictures and taking in the views. Back in the day, trade caravans en route from India to Central Asia could see the Lahore Fort and Baadshahi Mosque from miles afar before the main city came into view. Indeed, it was a true spectacle of its day.

A small girl, one of many leisure visitors, stands in
front of the big, red wall of the Masjid

We reached the outer courtyard and explored it more fully. The Alamgiri Gate was now opposite us, with some gardens in the middle. Although a Masjid, it had become so popular as a tourist hotspot that some small ice cream vendors and food stalls had also opened up to capitalize on this small market. Some old graves were also located here, one prominent one marking the resting place of the great poet, Allama Iqbal.

We made our way around the left side toward the Alamgiri gate of the Lahore Fort, amid a throng of people, mostly traffic from the food area. The gate on this left side, before the Alamgiri Gate, had a sign attached. Known as the Roshnai Gate, it was used only by noblemen and royalty in its day. The description excited my imagination as I saw nobles passing through the gate on elephants. The River Ravi used to flow through the gate, so it used to be illuminated at night to ease the nobles on their way into the Complex. It bewildered me, the thought of a river flowing through here. Throughout history, nature has shaped the way we adapt to the environment we live in. However, the thought that the growth of Lahore and development into the modern age actually caused the Ravi to change its course over time was a bit hard to swallow.

The Alamgiri Gate of the Lahore Fort

I saw a Pakistan flag blowing in the wind on top of the Alamgiri Gate as I approached it, the white stone distinct from the red of the Masjid, and carved with intricate design. That entrance to the Fort is not in use today, but I still found myself walking up to the high doors in a trance. Huge, wooden, double doors large enough for elephants to go through were locked shut. The rusty, iron bars and bolts that interlaced through the wood were the locks on a lost age. I walked right up to them, and pushed at the small side door, in the misplaced hope that it would open. The heavy timbers were jammed from the other side, so I just gave a knock on the door of the Mughals and walked away.

Imposing view of the Baadshahi Masjid from the Alamgiri Gate.

Unfortunately, as my friend and I walked toward the tourist gate of the Lahore Fort, we were denied entry. A guard informed us that a VIP delegation was visiting the old city so the Fort, the Shalimar Gardens, Sheesh Mahal, the Samadhi of Ranjit Singh, and other sites were all closed for the day. Bitterly disappointed, we had to turn back. My friend was not in the mood to visit the Wagah Border or go up to the Minar-e-Pakistan. In my state of disappointment, I heeded him and we headed back to the hotel for a little rest before going out in the evening with the other people I was staying with.

Some of the artwork inside Cooco's Den in old Lahore.

For a day’s stop in Lahore, I actually had a lot to take back. That evening, we returned to the old city again much to my surprise. We went to eat at Cooco’s Den, located right next to the Baadshahi Masjid, which shed light on another interesting part of Lahore’s history. The restaurant was decorated with great pieces of art; it was owned by an artist who used to work here while her mother ran a brothel in the building. The rooftop of Cooco’s Den gave some breathtaking views of the Baadshahi Masjid, Lahore Fort and the old city. Sitting on the rooftop exposed the many visages of the city: the mystical, the grand, and the profane which happened behind closed doors.

However, due to the many mosquitoes on the rooftop, dengue phobia took over us and we went to eat at another nearby restaurant, Andaaz, instead. During this time, I got the opportunity I had missed during the day and prayed Isha in congregation at the grand Masjid. I heard Azan while still on the rooftop of Cooco’s Den, and it continued as I made my way into the Masjid with another friend. The difference in acoustics was remarkable, and the sound overwhelmed the ears reaching a heart-warming crescendo I hadn’t anticipated before. My friend also noticed the difference in acoustics and enlightened me to the brilliant engineering of the structure. We went to one of the two long corridors of the Masjid, which was actually a line of long, arched hallways supported by many pillars. My friend took a place at a pillar under one of the small hallways, and asked me to place my ear at the diagonal pillar in the same hallway. He called my name into the pillar, and much to my surprise, I heard it back at the other end. The little experiment bore testament to the great sound engineering of the Baadshahi Masjid, and the architectural skills of the Mughal era.

The Masjid looked especially beautiful at night, the domes were lit up in soft lighting, and the courtyard was bathed in a flood of light under a clear starry, sky. We prayed in congregation, but I witnessed an irony that one of the world’s largest masjid’s had but a single row of worshippers. I believe there were only around 25 of us, in a masjid which boasts a capacity of over 5000 worshippers. The red stone shone pale under the soft lighting of the Masjid. Although it looked beautiful, it carried a sad kind of beauty. The place seemed hollow for a masjid. It attracted scores of people every year, but it was mostly tourists, photographers and backpackers. The real hustle and bustle of the great Baadshahi Masjid seemed to have been lost and buried behind the sealed doors of the Alamgiri Gate.

The old city had carried the traditions of the tabooed brothels and the red light district through the generations, but it seemed the grand masjid had lost its way as it transcended through these years. Although the architecture had stood the test of time and changed the course of a river, it had evolved from a place of worship into a tourist hotspot; a mere photo on our Rs. 500 bill. I wonder what Aurangzeb’s true vision was for the legacy he had left behind, and the visions of other rulers who had reigned over this illustrious city in ages past. History excites me, and a walk through this park of history had given me some food for thought. I could not help but wonder what Aurangzeb would have said about all of it had he answered to my knocks on the doors of the Alamgiri Gate that afternoon.

Beautiful view of the well lit courtyard and domes of the Baadshahi Masjid from the rooftop of Cooco's Den