Story of a dutiful donkey
December 11, 2009
We, in Pakistan, tend to do things in binges or sprees. "We" includes the media, administration (local, provincial and federal) and other institutions, both public and private.
For example, the media, a few months ago, discovered Brigadier 'Jackal'. (How else would you describe him?) He revealed nothing new. What he said was already known to most people but still he was everywhere on TV shows for a month. He came to the shows, armed with this bagful of rotten eggs, which he flung at the proverbial fan. The stink and slime spread far and wide, splattering many faces, including his. Then suddenly, everything went quiet without any consequences. Everyone wiped his face clean and came back smiling to the shows dispensing opinions, advice and wisdom. That was the Month of the Jackal.
Then we went on the Kerry-Lugar binge. Everyone, who was anyone in the country, was discussing the Kerry-Lugar Bill (KLB). Again, the discussion suddenly ended, without any visible consequences. Probably, this time, Hillary Clinton, the US Secretary of State, also helped end the binge by throwing a bucket of cold water over the heads of TV hosts who, though full of fury but short on facts and figures, confronted her in a collective interview. The curtain fell on the month-long show without helping the audience decide if it was a tragedy or a farce. The binge syndrome is not limited to media and politics alone. It extends to other areas of life, too Suddenly, somewhere the idea of beautifying our cities dawns on someone. Most cities of the world have architectural monuments placed in the city squares. Why shouldn't we? So, we go on a binge of beautifying the city squares. But defying all principles of aesthetics, the monuments we choose are plastic or tin replicas of Ghauri and Shaheen missiles or some other odd pieces of discarded armament. Like in domestic architecture, where common folks tend to emulate the rich, the monument virus, too, spreads to district and tehsil towns, and soon you have these beauties sprouting all over the country.
Last time, when I traveled from Islamabad to Balakot, I counted three such monuments in Haripur alone placed one after the other on a one-mile stretch of the road that passes through the town -- a discarded fighter plane, torpedo and a tank, in that order. Further north, Havelian had its own Ghauri planted at the entrance to the town collecting dust and posters soliciting hides and skins.
Mansehra, the last of the major towns on the fabled Silk Route and gateway to beautiful mountains and valleys, always greeted tourists with a large signboard that said: "Welcome to the land of pines". But someone discovered a discarded fighter plane somewhere and planted it in concrete at the entry point to the town -- a monument to bad taste and lack of sensitivity to the surroundings. This binge of beautifying the city squares lasted for a couple of years or more.
And the biggest of all binges is renaming towns and schools or colleges, especially those that were named after non-Muslims. Layallpur comes to mind immediately, which was named Faisalabad. King Faisal was a good king, generous to Pakistan. We named and renamed a lot of places after him. But when he died, we forgot him altogether.
Bhoolay tau yoon keh goya kabhi ashna na thay (We forgot him as if we never knew him).
They once tried to change the name of Lawrence College, Ghoragalli and there was even talk of changing the name of Abbottabad -- both names rooted in history. Mercifully they didn't succeed. There were powerful lobbies to defend these names.
Then there are these little, obscure places whose names, rooted in some local tradition or legend, get changed when someone goes on the name-changing binge. Like, this little road junction on the out skirts of Islamabad called Trambri Chowk since the days Islamabad was being built. They sold trambris here (the wok-like iron platter used by masons to mix cement and sand). They still do along with other hard ware, but the name has been changed to Milad Chowk. People still prefer to call it by its old name.
There is this little place on the Karakoram Highway, about 6 miles short of Abbottabad. It is precisely where the road starts to climb into the mountains. Truck drivers usually stop here to top up the radiators with cold water from a nearby stream to ready their vehicles for the climb ahead. The place had a curious name, Khota Qabar, meaning, donkey's grave.
Google gives the following information about this place:"Latitude 34.09; longitude 73.17; elevation 3,251 feet." Enquiries by this writer uncovered a fascinating story about the origin of this name.
