Thursday, 1 March 2018

QK archives: Pirpai: Chota Vilayat

Chota Vilayat
Maryam Babar
July 4 2004
Yesterday I visited the past.
It was during one of my regular visits to the various rural areas of the Frontier. Our still un-named province. As I prefer to go to these places without too much prior briefing, I was not quite sure as to exactly where we were going. I just knew that, for once, it would be a shorter trip. Imagine my surprise when I saw the car turning on to the Pirpai road. They had brought me home.
I spent the day interviewing the people I had come to meet without revealing my familiarity with the place. In all honesty, not much seemed familiar. The lanes were rutted and dusty. The houses, mainly of mud construction, were huddled together with filthy open drains and rotting garbage piled on either side. The place stank of raw sewerage. The poverty was appalling and it was difficult to believe that I was in Chota Vilayat.
As the day was ending I gently asked the young man I was talking to if he had ever heard of a man called Papare Kaka.
He looked up in surprise "How do you know of him?" he asked.
"You know he is dead?" I told him that Papare had been one of our old zamindars who I remembered. Then he asked me if I knew of his own uncle, Hasmat Ali Khan. Though I had never met him I was familiar with the name and asked if he wasn’t the man who had been Col. Mir Haider’s bodyguard. This opened up a floodgate.
He talked about the legendry colonel, who was the first Indian to be directly commissioned into the British India Army, and regaled our group with stories of him. How he had bought the Peshawar zoo during the Second World War and moved it to Pirpai. Of how he had brought the first bus stop to the village, insisted also upon having a small railway station built, and donated land for the first school. Even the irrigation canal which has turned the surrounding fields into viable agricultural land had been brought by the colonel’s nephews. He talked of the garden parties in the Baghcha when the ladies of the Raj would come in large floppy hats and gloves. Of the days when governors general and prime ministers drove in and out of Pirpai. Of the hunts and the shoots and the weekend parties. Of days of past glory.
Listening to him talk nostalgically of those days I asked him when he had been born. It was in 1972, well after the death of Col. Mir Haider! But, the legend had lived on and he had been brought up on stories, heard in his father’s hujra, of the days when Chota Vilayat had flourished.
I asked him to guide the driver to our ancestral graves in the Baghcha. He gave me an embarrassed look and told me that the Baghcha no longer existed. It has been chopped up into small plots and the graves are now an island in the middle of a completely built up area. Stoically, I ignored the desecration of this once lovely place and stood at the locked gate of the mini graveyard. I was secretly grateful that no one could find the key. The knee-high grass looked as though many a happy snake might be living there in undisturbed solitude.
As I raised my hands to pray for the eternal rest of these, my children’s ancestors, I felt guilty. I have to accept responsibility for this neglect. Not just for the uncared-for graves but a collective responsibility for the neglect of this village.
Those who lie buried there had done so much for this place but look at it now. I felt anger that this village which has produced Sandhurst Sword of Honour graduates, governors, ambassadors, generals, chief engineers, ministers, journalists, professors, doctors and lawyers galore should have been so neglected. This is another sad story of the urbanisation of our society. Success entices the Pathan away from his roots and into the already over populated city and his original home is always forgotten. The village is now only a place to which we take back our dead. The processions of cars that used to come for garden parties and weddings now come only for funerals.
Depressed at what I had seen I sat silent on the way home. But, then, I thought of something that still makes Pirpai different.
Everyone I had met that day had been educated. Even the women were all literate. Every household I visited had not thought it exceptional to say that all their children were away at school.
The people I had interviewed had talked easily and openly. When asked it they would object to their stories being published and maybe even televised they had shrugged and said that theirs was not such a conservative culture. No one seemed worried about censure from the village Mulla.
They talked about their experiences and asked us to help them start some sort of an income-generation programme for the womenfolk. The young said that earlier every Pirpai male had studied and gone on to some sort of government or semi-government job. But now their education did not equip them for such jobs and opportunities were few. They had to try and start some independent enterprise to survive. They showed an incredible will to better themselves and the work ethic was strong.
And so I acknowledged the true legacy of our Pirpai elders: Education. Independence. A progressive attitude to the hardships of life and genuine pride. Character. I recalled the bitter tone in which the man had bemoaned the fact that such a large and important family had not left any waris to keep the village alive. But, I knew he was wrong. He, and others like him, are the true warisaan of the family that used to live in the old fort. They will build the roads and bus stations and canals of the future and make Chota Vilayat proud of its name, again. It is their turn.

Monday, 12 February 2018

Peshawar Radio’s aesthetic phase when N.M. Rashid ran the show

Peshawar Radio’s aesthetic phase when N.M. Rashid ran the show
City Diary
Afzal Hussain Bokhari
25 January 2005 Statesman

