legend
A rock epic
The mystery of a killer snake begins in a kiosk in Murree and ends up in a museum in UK's Alnwick Castle -- but not without some interesting twists
By Ali Jan
While driving through Lower Topa in Murree, I got caught up in a sudden hailstorm. Spotting a roadside kiosk, I pulled over for a cup of tea and waited inside for the weather to clear. Like most hill folks, the natives of Murree are quite happy and friendly to strike up a conversation with tourists. The owner of the place and a helper began to ask me about where I was from and what was I doing there. I told them, although I wouldn't describe myself as a typical 'tourist', having spent most of my life and childhood years in Murree, that I was always fond of discovering new sites and spots in the hills.

Life as usual in Kabul
Kabul -- a city of myths and dreams and wary peace surrounded by an unending war, but above all of amazing hospitality
By Zahrah Nasir
Certainly not everyone's idea of a travel destination, the ancient city of Kabul weaves a magnetic spell around those who dare to tread the merciless dust of its ravaged streets, which are rising from the ashes they have been buried under for the last 30 years and counting. Nothing is like as it first seemed, other than the wide smiles of returning refugees struggling to make new lives. And the survivors who think they have already seen and felt the worst. They hopefully seek a better future though they're unlikely to resurrect the fondly remembered days of 'hippidom' -- the days when caravans of young westerners travelled these historic highways and byways on their overland route to India.

 

A rock epic

The mystery of a killer snake begins in a kiosk in Murree and ends up in a museum in UK's Alnwick Castle -- but not without some interesting twists

By Ali Jan

While driving through Lower Topa in Murree, I got caught up in a sudden hailstorm. Spotting a roadside kiosk, I pulled over for a cup of tea and waited inside for the weather to clear. Like most hill folks, the natives of Murree are quite happy and friendly to strike up a conversation with tourists. The owner of the place and a helper began to ask me about where I was from and what was I doing there. I told them, although I wouldn't describe myself as a typical 'tourist', having spent most of my life and childhood years in Murree, that I was always fond of discovering new sites and spots in the hills.

Between sips of doodh-pati tea, we reminisced about Murree and what a charming hill station it once was and how it had somewhat declined in recent years. An elderly man, noticing my interest in local history, joined the discussion and asked me if I was aware of the Serpent's Rock. "The Serpent's Rock? No, I never heard of that before," I responded. "Well there is a rock by the name of 'Samp ki Tarrar' in the forest. 'Samp' means a serpent and 'Tarrar' is a rock or boulder in native dialect. It marks an important event of long-gone days and I will tell you its story," he said.

"When I was small," continued the old man, "my grandfather related the story of a giant sized serpent that had made the lives of the inhabitants of Murree miserable. The reptile was so large that it crushed trees and anything that came in its way flattening large areas of the forest as it moved. After many years had passed, a mysterious horseman came to the rescue of the town people and finally killed the serpent," said the old villager.

Trying not to sound too sceptical, I asked him different questions about the rock's existence; the one he had mentioned earlier and I asked him what proof was there to link his story with that rock. He looked at me sternly and said "if you don't believe me, my son will take you there."

Now this was getting really interesting. It didn't sound like the old man was entirely delusional. Besides, while the story was being related, I had noticed, a couple of villagers were nodding their heads as though they believed in it too. In the meantime the weather also cleared up. I expressed a desire to be shown the site. One of the villagers who introduced himself as the old man's son accompanied me and so we set off to look for the Serpent's Rock in the hills.

After walking half a mile down the road towards Kashmir, we came across a blossom tree in the woods. We then left the road and climbed uphill. As I made my way through thick foliage I caught sight of a large boulder measuring approx 11ft wide x 7ft long covered with moss. There was a faded rock carving of a horseman on it. I had never seen anything like this before. My first impression when I saw it from a distance was: could this be an ancient rock carving of Buddhist-era or Hindu period? However, from near, I was able to decipher more details. There was definitely something under the hooves of the horse that might have looked like a python at first glance, but on closer inspection I noticed it was actually in the form of a dragon! As I cleaned the carving of moss and pine needles, I recalled the legend of St George and the Dragon which I had read somewhere as a kid.

