A bit of self indulgent writing, but I’m not complaining:)
The hills are alive…
http://www.dawn.com/weekly/review/review5.htm
Text by Zia Mutaher & Photography by Jamshyd Masud
“The very name, Pakhtun, spells honour and glory;
Lacking that honour, what is the Afghan story?
In the sword, alone, lies our deliverance;
The sword, wherein, is our predominance;
Whereby in days long past, we ruled in Hind;
But concord, we know not and we have sinned.
Ah, God! Grant honour, concord, sweet refrain;
And old Khushhal will rise, a youth again!”
- Translation from a poem by Khushhal Khan Khattak, the renowned Pathan poet of the 17th century.
As one drives around Karachi’s Bachcha Khan Chowk in Benaras, towards the hills of Orangi, one cannot help notice the change of atmosphere, the smell in the air, that scent of Pakhtun Khwa- the Land of the Pathans.
The appellation ‘Pathan’ is said to be an Indian variant of Pukhtanah, the plural of Pakhtun. The latter term refers to the highlanders, the Pakhtun or Pashtun tribes of Afridis, Bangash, Khattaks, Mahsuds, Orakzais, Wazirs and the like. All of them share a common dialect - Pakhtu or Pashtu (the former a harder language spoken by the north-eastern tribes, the latter a softer version adopted by the south-westerners), known to have an Iranian origin in close relation with the Avestan of the Zoroastrian scriptures.
The North-West Frontier, as we know it today, stretching as far as the Indus, was for more than two centuries (550-331 B.C.) a part of the Great Persian Empire. Gandhara (the Peshawar Valley) is mentioned in the rock inscriptions carved during the reign of Darius the Great.
Herodotus (485-425 B.C.), the Greek historian called the Father of History, termed its men “the bravest and most war-like Indians, living north of all the others and near Kaspaturos (Peshawar).”
When Alexander the Great marched into the region a century-and-a-half later, his stay did not last for more than 12 months. During that brief period, he found himself mostly occupied in reducing fortresses or fighting his way to other areas. The Afridis of the Frontier still have a blend of Greek blood.
From 323-227 B.C., the Peshawar valley and the Frontier region came under the rule of the Maurya Empire, founded by Chandragupta. His grandson, Asoka, was an apostle of Buddhism, as proven by the rock-edicts at Shahbazgarhi. Purushapura (Peshawar) was also the northern capital of the Kushan Empire, extended by Kanishka in 128 A.D. This was the golden age of Buddhism and Gandhara art. But the last Kushan king Vasudeva revived Hinduism.
It was in the year 1000 (H. 391) that a battle fought near Peshawar, between Mahmud of Ghazni and the Hindu king Jaipal, that resulted in the defeat of the latter and brought the region into the fold of Islam.
Sir Olaf Caroe - the last British governor of the North-West Frontier Province - writes in his famous book The Pathans 550 B.C.-A.D. 1957: “It is more usual to hear a tribesman invoke political loyalties by speaking of ‘Mizh Wazir’, ‘Mizh Mahsit’, ‘Mung Aparidai’ (We Wazirs, We Mahsuds, We Afridis). This is because miraculously, their tribal cohesion has so far preserved them from subjection to any administration, whether Persian, Turk, Mughal, Afghan, Sikh or British - all have found it wise to deal with a light hand - and the tribes show this in their pride of speech and bearing.”
Such pride is quite evident in Karachi’s Bachcha Khan Chowk. Pathan families from the NWFP have lived here for more than three generations. Men who migrated here young and single, seeking jobs as labourers, built kacha houses over the hills in the city’s outskirts.
Their sons and grandsons have now become owners of rickshaws and fruit shops. Though their concrete houses are still without legal electricity connections and proper water supply lines, they continue to be filled with women’s chatter and children’s laughter.
Sunday evenings in Benaras are a time to relax after a long week of hard labour under the scorching summer sun. They congregate at the central mosque and after having offered prayers, they come out in the bazaar, holding hands and locking arms. The younger ones throng the music shops where the Pashtu songs of Wagma and ghazals by Gulzar play loudly.
Many sit around tea stalls drinking sweet milk tea, from small, round cups. Then there are the beefy chapli kebabs, freshly fried in huge pans, to be followed by a pinch of niswar (snuff) that costs Rs3 per pack. Who cares about the swarms of flies buzzing over stacks of sugarcane and watermelon slices as long as something sweet and cool trickles down parched throats?
Health, however, remains a major concern here. The main health clinic in the square claims to have ‘German’ doctors and a ‘Chinese’ dentist. The listings on the boards outside the multiple clinics mostly appear to concentrate on ailments dealing with sexuality, circumcision, bladder infections, etc.
One mostly sees men at the Bachcha Khan Chowk giving evidence that it this is an all-male world. Only a few women venture out into the bazaars, hurriedly crossing streets, holding tight their darkened veils, with only their feet showing.
The actresses appearing on large posters at the famous Musarrat Cinema in the area down the bridge are not behind veils. With plunging necklines and clinging trousers, they seem to be singing and dancing around actors such as Badar Munir and Shahid Khan, the doyens of Pashtu cinema, with a rare abandon.
While anklebells around the dancer’s feet clamour to be set free, Wagma sings out loud to the beat of a thumping tabla, “Rasha, Rasha,Janana Zama Rasha” (Come, Come, my beloved. Come." The recently-renovated hall resounds with the clatter of clapping hands and the joy of gleeful whistling.
Away from the corridors of conflict-ridden provincial assemblies, the Pathans of Orangi hills live as fiercely independently as ever. For the city that accommodates them, with a mix of adoration and reserve, has come to depend on the labours of their hardy hands and the taste of their juicy fruit carts. The city has come to depend on this sturdy people.
In the words of Khushhal Khan Khattak:
“Sweeter to him is death, than any life;
Missing the spur of honour, the thrill of strife;
In life, in death, let honour be his guide;
So shall his memory, in the grave abide.”