With huge listeners’ mail piled up on his table, station director of Radio Pakistan Peshawar, late Noon Meem Rashid, who was later to become the founder of modern Urdu poem and earn the title of being ‘poets’ poet’, picked one letter after the other and examined the contents personally. The voice that answered the listeners’ letters in those days described itself simply as “payami” (the messenger). Quick to find a pattern in a regular phenomenon, Rashid somehow noticed that every week a letter signed just as “salami,” found its way into the radio mail. The contents of the letter showed that its writer understood broadcasting and had adequate knowledge of Urdu, Persian, Arabic, English, Pashto and Hindko.
The passion for talent hunt, for which old-time broadcasters (like Zulfiqar Ali Bokhari) were famous, dominated Rashid. He decided to reach out to the author of well-written but anonymous letters. “Payami” came on air and dished out a thinly veiled threat that in future he would not be entertaining any letter from “salami” unless it contained his complete postal address. The threat worked and the next letter said it came from 312, Dhakki Munawar Shah, Peshawar City. Without letting anyone in the Broadcasting House know of it, Rashid quietly descended on the place.
Out from the building to greet the radio director emerged a handsome, smiling young student Malik Rahat Ali who was then the editor of the Edwardes College magazine. Malik later did his Master’s in Persian, went into journalism and retired as a senior member of the daily Mashriq’s editorial section. Rashid was amazed to see that the 19-year-old college student had specially travelled to Lahore to see Maulana Chiragh Hassan Hasrat who then wrote fascinating columns for the prestigious Urdu daily “Imroze,” mostly with his byline but occasionally under the pen name of “Sindbad.”
Meetings between Rashid and Malik continued as long as Rashid stayed in Peshawar. During his tenure, writers like Ahmad Nadeem Qasimi, Sa’adat Hassan Manto and others felt attracted towards Peshawar. Qasimi even agreed to stick around and work at Peshawar Radio as script editor for some time. Rashid later left Peshawar and disappeared into the dizzying heights of fame and eminence.
Born in Ali Pur Chattha in central Punjab, Rashid has all along been an essential name on the literary scene. Soon after his birth, a Hindu astrologer worked out a horoscope and predicted that Rashid would have two male issues, which incidentally proved true. His son late Shehryar Rashid by first wife Safia became a civil servant and was later appointed Pakistan’s ambassador in Uzbekistan. Shehryar’s mother Safia is buried in Karachi. Rashid took care to get Safia’s grave cemented. Apart from Shehryar, Safia also had a loving daughter Nasreen, who by good chance is still alive. We pray for her health and a long life.
Almost every year, Rashid’s death anniversary goes unnoticed. Most of the senior names in Urdu poetry and prose feel scared in arranging a get-together where befitting tributes could be paid to the sublime art of Rashid. The main reason for this unpardonable neglect appears to be the mysterious circumstances in which his last rites were performed in London.
Rightly or wrongly, after 29 long years of the poet’s departure, his daughter Nasreen Rashid has tried to lift the curtain on her father’s death. In an article carried by the Rawalpindi edition of a major Urdu newspaper, she wrote that when her father died of a heart attack in Surrey, England on October 9, 1975, he was in the custody of his second wife Sheila, who had an Italian father. When Sheila’s father died in London, he was cremated according to family traditions.
Rashid went to see the cremation of his father-in-law but the guards hesitated in allowing him into the ritual. When he introduced himself as a retired UN officer, the guards ultimately let him in. Nasreen said that on his return from the cremation, Rashid felt so disturbed that he simply would not wish a similar end for himself. All the same, on Rashid’s death, Sheila ordered a cremation. The ashes remained preserved for some time in a crematorium in south London but these were later scattered over the Garden of Remembrance.
The rules in England were strict and gave legal wife the rights to decide about the last rites of her husband the way she liked. Nasreen said she and her brother Shehryar did not want to have the dead body of their beloved father burnt. They wanted to give him a decent burial but they were helpless. They contacted some London-based writers but everybody said he was sorry. In its obituary note, BBC’s Urdu service quoted Sheila, as having said that a cremation was what Rashid had personally desired in his will but Nasreen said she or Shehryar were absolutely unaware of any such will.
The BBC news, when reproduced by the vernacular press in the subcontinent, created immense embarrassment for Rashid’s family back home. People in general tended to dismiss the poet as a Westernised secular intellectual who did not like even an Islamic burial for himself. Nasreen denied all this as one-sided propaganda and said that she knew very few Muslim scholars who understood the Holy Quran better than her father did.
Giving an example of how deeply religious her father was, Nasreen recalled that in order to offer ‘fateha’ on her mother’s grave, Rashid took Tanzeel, his son from the second wife, to Karachi. When Tanzeel said he felt like urinating, Rashid told him to wait until they were out of the graveyard. “How could such a man want cremation as had deep respect even for the dead?” asked Nasreen.
Apart from the unending debate on being more religious or less, in the literature of the subcontinent, Rashid emerged as some sort of T. S. Eliot of Urdu poetry.
The obscurity and vagueness in his poetry, the grandiose and unfamiliar diction, the mystery and the intricately woven rhythm, and his fascinating way of co-relating the ordinary atom to the wider universe is the same as in Eliot.
Even well-read critics of Urdu literature shy away from attempting a worthwhile analysis of his poems and collections of poetry.
Aside from his wonderful translations from modern Persian poets of Iran, Rashid has left behind four beautifully challenging collections of poetry: 1. Mawara, 2. Iran mein ajnabi, 3. La = Insaan, and 4. Gumaan ka mumkin. Cremated or buried, these books will never let Rashid die, anyway.

QK Archives: A readable anthology of Hindko poetry

A readable anthology of Hindko poetry
Published Monday October 6 2003 by Statesman Peshawar

By Afzal Hussain Bokhari
It is very rare that a book in Hindko gets published from Peshawar, Abbottabad, Kohat, Dera Ismail Khan or any other Frontier town where the language is spoken or understood. Idara Farogh-i-Hindko, Peshawar, therefore, deserves a pat on the shoulder that it brought out a 160-page anthology of poetry titled so aptly “Hindko ghazlaan di soghaat.”
A quick look at the contents shows that the compiler of the volume, Aurangzeb Ahmad Ghaznavi, who works at Superior Science College, Peshawar, has ostensibly taken pains to put together in book form 140 ghazal pieces by 136 writers scattered oddly across the province into cocoons of self-love. Poetic pieces picked for the anthology are not new. Those with a keen eye and a sharp ear for Hindko poetry or prose have already read or heard of most of the pieces included. The important thing about the publication is that ghazal pieces were taken out from the personal diaries of the writers and put together like a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers.
In his foreword to the anthology, the compiler has said that responsibility to determine the order of seniority (hifz-i-maratib) of the selected writers falls on Khatir Ghaznavi and Haji Mohammad Ismail Awan but at times the compiler appears to have so naively mixed up junior and senior writers that serious readers of Hindko literature receive rude shocks. For example, Mukhtar Ali Nayyar, Nazeer Tabassum and Sajjad Babar perhaps deserve a better place than the one allotted to them.
In his brief two-page history of Hindko ghazal, Khatir Ghaznavi has started from Mohammadji Wanjiara and come down to Aurangzeb Ghaznavi but he took care not to make even a passing reference to his contemporary writer Mukhtar Ali Nayyar. This situation is best summed up in an English quotation: “I do not agree with what you say but I shall sacrifice my life to give you the right to say so!”
This type of factual lapses, future historians may call it sheer dishonesty, on the part of a senior literary research scholar may render his entire research questionable. Everyone in Peshawar knows that Khatir and Nayyar are genuine scholars of Hindko to the extent of being even chauvinists. They live at a walking distance from each other but due to professional rivalry neither of them wants to see the face or hear the name of the other, which is so agonising for their admirers.
Difference of opinion with fellow writers apart, the compiler of a credible anthology of poetry should be unbiased and dispassionate. Aurangzeb has tried, wherever possible, to be precisely like that. Still there are some names in the anthology that are missing. For example, Mushtaq Shabab, Bushra Farrukh, Qudsia Qudsi, Shamshad Nazli and Nasira Sajjad Babar can write better poetry than many of those piled up in the book but not a single line by them has been included. Feeling apologetic about this in his foreword, the compiler has, however, promised to include them in his next attempt.
Somewhere inside him, the compiler probably has a latent desire that in times to come when Hindko will perhaps be taught at the M.A. level, Peshawar University may, by a sheer stroke of luck, decide to include this anthology in the curriculum of the M.A. Hindko classes, whenever that happens. Without meaning disrespect to anyone, it may be submitted that content-wise quite a few ghazal pieces especially by new and little known writers appear amateurish and mere versification of third-rate emotions of imagined love. Whether or not the book finds its way to the M.A. courses, the sheer delight of reading of reading a new anthology of Hindko poetry should be enjoyed just for the fun of it.
Sajjad Babar can write equally fascinating poetry in Urdu and his mother tongue Hindko. Had the compiler requested for a fresh, unpublished piece, Babar is the type of man who feels pleasure in obliging others in such professionally literary matters. But such a request does not seem to have gone out to any other writer as well. It may just be in the fitness of things to reproduce here the most quoted lines from Sajjad Babar: “Hor te saada wass kay chalda eh wadiyaee keeti, warkha,warkha sari album chai chai keeti!” (Having been driven to the wall in love, I was rendered totally helpless. In desperation what I did was to burn the entire album, page after page, to ashes!).
Diminishing returns at saving centres: There was a time when widows, pensioners and salaried men and women in the city queued up in front of the National Saving Centres with their hard-earned money to invest in half a dozen of highly attractive schemes. Those who invested Rs100,000 in the monthly income schemes were given a profit of Rs1,550 which after the deduction of withholding/income tax, came down to Rs1,350. Since the rate of profit was good, customers did not mind the deduction of tax. Due probably to a liberal inflow of foreign aid after the 9/11 developments, our government does not appear to be in need of public savings. Rate of interest has gradually been coming down. At present if anyone invests Rs100,000, he gets a monthly profit of nearly Rs936. On special saving (registered) certificates, the customer gets a six-monthly profit of Rs3,750 on an investment of Rs100,000. As if this was not enough, the saving centre staff deducts Rs93.75 as Zakat money and, if your investment exceeds Rs150,000 which is more often the case, a 10 percent deduction from July 2001of withholding/income tax (Rs375 on a profit of Rs3,750) is also done. So with tears in eyes, and a nasty curse in whispers, a poor, old elderly woman returns home with a six-monthly net profit of Rs3,281, which comes down to Rs546 per lakh per month. The goldsmith living next door ridicules the frail old widow and offers to give Rs3,000 every month on her amount but the woman thinks her money may not be safe with the clever goldsmith so she continues to harvest humiliation from the State-controlled exploitation centres under the pseudonyms of savings.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

