Pakistan Today, Monday, 5 Sep 2011
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when undivided India was still ruled by the empire on which the sun never set. The scions of the Raj would swelter, melt and perspire profusely in the summer sun and would search frantically for a town, nay backwater that was at least 30 degrees cooler than Jacobabad in the winters. This yearning for a dose of his home climate led him up hills, down ravines, on top of mountains and into deep into subterranean caverns; in quest of the elusive breath of that cold arctic air of which the Anglo-Saxon babu had grown fond ever since he left the British Isles two and a half moons ago. Then, as if by accident, two such places of refuge were discovered where a babu could sit in the shade and not melt like an igloo on fire. That one of these towns has a treaty-which-no-one-follows named after it is immaterial. What matters is that Murree and Simla were twin sisters, jewels in the crown of Elizabeth the second last.
But all that changed when Sir Radcliffe and ideology drove a wedge through the subcontinent, irreversibly changing the social dynamic of Murree forever. Gone were the days when scantily clad memsaabs would frolic along the mountain paths carved out by goats and goat herders. In their place came great big burly men of the Pathan persuasion, spitting their naswar wherever they walked on Mall Road. This new hill station ensemble also included heavily made up women referred to as Gulabos or Parveens, the kind that if they whispered sweet nothings in your ears, could make you gouge out your own eardrums with nothing more than the nail on your pinky. Add to this bubbling human cauldron the wily pickpockets of Pakpattan and the Pindi boys from the nearby garrison town, and you’ve got yourself a party.
But that was then, you might think to yourself. Things must’ve changed by now. After all, it’s been over half a century since civilisation came to this savage land. But try driving up to the fabled hill station anytime during the holidays, I double dare you. As you sit fuming, steam rising from your forehead and the hood of your car and condensing on the cool windscreen as all around you, hooligans, ruffians and endless familial units jostle for space on the same road that you were supposed to drive on, you think to yourself, “Why did I come here?”
If you put a gun to my head, I’d probably say that Murree would be the last place that I would want to visit for a vacation. But that’s just me, and despite my ample build, I only represent 0.0000000000000001 percent of the total population of our fair estate. The rest of the 99 point something percent would much rather spend the night oogling boutique mannequins on Mall Road, and that’s a fact.
No tourist in their right minds would ever come to this place, which can only be described as a heaving sea of humanity. Automobiles line the narrow streets like jumbo floats on a Thanksgiving Day parade. From any height, you can see the little people scurrying around like ants, jostling for position as they trample down grass, gouge out tree bark and pollute the sacred churches by breathing in while on their premises. Murree, then, has become synonymous with crowds, migraines and bad hotels. But it could be worse. It could’ve been bombed!
This is what I don’t get about the Taliban. They will take plastic explosives to any place with a half-decent view, but they avoid Murree like the plague. Maybe they know that even their rugged backsides would get well groped were they to venture anywhere near the hill station from hell. Even the promise of a high casualty rate can’t seem to sway their commanders, so fearful are they of the terrible beauty of the Queen of the Kohsar. Resorts like Malam Jabba and Shangla are solemn witnesses to the horrors visited by these savages upon poor defenceless tourist resorts. But Murree, strangely, eludes them altogether. Maybe the Khadim-e-Ala’s spell has worked its charm and the Taliban have forgotten their way. Or maybe they’re scared of the throngs that can engulf a living, breathing suicide bomber and spit him out used, battered and broken dud. Just like a Murree hui chipkali.
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, when undivided India was still ruled by the empire on which the sun never set. The scions of the Raj would swelter, melt and perspire profusely in the summer sun and would search frantically for a town, nay backwater that was at least 30 degrees cooler than Jacobabad in the winters. This yearning for a dose of his home climate led him up hills, down ravines, on top of mountains and into deep into subterranean caverns; in quest of the elusive breath of that cold arctic air of which the Anglo-Saxon babu had grown fond ever since he left the British Isles two and a half moons ago. Then, as if by accident, two such places of refuge were discovered where a babu could sit in the shade and not melt like an igloo on fire. That one of these towns has a treaty-which-no-one-follows named after it is immaterial. What matters is that Murree and Simla were twin sisters, jewels in the crown of Elizabeth the second last.
But all that changed when Sir Radcliffe and ideology drove a wedge through the subcontinent, irreversibly changing the social dynamic of Murree forever. Gone were the days when scantily clad memsaabs would frolic along the mountain paths carved out by goats and goat herders. In their place came great big burly men of the Pathan persuasion, spitting their naswar wherever they walked on Mall Road. This new hill station ensemble also included heavily made up women referred to as Gulabos or Parveens, the kind that if they whispered sweet nothings in your ears, could make you gouge out your own eardrums with nothing more than the nail on your pinky. Add to this bubbling human cauldron the wily pickpockets of Pakpattan and the Pindi boys from the nearby garrison town, and you’ve got yourself a party.
But that was then, you might think to yourself. Things must’ve changed by now. After all, it’s been over half a century since civilisation came to this savage land. But try driving up to the fabled hill station anytime during the holidays, I double dare you. As you sit fuming, steam rising from your forehead and the hood of your car and condensing on the cool windscreen as all around you, hooligans, ruffians and endless familial units jostle for space on the same road that you were supposed to drive on, you think to yourself, “Why did I come here?”
If you put a gun to my head, I’d probably say that Murree would be the last place that I would want to visit for a vacation. But that’s just me, and despite my ample build, I only represent 0.0000000000000001 percent of the total population of our fair estate. The rest of the 99 point something percent would much rather spend the night oogling boutique mannequins on Mall Road, and that’s a fact.
No tourist in their right minds would ever come to this place, which can only be described as a heaving sea of humanity. Automobiles line the narrow streets like jumbo floats on a Thanksgiving Day parade. From any height, you can see the little people scurrying around like ants, jostling for position as they trample down grass, gouge out tree bark and pollute the sacred churches by breathing in while on their premises. Murree, then, has become synonymous with crowds, migraines and bad hotels. But it could be worse. It could’ve been bombed!
This is what I don’t get about the Taliban. They will take plastic explosives to any place with a half-decent view, but they avoid Murree like the plague. Maybe they know that even their rugged backsides would get well groped were they to venture anywhere near the hill station from hell. Even the promise of a high casualty rate can’t seem to sway their commanders, so fearful are they of the terrible beauty of the Queen of the Kohsar. Resorts like Malam Jabba and Shangla are solemn witnesses to the horrors visited by these savages upon poor defenceless tourist resorts. But Murree, strangely, eludes them altogether. Maybe the Khadim-e-Ala’s spell has worked its charm and the Taliban have forgotten their way. Or maybe they’re scared of the throngs that can engulf a living, breathing suicide bomber and spit him out used, battered and broken dud. Just like a Murree hui chipkali.
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