QK Archives: Whispering images of Peshawar

Whispering images Of Peshawar By Ahmed Sher Ranjha

Published by DAWN 1998

For a person from North-Western Pakistan to wander

through the history and landscape of Gandhara is like

passing through the vista of his own psyche. Like the

cumulated archeological layers of mounds such as Gorkhatri

in Peshawar, layers upon layers of new cultural

accumulations mix with previous ones.

The feeling of being somewhere which was more than

myself had begun the moment I crossed into the alluring

vale of Peshawar across the Attock bridge and stood

for a while on the high banks of the Indus to behold the

mighty scene around me. This was the fabled land of

Gandhara where contrasting cultures had mixed the way the

jade green waters of the Indus and the muddy stream

of the violent Lundai (River Kabul) were blending happily

together on my right. I found the lush bread basket

of Chhach Plain, rolling seductively towards Taxila across the

Indus, tempting enough to whet immediately the hungry

appetite of any invader, from the Greeks to the Mughals,

for a quick cross over and plunder.

Peshawar has been the great junction point where

racial, cultural and artistic currents from the ancient lands of

Persia, China, India and Central Asia met and

synthesized. By the time the little Kushans came and established

their rule in Gandhara, the land had already absorbed

the contrasting flavours of the Vedic, Persian, Buddhist and

the Hellenic. But the great King Kanishka and his

Kushans came and established their winter capital at Peshawar

(their beloved Purushapura). The old capital of

Pushkalavati (Charsadda) belonging to the ancient Vedic and

Achaemenian king was discarded. The Kushans were

staunch Mahayana Buddhists so the new city established

between the rich and well-watered plain of the River

Budni (a branch of River Kabul) and Bara became the hub of

their colourful religious and economic activity.

The city was pampered with prosperity and artistic

splendour. Graced with the finest stupas and monasteries, it

housed the choicest relics of Buddhist reverence. The

serene Buddhist currents rippled softly from Gorkhatri to

Sirsukh (Taxila) and onwards to India and China. But

the tranquil slumber of many peaceful centuries was bound

to end one day. Like some sudden, terrible

thunderclap, hordes of white Huns descended from 'Azghaib'. Now the

city was to pay for its prosperity and meditative

non-violence. Peshawar was plundered and quickly drenched in

blood. The splendour of Gorkhatri was levelled and

buried silently in its earthen womb. But the Huns had hardly

consolidated themselves when Sassanian/Turk forces

from Central Asia and the new rising star of the Kashatryia

force from the Ganges broke into Gandhara. The glory

of Peshawar from here on was to give place to Waihind, the

ancient Udbhandapura, or the new city of the Hund on

the right bank of the Indus which the new Hindu Shahia

kings, on a strategic retreat from Kabul valley

towards east, had chosen as their new capital. Then the Afghans,

the Mughals, the Sikhs and the British followed,

leaving their marks on the soul of the city.

Thinking of all this, I decided to head straight for

Gorkhatri where everything from Kanishka to Avitabile to the

British was condensed and which was the soul of

Peshawar.

I got up early in the morning not to miss my

breakfast of roghni kulcha fresh from the oven in the winding alleys

leading towards Gorkhatri. And soon I was out on the

road. I had decided to foot the distance for intimate detail

and flavour. I entered the walled city via the Kabuli

Gate. The citadel high grounds of the imperial Bala Hissar fort

lay on my left.

The magic world of interwoven streets and murky

catacombs of ancient passage-ways where history lives and

speaks from the wooden balconies and lofty havelis

was here. The famous Kissa Khawani Bazaar thoroughly

disappointed me. Cruelly criss-crossed by a network

of loosely hanging electric wires, this famous bazaar of the

story-tellers only had the painful story of

commercialism to tell. I turned into a bylane to quickly visit Peepal

Mandi to be under the spiritual shade of the great

peepal of the Buddhas. These was a pungent smell of spices

hard-and-soft Pukhto-Hindko hubub and two peepal

trees. I forgot about the little one and zeroed on to the bigger

one. By all accounts this must be the sacred tree of

the Jataka Buddhas. But where was its trunk, I wondered.

Nowhere. Only the rich green canopy of peepal leaves

and branches over the market place and no trunk. And then

I caught on. The crafty shopkeepers had stolen the

smallest possible space around the sacred tree trunk into the

hungry tummy of their shops. As a result the trunk

had simply disappeared in the congested beehive of the

cap-sellers' shops. So much for the Jataka Buddhas

and their sacred tree.