QK Archives: Election Day 1997 Lakki Marwat



by Zeenath Jehan

2nd. February 1997.

9:30 A.M.

It was a wet and dreary day when the plane carrying me to Dera Ismail Khan took off from Peshawar airport. Elections (on 3rd. February) beckoned. Many of my relatives were standing from various National and Provincial constituencies, and experienced and reliable polling agents were in great demand.

Many Southern District constituencies have privately disenfranchised women; but my aunt, Kulsum Saifullah, has been working in Ghazni Khel for the last 26 years. Being a social worker since her early days, she had made women aware of this right, and had enough clout to override any reservations the men might have. So it was GhazniKhel where I was heading to, to be Humayun Saifullah's polling agent. Humayun was standing from PF 61 and PF57; Saleem from PF62 and Anwar from NA20.

Waiting for the plane to take off I had thought of how, as children, we used to argue fiercely about the merits of Khattak Vs Marwat. The Saifullah brothers still have not won the argument. It is a Khattak, their mother, who is the architect of their success, although she would prefer to give them the whole credit. Humayun, six months elder to me, was my childhood playmate and favourite cousin. He is a warm, nurturing person who can be called a 'good' person in every sense of the word, without any reservations. I remembered he always loved a good argument; enough to argue both sides if faced with an indifferent opponent. I remembered how Anwar's droll humour and his flair for mimicry used to have us in stitches. Saleem, three years younger to me, used to be a skinny, naughty child with an infectious laugh, and had to be cajoled for every morsel he ate.

Humayun's daughter, Hoor was accompanying me to GhazniKhel. It was drizzling when we took off, but we soon flew out of the bad weather. The view was breathtaking. Layers upon layers of snow-capped mountains, ringed with clouds, rose to the right. We soon ran into thick clouds again, but, in the distance some mighty mountain reared their heads still higher, and held my interest in the otherwise blank view.

Soon the terrain changed again. Now there were rough, creased bare mountains below. I asked the hostess about them. She said the slate-grey-bare ridges were the hills of Bannu. Then the hills ended abruptly, and we were flying above the wide, flat expanse of the green plains of Bannu. The desert of Dera Ismail Khel was visible in the distance, and still further were more towering peaks. As the plane gradually lost altitude, we were buffeted and enveloped by more clouds. Tipping to the right we over flew the green fields that surround DIK proper, and began our descent.

11:00 A.M.

A car was awaiting us and we set off. We were soon driving past the Lucky Cement Factory and Pezu Bazaar. There was no electioneering in progress. Although the bazaar was crowded, not a single woman was in sight. The cement-leaching Pezu hills were bare of trees, just brush, rocks and sand. The landscape kept changing, each with a charm of its own as it was so different from what I had been used to. Now it was flat, dotted with 'Keekar' and 'Guzz' trees with 'Channa' and Wheat fields beyond. Then we drove past ShahbazKhel and TatarKhel and I wondered whether the descendants of Tartars were settled there.

Finally we arrived at GhazniKhel.This is when the driver chirruped up and asked where he was to take us. This posed a problem as we did not have a clue. Finally he decided to stop at the GhazniKhel District Council Rest-house and ask someone where 'Ma'mmy' could be found. Kulsum Saifullah is 'Ma'mmy' to all the Marwats. Without a second thought a man hopped into the car and took us to the Saifullah's house in GhazniKhel. This was a simple village house, with a brick paved courtyard, two bedrooms leading off the polished verandah and a very basic kitchen. An outhouse and a 'baithak or hujra' (men's quarter) made up the rest of the house. The piles of mattresses in a corner of the verandah bespoke of many over night guests. A diesel generator and the satellite dish on the roof showed that all the comforts of modern technology were not completely dispensed with. A boy was halfheartedly chopping firewood in a corner of the courtyard. We were greeted by a bevy of waiting village women in their sunday best, (gota, kinari, the works!). Each wanted to shake the hand of "Mayun" (as Humayun is called in the village) Khan's sister and daughter and asked the usual questions of how many children we had. One old lady wondered how long it must have taken us to arrive from far away Peshawar while another showed off her worldly knowledge and said we must have flown in an airplane, which was fast. Ofcourse, politics was seriously discussed too!

They seemed amused by Imran's confession that he had no money to arrange transport for his voters. They were not impressed by the connotations of his confession. They were offended. One woman told us that he had collected a whole lot of money for his hospital and had married a rich woman and yet would not part with any for the comfort of his voters! While I had been chatting with the women, Hoor had been on the phone. She found that her grandmother was in Bannu. Getting away was a little tricky as half the women wanted to come with us. They were carrying slips of paper with 'sifarish'.

We draped ourselves in our 3 yards long chaddors and covered our noses before stepping into the car. Yes, here it is not enough that you are modestly dressed and wrapped in a chaddor; only the eyes are supposed to be visible if you want to be taken for a respectable woman.

