Parallel

Triangles.
Carriage number 13 on its way from Multan down south.










Last Thursday I took a train from Khaipur to Multan. It had a three hour delay, but that didn't matter. Travelling the subcontinent by train should be done without expectations or appointments, and I did not have any. Around 18:30 we left the station, a little before sunset, a warm evening breeze coming through the grated windows.
The family with which I shared two berths sealed off our little compartment with blankets. One parallel to the cabin aisle, and one to close the space between us and the neighbouring berths. With the wind blowing in, puffing up the blankets, we rode under full sail into the night.


(Picture: cold feet)

We arrived in Multan around 4:30. I fell asleep around midnight, but never reached the rapid-eye-movement phase, as I was too conscious of the fact that I did not know the exact time of arrival. Just like everybody else including the railway guard. His best guess was 2:00.
When I got off the train, this stall pictured above was my first impression of Multan. Cold drinks and tired feet.


(Picture: early morning smiles)

Very sophisticated place, the general railway station in Multan. Clean, shops, a stand with multiple sockets full of rechargers, and lounges for passengers travelling first class. One for woman, one for men. I went into the men's, and washed my hands and face. You get dusty in a train without windows. For a moment brown water stained the washbasin, then it disappeared leaving nothing but white china.
Three leather couches aligned the far corner of the lounge. Too comfortable not to be used. I lied down, and closed my eyes. For some time I enjoyed the gentle touch of the leather. The sleep wouldn't come, but it felt good to rest. The break of dawn brought in a member of staff, who curiously enough, switched on the light. He gestured with his hand - his fingers pointing up, his wrist making a twist - "What are you doing here?"
Ticket. I showed him. Not first class. Get out.


(Picture: triangular light fall in the mausoleum of Sheikh Bukn-i-Alam in Multan.)

Multan was the first place in Punjab that I have visited. It's like Sindh, but there are little differences. For instance the posters advertising Bollywood movies that you see everywhere. I don't recall having seen these in let's say Hyderabad, or Khaipur. They show the actors in their full glory, men bare-chested, women with cleavage. Sindh's a more conservative place I think. That doesn't mean that Multan is easy-going. I found it hard. I tried to arrange for a stay beforehand, by phoning some of the hotels to see if there were rooms available. One call was symptomatic:

Hello, do you have rooms?
No English sir...
Do you have a colleague who does speak English? Colleague, Englishspeaking?
Ek minute.

Ji?
Hello, do you speak English?
Ji.
Do you have a single room available for tonight?
No sir.
A double?
No sir.
Is it because I am a foreigner?
No sir.
Do you understand what I am saying?
No sir.


(Picture: Safeed, who showed me around the mausoleum of Sheikh Bukn-i-Alam. If it wasn't for his left heel, it's like he's standing in the wall.)

So all reasonable priced hotels were not allowed to take foreigners. Because of security sir. And to be honest, I didn't feel like staying in Multan anyway. After a quick spin around the old centre, where I saw a couple of mausoleums and some old city gates (with alluring names like 'Delhi Gate'), and a lot of rubbish and even more dust, I sat down in a park to decide what to do. I fell asleep for an hour or so, and when I woke up I knew that I would try to catch a train to Bahawalpur, a good 100 kilometres south of Multan. From there it would be easy to reach Uch the next day, my next destination.


(Pictures: woman if front of the mausoleum of Baha-ud-Din Zakaria, the father of Sheikh Bukn-i-Alam. The second picture shows a boy having a rest next to a grave outside the shrine.)

I walked back to the station and came across a bird market. Pigeons, chickens, parrots and men holding them in little cages. Chickens upside down, their legs tied together with rope. Some stalls where butchered chickens were picked, creating a big pile of feathers with flies and cats feasting on the pieces of skin that came with it. It stinks, and although I've smelled it many times before, it's something I cannot get used to.


(Picture: Aseef with his bike.)

I hurried towards Haram Gate, from where Station Road would take me back to the station. On Circular Road I saw many donkeys, trying to hide from the sun in the shadow of their two-wheeled carts. The shafts pointing up towards the sky, they are an anchor as the donkeys are chained to it. The look in a donkey's eyes is heart rending. Two black spheres that magnify all the pain in this world into a silent stare. In Pakistan they pull everything from tens of metres long iron bars to 25 bags of sand. Their behinds are often torn by the continuous blows of the stick or the grating of the ropes.
Later I came across Aseef, who asked me to carry up his bike from the busy Circular Road to the less crowded parallel inner road. We got to speak a bit, and he wanted to have my camera. I can't give you my camera, I told him, but I will take your picture if you don't mind. Meanwhile two guys on a motorcycle had almost run over Aseef, who slalomed next to me not minding the traffic. You find that everywhere in Pakistan, guys who speed on their motorcycles through bazaars and quiet streets, using their horn to chase people away.
Anyway, Aseef will be added to the series of young cyclists. I like the way the remains of a poster form a frame around his confident look.


