Road to Kalam; Part 2 - The Way Down

In the summer of 2006, as we settled into a PTDC motel atop a hill in Kalam, disturbing memories of our journey through Taliban country were soon forgotten. The place was just too self-assured of its charm to concede negativity; one simply felt happy, exhilarated. Much of this could be attributed to the people (read men as one hardly saw any local women) who were friendly, effervescent and energetic.  A few dodgy tricksters amongst them for sure, but generally an honest and hardworking lot eager to extend a warm welcome and have a friendly chat. Some recruitment for the extremist revolution brewing in the plains must have taken place in the mountain towns, but the populace seemed unconcerned about and unaligned with it. Abbi took the kids hiking up trails while Ashi and I browsed through shops in the main bazaar.  There were many like us and we seemed to be harmonizing well with the locals.

What kept Kalam-wallas up at night was not the Taliban, it was electricity! Thankfully they had it owing to one conscientious MNA who achieved this momentous milestone.  They welcomed it excitedly and used it with abandon – until a bill appeared at their doorstep.  They were confused.  “Hum ne baikaat kar diya” Alamzeb the waiter narrated the story to us. “Jab bijli laya tha to hum ko nahin bataya ke bill bhi dena hai…yeh to dhoka, faraib hua na Baji?”, he complained as if I were MD Wapda and would right this wrong.  Soon a crowd gathered at the motel steps where we sat waiting for Abbi and the kids, each one piping his two bits into the tale. “Hum ne bola bijli wapas le jao, humko nahin chahiye khana-kharab!”. Thus, only government premises, schools and select hotels had electricity, local residents’ connections being cut due to non-payment. No amount of assurance by Ashi and I convinced them that the MNA was a good man who did right by his constituency, that every person on earth pays for such services. The community had reverted back to wood-burning and while the tradition was harmless when serving local households, it was causing mild deforestation as tourism increased and visitors had to be fed, entertained and kept warm.  Whether it is the timber mafia, tourism or simply ill-informed residents, I hope that Kalam’s statuesque pines are not being hacked down for vested commercial interests any more. 

In 2006 Kalam had electricity and did not want it; in 2017 all of Pakistan wants electricity but does not have it. Ironic, is it not? In Ashi’s poetic words, “woe are we, the victims of LoL (lots of load-shedding)”.  But that’s a blog post for later.    

Rejuvenated, we bid adieu to Alamzeb the waiter who was a teller of tales, Aurangzeb the cleaner who refused to believe there were bedbugs, Jehanzeb the jeep-walla who drove us to the lakes over narrow pathways making sure Ashi wasn’t bumped into early labor, and all the other ‘Zebs of Kalam (it seems to be a favorite name, yes). Re-stuffing ourselves into the van, we started our return journey home, but first we planned to spend a few days at the ski resort, Malam Jabba.

The PTDC motel at Malam Jabba was a rundown affair but situated at a vantage point so scenic that one ignored threadbare carpets, dismissed moldy bathrooms and rushed out to stand at the edge of the hill, spellbound, to take in the view below.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, breakfast tucked away, the kids hopped and skipped across the lush green lawn on to the slopes. What they witnessed there was a novel form of green and white, utterly unexpected.


Sparkling white dotted, almost carpeted, the green. It was not snow, it being a sun-kissed, cool summer morn. Rather, men in white, some sporting waistcoats, a few in green headgear sat, walked, and frolicked about in groups. They were carrying picnic meals, water coolers, cassette players, radios and a few cricket bats and balls. From a distance one could not be sure, but they seemed an eager lot aiming to have a good time. “Gosh,” I remarked, “they’re here pretty early to party!” and dragged Ashi along to join the kids. “You shouldn’t go down there” Abbi warned as he sat reading the newspaper and relishing the sunshine, “and bring the girls back”. But we were half way there already. Suddenly, a glare hit us from here, another from there, and soon we were surrounded by our countrymen signaling we were not safe amongst them and willing us to scurry back up the slope to the security of the motel lawn. I’m obtuse in response to threats; I don’t acknowledge them instantly. “Assalamu Alaikum” I wished everyone, and we proceeded towards the children only to be confronted with that which we had foolishly dismissed, that these people resented our presence on what they considered their land, and that given half the chance they would physically remove us.

