In his epic Jungle Book, Rudyard Kipling talks about a small boy -- little Toomai -- who was fortunate enough to witness that rarest of rare phenomenon in the wild, known as the elephant dance.

Lore has it that in olden times, amidst deep Indian jungles, full moon nights would cast a spell alluring all wild elephants from near and far to gather in a forest clearing. Trumpeting and gnawing their white tusks, elephants would spend these rare nights dancing and stamping their heavy feet on the ground. No living person would ever dream to be present during this pachyderm party but little Toomai was once escorted to a secluded plain deep inside jungles by his elephant friend, Kala Naag, to witness this mysterious phenomenon.

I travelled to a beautiful village called Hathimera situated in the picturesque Mansehra district accompanied by my old friend, Khan of Charsadda, who had worked in the district as a social scientist in his youth and was familiar with the place. Hathimera village is situated close to Gandhian Bridge on Karakoram Highway. Hathimera which literally means "elephant’s plain" always fascinated me due to Kipling’s vivid description of the elephant dance. Was it possible that centuries ago when Mansehra was covered with heavy jungles, wild elephants roamed this terrain, using Hathimera as their dancing grounds?

A few key informant interviews in the village on a lazy Sunday morning revealed very little -- much to the ire of my travel companion. All we could glean from some of the local youth was that nearly two or three hundred years ago, one of the residents of Hathimera possessed a few elephants which gave the village its name. My adventurous spirit was somewhat dampened by this lukewarm response to an old fanciful thought. It was there that I suddenly heard Khan of Charsadda shout a queer name -- Chitti Gatti Temples: "Let’s go to Chitti Gatti Temples; in my days as a social scientist nearly twenty years ago, I became friends with the high priest of these temples who must be able to tell us more about the origin of Hathimera".

As our vintage jeep moved towards the temple, I was actually surprised to learn about their existence in such close proximity to Mansehra. Luckily, we managed to get hold of the priest of these temples. After being ushered inside the temple (that appeared to have been recently renovated), Prohat spoke to us at some length over a cup of tea. Chitti Gatti Temples dedicated to the worship of deity Shiva are situated in the beautiful Gandhian village and are famous amongst Hindus. Major rites are held in these temples twice a year during months of Phagan and Baisakh.

Prohat proudly announced that the early settlement record of Mansehra also talks about these ancient temples constructed by the Maharaja of Jammu somewhere in 1830, as an act of homage and devotion. We were shown the "Shiva Lingham" which is usually found in Shiva temples symbolising energy and creativity. Our host informed that Lingam in the Chitti Gatti Temples is many centuries’ old and serves as biggest attraction for Hindu pilgrims during the annual Maha Shivratri festival.

I was delighted to find another great story about the quaint Hindu temples when the Khan rebuked me by saying that we had come to temple priest to know about origin of Hathimera, bringing the magical discussion about Hindu mythology to an abrupt end.

I sat helpless as the Khan talked to the priest about Hathimera. "Mahabali Akbar and Emperor Jahangir would halt here on their way to Kashmir." "Any idea why Akbar and Jahangir would halt at this lesser known plain?" I asked naively. Pitying my ignorance, the priest explained that both emperors would stop at Hathimera to visit Sultan Hussain, the Turk chief of Pakhli Sarkar. As a matter of fact, Chief of Pakhli was given the rank of Mansabdar (entailing six hundred horsemen, three hundred horses and an elephant). It was in Hathimera that Mughal emperors would leave their elephants and take to horses to visit their Turk brethren in the capital city of then thriving Pakhli Sarkar, called Gullibagh.

"Destination Gullibagh," roared the Khan of Charsadda, as our host watched him in near bewilderment.

We passed through some amazingly beautiful landscape in the plains of Pakhli from OggiDoraha (Junction). In the distance, one could see the pine-clothed towering hilly ranges of Agror-Tanawal, ending in eternal snows. Below these mountain ranges, endless rows of terraced, emerald green fields, growing heavenly vegetables and crops made an unforgettable spectacle.

We crossed and re-crossed River Siran which is the lifeline for these Pakhli plains. Originating in the high hills of Musa ka Musalla and passing through the virgin coniferous jungles of Kund, Shaheed Pani and Jabori, Siran meanders through the beautiful agricultural fields on its way to its confluence with the mighty Indus. As we crossed the beautiful Siran River near Gullibagh, I almost saw its crystal clear waters reflecting images of the royal entourage of Emperor Akbar and Jahangir in crossing.

Khan of Charsadda, an ardent Pakhtun, was all smiles as we approached the now desolate ruins of erstwhile Turk capital Gullibagh. I soon knew the reason as I suddenly heard him talking to some locals in Pashto. While Hindko is the lingua franca of Mansehra, parts of villages in the vicinity of Gullibagh are peculiar in speaking Pashto alongside Hindko in an amazing cultural confluence. The Khan was in high spirits as we came near the ruins of Gullibagh which could be seen from distance, surrounded by endless rows of towering poplar trees.

The old site of Gullibagh carried a main structure in the shape of a dilapidated fort and a few, old time graves. The main pavilion was desolate and haunting, steeped in the past and home to countless nocturnal birds. The Khan had been here in his youth and insisted that we hear stories on the history of Gullibagh from one of the many darveshes who lived in scratch structures close to the ancient Gullibagh graveyard.

We were lucky to find one such holy man who was engrossed in crushing Cannabis (Bhang) leaves, almost ready to be mixed in a pot of milk for making a well-known delirious drink. The Khan has a peculiar way of getting anybody to narrate stories but, in the present case, he had to drink a draft of that delirious antidote before the darvesh agreed to tell the story of Gullibagh.

It all started with the famous warrior, Taimur, who some time during the fourteenth century passed through the present day Hazara. While on his way to Kabul, Taimur left a garrison of his Turk soldiers in the area to protect the all-important Kabul-Kashmir route. Subsequently, a proper Turk state, namely Pakhli Sarkar was established by one of the descendants of Amir Taimur, namely, Shahzada Shahab-ud-Din with his capital in Gullibagh. During the Mughal period, Turkish chiefs of Pakhli Sarkar had good relations with Delhi Darbar and Mughal emperors, Akbar and Jahangir actually visited this place on their way to Kashmir.

The Darvesh also explained that the aggressive forays by Swati Pathans during the eighteenth century, supported by Syed Jalal Baba (son in law of last Turkish ruler, Sultan Mehmood) led to the final demise of Turkish rule in that Pakhli area. Khan of Charsadda’s mirth on the success of Swati Pathans over Turks seemed irrepressible.

"But baba Jee, I have heard another story about the demise of Turk rule in Pakhli Sarkar. Please tell us about the Faqir whose mistreatment at the hands of the last Turkish ruler led to the fall of Gullibagh," inquired my friend.

A long pause and a few more sips later, a brief story was narrated.

"There used to be a deewana baba during reign of later Turk rulers of Gullibagh who was once sent the gift of a precious horse by the rulers. Baba Jee slaughtered the horse and distributed its meet amongst his disciples. The infuriated Turk rulers demanded back the horse and on non-compliance of royal decree ordered his murder. Baba Jee, in return, hit the earth thrice with his walking stick, praying for the Turk empire to be decimated. Soon, the centuries old Turk rules in Pakhli Sarkar came to an end".

As the darvesh ended his story, he filled two more of his magical drinks and stared at us. Khan of Charsadda immediately complied and, seeing my hesitation, translated an apt Pashto saying. I had to surrender and, for the next two days, had my head reeling with images of Turk horsemen of Gullibagh.