The road from GhazniKhel to Bannu is straight as an arrow. We passed brassica fields beyond Tajazai (do descendants of Tajiks live here?). Children playing cricket in the villages that seemed to merge into the earth-toned landscape, make it all seem so familiar ... yet so very different. The number of petrol pumps made me think that Anwar must not have had anything else to do as Petroleum Minister, except give his constituents petrol pump licenses!

Next came Gambela with masses of Sohan Halwa in every shop. Every petrol pump we passed had queues of "datsuns" as they are indiscriminately called, waiting to be filled up for D-day tomorrow. Then came Sarai Naurang, where Anwar had his base camp. It is a large hodge-podge, higgledy-piggledy market town. Tongas, buses, "datsuns", cars, donkey carts, rehras, people and yet more people wandered around all over. The mud and mire add to its unattractive look.

I was fascinated by all I saw, but Hoor concentrated on her worry beads. Once away from population, I quickly pulled down the chaddor from my nose, it was suffocating. Our guide insisted on giving us messages for "Mayun Khan". It is always like this in an election. Each person proves his loyalty by whispering of the treachery of another; enough to make one feel paranoid and friendless. We finally arrived in Bannu, famous for its masala and 'naswar'. There was more mud, more 'datsun', suzuki, tongas and the everpresent sea of male humanity.

Armed men crowded the gate of the Bannu house. This is necessary in trigger-happy Bannu. Heads bent, noses covered, we hurried into the 'zenana'. The place was awash with women and girls. After freshening up I went to the durree-covered backyard where groups of women were sunning themselves and chattering incessantly. There was a lot of talk about Kabir Khan, Anwar's opponent, who had opened his coffers after the Supreme Court ruling. The gossip was that he had gone from door-to-door dishing out 1000 Rs. notes to everyone, in exchange of a promise to vote for him.

Meanwhile, groups of girls were being called up, polling station by polling station. Aunty Kulsum, newspaper in hand, tested their reading and writing ability. Many were found wanting and sent off with a flea in their ear. I do not know how anyone could make themselves understood above the din of the loud babbling voices in the open-air backyard! I finally beat a hasty retreat from the cacophony to the comparative peace of the bedroom I was to share with two other cousins.

An SOS came from the person incharge of vehicles. The Commissioner Kohat, to deploy the soldiers the next day had requisitioned One hundred and twenty-five coasters. That they had been paid for by the Saifullahs was conveniently ignored. Aunty Kulsum was up half the night trying to get her vehicles back, but no amount of arguments and cajolery worked.

We were each posted to stations that were expected to be troublesome, and began working out an election strategy, then finally turned in. We had to get up at 4:00 A.M to reach our stations in time for polling, which was to begin at 7:00A.M. Then the bedroom door creaked open and someone said "Heloo". Humayun was silhouetted in the doorway. Screaming with delight I jumped out of bed. A round of hugging and kissing took place (we are a very expressive family), and then he told us about his campaign and what we were to expect the next day. Humayun asked which station I was going to be at. MinaKhel, I told him. I knew my citified ways were no match for the bristling, crude vulgarity that village women are capable of. I was not looking forward to it. Humayun comforted me, saying he would be in Lakki Marwat and all I had to do was call for help. Then Anwar turned up. After another bout of hugging, kissing and squealing, he soon had us in stitches, relating tales of Irfanullah Marwat, mimicking him to a 'T'. Presumably, Irfan had been going along the campaign trail, with a drummer and dancing boys. His trump card at every meeting was when he proudly announced to his bemused constituents that he had earned an M.A degree in 'Badmashi' in Karachi. I for one, believed his boast!

D-Day 3rd. February 1997.

4:00 A.M

The alarm went off. I tried ignoring it. Finally Hasina turned it off. Sehri was taken in silence. I had a knot in my stomach. Tension was high. Finally, wrapping myself in my chaddor (not forgetting the nose) and pinning on my badge, I was ready to face ELECTION '97. Outside, the vehicles were starting off on their job of collecting the voters for polling. The day was just beginning to dawn when Samina and I set off at 6:15. By then all the vehicles had left and the place was eerily quiet. Samina (Anwer's wife) was to go to her father's village, IsmailKhel. We turned off the Bannu/Lakki road on to the winding road to IsmailKhel. All the roads here were surprisingly good, or not so surprising, since they led to the ex-presidents village. The Saifullah brothers had put their years in Government to good use. The quiet village seemed fast asleep, although Inamullah Khan's household (our destination) was humming with activity.The sun was now rising over the towering date palms and the brassica fields.

7:00 A.M.

The coaster driver was from Peshawar and did not know the way to MinaKhel, so an unwashed young man in a khaki chaddor was sent with me as a guide. It seems all the men here wear khaki chaddors. I am not quite sure whether that was the original colour.

By now 'datsuns', Suzuki's and coasters, flying the flags of various parties, were driving up to be loaded with their precious cargo of voters. I was getting edgy. Voting must have already started. We passed through Sarai Naurang, where the debris of yesterday still made the sleeping marketplace look untidy. Then we ran into a heavy mist. Sitting knee-to-jowl I was sure the coaster owner had picked up a few tips from the PIA. He had added as many rows of seats as was humanly possible, without making his passengers sit atop one another.

8:00 A.M

By the time we reached TajaZai the sun was piercing the clouds and we picked up speed. Deciding not to waste any more time I asked the driver to take me to Humayun's Lakki Marwat office. Here I met Neelo who looked harassed. She was glad to see me as she had discovered by accident, that two new polling stations had been set up overnight, and she had no one to staff them. Shifting to her car it still took us half an hour before we could leave, as she kept calling out instructions about gathering up girls for polling duty.

8:45 A.M

I arrived at Government School No. 2. Neither Anwar nor Humayun had an agent in the station. Of the ten contestants, only four had known of the new station. They were said to enjoy official patronage. There were ten of us in the station. Two returning officers and two assistant presiding officers, and six polling agents. One agent from Khalid Lateef's camp seemed on very friendly terms with the lady officers and my Paranoia was beginning to raise its head again. I felt like such an outsider. Luckily I had arrived when the third vote was being polled and I got down to business right away. One lady was carrying on a long conversation with the returning officer about where to affix the stamp. I objected. The other agents jumped to her support. It took almost fifteen minutes before Havaldar A.Razzaq Chowdrey, of the 21st. FF brought everything under control. He had been given the unenviable task of keeping the peace in a women's polling station. I must say his behaviour that day raised my flagging trust in the armed forces.

Neelo turned up with a local girl to help me. The lady officers recognized her and I felt a little better. Irfanullah Marwat's agents came without voter's lists. They hung around for a few minutes and then left. We never saw them again. Next the mother of an assistant presiding officer came. She asked us all whether we had any objections to her stamping the ballot paper for her mother. We did not .So she went ahead and polled the vote for her mom.

