City of the Sleeping Kings

Driving my grandfather’s Triumph TR6 through the plains of thatta, Sind is an experience that will remain with me forever. The bike’s humming 2 stroke engine starts talking to you after a few riding hours. You will understand when it is going through one of its phases, or asking you for a drink, oil or water. You will also know when it wants to stop for a break, usually by dieing on you for the moment. All in all, it is pleasant company, as no one I know wanted to spend a week in Central Sindh, on a 1956 original triumph with dubious credentials. I however am an utterly lost soul, whose cravings for open space, comes from an internal repression that sprouts from a year of living in the tightest most packed cosmopolitan centre in the world. Sitting in my non-ivory high rise Corporate HQ, I dreamt incessantly for the dust, the heat and my chatty TR6. You have a sense of belonging here in the midst of this plain, this stony waste and this heat, that you cannot have in the most packed party held in your honour in an urban centre of cosmopolitan europe.

Back to thatta, my map indicated that we were pretty close to the Makli Graveyard. There are some government offices for taxation next to the Graveyard who I had to visit on the strict orders of my Paternal Uncle. After a few wrong turns I finally discovered the offices which were a sleepy affair by far. As I parked my old bike beside the Govt Plated Potohar Jeep, I saw a Shallu Clad Man running towards me, enquiring what I was doing there. I told him that I had come to see the DC and I am the nephew of Mr S from Karachi. His expressions, which a moment ago, were extremely suspicious turned into instant reverence. He had suddenly found a lot of respect for me and implored me to come into the offices. On entrance into the building, I found a huge retinue of men greeting me and glancing at me in a surprised expression. This was understandable as I was more or less completely covered in dust and my raggedy rug sack belonged more to a tramp, than the nephew of a certain personage, at least from their point of view. I was than ushered into the offices of the DC who was a smart short man, who preferred to speak to me in English. In short I was lavished with the “Official” hospitality and after a huge meal, I requested for the permission to leave for Makli. When we stepped out in the courtyard, I heard the laughter of all the chaprasis, standing around my bike looking at the contraption. Although the joke was in Sindhi, but I could get the gist of it and smiled back at them. The DC was taken aback my preferred choice of transportation. He offered, quite firmly, that I should take the Potohar with a driver, who would then stay with me for the rest of my trip. I politely declined and informed him that I didn’t quite know where I would be going after my Maklee excursion.

Next stop was the Graveyeard, titled the City of Sleeping Kings. A fascinating set of crumbling tombs, which in their disintegrating state still manifest the magnificence they must have once proclaimed. Ranging between (1400 -1900AD) most of the tombs are now unmarked, however some of the most spectacular ones have still got some information boards about the name of the resting king and period of his rule. The site is aptly named a city as the expanse is far and wide. One can only assume the retinue of followers and general public that used to come to these tombs to pay their respect to their late kings. The carvings on the actual graves are mostly in Persian and Arabic, exhibiting that this was the preferred final resting place of the Muslim Kings of Sind.

Maklee is crumbling and at this state of decay, this place will completely disintegrate in the next few decades. This was the message by a passionate old man who only spoke in sindhi. He lamented about the state of affairs in this part of the world and kept picking up and replacing ancient crafted bricks from here and there. He told me stories of how some ex minister had plummeted an entire tomb to extract the beautifully crafted brick work with great care, so as not to damage the bricks and that was transported back to Karachi and installed in the Minister’s luxury villa. I was taken aback at the smallness of the world, as a year earlier, whilst having dinner with a friend in Bayswater, London, we struck upon conversation about one of his Feudal Uncles who was an ex minister and how his house was constructed with ancient brick works from some tomb in Sindh. I saw the ruins of that particular tomb and was astonished at the inexhaustible avarice of men in power.

Have these historical sites, which are crumbling glimpses of our near or ancient past become invalid today. Is it not important anymore to know whom we once were if only to realise and equate to who we are today. This is highly contentious, as many would dispute or support this. Some would even argue that given the state of the social, political and infrastructural decay in the present day urban and rural centres, historical sites and there preservation is more or less de listed from the priority list. .

However, living in history and learning from history are two distinct things. We need to preserve these last surviving objects of marvel, built by ancient inhabitants of this land, who must have hoped that one day, they might be recognised from these tombs for the people they once were. But then we have a habit of forgetting our present let alone our past. Pakistan incorporates the ruins of one of the oldest Civilisation on earth that is Moenjodaro. Only a few months ago there was some back page news about the ransacking of the Museum of Moenjadaro by a few armed dacoits. This is probably another “theft to order” by some rich patriarch of the ancient artefacts of this world. This particular event manifests the indifference, apathy and impassiveness that we Pakistanis exhibit towards our historical treasures, whilst we spend millions on travel to Greece, Rome and various other Europeon cities to sample their history. If only there was some renewed interest in these decaying places, some pride in the fact that we have indeed these treasure troves from history right in our back yards, which might lead to these places receiving the long overdue respect and preservation that could potentially save them for another thousand years, and another ten generations, if only to remind them, where our journey might have started from.

With these illicit thoughts and after saying farewell to my old friend from the graveyard, I mounted my TR6 and went away to find a highway side hotel, a semi comfortable charpoy and some hot daal and fried fish.

Had I already forgotten the city of sleeping kings?

The Silent Tomb The artisans of yester years The Crumbling Passages The windows into the abyss Persian The Expanse Remember the Currency Note Arabic Lasting Architecture? The view of the Lake of Snakes Wasting away Baradari Mirza Muhammed Isa Tarkhan Everlasting? The Remainder of this is in a Minster`s House in Khi The Most Magnificent, The Most Preserved Mirza Isa Khan Tarkhan II bin Baba Jan Baba The Passages time forgot The Mosque in the Courtyard Mirza Jan Baba bin Mirza Isa Khan Tarkhani

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