#fridayflash~In God We Trust

In God We Trust

We departed Rawalpindi early that cool morning, driving towards Murree in the north-eastern corner of Pakistan. The hills and valleys of the single-lane highway snaked through the western Himalayan foothills and made for slow progress. A pall of smoke hung over one region—the result of burning to cover up the large-scale timber theft occurring in these temperate forests.

We arrived in Murree at noon and went our separate ways seeking adventures within the busy mountain village. Christmas was only a week away and I wanted to find unique gifts for my travelling companions. And a decent cup of coffee.

The local market was packed with vendors selling a wide range of goods. They waved to me, calling me to drink their chai or perhaps sample a falafel. Booths selling fine fabrics were next to others peddling questionable looking vegetables. I peeked through the grimy glass of one shop window. Cheap trinkets and plastic prayer beads were proudly displayed on a dusty cloth; not a single thing I would want to give to my friends as Christmas presents.

Most of the men wore round pakol hats and had shawls wrapped around themselves to fend off the lingering morning chill. They wandered through the market, hands clasped behind their backs, thoughtfully examining the goods for sale. Occasionally there was shouting as they haggled over price. The few women in sight had their heads covered with hijab but the more traditional wore the body covering burkha.

Several children ran to me with dirty hands extended. “Baksheesh, Baba,” they shouted in unison, pantomiming eating by pinching the air and drawing their fingers to their mouths. As I had done in many countries previously, I ignored the beggars and continued my trek down the busy street.

The cluttered commercial district eventually evolved into haphazardly stacked tenement-style buildings. A man leaned over a balcony rail and eyed me suspiciously while smoking his cigarette. I proceeded down a hill and stopped at a school whose courtyard was about 20 feet below me. Orderly rows of children, dressed smartly in their blue uniforms, stood at attention. They began to sing melodically and march in unison. Their song, presumably, was in Urdu but every so often the word ‘Pakistan’ rang out and I assumed it was their national anthem.

“Sahib.” The soft voice came from behind me, accompanied by a gentle tug on the arm of my Columbia jacket. I spun around to find an old man looking up at me expectantly. A wool shawl was draped over his narrow shoulders and his ears stuck out from the red checked scarf that covered his head. His almond eyes were sunken into his face; his cheeks and forehead had deep wrinkles that reminded me of folding, geologic strata. Most noticeable, though, was that he carried a large sack of belongings over his shoulder and the bottom of his grey beard looked like it had been dipped in red henna.

“Baksheesh, Sahib,” he repeated and pantomimed the eating gesture the children had demonstrated earlier.

“Sorry, pal,” I said, shaking of my head. “I don’t give money to beggars.” I turned and began to walk away.

“Allah.” He said softly, his voice breaking. I stopped. I slowly walked back to the old man and dropped a few rupee coins into his outstretched hand. He smiled at me, exposing his tooth. I quickly turned and made my way back to the market in search of my gifts.

I've often wondered if the old man was pleading to God—or if he was calling to me.

* Note: Photo credit to J.E. Kirkebo