Since there was nothing to do, we all began to chat. I asked Kabir Khan's agent/relative whether it was true that he had spent crores in this election. She proudly informed us that he had kept 20 lakhs in each village as surety for the development work he had promised during his campaign. Private money for public works? This was a new one on me!

9:30 A.M

Only five votes polled so far. At this rate, with an average of one vote every thirty minutes, we could expect only eighteen votes to be polled during the nine hours from 7:00 A.M to 4:00 P.M.

A young girl came to vote. It happened that I checked up her age and found that she was forty-three. This I did not believe! I told her that I was going to challenge her vote and she would go to prison if she was polling a bogus vote. She ran out of the room. The presiding officer, Mr. Abdus Samad brought her back and said she could poll her vote and he would guarantee nothing happened to her. He tried to discourage me from challenging her vote. That is when I pulled out my press card and pinned it to my chest. He then objected to my being a polling agent and wanted to have me thrown out. But that was easier said than done. I browbeat the poor man in fluent english and he retreated.

10:30 A.M

Voters were now arriving in twos and threes, but they were mostly the opponent's voters. Two women went behind the curtained partition where they were to stamp the ballot papers. I raised a hue and cry and was accused of intimidating the voters. Then came another bogus voter. The ID card gave her age as twenty years younger than what the voter's list said. I refused to allow her to poll her vote which really made the presiding officer (Abdus Samad) very angry. After another hot exchange with him I threatened to send for Humayun. Abdus Samad called the Additional Session Judge Subhan Sher. In very bad english, Mr. Subhan Sher said it made no difference what the voter's list said and I had no right to object. When I continued to argue, he became nasty and rude, I returned the compliment, but, might is right. So according to the ruling of the learned judge, the information in the voter's list was disregarded. I found this most disturbing and he could not give me a satisfactory reply as to the function of the information on the voter's list if it was to be disregarded with impunity. This is when I began to challenge all voters who had discrepant information on their ID cards and the voter's list. The presiding officer was most displeased with me!

In all this hullabaloo one woman walked off with the stamp. After searching high and low, it was found in the shrubs. It had barely been recovered when another was caught at the door, walking off with anther stamp, she gave it up amidst peals of laughter. The Havaldar was most amused, he kept his good humour all along.

1:00 P.M

By now I had been challenging every suspect vote and was running out of change (2 Rs. per challenge). The sister-in-law of Mr. Khalid Lateef, was also very, very angry with me. She came charging up to my table and said,

" What is your name? I will report you to Begum Kulsum Saifullah for being a nuisance."

"Zeenath" I shot back at her. That is when her polling agent told her that I was infact, Kulsum's niece. She kept her distance after that.

I was hungry and thirsty from all the arguments. Three long hours to go, and the minutes were barely crawling by.

1:10 P.M

I halted the voting since two of the Returning Officers had gone off for ablutions and prayers. I told the young sipahi not to allow any voters in until the staff had returned. While waiting for the staff, we began chatting. One woman loudly asked herself whether Kabir's womenfolk had any conception about the voting process. This raised a loud chuckle. Then another told us of how his mother was found busy praying for the success of all the candidates. She was finally convinced that if they won her son would surely lose.

1:35 P.M

Voting restarted after everyone had suitably purified themselves. This is when we had our biggest 'tamasha' .One woman became enraged when I challenged the suspect voters she was ferrying in. Knowing I was an outsider, she pretended to belong to Humayun's camp. She did not realize that I had remembered her from when she had come to poll her vote and announced to all and sundry that she was voting for the 'book'. I ignored her. She then pointedly began to pray that the government of the 'angraiz' does not return. I was later told that she was calling Humayun an angraiz as an epithet. I continued to ignore her, as I could not really understand the Marwat dialect. My equanimity must have ired her, as she came up to my table waving her hand under my nose. I am glad the Havaldar heard the noise and came in before I lost my patience with her. He tried removing her politely, but did not succeed. He was firm, with even less success. She included his belt, and my reading glasses in something curses that I could not understand. He finally succeeded in removing the lady who was still frothing at the mouth.

Another lull in polling led to another round of gossip. The girls repeated, with gales of laughter Irfan's claim to an M.A degree in 'Badmashi'. They said he claimed to know more about badmashi since he had been a successful badmash in a place like Karachi. This is when I was told that the woman who had created the scene a few minutes ago was the wife of Amir Nawaz, a candidate for NA 20.

2:30 P.M.

Only eighty-three votes polled so far. The Assistant Presiding Officers seemed to be impressed by my (common-sensical) knowledge of the rules. During a long lull in polling they asked my permission to go out in the sun until the voters came. I magnanimously allowed them to do so.

They could not stay out long. Amir Nawaz's daughter-in-law, Shahana, now took her mother-in-law's place in ferrying bogus voters. I was busy writing when I noticed the Returning Officer point to me, while talking to her. I joined them at the table. Just in the nick of time it seems. Shahana was on the point of stamping the ballot paper of the women she had brought in. Flinty eyed, she turned to me. If looks could kill, I would be dead. Reading her body language I knew that she was on the verge of attacking me physically, so I judiciously kept the Returning Officer between us.

3:00 P.M.

The 91st voter entered and we almost clapped. While leaving she prayed that we should all 'pass'. The girls said we all could not 'pass'. So she satisfied herself by praying that whosoever won, we should all be happy.

3:30 P.M

Only half an hour to go. The Havaldar came in and asked if he could allow the voters into the station as he planned to lock the main gate at four O'clock sharp. I slipped into my role of GrandMaster and grandly gave him permission.

3:50 P.M

We crossed the 100 mark with a rush as a group of six women entered together.

4:00 P.M

There were no female voters within the precincts of the station. The Presiding Officer came in and declared voting closed. He took our signatures on a blank piece of paper. Now counting of the ballot papers would start in the presence of the polling agents. At least that is what usually happens. Not this time though. Open-mouthed I watched as the ballot boxes were carried away. I protested. I kept protesting the disappearance of the ballot boxes and only agreed to leave when the good natured Havaldar told me that that was that, and I had to leave.

There was no vehicle available. The lady whom Auntie Kulsum had told to make sure I reach home safely took charge and we walked off to Neelo's polling station. Neelo put me in a car and I was set off home. Iftari caught us in the middle of nowhere, but Neelo's driver was an enterprising man. He had been carrying flattened, cold pikoras for just such an eventuality. He shared them with me. I was literally starving, and they were the tastiest pikoras I have ever eaten!


One great disappointment of election 97 was that they followed Zia-ul-haq's policy of presenting the complete result. The announcement of progressive results not only adds to the interest and excitement, but also is more believable. Now came the nailbiting wait for results from the polling stations. One moment we were leading, the next we fell behind. Only Anwar's results were satisfying. He had a good lead over his nearest rival Kabir. Then suddenly the results from Anwar's polling stations stopped coming in. Humayun and Saleem's results came tumbling in and by midnight we knew they had won. If there were any doubts the wild firing outside the house convinced us.

