Reminiscence from Anatolia- Part Two: A Delayed Flight
“Kandahar is an island”… these were the first words that I heard, when I landed at my workplace about ten and a half month ago…
With every passing day, I realized the true meaning of these words… arrested, literally, in a high wall prison that insures my listless existence over here… I often wonder… Why the hell I am here, far from my two lovely sons and a caring wife… far from my parents, who need me in their old age… and far from precious friends… who I have carefully gathered amidst the hurly-burly of life.
My saga begins here… when on the night of 26th November; I was sitting in Ariana Airlines office in Kandahar International Airport… waiting for much delayed Kandahar-Kabul flight.
The flight was late by over 10 hours now… so the flight that was supposed to take off for Kabul at around 1 pm… took off only at 1130 pm… I reached Kabul… literally in the dread of night at 1 am. Not the best time to be in a city, which falls in the high-risk category even in the day.
There are two ways to handle such fiascos… brood or smile… I brooded for a while and thereafter called up my wife at about 6 pm… when the flight was 5 hours late and still counting… she changed my paradigm… smile, your adventure has already begun. I got back to the VIP waiting room and saw a person sitting over there… he must have been there for last 2-3 hours… just that I didn’t bother to strike a conversation.
“Dari?”- I asked. Afghanistan has two major languages… Dari, a variant of Persian- and Pashto… now a few people, especially in southern areas, know Urdu as well.
“Ba’laa”… (Yes)… Most of the educated Afghans know Dari… whether or not they are Pashtoons. It connects them to larger world… to books, to knowledge… there is hardly any literature or books in Pashto… and they rely on Persian books for knowledge. His name was Mohammed Musa, an Ariana Airways employee… who was half Tajik and Half Pashto. He had come to Kandahar on a temporary Hajj duty… and was on his way back.
We started talking… people started trickling in… they were surprised to see an Indian… an Indian VIP… and an Indian VIP speaking Persian.
Someone in the gathering said something startling- India has so many religions and so many sects… and still you live so peacefully… we are just four ethnicities, all Muslims- Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras and Pashtuns… why can’t we live peacefully like you. There was a craving for peace… I had seen this earlier… I have a gut feeling that slowly but surely… Afghans are raising their voice for peace; they are fed up of 30 years of war… destruction… and when they are fully awake- they wouldn’t spare anybody- not the US, not the Warlords, and certainly not the Taliban. It is just a matter of time.
8 pm… I wondered how long I would have to wait… by now the VIP room was empty; sans me… an old, unkemptly looking man entered my room… I thought he must be the cleaner or janitor. I thought- how on earth he would know Dari… I tried my little Pashto on him asking if he knows when the flight would take-off… he replied in English… at least 2-3 hours from now… Appearances are surely deceptive…
His name was Haider… a trained Aeronautical Engineer… he sat beside me and started chatting… after all, it was not everyday that he found an English speaking person. He was trained by the American in early 70s… when American not only set up training facilities at Kandahar Airport, but also- more or less- operated the airport. It was the time, when Afghanistan was pursued and cajoled by both the super-powers, the US and the USSR. King Zahir Shah played a balancing act… allowing USSR to help northern parts… and the US to help southern areas. However, little did he realize that he was scripting a violent tug-o-war between the two… which would gobble his future and that of his country.
10 pm… I was fidgety at best… I started playing with the only computer in the room… stumbled upon a folder called music… opened it- the subfolders read- Arabic, Persian, Indian, Pashto and Tajik… I opened Arabic and then Indian and then Persian and then Pashto… nothing could actually entice me… with least of a hope; I opened the Tajik sub-folder… the files read… Maniza 1, Maniza 2, Maniza 3… I clicked open one of them… and saw a very beautiful Tajik girl… singing Tajik (again a variant of Persian) songs… with an equally beautiful voice… I was mesmerized… time started moving fast.
“Your flight has arrived, it would move in another half an hour”… the Ariana employee, who owned the work-station, entered the room and told me… it was time to leave. I sighed relief. Before closing the music video… I asked him… who she is… “Maniza Daulatabadi, a famous Tajik singer”… I mentally noted her name… she had a sweet voice.
While boarding my flight… I couldn’t help thinking about the prophetic words of my wife… smile, your adventure has already begun… she sure is my guardian angle… and my source of inspiration.
I smiled… this night has taught me so many things… when I was stuck in Kandahar Airport, and the threat of flight cancellation was looming large… I was worried… it was a bad option to call-back my driver to the airport so late… and staying in the airport among bearded, ill-trained, gun-wielding guards (who look more menacing than the Taliban) was also a bad option… however, gathering courage, I approached the Airport Security Officer… and explained my position to him… he was so happy to welcome me… and assured me that if, at all, the flight gets cancelled… he would open one of his rooms and arrange night stay for me… thereafter, his men came at regular intervals… re-assured me… offered me tea, biscuits, water… whatever they can…
The night taught me… that appearances are actually deceptive… everyone, despite his appearance, is similar… the human empathy is an overwhelming feeling.
I reached Kabul at 1 am… my friend has sent a car and a guard to receive me.
With every passing day, I realized the true meaning of these words… arrested, literally, in a high wall prison that insures my listless existence over here… I often wonder… Why the hell I am here, far from my two lovely sons and a caring wife… far from my parents, who need me in their old age… and far from precious friends… who I have carefully gathered amidst the hurly-burly of life.
