Daily Times

Clad in shaggy clothes and draped in a typically decrepit blanket, a middle aged man would toil up a steep hilly track with sharp hairpin bends as the morning sun flooded pine-covered Murree valleys. He would be holding a poultry egg — his only worldly belonging — till such time that he climbed the last breath-taking ascent and made straight for the roadside local hotel, chaykhana.

And there would ensue, the most elementary business transactions based on centuries’ old barter system. Handing over the egg to the hotel owner, that quintessential, sturdy scion of inhospitable Murree terrain of a few decades ago would demand half-filled cup of tea to be sipped with a gusto and relish, fit only for the royal feasts. The other half-filled cup of tea would be reserved to be claimed in the afternoon, when after a daylong roaming in Murree bazaar the same son of soil would stop at the same, dingy hotel en route to his mud house. In-kind selling of an egg to buy a steaming cup of tea — to be consumed in two, equal installments — was the only and most sought after indulgence known to people of the coy Murree of a few decades ago.

Those were good old days prior to recent decades of unabashed commercialisation and mindless concretisation that befell Murree like many hill resorts in Pakistan. Life, back then was rough, exacting and relentless, but so were the people residing in those virgin valleys of Murree; generally poor of means and worldly fortunes but endowed with a sense of pride bordering arrogance and a jealously guarded penchant to preserve their way of life.

Tradition also has it that the next port of call for these erstwhile, egg-carrying rajas of Murree from the 60s and 70s would be the romance-drenched stairs of colonial-era General Post Office (GPO) on The Mall. Being close to tehsil courts (kacheri), several application writers (arzi-nawees) would be sitting there, awaiting petitioners, aiming to file applications for countless actual and perceived disputes or seeking drafting of personal letters. Those Murree grey-haired would sit next to one of these application writers and go on uttering a sentence which has now assumed the scale of folklore in the great history of Murree.

“If this is a letter to a beloved one or a friend, please add my regards and best wishes — Salaam — and if this is an application against maladministration of any government functionary, please add my witness”. Such artless, ruthless and adorable display of staying relevant was a unique and telling feature of the sturdy sons of Murree.

The Mall in Murree of a few decades back was itself the heart throb for countless visitors who were attracted every summer to this dreamy, post card resembling promenade; this esplanade of timeless charms. A walk along The Mall would mark the high point of the visit to the queen of hills — as if to pay homage in the manner of a devout visiting temple of Artemis — Greek goddess of hills and jungles. One could find the coveys of brightly dressed men and women, all in the most attractive attire, depicting upscale fashion trends of the times. Cupid-hit partners, blissfully married couples, conceit-filled nobilities, celebrities and ordinary, regular families — you could see them all perambulating the winding Mall of Murree with an air of blissful, care free rapture.

Talking about seasons and touristic cycles, three distinct seasons were unique to Murree in terms of what it had to offer to its devout visitors. There was obviously the prime season — summers, between June and August, when tourists in highest numbers from all over Pakistan would flock to this balmy hill station. That would be the time of maximum hustle and bustle with hotel rooms filled to their capacity and an unending stream of motorised traffic creeping into Murree day in and day out. Other big season was winters, especially after the first snow falls which for some queer reason religiously started on December 25. Murree seems to have lost favour with Mother Nature as the annual ritual of first snow falls on December 25 is no more to be witnessed. Snowfall is now delayed to late January or even early February, much to the detriment of permanent water sources in the hill station which are denied valuable recharge by way of months long presence of sheet of snow.

But back in the past, snows in Murree would transport you back in times; special Christmas services performed in several of the imposing, centuries’ old churches as chimes from tolling bells would resonate the still air of freezing Murree. Santa Claus made of albatross white snows, artfully done Christmas trees of Firs, bedecked in colourful gift packs — red, crimson, green, orange; special parties thrown in colonial era hotel lounges till late nights as more and more snow fell.

But it was the third season that was most unique when an ensemble of men and nature completely subdued the magic of summers or mystery of snowy winters. It was the autumn — a season of honeymoon couples — who thronged Murree between September and November — typical marriage months back in the past — only to be welcomed by shedding of leaves by broadleaved trees. Ashes, Maples, Aesculus, Walnuts, Oaks, and Chestnuts would literally go berserk in Murree in autumns; their leaves discarded their green attire only to change to crimson, bright red, golden yellow and finally ash white, before shedding to the ground. The Mall of Murree and roads leading to the terminus of Pindi or Kashmir Point would be carpeted with crisp autumn leaves and these roads would be treaded by endless coveys of newly married couples — their bashful, nervous expressions and burning red faces dutifully reflecting the saga of colourful transformation of Murree during autumn months.

Things have changed massively in Murree of today — mostly for the worse. Nostalgic peace, resident Anglo-Indian families, Nuns from boarding schools, tolls from church spires, aristocratic mannerism of walks along The Mall, and indulgence of musical winter nights are all gone; replaced with a senseless and avarice-drenched storm of ruthless commercialisation. But more than anything else, the simple, proud, egg-carrying raja sahib is nowhere to be seen as the proverbial cup is not half filled — it’s hollow, empty in a hallowing Murree.

The writer is a public policy and environmental expert