4th. February 1997

We left for GhazniKhel early next morning. Groups from various villages in the three Saifullah constituencies were converging on GhazniKhel. Now was the time for celebration. Although Anwar had not won, there was little doubt in everyone's mind as to the cause. The grounds outside the walls of GhazniKhel were covered with tents. The women went to the house. Each band was led by drummers and heralded its arrival with loud gunfire. Then began the dancing; head bent, flailing arms, they took tiny steps to the right and left while we clapped them on.

Although the victory celebration is the best part of the whole election I had to leave, it was time for me to catch my flight.

Friday, 1 December 2017

QK archives: No solo trekker returned alive from Makra

Source: THE NEWS on Sunday November 2006

In Paya, the story goes that no solitary walker has returned alive from Makra; a myth put to test

By: Salman Rashid

"Never has a solo trekker returned alive from Makra!" Mohammed Arshad, who was pretending to be my guide, said ominously as we walked out from that rag-tag group of cheap eating places at Paya. We had taken a jeep out of Shogran (Kaghan Valley) for the fifty-minute ride out past Sari to Paya and all along young Arshad had been telling me how the fog rolls in to obscure everything. That is when people get lost on Makra, he said. And die, he added grimly.

The memory of the group of students from Pakistan Forest Institute, Peshawar who went up Makra in June 2004 and got lost on the way back was fresh in his mind. Indeed, in the mind of everyone else we met at Paya. Two of them never made it back and their bodies were discovered after several days of frantic searching. Both had expired from exposure. Listening to the story of their escapade, it was clear that none in that ill-starred group was a hill walker (though there was a Chitrali among them) and none understood mountain topography. Wet behind the ears, they had blundered some way up the mountain and, on the descent, lost their way in the fog.

At Paya, as he sat wolfing down his breakfast, Arshad gave me the first inkling that he did not really know the way up Makra. That, and the fact that a thick fog covered the hills around us, did not make the Makra proposition a very attractive one. A guide, said my guide, was necessary if we were to make a success of our little enterprise. How much, I asked. Oh, maybe a hundred and fifty rupees, the restaurant owner said. So let's get one, said I.

But no, said a youngster who had just then sauntered in. Guides did not come for less than seven hundred rupees. I lost my head. Why, a high-altitude mountain guide in whose hands you can happily place your very life on the most dangerous Karakorum glacier costs five hundred rupees per day. For the price these people were asking for a hill that was a mere 3885 metres (12,750 feet) high, I said, I expected to be rendered several other services as well - services that cannot be mentioned here for then this piece would fall in the realm of pornography. The talkative cook of the neighbouring eatery who was listening in guffawed wildly and the youngster went into shock. Arshad pretended not to have heard. He might also have wished that he didn't know me. For added effect, I told the young man what he could do with the so-called guide. That again was the most unprintable pornography.

Now, Paya from where one starts walking for Makra, is about 3100 metres and as hill walks go, this one to Makra is hardly a difficult undertaking. But I did agree with Arshad that fog could turn it into a nightmare so I told him that together we could blunder into the caper and make it work. When he was finished with his breakfast, we set out with everyone we came across attempting to strike the fear of the god of fog in our hearts. Nearing the last house of Paya, Arshad informed me that a certified guide lived there. And so I made the acquaintance of Imtiaz Ahmed who flaunted a badge that read, in Urdu, his name appended with 'Tourist Guide.'

He said I could pay him whatever I wished. But a bunch of fifteen idiots from Lahore the week before had paid him two thousand rupees. I said those people were mentally retarded and physically unfit from eating an excess of fatty siri-paye but that I was of sane mind and healthy body. Moreover, I told him of the sorry tale of the abject poverty I lived in at Lahore.

As we stood there yakking, the fog miraculously opened a small window. In front of us was a peak with a benchmark visible on the crest. Arshad said this was Makra. He had scarcely put a full stop to his sentence when the fog cleared some more and another higher hill appeared in the background.

"And that?" I asked, "what do you call that?"

"Well, actually, you see, that is the real Makra." Mohammed Arshad could tell no lie albeit with some hesitation.

It turned out that this lot of "tourist guides" routinely passed off the lower hill as Makra to unsuspecting tourists. Led them up it, relieved them of good money and showed them out of Paya with the illusion that they had climbed Makra.

Meanwhile, the window remained open long enough for me to mark the route up the hill. Then the fog rolled in again. I told Arshad he could relax with his guide friend and I would be back in about six hours.

"Never has a solo trekker returned alive from Makra!" Arshad tried again.

"You make it sound as if the slopes of Makra are littered with thousands of cadavers of lost hill walkers." I said. "And I know of only two unfortunate young men who were claimed by the hill last year."

"It's the fog. It's the fog!" said Arshad with an expansive sweep of his hands in the direction of the murk that concealed our hill once again.

There was no way I could convince the man that I had seen Makra long enough to mark my route and there was little chance of my getting lost now - fog or otherwise. But the man went hysterical: I was his boss' client and what would he tell him and indeed Shabnam, my wife, when I failed to turn up.

"Tell them the fairies took me." I called as I walked away.

Arshad was not relenting, however. He sent Imtiaz running after me. The man came up and offered to take pictures of me (with my camera, of course) on the summit. He said he could also do a neat bit of video filming if I so wanted and had a video camera. Evidently these nice simple folks were taking me to be just another Lahori tourist who couldn't tell an arete from a knoll. And whose only object in life was to get somewhere and have his clowning filmed and photographed. Only I was too old and thus clearly a hazard on the hill. The man even offered to take whatever I was happy to pay him.

I grabbed his shirt front and stuck my hand into his breast pocket. I told him I would charge five thousand rupees to permit him to come with me. The man looked at me as if I was crazy. Then I rifled through his other pocket. He had to pay in advance or he could get lost. He broke off and walked away saying the fog was heavy and I was not likely to ever return.

"You can come looking for my corpse after four in the afternoon." I called after him and that was that.

Past the houses of Paya the trail entered a lovely copse where the wind was rich with the aroma of pine resin and bird song. Through a small clump of Gujar houses I was soon in the midst of the encampment of Pashtun herders. Years ago Bashir, my mountain guide friend from Naran, had told me to always introduce myself as a colonel because most criminally inclined people were terrified of nothing but the army. And so I lied to the two men who came out to greet me. In the event, this turned out to be just as well.

Beyond the Pashtun encampment, the trail climbed up the knoll growing on the side of the Makra massif once again visible in the clearing fog. Having zigzagged up about an hour or so, I reached a ridge that seemed to lead straight up to the crest. The earth and the shards of rock littering it were a deep red colour. The summit, or what seemed to be it, was visible against a dull grey sky. Behind me, I saw that I was level with the benchmark on false Makra.