(Picture: shades. Man who sells sunglasses sleeping in the railway station of Multan.)


(Picture: Suleiman)

The train to Bahawalpur was due to leave around three, which left me with enough time to drink all the fruit juices I could drink, and have a great lunch of 'sabzi dish' (veggies) with roti in a diner opposite the station.
On the train I sat opposite Suleiman. He was on his way from Peshawar to Karachi. He and his family are from Karachi, but his brother, who is in the army, is based in Peshawar. Peshawar is the capital of Khyber-Pashtunkhwa, what used to be the Northwest Frontier Provinces (abbreviated to NWFP), the focal point of the war on terror in Pakistan. This area, that stretches along the eastern border of Afghanistan is bombed by unmanned drones of the United States. Predator drones. It's also where the Pakistani forces have fought and are fighting with insurgents. And it is where bombs might go off at any given time, at any given place, but mostly close to military and security personnel.
Being in the army comes with risks. Being in the Pakistani army in Peshawar comes with great risks. Suleiman visited his brother, and when I looked at him from across, I wondered if he thought if his visit had been a goodbye.


(Picture: hand of a man in Ahmadpur East, selling 'falsa' or berries ('edible drupes' as Wiki calls it) that people eat dry, or blended in a juice. It tastes somewhat salty, which makes it a great snack on a hot day.)

Bahawalpur is a complete contrast to Multan. Clean, good roads, a lot of green, parks where guys play cricket. A nice bazaar in the historic centre, where just after the Partition (the independence of Pakistan from India in 1947) a giant white space mosque has landed on top of the market stalls. It's an impressive sight, the four minarets towering above everything else, the white marble stairs up to the courtyard (second story) and prayer room (first story).
Bahawalpur could be modern Pakistan. A reasonable infrastructure, drainage system, shops, juice stands, delicious soft serve and a lot of cricket. A good public space. Instead, I find that many towns and cities are investing in gated communities that are ironically called 'colonies'. Tacky statues, houses that all look the same; everything square and walled in. A fake fairytale.


(Picture: a boy infatuated with an action movie about one man fighting a whole army, in a chai shop in the bazaar of Uch. After the closing credits he carried on collecting empty cups from nearby shops.)

Same trouble with hotels in Bahawalpur. Here I was only allowed to stay at the '3000+ rupees for a single room' Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation motel. Shotgun at the gate, thus safe. Took me two visits to the police station to explain them that I did not have that kind of money, and that I wanted to stay at Koh-e-Noor hotel near the bus stand. Than the writing constable recognised me from the paper, and I got tea and a police voucher for the Koh-e-Noor. Great staff, that brought me daal and roti in the room.


(Picture: Fazal Abbas, having a rest from his study efforts. Fazal is a student of history and was at the moment reading about the Islam in Turkey. He chose a magnificent place to study, a niche in one of the shrines of Uch.)

The next morning I took a van to Uch. At first sight it's not much of a place, but as soon as you've crossed the hectic bazaar, you get to a quieter, old residential area where numerous shrines (tombs) can be found. Richly decorated with patterns in blue tiles, and often flanked by wonderful old trees. Difficult to find your way around though, but luckily I was kindly and selflessly guided by Nazar, who treated me for chai and a meal after the tour. It's not that I take advantage of a stranger, he just didn't want to have it any other way. I tried to persuade him that it's perfectly normal that I treat him after his effort, but without success. "You keep your money in your pocket."


(Picture: Pakistanis have a habit of lying down for a rest. It became a sub theme during this trip, as I've shown you above. This man had a comfortable rug and was having a break with some of his friends near one of the shrines.)

It all culminated into the view from the mount on which the remains of the mausoleum of Bibi Jawindi stand. This grand tomb that was partly washed away in a flood in 1817, is built close to the rivers Sutlej and Chenab.
It was a moment of exaltation, where my eyes widened, wanting to take in the whole scene at once. The ruins, the view over the palm groves. Lush green as far as I could see. It's moments like these that alternate with horrific ones with dazzling rapidity. A bright blue kingfisher that flies off when the train passes. A beggar that is covered with zits (like the sole of a massaging slipper) so that he is just about able to open his eyes and see where he's rolling his cart to, water buffaloes taking a refreshing dip in a pond, a man with legs as thin as the handle of a tennis racquet, who moves himself and the bucket with which he collects money by rolling over his side, where thick patches of callous protect him from bleeding. A life bound to the ground, looking at people's sandals, seeing them walk. Ecstacy and agony as parallel universes.

In the developed world cases like these are treated early on, made 'undone' with accessories, or hidden away in homes. In Pakistan they become a job.