FROM MY ARCHIVES

Note: I am not writing new stories. I hope to publish a book, of sorts, with some of the stories from this blog. But I wanted to share this story with the readers because I have found out that quite a few readers still continue to visit this site. I think I wrote this in 2009 when our land was at the worst crossroads of its history, in fact it continues to be so. It is also included in my book titled 'FATEFUL LINE.' chatGPT has favoured me with the above illustration. You can see Alexander nearly collapsing in shock at the Attock Bridge. I hope you will enjoy the satire, humour, history and tragedy in this story. I haven't made any corrections to the original one: 

ALEXANDER FINDS HIS LAST BASTION IN DISARRAY 

By: Nasser Yousaf 

It is two thousand three hundred and thirty four years since Alexander, the Macedonian King, visited his last stronghold of the Frontier. He cannot help stop being fascinated by the myths and legends attached to his consequential invasion of one of the world’s most infamous pockets of resistance. And since Alexander is but a mortal, he still has some fond memories of his adventure that took him as far as River Bias in the Punjab at which point he was forced to tame his ambitious zeal. So in order to relieve himself of the lingering nostalgia, Alexander decides to undertake another visit to the area and know of its present dwellers.

The great conqueror is now too old but his sagacity and astuteness remains unimpaired. Since he no longer supports barging into foreign territories  unannounced, he decides to land in the Frontier through one of the European Airlines that operates between London and Peshawar. 

As the Airline touches the tarmac, Alexander asks a fellow passenger if the plane had in fact landed at Pushkaravati (modern Charsadda) that was the capital of Frontier when he last visited the area. Alexander is greatly disappointed when he is informed that the capital had since been shifted to Peshawar by the British when they ruled the area as part of their colonial expansionism. The Macedonian King suggests that Pushkaravati by virtue of being located on the banks of River Kabul would have been the best site for the capital. 

Alexander rests for a while in the arrival lounge of the Peshawar Airport. He finds the architecture of the airport quite mediocre and bland and politely suggests that the right team of planners, architects and builders would have raised a grand building. He is overheard whispering to himself that an area with such a glorious past deserved magnificent monuments to its enduring memory. 

The old Patriarch is then led to his lodging in a car. He requests to be driven through the main cantonment bazaar. The car slowly makes its way through the milling crowds. Alexander spots a shop with a signboard that says Persian and Afghan Carpets, Handicrafts and Antiques.” He requests to be taken to the shop where he takes keen interest in the Afghan and Persian products. 

By now the curiosity of the Macedonian is letting him down. He asks the Afghan shopkeeper, dressed in an embroidered shirt and shalwar, and how was it that the people of the European stock were quite conspicuous by their absence in the crowds. He explained that he had been led to believe that Peshawar was once the favourite hunt out of the westerners. 

The Afghan trader whose business was continuously nose-diving due to the same reason agrees with him but regrets that the Europeans were suffering from a state of self-imposed paranoia. The Afghan further explains that it was not true that the foreigners were not coming to the area due to the ban on alcoholic drinks imposed by the puritans as those willing to drink could still drink it to their hearts’ content. 

Alexander enjoys the jest and then goes to his hotel in the old city and is pleasantly surprised to see the decour of the old traditional house turned into a hotel by an Afghan and his Italian friend. 

He settles in his room curiously named as, ‘Topaz’ on the fourth storey, opens the window and is horrified to see men well past their eighties pushing carts laden with food grain weighing in tons in the bazaar. He bemoans the fate of these struggling old bones, shuts his window and keeps turning in his bed the whole night with out getting the proverbial forty winks of sleep.

Early next morning, Alexander prefers to travel the entire length of sixty kilometers on the Grand Trunk (GT) Road to the Attock Bridge in the public transport. He comes to know that the founder of the Afghan Suri Dynasty, Sher Shah Suri, had built the Road in the early 16th century with caravanserais, wells and trees on both sides of the road for the comfort of the wayfarers. 

He greatly admires the 16th century idea and its creator. The bus stops at a checkpoint at the Attock Bridge. Alexander asks the reasons. A fellow commuter tells him it was the police of another province within the same country. On hearing this Alexander starts gasping and falls unconscious. 

He regains consciousness with some effort and implores to be immediately guided to the Malakand Road. Alexander points out that it was at a point in Malakand where he had first set foot in the 326 B.C from the Kunar area of Afghanistan. Having overcome his frustration encountered at Attock, he greatly appreciates the view of the Malakand valley from the top of the hill. He is now overcome by a bout of emotions in memory of the good old days. At this point on the hilltop, a fellow traveler also offers him the famous oranges of Pallai area in the valley down the hills and Alexander is heard swearing that he had never tasted such sweet oranges anywhere in the world. 

He travels down to the Batkhela bazaar and goes to the hills across the River Swat in the Dir Lower district where he had entered and led his invading armies into the Frontier then under the suzerainty of Hindu Rajas. He stops at a point and recalls how he had sustained a wound in the leg at that very spot from a flying arrow aimed at him. He recalls how the wound had then bled profusely and had helped him convince his admirers that it showed that he was a mortal and not the Son of Jupiter, which many believed him to be with ichors running in his veins. 

He then notices the River Swat flowing thick with red fluids. He is dumbfounded and enquires the reason. The locals who have now gathered around him in big numbers tells him that a fanatical mullah in the upper Swat valley had declared war against his own people who were finding it hard to agree with the bigoted interpretations of the Divine Laws being preached by the mullah. ‘It is the blood of those innocent’ the locals tell him.

Alexander leaves the place and moves onward to Buner through which his armies had marched forward to River Jhelum. He spots a mausoleum. Locals inform him that a very pious saint Sayyed Ali Shah called ‘Pir Baba’ from Tarmez in Central Asia who preached benevolence 

and fellow feeling was buried there. Alexander wishes that the mullah in Swat fighting his own people would also emulate the lifestyle and mission of the great mystic. 

Alexander returns to Peshawar and takes a flight to Chitral. He then travels to the Kelash valley where some of his troops had strayed in the year 326 B.C. He instantly falls in love with the serenity of the area but as he moves forward he spots a massive multi storey stone and 

wooden structure. 

Kelash people inform Alexander that the visiting Greek tourists had built the building to promote Kelash culture in memory of the Greek and Macedonian soldiers. Alexander finds himself unable to appreciate the idea and thinks that quite contrary to that, it would have negative effect on the ancient culture of the Kelash people. 

Alexander gets frustrated with the Frontier. Two and half-millennium ago, he had left the area by sea. The pressure is now telling on him. He boards the next available flight for Europe and leaves with a heavy heart.