As I made the summit, two hours and forty minutes out of Paya, the fog rolled in again. This time it reduced visibility to less than twenty metres. In that roiling pea soup, I sat on a boulder on what I imagined was Makra top and had a drink of water. Again the fog lifted a little and I saw the tall cairn that marked the actual summit. I strolled up to it hoping to glimpse those fabulous views into Kashmir and Muzaffarabad. But thirty minutes of waiting only thickened the fog. No views and no chance of me gadding about on the skyline for Arshad and Imtiaz to spot me. So I laid the customary stone on top of the cairn and photographed myself with it before starting back again.

On the descent there was a bit of a worry because of the dense fog. The benchmark and the Pashtun encampment at its foot were not visible. As I came down the red slope, the window opened again and I knew I was on the right track. Halfway down the slope I ran into a young Pashtun herder and his flock of sheep. We exchanged greetings and then he asked me if I had a camera. Upon being told that I did, he asked for it. I said he couldn't have it and started to walk away.

The boy followed me about fifty metres behind repeating like an automaton to be given the camera. Then the twit became abusive and said his brother was waiting at the bottom of the hill to relieve me of my camera and money. Something snapped. I turned around, stuck my groin out at him and told him to come get the camera. The boy froze. Then I used the old fib on him about being a colonel in the army and that I was going to have his dear mother invited to the local police station to present her with the camera. That did the trick. Thereafter there wasn't a squeak out of the upcoming robber.

At the encampment I asked for the two men I had met earlier on the way out and told them what had transpired. The men hedged. They said they didn't know who I was taking about. I told them that the police could be there pronto to make them see the light. Nothing works like bluster and everything changed in a jiffy. I was colonel sahib, the mai-baap. Fortunately a youngster made his appearance just then and they asked me if he was my man. He wasn't, but when they quizzed him, he seemed to know who I was talking about for the name Khushal was bandied about.

It turned out that the upcoming robber's father had begged and borrowed some money and had only a few days earlier left for Islamabad to make arrangements for his forthcoming pilgrimage to Mecca. And here was his young son training to be what his ancestors were famous for as Ibn Batuta tells us from as far back as the 14th century. To pacify me, the elders laid out the tea and assured me that the youngster would be appropriately belaboured when he returned to camp that evening.

Less than three hours from Paya to Makra top was not bad going for an out-of-form hill walker. And about an hour and a few minutes (not counting the forty-minute break at the Pashtun camp) back was equally good. Arshad couldn't believe his eyes when he saw me. I failed to make it, I said in mock dejection.

"From your face I know you reached the top," Said he. Then I showed him and Imtiaz the photos of the cairn with and without me - digital cameras be blessed.

"You made it to the real Makra top!" Said Arshad excitedly. "And returned alive. You're the first man to have done it!"

"Yes. The cadavers on the slope were a bit of problem, though." I said pretending to be smug. "The stench was terrible and it was hard work stepping around them."

As we walked back to the jeep pick up point, Arshad couldn't stop talking about my "great feat." His drift was that I was the first Punjabi to have gone up solo and returned. Why, sometimes even local people got lost, he added for emphasis. It turned out that Kaghan wallahs did not think much of us heroic Punjabis -- even less of Lahoris who could only talk with any facility of rich, greasy, unhealthy, heart attack-inducing food. Lahoris who despite their apparent physical shape could not walk two steps without pausing to catch their breath and who took nearly six hours to false Makra and back. And these were all young men in their twenties. Neither Arshad nor his friend Imtiaz, the guide, had known of a bald, middle-aged man doing such a thing by himself. Arshad assured me that this was the making of a legend of sorts. Not a very flattering view that most people hold of us gallant Punjabis, then.

Postscript: It is interesting that the names of Sari and Paya, the two summer grazing grounds that lie between Shogran and Makra, have taken on a gastronomic connotation on the tongues of Punjabi traders and semi-literate young people. They are now called Siri-Paye -- trotters and skulls, that Lahori palates so relish.

Sar means "lake" in Hindko, the language of Kaghan, as well as in Seraiki and Punjabi, and Sari would be a pond or a small lake. Sure enough, to make this an appropriate handle, there is a little tarn at Sari. Similarly Paya in Hindko is a high grazing ground. At over 3000 metres above the sea, that is what Paya actually is.

What surprises me is that all these so-called travel writers filling up page after page in Urdu have never got this simple thing right. Even a famous photographer whose breathtaking pictures of Sari and Paya had graced a calendar some years ago had the names wrong in the captions. The kind of tourists I saw at Paya will never read anything in English - actually they'll never read anything other than the Urdu rag in their lives. And so, Sari with its pond and Paya the grazing ground will forever remain siri-paye on the tongues of ill-informed tourists and those who hear their tales.

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Khyber Pakhtunkhwa’s Electoral Landscape: Some Lessons from NA4 By-Elections

By Yasir Khan
With next general elections less than a year away and the current uncertain political landscape, recent by-election in NA4 took extra significance. The ruling PTI wanted to prove that its model of governance can payoff electorally. The opposition, on the other hand wanted to show that voters can see through the careful marketing strategy of PTI and do not believe it has delivered during the last four years.
The two main ruling parties, PTI in the provincial government and PML-N in the federal, pulled every trick of patronage based politics to extract support from the voters. The PML-N candidate, flanked by the powerful Advisor to the Prime Minister, had the upper hand in dolling out the goodies in the form household gas connections and restoration of electricity to the area. While the provincial departments settled for solar powered systems and promising rehabilitation of sewers and streets.
In the end the result was predictable but instructive of the new political landscape of Peshawar valley and maybe Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. The PTI candidate, Arbab Amir Ayub, comfortably secured the most number of votes that are almost 20,000 more than the runner up candidate, Khushdil Khan of ANP and Nasir Khan Mosazai of PML-(N) who secured the third position.

Nevertheless distribution of votes and party standing compared to the 2013 elections are instructive. First, Nasir Khan Mosazai improved his vote collection over that of 2013. However this should not be a cause of any disillusion in the ranks of PML-N. The party’s effort to get support from JUIF did not benefit him in any way. The marginal increase in votes is probably more the works of delicate patronage based politics than extra voters coming out because JUI-F or PML-N appealed to them in any way.
ANP on the other hand has a lot to take from this election, both promising and concerning. The party’s goal of improving on its dismal show in 2013 election and posing a serious threat to PTI suffered a blow with the defection of Arbab Amir to PTI early this year. In this back drop, the veteran Khushdil Khan’s performance must have been heartening for the party and its battered support. However therein lies the party’s problem. It has clearly not been able to broaden its appeal wide enough to pose a serious challenge to PTI. It relies on targeting PTI’s leadership but does not offer a viable alternative to the current government. This means the support is stagnant, and probably short of a miracle they will at most be the runner up in other similar elections.

