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A 'Carved House' in Peshawar City
By Hammad Khan


The monsoon rain, the proverbial occasion for jocundities, in its westward journey stops some fifteen odd kilometres short of Peshawar before it retreats into the direction from whence it came, leaving the frontier metropolis starving and whining for fun and frolic.

Perhaps what may better explain the poverty of entertainment that the Peshawarites are putting up with is the site of an under-construction commercial plaza being raised at the burial place of the old Deans Hotel. A state-of-the-art sales office set up at the site has converted the environs into a venue of merry-making at night-time when the profusion of lights comes into play.

As construction proceeds behind the veil of shutters, the ambitious owners of the so-called trade centre attempt to cajole the ravenous fun-seekers with a parachute-made caricature of the King Kong to foretell and magnify further the gargantuan size of their venture. The other items of attraction are the ubiquitous sky-watchers and the ice cream and cane juice trolleys that are the necessary element of all local festivities.

The geographical location of Peshawar in no less measure is responsible for the state of insipid and uninteresting life in the area. There is neither any river nor any hills in close proximity of Peshawar. The area is also totally devoid of any fauna and flora thus having the consequential effects of dullness and apathy on the general temperament of the people.

The nearest accessible point that affords a view of the excessively polluted Kabul River is Nowshera. Although a cleaner flow of the river could be witnessed in the Warsak Dam area, the prospects would seem horrendous if seen in the background of the fact that the two places present a spectacle that self-respecting people would not like to frequent with any amount of enthusiasm.

Hippies, the imbecile creatures of the 70's, once used to frequent Peshawar in search of their staple food - hash. They were subsequently followed by another stream of tourists, mostly journalists, to cover the war next door. Since the withdrawal of Soviet troops, Peshawar has lost the last surviving semblance of charm for the tourists of all hues and avocations.

The ramifications have been borne greatly by the city's self-style five-star hotel that keeps on making frail attempts at providing fun to the people whether it be in the name of basanth mela or some food festival. A couple of years back, the hotel plucked a lot of courage by holding a catwalk, although to this day nobody knows what the bashful ladies from Karachi and Lahore were trying to promote.

There is so little taking place in Peshawar from the point of view of any worthwhile activity that had it not been for the Afghan war, the local journalists would have starved to death. The Soviet occupation of Afghanistan and the resultant mayhem that continues unabatedly is making the journalists richer and fatter by the day as blood keeps spilling.

There is little disputing this fact as evidence to this effect is readily provided by the newspapers when guns inadvertently fall silent, the decades old photo of a brass smith, called Khwaja Safar Ali, hammering his utensils for eons, is splashed across the pages of one of the newspapers to signify the great artisanship capabilities of the people of Peshawar. The photo has been published and the biological tree of the artisan explained in so much detail so many times that it now qualifies to be included in the matric syllabi.

One other hobby of the local people that does not escape the prying eyes of the photo journalists is the man grinding "naswar" both manually and through mechanical device. One is yet to see a pan seller busy in his machinations and improvisations and being snapped with such passions.

If things have to be taken to this end then it would be more interesting for the readers to see the activities in and around "Gulbar" or if the limits are forbidden than the street where "guli" operates, that has not yet been declared out of bound for any soul. Such fables and their pictorial depictions do provide an occasional distraction from the vapid happenings of everyday life in Peshawar. How colourful it would have been for the newspapers to carry the funny mutterings of a radio and TV artist who in a highly explosive condition of inebriation, in the Nishtar Hall, was praising God for his numerous attributes.

There is little to go for even in the Nishtar Hall which has been under the occupation of buffoons revelling in the company of discarded film actresses. Named after an illustrious son of the soil, this hall was meant to provide quality entertainment to families but the vision remains unfulfilled as the show is allowed to be run on salacious lines.

The lingering darkness of the termite-eaten dungeon-like Peshawar museum would scare away persons of the most indomitable will. The Balahisar fort, that provides the most splendid bird's eye view of the old city of Peshawar but continues to be under the use of a law enforcement agency and has only recently been re-opened for public viewing, presents an adventure of sorts amid the rising stench from the gutters. With this scenario in mind, for how long would we continue to parade the gullible tourists through the streets of extant seths.

It, however, would not be fair not to pay credit to the incumbent Governor who seems to be on the lookout for opportunities to wake up the indolent Peshawarites out of their slumber by arranging festivities for them. The recently held food festival in the premises of old Chowk Yadgar could have been one such momentous occasion were it not for the cooks who spoiled the show with state Chappli Kebabs. (DAWN 11/9/01)
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