There was something about the treacherous ascent on  Nanga Parbat that sent  us through the looking glass. On the morning of August 24, we sat outside our  tent , binoculars glued  to our eyes,  watching  slow  motion  killer  avalanches spilling  from  the  peak. These were the weapons that had wiped out one  climbing  party  after another. Observing  such forces of nature - and being safe from them � put us in a ssolemn yet serene mood as we headed down the mountain. We avoided t he circuitous "short-cut"
  washed  out road. As broad  chunks  of  the  road disappeared over the abyss, I  understood why  we hadn't driven the route. We picked up the Jeep from the  village  and  headed  back  to  the  Karakoram Highway. The driver still fiddled with his cigarettes and matches on the impossibly narrow road over the abyss and yet I felt none of the spine chilling terror    that  I' d had  on  the  way up.  Odd , isn't  it ,  how quickly   we  become habituated to risk. Maybe it's like walking on a mossy log across a stream: the first couple times you wind up on all fours inching  your way along, then one day you find your footing  and bing you're across. Abyss? What abyss? I want  to say that the highway and its baking  winds brought 
us back to reality from the fairy meadows of Nanga Parbat, but what was reality any more? Our thoughts turned from the awe of the mountain to the sweet prospect of the VIP suite waiting for us in Gilgit. A hot  shower  and  the  standard  restaurant  meal  of curried whatever sounded like home. But - as usual - it was not quite so simple. At the outskirts of Gilgit we were stopped at a military checkpoint. A soldier carrying  a  rifle gave us a simple message: Gilgit is closed. Some kind of  violence  had broken out   in
  Gilgit. People had been killed. The town had been put under  martial law,  the  government  clamping down tight. No one in or out. Gilgit was locked down. 
Heavily armed army Jeeps patrolled the streets. The "curfew" meant all businesses closed and everyone behind closed doors. Only a few curious little boys darted  in and out  of hiding  as  they  followed  the military Jeeps along. The high wrought-iron gates of the Park Hotel were closed and locked, but when we got off the bus someone ran out to let us in. Home at last.