PTI on the other hand appears to have solidified its support into a core that seems formidable. This election is an indication that the party’s core workers are willing to come out in support of the party irrespective of any noise the opposition makes about their leadership and performance. They believe the message from party leadership whole heartedly and are willing to overlook the continued absence of their elected representatives from constituencies to be around the party Chairman, be it in Banigala or Nathiagali. This core support may turn out to be the jiyala equivalent of the current generation, a kind of neo-jiyalas.

Another important thing about this core support is their age profile. They are young, energetic and seem to have committed to the party ideology. Exit polls by non-partisan Center for Peace and Development Initiatives (CDPI), revealed PTI has support at almost every age group. But most importantly the younger age groups, who are going to stay involved in politics far longer, are predominantly PTI supporters.

PTI also has an advantage of having a master politicians in its ranks in the form of Chief Minister Pervaiz Khattak

. While the party has unwavering support from its core voters, its elected ranks are far from unified. There are visible differences between the provincial cadres of the party on issues such as distribution of funds and next Chief Minister. These very public differences were probably one of the reason why the opposition even believed that they have a chance to dislodge PTI from NA4. But the Chief Minister, an old jiyala, successfully managed to convert these differences into an opportunity for himself. He has been on an offensive against the opposition parties, poaching their electables and filling the ranks of PTI with men who have seen the hot and cold of politics, understanding the value of compromise and politicking.

This means the opposition parties will have an uphill, probably impossible, task to dislodge PTI in the general elections if they continued with the current approach. PTI is vulnerable in the next election but only to the extent that the opposition parties understand its weakness and strengths. So far the opposition does not seem to have any clue about it.

About the Author: Yasir Khan is pursuing PhD at UC Berkeley.

QK Archives: book reviews

Published 24 November 2003 by the Statesman Peshawar Mashriq group
About those living with pride and dignity
The self pride of Afghan (Da Afghan Nang)
Writer: Ajmal Khattak
Price: Rs50
By Dr Yaseen Iqbal Yousafzay
Being a popular name in Pakistani politics, Ajmal Khattak has seen many ups and downs throughout his long political career extending to about half a century. His life is full of tortures and sufferings he went through at the hands of various governments and decades-long self-exile but his association with leftist ideologies has always earned him more public criticism than support.
Being a supporter of Pakhto plus Islamic philosophy in Pakhtun politics, I always criticise un-Islamic political philosophies (including the one supported by Khattak) for a nation full of Islamic and Pakhtun valour but his contribution to Pakhto language as a legendry revolutionary and nationalist poet and writer will always keep his name shining like a unique star in the sky of Pakhto literature.
He has developed his own school of thought in Pakhto literature influencing some very great poets of his time such as great Rehmat Shah Sayel and has, therefore, secured a unique recognition among Pakhto lovers.
Today, sitting 7000 miles away from my home, I came across his great book “DA AFGHAN NANG” (The self-Pride of Afghan) and being very close to Afghan refugees in the UK for a while, I had the opportunity to learn about the way Afghan Pakhtuns think and live. Afghanistan has always been misunderstood as an easy target by several popular invaders like the USSR, Alexander and many others but the case has always been the reverse. Being frontline defenders of their country for several centuries, Afghans have learnt to live with honour and dignity in spite of being thoroughly bombed and forced to seek refuge.
In his this collection, Ajmal Khattak has been very successful in painting the harsh realities of Afghan lives they never deserved or expected but never let their national self-pride down.
This collection has 19 stories and each story is so unique with intelligently selected characters and artistically gathered realities of the war that the author never loses his contact with the original theme. He takes his reader very close to the actual sufferings Afghans went through and at occasions makes one cry but at the end of each and every story builds such a confidence that in some cases the reader learns the real meaning of self-pride and its national significance.
His skill of using simple words with great fluency and continuity keeps each story completely distinct from every other but simultaneously retains the theme of the book very alive and intact.
In agreement with my personal experience of living with Afghans who always keep their national self-esteem dear and most important to them than everything else, the author has proved in his stories that Afghans as a nation prefer to live anonymous lives when in exile and work hard to earn bread but never reveal their glorious past to anyone even at the worst moments of their history.
In spite of his deep association with politics, the author has been successful in keeping the book free from traces of politics which makes it representative of a true literary giant hidden in the personality of great Ajmal Khattak.
I would like to advise every Pakhtun to read the book and understand the meaning of self-pride and realize that how their blood brothers and sisters left their great country and how mercilessly everyone (including the author of the book) criticized them at the moments they were desperately looking for and deserving their enormous support.

A deep sense of nostalgia
By Sher Alam Shinwari
Book: Khwaga khawora Terakhay Kesai
(A collection of Pashto Short stories)
Writer: Dr. Yasin Iqbal Yousafzai
Pp: 170
Rs: 100
Pakhto short story as a literary genre is still very young. Many titles of this genre have appeared in the market but only a few could get due attention of the readers. Those writers who have a keen observation and understanding of their surrounding can vividly express the problems of their people. Fiction writing involves a lot of time and a clear vision on the part of the writer.
Dr Yasin Iqbal Youasfzai is fortunately one such writer who apart from being a highly qualified person has a sincere heart to highlight the problems in a befitting manner. His present book is a collection containing eleven short stories with lively characters. There is a deep sense of nostalgia as it is there in his earlier collection of poetry. Dr Yasin has settled in England in connection with his job. His deep affection for his own people compelled him to put his concerns into fiction. He perceives an ideal Pakhtun society which should be enlightened as well as reflective of its own glorious traditions. He wants that traditions of Pakhtuns should be in line with the needs and challenges of the 21st century.
Da Shalamay Saday Khan on page 46 is the story of a stranger who meets Bahadari, a village khan. The stranger is a selfish person who never bothers to take care of the Pakhtun traditions. Bahadari termed this stranger a Pakhtun of 20th or the 21st century. Other stories are Bangla, Warokay Yar, Sartor, Khawaray Ba Khah Shu, Nar Na Mari, Kani Na Swazi, Sal Pa Laley Poray and Kharr Qabroona which throw some light on the social life of the Pakhtun folk.
Warokay Yar is a story about chillum, a very important component of the Pakhtun hujra which has disappeared now from hujras. Kharr Qabroona is the last story of the book which carries the nostalgia of the writer more than other short story in this collection. It is more or less a commentary on the deteriorating social values of the Pakhtun society. However, Dr Yasin Yousafzai wishes his people to have a better understanding of the changing global scenario. It is in the Pakhto fiction that he wants to paint the picture of a society which should present and represent the true life of the Pakhtuns.
The language used is very simple and the style is fluent and quite understandable. Dr Yasin is an enthusiastic writer who in spite of the fact that he is a scientist also takes interest in the literary activities. His other books including this are available on the net address: