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Journalism of Courage
THERE was nervous talk of Karachi8217;s unruliness. Of its belligerent ways and inability to remain civil when tension began a slow simmer. But unlike its twin city of Mumbai, what you see is not what you get.
While television reports show bomb blasts and confusion, Karachi8217;s unhurried pace feels like 1980s India. Women walk in cloistered groups, limestone buildings recall the colonial period, and antiquated Suzuki hatchbacks roll down the Clifton Beach promenade where a man, his mongoose and a small green snake work the tourist trail.
Four hundred kilometres away stands another city whose past can never be forgotten. Situated on the west bank of the river Indus, Mohenjodaro 2500-1700 BC is reached by an unsteady flight on PIA8217;s Fairchild F-27, a plane as compact as it is lightweight, as enjoyable as it appears reliable.
We leave for the Mound of the Dead, ensconced deep in the desert, at a time of morning when the Sindh is quiet and very still. There are no women out, just men working the fields or sipping tea in corner shops, enjoying a rare blast of cool air.
At first sight, Mohenjodaro is staggering. Spread over 5 kilometres of land, the houses of mud and baked brick are set in parallel streets, some 30 feet wide, and cut into right angles.
Time has shrunk the structures and the average height of the bathroom walls is 5 feet. There are no ceilings. The city has 40 wells, and my guide explains how the inhabitants decided to switch from round to oval shaped wells after they realised the latter allowed more people to draw water simultaneously.
At the opposite end is the Citadel Area comprising The Great Bath, the Granary the national coffer and the Assembly Hall. The bath is still magnificent.
Yet even the intricate drainage facility and precise Indus architecture could not control nature and Mohenjodaro was repeatedly flooded, and rebuilt at least six times. Scholars continue to debate how the end came8212;human skeletons suggest a massacre, but decades of inclement weather or a plague are alternative pet theories for its destruction.
As I finish the tour, my guide hustles me towards a man soliciting tourists to 8216;8216;look in my bag8217;8217;, which holds grubby replicas of Indus Valley ornaments.
The official shop, small and musty8212;almost a caricature of the ancient relics8212;is filled with more enticing fakes, including seals with lifelike representations of animals and mythological creatures, and wall hangings that exhort: Save Mohenjodaro8212;Land of the Indus Valley Civilisation. From what, snickering tourists? The Humped Bull?
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8226; Mohenjodaro is about 600 km from Karachi, the capital of the Sindh province |
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The museum next door attests to the curiosity and ingenuity of the Indus people. Elaborate jewellery, a variety of utensils, a chessboard, sundial, needles, fish-hooks, and terracotta toys. The more valuable pieces were shifted to the national treasury.
Just before dusk, I drive to the village of Larkana, 20 km from Mohenjodaro and the birthplace of Pakistan8217;s former Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto.
At the Bhutto mazar mausoleum, the air is heavy with age and disuse and death. It is dark and dismal, and the vast spaces covered by decorated mounds are too much work for one septuagenarian caretaker, who very kindly offers me a dusty cup of tea, and wonders bleakly when Benazir will return.
In the dim light, the flowers appear to fester slowly and deliberately before my eyes, and I feign an appointment and quickly leave.
The people boarding for Karachi the following morning are returning home from a wedding, and their joie de vivre has not lessened. There is live music with a resounding chorus, and a pregnant woman8217;s distaste of either the talent or the food forces her to brush past me repeatedly to make for the small bathroom.
All is well until it appears that I might be invited to sing a song of friendship. I hastily close my eyes, and fall into deep, peaceful sleep.