On their way to Balakot to fight the Sikhs, Syed Ahmed and Shah Ismail, who had come all the way from Breli, India, to wage jihad and liberate the area from Sikh control, had camped where Abbottabad is today. This was in 1831. They had brought a small army of mujahideen with them and some joined them locally. (Incidentally, this is the first time one comes across the word 'jihad' and 'mujahideen' in this part of the subcontinent.)
The Sikhs, in order to choke the mujahideen's supply lines, posted troops on the hills overlooking the road that led through the gorge. The mujahideen, sensing the risk of sending supply convoys through the gorge cleverly hired the services of a donkey without a handler to do the job. Yes, just one donkey.
Even though the donkey has, for some odd reasons, become a metaphor for stupidity in our part of the world, it is not stupid at all. In fact, it has an excellent memory and uses it very intelligently. One of the unique traits of a donkey is that once he carries a load to a destination, he memorises the route and does not need a handler to be able to go back to the same place. Just a light kick in the back sends him trudging quietly to his destination.
So unknown to the Sikhs, this dutiful donkey trudged back and forth, night after night, carrying supplies from down below to the mujahideen's camp. It wasn't long before though that the Sikhs found out who the mysterious courier was and shot the donkey dead one night.
The mujahideen mourned the loss of the donkey and buried him in a grave rather than letting him rot in the open, as often do. The place came to be called Khota Qabar. The battle of Balakot ended in disaster for the mujahideen, but that is different story.
The grave of the donkey may not have survived but the name did. Ever since, people of the surrounding areas, old and young, know the place by that name. Ask any taxi, bus or truck driver and he will know where Khota Qabar is.
But recently, a road sign quietly sprouted at the precise spot announcing a new name for the place -- Muslimabad ! There was no one to defend the poor, dutiful donkey. However, the people of the area still know the place by its old name. And so does Google.
Next time, when we have the urge to do something, instead of going on a binge, let's stop for a minute and think through what we are going to do.
The writer is human resource consultant currently based in Philadelphia. Email: aziz akhmad@gmail.com
For example, the media, a few months ago, discovered Brigadier 'Jackal'. (How else would you describe him?) He revealed nothing new. What he said was already known to most people but still he was everywhere on TV shows for a month. He came to the shows, armed with this bagful of rotten eggs, which he flung at the proverbial fan. The stink and slime spread far and wide, splattering many faces, including his. Then suddenly, everything went quiet without any consequences. Everyone wiped his face clean and came back smiling to the shows dispensing opinions, advice and wisdom. That was the Month of the Jackal.
Then we went on the Kerry-Lugar binge. Everyone, who was anyone in the country, was discussing the Kerry-Lugar Bill (KLB). Again, the discussion suddenly ended, without any visible consequences. Probably, this time, Hillary Clinton, the US Secretary of State, also helped end the binge by throwing a bucket of cold water over the heads of TV hosts who, though full of fury but short on facts and figures, confronted her in a collective interview. The curtain fell on the month-long show without helping the audience decide if it was a tragedy or a farce. The binge syndrome is not limited to media and politics alone. It extends to other areas of life, too Suddenly, somewhere the idea of beautifying our cities dawns on someone. Most cities of the world have architectural monuments placed in the city squares. Why shouldn't we? So, we go on a binge of beautifying the city squares. But defying all principles of aesthetics, the monuments we choose are plastic or tin replicas of Ghauri and Shaheen missiles or some other odd pieces of discarded armament. Like in domestic architecture, where common folks tend to emulate the rich, the monument virus, too, spreads to district and tehsil towns, and soon you have these beauties sprouting all over the country.
Last time, when I traveled from Islamabad to Balakot, I counted three such monuments in Haripur alone placed one after the other on a one-mile stretch of the road that passes through the town -- a discarded fighter plane, torpedo and a tank, in that order. Further north, Havelian had its own Ghauri planted at the entrance to the town collecting dust and posters soliciting hides and skins.
