Sarak band, bijli band, telephone band


Zahrah Nasir July 29, 2010

Laurel and Hardy were in fine fettle this morning. The five kilometre trek they’d had to endure to reach the bank in which they work seemed to have set them up for the day. They normally travel on public transport but this was a rather unusual day.

I was making my weekly trip to Murree and, as I would have lots of heavy things to carry home, had opted to hire a local cab for the duration but when we reached the one twisty-turny road there was a wooden barrier across it and a pot-bellied guy yelling, “Closed!” My immediate reaction was, “Dacoits!”

Dacoits come in plagues, especially during the summer months when they prey on tourists. Just last week an armed, masked gang barricaded a few miles of the main road on the other side of Bhurban where it loops around the mountain towards the border with Azad Kashmir. They reportedly looted Rs2 million worth of cash, jewellery, cell phones et al from a total of 14 vehicles before vanishing into the forest. All of this happened less than a mile from the Paghwari police station whose duty officers took a full two hours to race to the scene of the crime. Mmm...one wonders!

Hoping that the driver wouldn’t pull the pistol I knew he had stashed away as being caught up in a gun battle isn’t my idea of fun, I hurriedly slid my purse down the back of the seat. I was pretty relieved to realise that this situation was pucca. The road was actually closed and had been since 11 pm the previous night as the FWO were resurfacing one of the stretches they had just widened but, typically, no one had thought to announce this intention. Luckily, it would open for traffic in another half hour or so, therefore a stopover and a cup of tea in the bank was in order which is where I found Laurel and Hardy roaring with laughter.

“Sarak band, bijli band, telephone band,” they greeted me with enormous grins. “Maybe all of Pakistan band today. Maybe no more Pakistan tomorrow. Everything band!”

The electricity had disappeared at around 10 pm the previous evening but, until then, I hadn’t realised how large an area had been affected.

“Have some chai,” commanded Laurel.

“Anda paratha,” chimed in Hardy.

“I need to make a withdrawal,” I said, handing over a cheque.

“Sarak band!” laughed Laurel.

“Bijli band!” squeaked Hardy.

“Telephone band!” grinned Laurel.

“No cash,” revealed Hardy with a flourish.

“Sarak band,” explained Laurel.

“No cash delivery,” smiled Hardy.

“Maybe later,” shrugged Laurel.

Having been in a no cash available situation in the bank before, I knew the routine.

“Try the butcher,” I suggested.

“Meatless day. Butcher band,” Hardy replied.

“The property dealer?”

“Hasn’t arrived. Sarak band,” Laurel bounced back.

“The hotel?” This is actually a thriving little restaurant.

“No customers. Sarak band,” they jointly chimed.

“Okay. Empty your pockets. How much have you got between you? Enough for my shopping, I hope.”

They did and, after finishing my second breakfast, the road opened and I was back on my way.

Since it was the height of the tourist season, Murree was packed to the gunnels. The Mall was elbow to elbow with young punks, haggling matrons, gentlemanly strollers, demanding kids, beggars by the score, hotel and restaurant touts yelling their wares and a little man with a huge, wing-flapping hawk on his wrist who, quite coincidentally, walked before me clearing the way!

Entering the underground cloth bazaar I found it almost in darkness; the power was off here too. Kerosene fumes from smoky oil lamps thickened the atmosphere, a couple of small generators adding to the choking fumes and gloom. Tightly clutching my bag — this dark, crowded place was surely a pickpockets dream — I negotiated my way up and down invisible steps by the tiny torch concealed in the base of a lighter. I heaved a sigh of relief upon emerging in to the relatively open air of the narrow, mixed-up bazaar further down the steep hillside where I needed to return a pair of embroidered slippers.

Having purchased them, for the incredible price of Rs100 the week before, it wasn’t until I got them home and put them on to admire them that I realised that the delicate embroidery on one was distinctly white, the other grey.

The shoe man was most apologetic but couldn’t set the matter right as he had also sold the other mismatched pair and they hadn’t been returned as yet. As he offered me my money back I had a thought: the slippers were so comfortable and so pretty that what the hell. They were only intended for inside wear so what did it matter? I could admire the left one quite separately from the right and vice versa. “Just give me Rs50 back and I’ll keep them,” I told him, much to his amusement, and, that, my friends, was that.

At each shop I stopped in I was treated to an explanation of why the power had done a bunk. The pharmacist said, “There was a huge breakdown in Islamabad last night and the entire region is without electricity.” The paper-seller: “A bomb went off in Islamabad and blew up the power station so it could be days, maybe weeks before it comes back.” A cloth-seller: “The Taliban marched on Islamabad and there is fierce fighting going on down there and they captured the power station.” The spice-seller: “America has invaded so war has broken out.” The grocer: “The Indians bombed Kahuta last night and power is off all over the country now.” The egg-seller: “Dammed load shedding!”

Shopping completed, it was homeward bound when the cab developed a strange noise. Something between a rattle and a clunk.

“What’s that noise?” the driver asked me in surprise. “It wasn’t there before.”

“Sounds like the front, passenger side wheel,” I replied.

“But what can it be?”

“I haven’t got a clue,” I told him. “But it sounds serious. I think you had better stop and take a look before it falls off or something.”

No sooner said than done...the car collapsed sideways as the wheel gave way.

The shocked driver climbed out alternately scratching his head, pulling his ears and yanking on his beard.

“Oh dear!” he said in a ludicrous manner. “You were right, Madame. You were right!”

After phoning for his brother — he has dozens of them it seemed — to come and rescue me, he hopped on a bus heading in the opposite direction to go in search of a mechanic and half an hour later I once more headed home. The road homewards, thankfully, was not band.

Published in The Express Tribune, July 24th, 2010.

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