My saga begins here… when on the night of 26th November; I was sitting in Ariana Airlines office in Kandahar International Airport… waiting for much delayed Kandahar-Kabul flight.
The flight was late by over 10 hours now… so the flight that was supposed to take off for Kabul at around 1 pm… took off only at 1130 pm… I reached Kabul… literally in the dread of night at 1 am. Not the best time to be in a city, which falls in the high-risk category even in the day.
There are two ways to handle such fiascos… brood or smile… I brooded for a while and thereafter called up my wife at about 6 pm… when the flight was 5 hours late and still counting… she changed my paradigm… smile, your adventure has already begun. I got back to the VIP waiting room and saw a person sitting over there… he must have been there for last 2-3 hours… just that I didn’t bother to strike a conversation.
“Dari?”- I asked. Afghanistan has two major languages… Dari, a variant of Persian- and Pashto… now a few people, especially in southern areas, know Urdu as well.
“Ba’laa”… (Yes)… Most of the educated Afghans know Dari… whether or not they are Pashtoons. It connects them to larger world… to books, to knowledge… there is hardly any literature or books in Pashto… and they rely on Persian books for knowledge. His name was Mohammed Musa, an Ariana Airways employee… who was half Tajik and Half Pashto. He had come to Kandahar on a temporary Hajj duty… and was on his way back.
We started talking… people started trickling in… they were surprised to see an Indian… an Indian VIP… and an Indian VIP speaking Persian.
Someone in the gathering said something startling- India has so many religions and so many sects… and still you live so peacefully… we are just four ethnicities, all Muslims- Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras and Pashtuns… why can’t we live peacefully like you. There was a craving for peace… I had seen this earlier… I have a gut feeling that slowly but surely… Afghans are raising their voice for peace; they are fed up of 30 years of war… destruction… and when they are fully awake- they wouldn’t spare anybody- not the US, not the Warlords, and certainly not the Taliban. It is just a matter of time.
8 pm… I wondered how long I would have to wait… by now the VIP room was empty; sans me… an old, unkemptly looking man entered my room… I thought he must be the cleaner or janitor. I thought- how on earth he would know Dari… I tried my little Pashto on him asking if he knows when the flight would take-off… he replied in English… at least 2-3 hours from now… Appearances are surely deceptive…
His name was Haider… a trained Aeronautical Engineer… he sat beside me and started chatting… after all, it was not everyday that he found an English speaking person. He was trained by the American in early 70s… when American not only set up training facilities at Kandahar Airport, but also- more or less- operated the airport. It was the time, when Afghanistan was pursued and cajoled by both the super-powers, the US and the USSR. King Zahir Shah played a balancing act… allowing USSR to help northern parts… and the US to help southern areas. However, little did he realize that he was scripting a violent tug-o-war between the two… which would gobble his future and that of his country.
10 pm… I was fidgety at best… I started playing with the only computer in the room… stumbled upon a folder called music… opened it- the subfolders read- Arabic, Persian, Indian, Pashto and Tajik… I opened Arabic and then Indian and then Persian and then Pashto… nothing could actually entice me… with least of a hope; I opened the Tajik sub-folder… the files read… Maniza 1, Maniza 2, Maniza 3… I clicked open one of them… and saw a very beautiful Tajik girl… singing Tajik (again a variant of Persian) songs… with an equally beautiful voice… I was mesmerized… time started moving fast.
“Your flight has arrived, it would move in another half an hour”… the Ariana employee, who owned the work-station, entered the room and told me… it was time to leave. I sighed relief. Before closing the music video… I asked him… who she is… “Maniza Daulatabadi, a famous Tajik singer”… I mentally noted her name… she had a sweet voice.
While boarding my flight… I couldn’t help thinking about the prophetic words of my wife… smile, your adventure has already begun… she sure is my guardian angle… and my source of inspiration.
I smiled… this night has taught me so many things… when I was stuck in Kandahar Airport, and the threat of flight cancellation was looming large… I was worried… it was a bad option to call-back my driver to the airport so late… and staying in the airport among bearded, ill-trained, gun-wielding guards (who look more menacing than the Taliban) was also a bad option… however, gathering courage, I approached the Airport Security Officer… and explained my position to him… he was so happy to welcome me… and assured me that if, at all, the flight gets cancelled… he would open one of his rooms and arrange night stay for me… thereafter, his men came at regular intervals… re-assured me… offered me tea, biscuits, water… whatever they can…
The night taught me… that appearances are actually deceptive… everyone, despite his appearance, is similar… the human empathy is an overwhelming feeling.
I reached Kabul at 1 am… my friend has sent a car and a guard to receive me.
3 comments:
You being Dube's friend had one should have expected this . . . but maaaa!!! amazing writing ... I enjoyed (and am enjoying) reading your travel writing almost as much I do Dalrymple's ... and many a times I have said that I almost worship Dalrymple ...
Thanks for such wonderful stuff ...
Keep writing ...
PS: aap ke blog par dhoke se tapak gaya ... somehow visited dube's and there was this catchy link ".. pondering vagabond", but i m so so glad i did ... :)
btw blog-e-shaan khoob ast :)
Thanks Shadkam for your encouraging words..
We share fascination for Dalrymple's travelogues... in fact these days I am reading his From the Holy Mountain... which is about his travels in Turkey, Syria, Palestine and Egypt... and I can almost identify with his writings... having traveled all these places..
By the way... it is blog-e-shuma (Your Blog) and not blog-e-shaan (Their Blog)
:-)
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