Far from the madding crowd

I woke up all teary eyed, encumbered by a load beyond words. The room looked and felt seedy, bedraggled, as if from an inn, hundreds of years old, the bed creaking under the weight of memories. Choked with emotions, my first morning in a city far off from my beloved Lahore, I had this strange stinging feeling under my rib cage. Almost breathless, as if I had been bound into a crumbling old book. It was musty, dark and claustrophobic. A mélange of emotions sloshed in my head while my body lay motionless on the bed. I was both excited and numb. And then I cried. When I look back on that morning of September 1998, the bittersweet taste of that dawn comes back rushing and fills me with longing and sadness. The city was Sukkur and I had woken up in a cheap hotel bed with stained sheets.

There is one wine we all brew. Memories. The cellar is our heart and we carry our own flutes. And it feels sweetly melancholic to sip from this wine every once in a while. I feel no shame in borrowing the title of my piece from Thomas Hardy. His masterpiece, “Far from the madding crowd”, remains my favourite for its vivid imagery of pastoral England and simmering romance between the fiercely independent Bathsheba Everdeen and the ruggedly handsome Gabriel Oak. Sadly my story is neither as poignant as that of Bathsheba and Gabriel, nor the setting as idyllic as Weatherbury. Though it did happen far and away, far from the usual crowd. Travelling has a way of melting barriers and bridging schisms which nothing else can. I travelled to Sukkur in September 1999 as part of my sales job with Shell Oil.

Sukkur was and remains a godforsaken place. Potholed roads, scorching heat, water that looked like lemonade, crumbling structures, the city despite being one of the largest in Sindh, painted the picture of ruin and indigence. I was happily single and looked forward to the fruits of a lonely, untethered existence. Apparently the mighty river Indus in the neighbourhood had been of little good to Sukkur as trees and grass were hard to come by. Built by a British General in 1840s, which seemed to lend it some romance, the most notable feature of the city was Sukkur Barrage, also built by the British. I took up residence in Old Sukkur, an area inhabited by narrow streets, worn out, tanned faces and floating dust. I had known of Morocco with its quaint, cobbled streets and despite my best intentions, I failed to find Morocco in Sukkur. My landlord was a 70 years old man with deep furrows crisscrossing his weather-beaten face. He had no children and looked after me as his own. Everybody called him “Dada”. He was diminutive in stature but strongly built with a booming voice.

My days were spent on the highway sleeping while my Baloch driver took care of safely transporting me to customer sites. Leaving Sukkur to meet customers far and away, though hectic, was a joy l looked forward to. Engro and Fauji Fertiliser particularly as they always offered me lunch before talking shop. Food reminds me of my Sindhi cook who made excellent biryani and fried fish. One of my great pastimes was gorging at the delicacies he would conjure. Lunches and dinners were more than food, offering opportunities to forget the emotional and physical travails wrought by Sukkur, even if for a little while. Mornings were a pleasure for one sole reason. Fruit bun plastered with butter downed with sweetened tea and loads of banter with colleagues.

A particularly fond memory takes me back to a cold December night. My newly married colleague was at my place with his wife and we were laughing the night away. The neighbourhood, apparently upset with the alleged frolicking and crazy laughter of a woman and men, raided our place to catch us in the act. They were confronted by my extremely angry landlord who gave them hell for being obnoxious yelling, “Biwi hai usskee”. I woke up next day startled by a weird sound. The rear screen of my spanking new car had been shattered by a brick thrown in the wee hours.

Being alone, far away from your loved ones in not necessarily a bad thing. Meeting new people, living and working in strange sounding places, is a pleasure unbeknown to those who refuse to part ways with familiar surroundings. Travelling is noble and enlightening, almost like living an enchanting book of mysteries. Sukkur, I don’t miss thee, but am thankful for you helped me be.

Published in The Express Tribune, September 27^th, 2016.

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