I then turned towards the famous clock tower to reach

Gorkhatri via the old Bazar-i-Kalan. Preserved in the ancient

glow of richly wood-carved balconies, arched

doorways, multi-storied havelis, the Bazar-i-Kalan impressed me. A

pleasant climb towards the mound of Gorkhatri, and I

was face to face with the mighty gateway of the place. The

hungry Sikhs in the habit of snatching even the

lowliest decoration of an old building must have defaced the rich

archeological beauty of Gorkhatri obliterating almost

all vital marks of history, I thought as I entered the massive

archway which opened into the extensive,

square-shaped enclosure of Gorkhatri. Both sides of the gateway

showed tell-tale signs of a prison which must have

been the brainchild of Ranjit Singh's Italian general who had

administered Peshawar. The narrow iron-barred prison

cells were full of a damp darkness.

This end of Gorkhatri housed the area's police

station. Many off-duty constables were roaming about leisurely in

'mufti'. I looked around me and thought I had entered

some bustling old caravan-serai. Shady trees, an inviting

temple, a wide open space in the middle with rows of

rest rooms. The history of the place smiled painfully through

the confusing chaos of its upkeep. The place visited

by meditating sadhus, chanting pilgrims, and monks with

shaven heads carries many centuries of history. Its

fortunes went into eclipse during the confused withdrawal of

the Shahias from Peshawar to Hund and from there to

Nundna and the far away obscurity of India. Thereafter in

the politico-military vacuum war-like races from the

west like the Yousafzais, Khalils, Daud Zais and Mohmands,

etc., came and settled in the valley to permanently

dye it in their own colour. The Mughals developed a fine liking

for Gorkhatri. Babar, Akbar and Jehangir never forgot

to mention the goodness of this place. Shah Jehan's gifted

daughter Jehanara Begum built a communal hamam, a

serai and a mosque here. This mosque of Jehanara was later

destroyed and replaced with the temple of Gorkhnath

by the Sikhs.

Moss covered, forlorn, and decaying under the shadows

of the old peepals, the temple in Gorkhatri is occupied by

bats and relaxing police constables. Its noble,

artistically arched, short corridor connecting it to the little "temple

of

Nandi" is decrepit. The famous "patra" or the bowl of

Buddha must have been placed somewhere here under the

unkempt peepal trees. I walked quietly in the

painfully chipped dusty corridor of the temple and felt terribly alone.

I

peeped into the ancient well. Its entire depth was

reeking of layers of collected filth. So much for the "heavenly

waters" of the famous well of Gorkhatri. I turned

round to have a look inside the dark cell- like rows of rooms

bordering the ancient enclosure. Police constables,

the happy masters of these rooms were found chatting,

cooking, relaxing, and chopping tomatoes.

I moved on and suddenly stumbled upon a hidden

treasure. I had chanced upon the elegant footmarks of our

erstwhile British masters so dutifully preserved in

this faithful repository of the history of Peshawar. Here in the

rooms on the eastern edge of the enclosure was the

"Fire Brigade Municipal Committee, Peshawar", established

somewhere in the opening decades of the 20th century.

But the most prized treasure here were the gracefully

sparking, vintage, fire-fighting vehicles of the

Merryweather Company, London. Well preserved under the expert

care of mechanic Shahzafar, these are two classic

vehicles, with sparkling heavy brass work and fitted with still

workable fire fighting equipment. The vehicles stood

gracefully on thin Dunlop tyres mounted on solid, heavy

spiked wheels. Shahzafar said the vehicles were of

1919 models. Four cylindered with eight plugs. How come? I

asked "The maker kept four plugs in reserve to be

activated when the original set of four failed at some crucial,

unforeseen moment." I took my position behind the

steering wheel of one of the vehicles. To my surprise, the

steering was fitted with an easy to handle adjustable

accelerator and a timing control knob. In other words speed

plus engine control were kept at the finger-tips of

the driver for quick response during a fire.

From soft Buddhist chants of antiquity to the

powerful thrust of an internal combustion engine, Gorkhatri is a

faithful treasury of the assets forming the soul of

Peshawar. A prism where all the strange colours of the

north-western psyche could easily be discerned by a

seeing eye. A place full of dreams, whispering mirages and

educative reverie. But the neglect and utter

ruination of the place today signifies that there is hardly any eye left

which can really see or dream. We can only pity

ourselves.