Daily Times

After travelling 20 kilometers on a seven-foot road, the pavement suddenly ended. For the next 10 or so kilometers, we were to follow the traces of milk trucks on the dirt so we would end up at Maujgarh Fort. Navigating past the running camels, shrubbery and various other obstacles not suited to the driving environment of a small car, we finally arrived. The Rangers stopped us and asked us where we were going. The friend I was with name-dropped his colleague’s father. The Rangers took one of our identity cards and held it, saying we could pick it up on the way back. While driving up a sand dune to the village, the car got stuck. We called over a few local men to help us push the car, a total of seven people.

We parked our car outside a friend’s house and proceeded into a room that looked like an art museum. We were told that a painter from Lahore had especially come to make the room look that colourful. After relaxing away from the heat for a bit, I was offered a glass of something that looked like lemonade. I was excited, having driven for so long, to get something cold in my system. After taking the first sip, I realised it was normal water, as murky as it was. I asked my hosts where it was from and found that rainwater was stored and drunk throughout the year by the residents of Maujghar.

I sat and talked for a while with our hosts and found out that before partition, this village of 50 homes was a thriving hub of industry. Every week, Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims would have a mandi (market and trade centre) here that attracted people from all over. After relaxing and having tea with naan khatai (a traditional biscuit), we walked down the dune ready to explore all the wonders of Kila Maujghar. I was taken aback by how thick the walls must have been when it was made: at least six feet or, as our host told us, enough to have a car driving on top of them. We proceeded to walk inside and admire the intricacy of the tile work.

The hosts told me that after the architect who had built Fort Pholra and Fort Abbas was done, his hands were cut off so that he could not build another one like it. He then proceeded to build Fort Maujghar a few years later. We climbed to the top of a wall for a better view. As we climbed up the fort steps, we talked about the state of a nation that does not just fail to preserve its history but actively works to destroy it. The fort’s bricks have not disappeared by accident; they were used in homes both in Maujghar and other places.

We started to walk to the resting place of the last Nawab inhabitant — about a 10-minute walk — and on the way saw people living a truly different life than the urban Pakistani is used to. I arrived hoping to find historical markers but found a domed building on its last feet, ready to crumble. The stone signs that told the history of the place were missing, according to the hosts. We were unable to go inside because there were hundreds of bats.

On the walk back, we met Ghulam Haider, who, after asking us for a cigarette, proceeded to tell us about the history of Maujghar. He was born and presumably will die in the village, and says he was 16 when the Hindus picked up their stuff and left. He tells us about Deva karrar, (karrar meaning non-Muslim in Saraiki) who was his neighbour and had a thriving sugar business before he left for India.

We bid Ghulam Haider farewell and proceeded back to our hosts’ house, where we had fresh milk straight from the cow before we headed home. It was probably the best glass of milk I have had in my life.

The writer is a freelance columnist