Peshawar in the 1960s was a city entirely different than the metropolis of today, literally a city of dreams! We had been there less than a year as Daddy was posted there, and we were the pampered new kids on the block, having our own Hercules bicycle, while rest of the kids made do with the local Sohrab. Early in January 1961, Father came home with the news that the Queen of England, Elizabeth the II, was visiting Peshawar, and that he was assigned a few duties in this regard. We were ecstatic, as anyone in their early teens would be. The news was soon in the newspapers and on the radio, which was limited to Radio Pakistan and BBC; Radio Ceylon being popular for its musical content. Come the very next month, the Queen landed in Karachi, then Pakistan’s capital, to live commentary on the radio. The next few days were spent determining the best vantage point from which to glimpse the royal cavalcade that would bring the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh (or Eda’wadda, as a cousin of ours pronounced it) from Peshawar airport Governor House. After much deliberation, we decided on the turning point from the airport to The Mall. Even though this was but a stone’s throw from our house, the view, we worried, would be restricted given the expected crowds. Then, it was the morning of February 4, and we pedalled to our lookout post, luckily the corner house belonged to an uncle, so parking our cycles was easy, with a cool glass of sherbet providing an added bonus! Early in January 1961, Father came home with the news that the Queen of England, Elizabeth the II, was visiting Peshawar, and that he was assigned a few duties in this regard. We were ecstatic, as anyone in their early teens would be We stood on the roadside, those days were a different way of life, there was no strict protocol or baton-brandishing police, nor were the crowds so unruly as to storm the cavalcade. Instead, everyone happily lined up along the roadside, clutching paper flags, Pakistan’s and the Union Jack both, to wave as the royal couple went by. And then, all of a sudden, whistles were blown and a motorcycle-riding policeman, with siren going full volume, appeared in the distance, followed by the cavalcade. The Queen and General Ayub, Pakistan’s president, stood in the rear leg space of the car, waving at the crowd, Prince Philip, in the following car, sitting on the back seat. We were totally convinced that they looked at us scrawny looking teens, jumping up and down, and smiled as they drove on by. Back home, we were all full of ourselves at having seen the Queen, Ayub Khan and Prince Philip, however, our uncle was not ready to believe us, and after a few No, you didn’ts, before turning to ask, OK, tell me what colour hat was the Prince wearing? Those were the days of felt hats being all the rage, and even I had two in my almira. I replied, “None”, which was true, as somewhere in the back of my mind I had been hoping to see his and get a copycat one for myself. Already walking with our hands behind our back, Prince Philip style, was fashionable! The Queen and Duke were feted at the Governor House by Malik Amir Mohammad Khan, the Governor of then West Pakistan, and much to our consternation, Daddy didn’t take us with him for fear of our getting in the way of everyone and earning the annoyance of Uncle Ayub Khan (for us, he was Daddy’s senior officer and an uncle like the other seniors). The fifth was a Sunday, and a Mass had been arranged at St John’s Church, the oldest church in the region, and we went along but stayed outside on the lawn, watching the Queen and Prince Philip meeting the clergy and important members of the community in Peshawar. Afterwards, the Royal entourage stopped at Malakand Fort for lunch and snacks, en route to Swat, where the regiment that I would later join was stationed. It was a spectacular honour for the entire batch. Fast forward to 1972, and I was the Mess Secretary, planning weekly menus, daily ration procurements, calculating the messing and related issues. The seniors had always told the junior officers not to “mess” with the chef, Baba Jaffar, otherwise everyone ended up paying the price by being served barely edible food — which was not surprising since Baba Jaffar, more than 55 years old at the time and sporting a white beard, ladle at the ready, poised to come down on the hand of any assistant cook who defied his instructions One day, we had a VIP official dinner, which had been a week in the offing. I thought it was a good occasion to talk to Baba Jaffar about my relevance, so I sat him down in the kitchen and tried to explain the importance of the occasion. Surprisingly, he sat still and listened to me for a full ten minutes, as I walked him through the guest list and menu. Then he looked me squarely in the eye and said: “Captan saab, iksath mae angrez chef aya tha Malakand mujhay sekhany ka liyae ka Malaka Bartania kaa khana kaisay bananatay hai, par mera kaam dekh kay aram sae baith gaye that aur mujhay help kia tha. Baki rahi (name) saab ki baat, inho nae kabhi bakhsish nahi di tau khana bhi ban jaie ga – aap fikar mat karain! (Captain Saab, an English chef came to Malakand in 1961 to teach and supervise us in preparation for the Queen’s lunch, when he saw my work he said, OK, you do it and he helped me with the cooking. As for the guest, he never tipped the crew. But don’t worry, the food for your dinner will be made!) This weekend came the news of Prince Philip’s passing away, bringing all these memories rushing to the fore, and while memory serves, I put these to paper, for our relationship with times gone by might be of historical importance to younger generations. If nothing else, these recollections tell the story of how things were, and how we have faltered along the way. The writer is a survivor of terrorism, and actively advocates for a peaceful and tolerant society. He tweets at @tango1711