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11 months ago | [YT] | 1

RoamTrail

May You Travel the Seven Seas


It was a resplendent afternoon when a Ma'lung, a figure reminiscent of a venerable Dervesh or Monk, graced our threshold. His melodious voice, praising the Holy Prophet, filled the air, a graceful and polite way of soliciting alms. With my mother’s consent, I offered him a measure of flour, a humble gift that could be exchanged for the mouth-watering clay oven-baked breads known as Tandoori Roti, a culinary delight in South East Asian regions.


The Ma'lung, with a serene countenance, bestowed upon me a heartfelt blessing, "May you travel the seven seas." Bewildered by his profound benediction, I stood in innocent ignorance. As a child of those times, the notion of distant lands and foreign travels was but a nebulous dream. For me, travel epitomised the charming journey to neighbouring cities within our homeland, where we would reside with aunts and uncles who had children of our own age, reciprocating the hospitality in kind. The early days of our vacations were dutifully devoted to the completion of school assignments, whilst the remaining days were a symphony of adventure and exploration within our diminutive world.


Oftentimes, I found solace perched by a window or door, gazing upon the boundless sky and the distant horizon, lost in reverie about the wonders that enveloped me. My father, an esteemed officer in the Pakistan Army, was subject to biennial transfers to various military cantonments. This perpetual migration precluded the forging of enduring friendships at school or within our transient abodes. Thus, my dearest companions were predominantly my first and second cousins.


As I matured into a perceptive young lad, events of great import began to unfurl. The inaugural moment of realisation dawned upon me during the tumultuous war of 1965 between Pakistan and India. Stationed in Sialkot, a border city, the ominous rumble of India’s artillery was an ever-present cacophony. We were compelled to hastily pack our belongings and seek refuge in a remote village, the ancestral home of my aunt’s husband, where many of our distant relatives resided.


To us children, this exodus was akin to an extraordinary vacation. The expansive green fields, the diesel and animal-operated wells for irrigation, and the mesmerising rhythm of the diesel pump’s exhaust were a sensory delight. The distinct sound of the two-stroke engine, resonating through the dusk, often kindled my imagination, conjuring fantastical stories that unfolded like cinematic masterpieces in my mind. Imagination, a marvellous gift of nature, allowed me to dream with open eyes, unfettered by the caprices of nocturnal dreams which could so easily morph into nightmares.



The village, bereft of electricity, embraced the serenity of nightfall as families gathered in communal areas. The homes, interconnected by brick walls, provided a labyrinthine playground where we roamed with unbridled freedom. Our days were a whirlwind of joyous play, surrounded by cousins and bound by familial love. The limited culinary choices, dictated by the village’s rustic simplicity and the sweltering heat, often led to a monotonous diet of chicken or goat meat with potatoes. After a week, I embarked on a hunger strike, rebelling against the omnipresent potatoes. Yet, breakfast remained a cherished ritual, with grand parathas accompanied by omelettes or fried eggs, tea, or refreshing yogurt drink. The essence of “Desi” cuisine, a term imbued with the soulful spirit of our homeland, resonated deeply with us.

The enchantment of childhood imagination knew no bounds. Untarnished by modern distractions, my mind was a fertile ground for endless stories and adventures. With the conclusion of each summer holiday, we eagerly anticipated the next, our minds brimming with elaborate plans that might never come to fruition. The joy lay in the anticipation, a vivid Hollywood-like reel that played incessantly in my thoughts.

One particular childhood endeavour was the quest to apprehend a spy. Although intended for the adults, our patriotic fervour knew no bounds. The technology of those days, though primitive compared to today, necessitated spies crossing borders to signal raiding aircrafts. Our efforts bore fruit in the war of 1971, where, as slightly older and more audacious, we formed night patrols to enforce blackouts and interrogate strangers. This time, we were in our ancestral city of Gujrat, a place steeped in Mughal heritage, with the grand Akbari Fort standing as a testament to Emperor Akbar’s legacy.


Trains, a perennial source of fascination, were immortalised in English literature and cinema, and they captivated my young mind. Now, as an elder, I cherish imagination and fascination as the greatest blessings. The art of storytelling, the wellspring of creativity, thrives on these qualities. Humanity’s ceaseless curiosity about the stars has propelled us towards the cosmos, preparing us to inhabit neighbouring planets.


Upon completing my bachelor’s degree, I embarked on a journey abroad. The harsh realities of life gradually obscured my imaginative reveries. Since leaving my homeland, I have traversed the globe, amassing a wealth of experiences that I now relish sharing.


"This channel chronicles my adventures through a tapestry of photographs, videos, and eloquently crafted words. I cordially invite you to join me on this captivating journey. Do subscribe to my channel and, should you find the content engaging, kindly bestow upon it a 'like'."

11 months ago | [YT] | 1