The roots of the legend are ancient. St George is considered an English patron saint and therefore the legend is largely English. The encounter between Saint George and the Dragon is said to have happened at a place called 'Silene', in Libya -- a sufficiently exotic location, where a dragon might be imagined! Anyhow, according to the legend, the town had a large dragon with insatiable appetite for sheep and town's children. Saint George came on a horse and finally slew the dragon on the condition that the town folks agreed to convert to Christianity.

Images of the legend are often used as English emblems and badges. It is not uncommon to spot British-era military crests carved by the waysides in many places in Pakistan such as the Tribal Areas, Cherat, and hill stations of Murree and Galiyat etc where there was always a considerable presence of army in the British India. These stone monuments are reminders of the regiments and battalions that had passed through here. A St George's insignia on a rock in Murree could only mean one thing, that is, it dated back from the British-era and probably had a military connection. There were some indecipherable letters inscribed in Latin and at the bottom was a prominent 'V'.

It was getting dark and the screeching sound of cicadas had reached a deafening pitch. My guide kept looking around nervously as we were in leopard territory. I took some high resolution digital images of the memorial from different angles using flash photography. I then thanked my guide before parting.

Later that night, at home, I studied the digital pictures by zooming in on different areas and noted down the details. I did an internet-search for all the regiments that carried St George's symbol in their crest and narrowed it down to the Northumberland Fusiliers (NF). The NF regiment was also known as the 'Fighting Fifth' in the 19th century as it was originally called the 5th Regiment of Foot. That explained the roman letter 'V'. NF is presently known as the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. I found a website of their regimental museum based in Alnwick Castle, UK. I wrote an email enquiring about the dates of when the monument might have been built and other information. Finally, I attached some pictures of the carving before hitting the Send button.

In less than a week I received a reply from their museum administrator Mrs Lesley Frater stating that the century-old rock carving belonged to the 1st Battalion. She wrote:

Thank you for your email.

I was very interested to see the image you attached to your email and when I mentioned it to our researcher she said she had come across rock carving of this sort before. I searched our database and came up with a 1909 photograph of the very same rock carving at Murree Hills. I have attached it herewith and as you will see it was once painted. The motto: QUO FATA VOCANT (Whither the Fates call) and the name Pte Bloxham can be clearly seen on it and I wondered if it was some sort of memorial to him. However our researcher then located, in the St George's Gazette Newsletter, the Regimental Magazine of January 1909 a photograph of some very similar workmanship carved into the rocks at Cherat.

The caption below that photograph reads: -

THE REGIMENTAL CREST CUT ON THE ROCKS AT CHERAT, BY SERGEANT C McKIM AND PRIVATE BLOXHAM. THE CREST MEASURES 8 1/4 FEET WIDE BY 10 FEET LONG. (From a photograph by D. Baljee & Co., Nowshera.)

At the end of the 1st Battalion service notes (written from Peshawar, India 30th December 1908) it states, "These notes are accompanied by some photographs of our Master Cook's masterpiece at Cherat. It was a very fine piece of work, and Sergeant McKim and his assistant, Private Bloxham, are to be congratulated on the result of some really hard work and some very clever stone carving."

A piece at the beginning of the January 1909 St George's Gazette entitled A RETROSPECT OF 1908 states:

"...The 1st Battalion have been on the Frontier campaign against the Mohmands; in fact they spent St George's Day on active service. We are glad their casualties in battle were not great, but it is a pity that cholera broke out and prevented them from continuing the advance.

... The 1st Battalion have been lucky since they left England in 1896, in having had their full share of active service, almost in every spot they have been."

The 1st Battalion returned to the UK in November 1913.

If you would like me to scan the page from the St George's Gazette picturing McKim and Bloxham (the artists) I would be happy to do that for you. Please contact us again if you require more information about the 1st Battalion in India and we will be happy to help. Thank you for bringing the carving to my attention I have enjoyed researching it.

Yours sincerely,

Lesley Frater (Mrs)

Museum Administrator

********

So that mystery solved, I intend to go back to the kiosk to find my old friend. I want to thank him for telling me about such a fascinating relic of the Raj. It may be that somebody had narrated the legend of St George and the Dragon to his ancestor. The story might have been passed on from one generation to another and altered in the process. Perhaps that's how it got admixed in local folklore.