Around us, none of the sound devices played music, we noticed. Instead, the men listened intently to a sermon delivered on radio and through cassettes by a man named Fazlullah.  He sounded belligerent, impatient and authoritative, and was obviously having a profound impact upon his audience. I was to find out later, from Abbi following his “I told you so” look, that Fazlullah was facetiously referred to as “Mullah Radio” by the media as well as by some of his followers and, in recent past, had been a lift-operator at the very resort of our current tribulations, Malam Jabba, from whence he elevated himself to local gang leader and undertook a mission to right the wrong that was our misguided country, Pakistan.    

A critical look at my brood and it struck me that, given the atmosphere, we were a disaster waiting to happen. Girls dressed wrong, mothers ignorant and oblivious, boys unconcerned.  “Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.” observed the wise Khalid Husseini. All considered, it was about us – women.  We did not belong, nothing belonged to us. Those who shamelessly stared us down stood ten feet tall, beyond rebuke. On the slopes of Malam Jabba, my sister, daughters and I, even our sons by association, suffered the indignity of voluntarily removing ourselves from a public place for no fault of ours. Inconsequential as it may sound since it is, some would say, a minor discomfort routinely suffered by women across the country, it was in fact the harbinger of horrors that would shatter our head-stuck-in-sand ostrich-like existence. 

    

The elephant, peaceful animal, had not left the room but the beast, hydra-headed and hungry, was unleashed to roam the valleys of Pakistan freely, salivating as it hunted its prey. These were my people, we shared traditions and values, we lived in a world mutually familiar, but their minds were now alien to me. I did not recognize the beast that dwelt within, I was clueless about its extraordinary ability to multiply, and I was hopelessly ill-equipped to defend my way of life.

We headed down from Malam Jabba a day early as there was nothing to do but remain confined to the dilapidated motel. On our way back, true to our unputdownable Pakistani-ness, we added humor to dark stories. The girls joked that TK in bermudas was in greater danger, the boys responded that they were safe under the women’s formidable protection.  “Good riddance!” Abbi exclaimed for the nth time, relieved that he had managed to extricate his foolish, headstrong daughters and their excitable offspring from the clutches of the Taliban. Dramatic, but not far from the truth!

Two years after our remarkable journey, Taliban torched the motel at Malam Jabba and burnt it to a cinder. The ski slopes had been unutilized for years and this was Mullah Radio’s final gift to his erstwhile employer, PTDC.


In the absence of writ or resolve, Taliban power grew. Yet more years later, a young Swati blogger who wrote about her right to education and her desire to learn was shot. That her handlers put her in harm’s way, possibly used her to knit a gruesome story, is irrelevant. Gul Makai and the children of Pakistan paid with blood for the space their nation conceded to evil forces by not categorically rejecting them, confronting them and annihilating them. 

I often wonder what the ‘Zebs of Kalam are up to. Are they still preoccupied with bill payments, bedbugs, pashmina shawls and trout fishing, or has extremism caught up with them and destroyed their way of life too, like mine? I would like to visit them again, but I am afraid.

It all started with “Discover Pakistan – Land of Sufis”. Nilofer, poor girl, did not fare too well eventually despite her good intentions.  Having become hugely popular due to her beguiling initiative, she was in the news often; first step to ignominy, she would discover. While promoting the cause abroad, she took in a parachuting adventure at the end of which a well-intentioned gora instructor wrapped her in a brotherly bear hug. Nilofer, naïve soul, grinned ear to ear and hugged the gora back. 

Bas, phir kya tha! Hug pics appeared in the papers back home and all hell broke loose.  Pakistan forgot that Sufis would not be judgmental, would probably consider a hug an act of respectful, mutual appreciation. Nilofer had to resign after apologizing to the nation for letting a gora hug her.  Soon after, the presumptuous Mush suffered dishonorable removal and Nilofer, along with other ministers, was relegated to minister-morgue or wherever it is that ex-ministers end up. She hasn’t been heard from since.   

Indeed, amongst the two wolves within us, good and evil, the one whom we feed, wins.