Shah Allah Ditta

The roots of the banyan tree cascade over the ledge, twisting ropes that sway in the breeze and obscure the caves beyond.

The heavy cotton shirt already clings to my back, jeans sticking to my legs in March.  As uncomfortable as the stares.  My uncovered blonde hair is a beacon, drawing eyes as I pass, and I duck into the cavern.

A single sign tells the truth of this place.  The edges withered and cracking, italic writing of the raj almost faded to obscurity.  Where Alexander the Great met the King of Taxila.

Above, the banyan canopy rustles, tendrils of long-dead memories reaching out.  The march through the pass, fear of invasion running before the endless columns of soldiers.  The trumpet of elephants high in the hills, earth rumbling beneath their heavy feet.  An army ready to intercept. 

And here at this place, where the great river began, the plain spread before them ripe for plunder: not war, but the clasp of hands.  Bejeweled ruler and hardened warrior, an offer of men and navigation down the Indus. 

An unlikely alliance.

A monkey chitters in the forest, the eerie hoot of the hoopoo echoing.  Did the jungle sound as strange to Greek ears, two thousand years ago? 

My phone pings, breaking the spell.  An invitation for coffee with my new colleague Faiza.  I tap back, “I’ll be there.”

I pick my way back down the hill, my sandals slipping.  Below, tendrils of ferns climb through the clay walls, the turquoise water of the pools tinkling as it flows through carved arches.  The scent is pure and foreign as the Himalayas. 

The caretaker scuttles out, turbaned head bobbing as he sweeps dust from the path.  He offers a smile, all gums, pointing with his stick-brush to the caves, the English sign above.  I nod solemnly.  I understand. 

He belongs to this place.

And I am as Alexander.  An interloper.  A stranger in a strange land.

Taxila Museum

White and mirror-bright in the spotlight: a Buddha.  Marble carved to highlight the delicate curve of an ear, the flowing drape of fabric across chest.  As perfect and blank-eyed as a goddess in the moonlight.  Ancient Greece in Gandhara. 

Outside, the summer monsoon hammers against paving stones, battering the faded gardens.  Humidity permeates the stale air of the museum, the blare of horns from jingly trucks heading for the Old Trunk Road punctures the stillness.

I trail into the next room, where the black and white photographs of British expeditions take pride of place.  Men smile in their broad-brimmed hats and rolled shirtsleeves, light eyes squinting at flashbulbs. 

This antique museum is a testament to their power.  A long-buried civilization uncovered and cleaned.  Catalogued and labeled, until they claimed it understood.  Controlled.

What must it be like, digging up a buried city?  To feel the silken edge of marble beneath grass and dirt, the surge of discovery?  I reach out, my once-pale fingers pausing before a carved warrior.  The tassels on the sleeves of my kurta brush against the glass.  Do Not Touch. 

When the rain stops, I venture out into the July heat, pausing at the fruit stand for the last of the season’s mangoes, a bottle of water for the drive home.  Refuse the offered juice.  I will not make that mistake again.

As-salamu alaykum I say to the roadside shopkeepers as I browse their wares, the marble now carved for practical use.  I run my hands across a mortar and pestle, a cutting board, indulging in the touch of line and curve.

At home, the sticky-sweet scent of chopped mango rises as I heat the oven for the tarts, my contribution to Faiza and Arem’s barbeque.  The marble rolling pin slides butter-slick beneath my palms, smooth as the carved cheek of the Indo-Greek Buddha. 

Sirkap

The tall grass stretches across the hilltop in a sea of faded green and brown.  Here in the center of the ancient city, though, it has been cut back to reveal straight roads in right angles, a checkerboard of stone plinths. 

A sign identifies the temples that once lined the central avenue: Hindu and Christian and Jain.  A rounded Buddhist stupa pockmarked by the centuries, a Greek carving of Artemis with bangles on her ankles.  A crossroads of empire.

In the print of the 1945 excavation, Sirkap is alive once more with the footsteps of man, the remnants of an empire unearthed.

I am leaving Pakistan soon.

I told Faiza last night, my head on her chest, the curve of breast soft against my cheek.  The scents of her rose perfume twined with cumin and curry powder.

“I know, my love,” she said, catching my tear with a kiss.  “Nothing gold can stay.”

It’s my favorite poem, whispered to her at that fateful barbeque months ago. Citronella smoke dancing up from incense coils like prayers.

I am again Alexander, turned back by forces beyond my control.

The caretaker in the hut said the city walls are still out there, hidden by the waist-high grass.  I dare not find them.  Snakes lurk, even in November.

I wonder if this is what the temples of Egypt looked like, in the time of Napoleon.  Time running like sand through an hourglass, erasing the efforts of man. 

Is this the fall of my golden age? 

Wind rustles, catching at my dupatta until the chiffon billows out behind me.  Emerald and amethyst flecked with gold like a peacock’s tail, vibrant against the grey of this ghost city.  Alive amidst the ruins. 

– Leslie Cooles