Mansehra, the last of the major towns on the fabled Silk Route and gateway to beautiful mountains and valleys, always greeted tourists with a large signboard that said: "Welcome to the land of pines". But someone discovered a discarded fighter plane somewhere and planted it in concrete at the entry point to the town -- a monument to bad taste and lack of sensitivity to the surroundings. This binge of beautifying the city squares lasted for a couple of years or more.
And the biggest of all binges is renaming towns and schools or colleges, especially those that were named after non-Muslims. Layallpur comes to mind immediately, which was named Faisalabad. King Faisal was a good king, generous to Pakistan. We named and renamed a lot of places after him. But when he died, we forgot him altogether.
Bhoolay tau yoon keh goya kabhi ashna na thay (We forgot him as if we never knew him).
They once tried to change the name of Lawrence College, Ghoragalli and there was even talk of changing the name of Abbottabad -- both names rooted in history. Mercifully they didn't succeed. There were powerful lobbies to defend these names.
Then there are these little, obscure places whose names, rooted in some local tradition or legend, get changed when someone goes on the name-changing binge. Like, this little road junction on the out skirts of Islamabad called Trambri Chowk since the days Islamabad was being built. They sold trambris here (the wok-like iron platter used by masons to mix cement and sand). They still do along with other hard ware, but the name has been changed to Milad Chowk. People still prefer to call it by its old name.
There is this little place on the Karakoram Highway, about 6 miles short of Abbottabad. It is precisely where the road starts to climb into the mountains. Truck drivers usually stop here to top up the radiators with cold water from a nearby stream to ready their vehicles for the climb ahead. The place had a curious name, Khota Qabar, meaning, donkey's grave.
Google gives the following information about this place:"Latitude 34.09; longitude 73.17; elevation 3,251 feet." Enquiries by this writer uncovered a fascinating story about the origin of this name.
On their way to Balakot to fight the Sikhs, Syed Ahmed and Shah Ismail, who had come all the way from Breli, India, to wage jihad and liberate the area from Sikh control, had camped where Abbottabad is today. This was in 1831. They had brought a small army of mujahideen with them and some joined them locally. (Incidentally, this is the first time one comes across the word 'jihad' and 'mujahideen' in this part of the subcontinent.)
The Sikhs, in order to choke the mujahideen's supply lines, posted troops on the hills overlooking the road that led through the gorge. The mujahideen, sensing the risk of sending supply convoys through the gorge cleverly hired the services of a donkey without a handler to do the job. Yes, just one donkey.
Even though the donkey has, for some odd reasons, become a metaphor for stupidity in our part of the world, it is not stupid at all. In fact, it has an excellent memory and uses it very intelligently. One of the unique traits of a donkey is that once he carries a load to a destination, he memorises the route and does not need a handler to be able to go back to the same place. Just a light kick in the back sends him trudging quietly to his destination.
So unknown to the Sikhs, this dutiful donkey trudged back and forth, night after night, carrying supplies from down below to the mujahideen's camp. It wasn't long before though that the Sikhs found out who the mysterious courier was and shot the donkey dead one night.
The mujahideen mourned the loss of the donkey and buried him in a grave rather than letting him rot in the open, as often do. The place came to be called Khota Qabar. The battle of Balakot ended in disaster for the mujahideen, but that is different story.
The grave of the donkey may not have survived but the name did. Ever since, people of the surrounding areas, old and young, know the place by that name. Ask any taxi, bus or truck driver and he will know where Khota Qabar is.
But recently, a road sign quietly sprouted at the precise spot announcing a new name for the place -- Muslimabad ! There was no one to defend the poor, dutiful donkey. However, the people of the area still know the place by its old name. And so does Google.
Next time, when we have the urge to do something, instead of going on a binge, let's stop for a minute and think through what we are going to do.
The writer is human resource consultant currently based in Philadelphia. Email: aziz akhmad@gmail.com