One needs to save these little pockets of our history before they disappear forever. Else, posterity will not forgive us for neglecting our heritage. Recently a historic cemetery in Lower Topa was flattened by NHA to make way for the controversial New Murree expressway interchange. It contained graves of British soldiers. Sadly, only one headstone remains which states: "Sacred to the memory of Staff Sergeant Farrier J.W Senior, XI P.A.O (Prince Albert's Own) Hussars who died at Lower Topa on the 7th June 1897 Aged 29 years. Erected by his brother N.C. officers as a token of respect."

 

Life as usual in Kabul

Kabul -- a city of myths and dreams and wary peace surrounded by an unending war, but above all of amazing hospitality

By Zahrah Nasir

Certainly not everyone's idea of a travel destination, the ancient city of Kabul weaves a magnetic spell around those who dare to tread the merciless dust of its ravaged streets, which are rising from the ashes they have been buried under for the last 30 years and counting. Nothing is like as it first seemed, other than the wide smiles of returning refugees struggling to make new lives. And the survivors who think they have already seen and felt the worst. They hopefully seek a better future though they're unlikely to resurrect the fondly remembered days of 'hippidom' -- the days when caravans of young westerners travelled these historic highways and byways on their overland route to India.

Façades of once proud buildings waiting for the Afghan version of 'Spaghetti Westerns' to be filmed still line the roads of outlying city districts whilst pretentiously arrogant villas a la' Pakistan rub cement shoulders in more desirable locations where each and every square inch of land is an exorbitantly priced commodity.

Yet, despite the rattling echo of bullets slashing through the clear night air as they are wont to do, the near-enough-to-touch stars are just as big as they ever were, Chicken Street with its tourist trap stores is still sharply operational, the traditional tea of welcome still flows endlessly and the aroma of fresh tandoori nan and fragrantly hot kebabs hangs lusciously heavy on every corner in town and the people talk… how they talk and smile and extend the handshake of friendship.

"Eat with us" called a group of young women wearing jeans, long shirts and hijab. "Come home with us; spend the night so we can talk. We are all students at the university except for this one here, she is our professor."

I regret having to refuse in the face of such open hospitality.

My taxi whizzes dangerously, seemingly sideways through one of the three daily traffic jams. So often the rush grinds to a frozen halt when convoys of foreign troops in armoured vehicles ominously dominate the tarmac and every other form of transport must momentarily breathe in, become invisible. Just in case a bomb goes off, a suicidal maniac decides to hit, a sniper fire. Then, just as suddenly as they appear, the menace is gone and the very air is allowed to heave a huge sigh of relief until next time.

The worlds have always collided in Kabul, the tribes congregated, traders traded, invaders have occupied, merged or been driven out and nothing much has altered in this respect but life, particularly picnics, continue as usual.

Babar lived and picnicked here, created the extraordinary Bagh-e-Babar, now completely renovated including a magnificent outdoor swimming pool and his tomb in this Mughul garden is a place of pilgrimage for historians, the garden itself a beautiful picnic spot for Kabulis by the score.

Kargha Lake, a manmade attraction nestled against the foothills of the Paghman Mountains just outside Kabul wasn't around when Babar ruled the roost, is one of the most popular picnic spots to be found and hundreds of people throng to its shores at weekends and on holidays. Families brew tea on primus stoves, heat up pilau, children fly kites, adults try their hand at fishing, and elders tell tales of the pre-ward days.

These days, though, the nomads have a hard time clinging on to survival. Numbers and herds diminished, traditional migration routes and grazing mined or devastated by drought. They are increasingly being forced to try and settle down in one place that goes against their ancestral custom and culture. Once open borders are now closed to them, lands of plenty become scarce and the colourful clothes of their women transformed into upper class fashion statements. Every Kabuli wedding party inevitable sports a few well-to-do imitation nomads…the real thing wouldn't be allowed!

Kabul, with its five-star and no star hotels and restaurants, its smiling people and a ubiquitous sense of mystery and danger, has always lain at the fascinatingly addictive crossroads of empires…. it always will.


|Home|Daily Jang|The News|Sales & Advt|Contact Us|


BACK ISSUES