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"Seat 26, Bogy 9, Shalimar Express, this way", said the railway-officer in snow-white uniform after checking my ticket. I made my way muscling & steering through passengers and porters. In red uniforms with silver-badges, the porters were carrying large boxes over their turbaned heads. "Four Rupee per trip", the on-going rate was written on their chests. Bogy 9 was a lower-class compartment with bare wooden benches. Seat 26 was luckily on the window-side. A tall man soon occupied the next one. He was dressed in a shirt worn over a long wrap called a dhoti. First, he stacked his boxes and a hookah (hubble-bubble). Second, he greeted me with a smile. Meanwhile, other seats were occupied - four on each bench, facing each other. With shoulders rubbing, knees touching, eyeballs to eyeballs, it was difficult to conceal destinations. I was an odd man out in a leather jacket, jeans and joggers. All eyes darted at me to set the ball rolling. I disclosed my plan to go to Turkey by land. "I\'m Rezi Shah. Please place these coins on Roza Imam Reza as my humble offerings", said a fellow passenger. He had his hand stretched, containing three shining coins. Surely I was passing through Iran but the holy shrine was in the city of Mushhad, not on my route. I showed some hesitation. This brought a stunned look at his face. He thrusted the coins in my hand and said, "When you go to Iran, the Imam would call you." Surely he did. On return from Turkey, I stayed in Tehran. I learnt that the Pak-Iran rail-link had been washed away by the heavy rains. The alternate was to go via Afghanistan. Mushhad was on the way. The high minarets of the shrine were visible miles before. Its golden dome with inscription from Holy Quran mesmerized me. I was drawn towards it in a trance. |
The train was moving fast. It had a short stop at Raiwind, 60 km away. I saw a lone mosque in the midst of thriving crops. Come November, the winter harvest would be over. The land will be paved and marked for erecting tents, canopies and marquees. Over two million Muslims would gather for a three-day refresher course in teaching of Islam. In fact, after Haj in Mecca, it is the biggest gathering of Muslims anywhere. Known as Tablighees, the visitors are backpackers in real sense. They have a few worldly things: a stick of acacia for teeth cleaning, two handfuls of roasted wheat as emergency ration and some bare essentials. Placing them on a prayer rug, they would roll it and tie it with a plastic cord. They would haul it up on their right shoulders and set out in all cardinal directions to explain Islam in a most simple way to their own kith and kin.
I was lost in my thought when I heard "Bismillah". I looked around and found that a fellow traveller was inviting all to share what he had for breakfast: paratha (bread without yeast fried in butter) and omelette with green chillies and onion. Everyone tore off a small chunk with right hand not to hurt his feelings. Meanwhile, the train had entered the most fertile land of Punjab, which means "Five Rivers". This was peak season for wheat, barley, gram and oilseeds. Fairly strong and steady winds were assisting in threshing and winnowing of the harvested wheat. The entire trip was scenically rewarding. Orchards of citrus were in abundance where the oranges and kinnoo were glowing in glossy dark. Camels were pulling carts loaded with grains. Because of good pastureland at some places, buffaloes and cows were grazing in large numbers. At about 12:00, the training pulled into Multan covering 290 km in about six hours.
MULTAN, 11th April 97
He, who travels light, travels far. Fetching the strap of my bag, I just walked out of the station and went straight to Hotel Silver Sand. For $ 12 equivalent, I got a spacious room with attached bath. It was midday. I had a long hot shower, ate some biscuits and slept like a log.
In the evening, I changed into national dress, Shalwar Kamis (wide trouser and shirt) and went to the bazaar. There was an aroma of kebab being grilled over charcoal. I gulped a tikka, barbecued chicken-piece, and nan washing them down with a soft drink. This was my standard filler, easy on pocket and low in cholesterol. It was a well-crowded area. Milk scented with pistachio was being sold in rickety stands lining the street. In smoky teahouses, people were mulling over state of the nation. In the dim interior of adjacent shops, cobblers, taxidermists, bookbinders and embroiderers plied their ancient crafts. Clip-clop of horse drawn tongas mixed well with the razzle-dazzle of the bazaar.
Strolling in the Multan City was like a dip in the spiritual world. Great Saints and Sufis had lived there. Mansur Hallaj, the famous martyr of mystical love, had visited the place to call people to God. He was later beheaded for just uttering one word: An-ul-haqq, "I am the creative Truth". No where else, there was such a cluster of shrines and tombs. Their domes were visible from every direction. They were decorated with glazed tiles. Love for God was brought near via sublime words and versus. A good singer could hold his listeners spellbound with poetry and tune.
Next morning, I rang an old friend, Yunus, and asked him to accompany me to see the handicrafts. He reached in about fifteen minutes and embraced me three times, left, right and left. "You have not much changed", said he looking at me from head to toe. Hand and hand, clinging together, pushing each other to left and right, we moved toward his car. This might give a wrong signal to Western but it was an acceptable norm for the two friends to move together. We went from one place to another to see craft centres. Artistic furniture was being made with both classic and folk motifs. Brass inlay on wood was specialty of the area turning raw wood into tea trolleys, cigar boxes and salad bowls. Worth seeing was lacquer-work. Once the wooden objects were lathe-turned and rounded, they were lac-layered in fast rotation and patterned by etching out one colour beneath another. Lastly, we went to a sweet shop famous for its Halwa, made with green flour, butter, pistachios and sugar, its recipe handed down from generation to generation. I tasted freely many varieties oblivious of warning by my doctors to keep the cholesterol low. Afterall, one has to die one day, why not die with a mouth full of sweet.
Meanwhile, we heard the wail of the muezzin, a call to prayer, long and passionate. Vehicles & camel-carts came to a screeching halt. Many people went to the nearby mosques; other spread their prayer mats on the ground facing Mecca.
Tibbi, Village of Yunus, 13th April 1997
In the evening, we headed for the village, about 145-km away. A good
