In the Gallery Of Pakistan

My journey began with the gallery of Pakistan.

The moment I entered in the gallery, I was not only astounded by the extraordinary splendor and splash of vivid colors around, but also by the positive energy that filled the ambience.
I saw variety of pictures. There were colorful landscapes of rocky mountainous ranges; golden vast folds of sand dunes, clear blue streams of rivers and seas, serene green valleys adorned with snow covered hills. There were images of historical architectures, pictures of excavated ancient civilizations, sketches of cultural regional attires, food, and festivals. Numerous wall hangings of various kinds of embroideries, block-printings, mirror- works, patch works, and tie-n-dyes, displayed. Whether that was painted ceramics, engraved pottery, placed in one corner or elegantly carved wooden furniture at another, every bend of that gallery was entrancing. I saw musical instruments used in folk music such as ‘Algozha’, ‘Saarangee’, ‘Dholak’, ‘Chimta’, ‘Tabla’, ‘Flute’, ‘Rabab’ and ‘Tamnboora’, to name a few; rare and eye catching they were, in context of usage and embellishments. But the most uplifting were the portraits of hardworking, simpleton villagers and busy city dwellers.

The gallery divided into different regions with prominent labels lighting at the top of their entrance hall. Every region had a peculiar theme color. The theme color of Sindh was blue, highlighting Arabian Sea as its main feature. Signature color of Balochistan was golden brown probably because of its deserts and majestic rocks of mineral reserves. NWFP and FATA region was white as snow; while the areas of Kashmir decorated with hues of aqua green that represented its stunning valleys and rivers. The region of capital city Islamabad i.e. Punjab was… lush green.
The first region that welcomed me was Sindh. There were pictures of marine life of ‘Karachi’. I adore the magnificence of ocean and everything related to it. Marvelous shots of ports, huge cargo ships, turtles, dolphins, kids collecting seashells, fishermen fishing, crabbing and variety of sea birds at expanded blue lakes were presented. Stayed for a while at each picture and moved away to see the pictures of rural Sindh. Beautiful paintings showed best skills of villagers. Women at one place seen focused in creation of amazing ‘Ajrak’, ‘Rilly’, ‘Chunri’, and embroideries; whereas men of ‘Hyderabad and ‘Haala’ were active, manufacturing glass bangles, delicate designs on wooden furniture. They even decorated their musical instruments like ‘Algoza’, with dangled beads. I had found those local handicrafts eye-catching, but love for nature urged me to go back to wonderful sea life. I went back again to take the last glimpse of my favorite spot so I would remember it for the longest but… something strange happened. I got shocked and scared to death to see that.

What had happened here? All those pictures were mutilated, distorted, and stained as if some anti-art psycho path was unleashed. The sight was creepy. There was blood, hate, violence and death written with bold letters everywhere.

Cool blue water turned turbulent torrid red.
Smiling faces of fishermen, grimed.
The kids who were collecting seashells disappeared.
Sea- gulls, dolphins, and turtles were dead.
Frightened I ran from that place cursing my negative imagination. Regained breath then returned to other pictures of Sindh.
All the paintings previously glowing with neon-lights became dark as if some one had splashed bucket of black on those.
University, college students were not shining in libraries but smoldered by the violent sun which was now flinging rays of odium and biases.
Instead of books and bags, youth had grabbed firearms.
All cheerful spirits became bleak. Rural or urban had ceased their work and seen entangled in fights.
Right in front of me, while I was standing there shuddering with fear, the glowing label of Sindh dimmed out. Before the frightening darkness and turmoil of red Arabian Sea gulped entire hallway I decided to escape to adjacent area of Balochistan.


This was better. Calm and quiet.
Balochistan region showed extensions of golden deserts, tall trees hoarded with yellow orange dates, streams of water springing amidst hard rocks. The area was huge. To cover it quickly I flew towards the pictures of ‘Ziyarat’; the unruffled hill station where our Quid spent last days of his life. Pictures of large, red and yellow, peaches and apricot laden trees began to water my mouth...
Sudden smell of burning charcoal disturbed me. I looked back.

Oh no, not again…

Was that a mirage or the golden sand dunes actually formed into a monstrous fire twister, growing swiftly? The force of whirlwind, the amount of heat emitted from flames began destruction.
The statues of great Baloach tribal leaders set on high pedestals, smashed.
I saw fragmented pieces swayed wildly with the fiery wind; far and wide.
The embroidered handworks caught flames and fell from the wall.
The strings of that unique folk musical instrument ‘Rabab’, started vibrating incessantly… The noise was loud tormenting eardrums.
The tranquil milieu of the region vanished in a minute. With hands on both ears to secure them with frenzied, escalating abnormal sound I jumped into next region.


The fresh white tone of Frontier Province and tribal areas instantly relaxed me.

‘Fair’ was the signature of that region. Be it the faces of inhabitants, the hospitable hearts of those great Pushtoons, their ‘Jurga’ system of justice or their weather, all was simply…fair . As a lover of mountain climbing, hiking, skiing I was keen to spot those sporty tourists sites. I decided to take the cable car to enjoy wonders of world’s best mountainous ranges and towering peaks such as K2, from above. Whistling and humming I was having the time of my life witnessing the captivating nature down below. The clean and clear air initiated me to forget the trauma of previous tours of Sindh and Balochistan arcades, when______________

The whole region filled with same peculiar smell as was in previous regions. Instead of shower of steady, tiny snowflakes, I saw thunderous blizzard of fire.
White Himalayan range changed color to reddish orange, sooner than any chameleon ever did.
Blood of blonde, beautiful innocent faces colored clear blue lake of ‘Saif-ul-Maluk’_______ruby red.
Valley soared with cries of honest, hardworking women clad in long frocks and covered in typical ‘Burqas’.
Blue-eyed children, who were busy acquiring knowledge underneath the shades of trees until now, dropped books and picked lethal weapons.
Strangely here, the culprit mysterious iron hand responsible for all the damage was clearly visible. In order to survive, the courageous, well built, warriors forever, proclaimed war for ‘self defense’ against terrors of iron hand. For the sake of ‘fairness’ the fair people began fighting back against force. The great corner of the gallery, constituting the fairy tale meadows of ‘Parachinar’ and ‘Swat’ converted to HELL.

Depressed and with heavy heart I bent my cable car towards the most famous scenic land of that gallery also known as ‘Kashmir’, the ‘Paradise on Earth’. My cable car resisted to go inside like the stubborn stallion. I was thrown off the ride with odd halt in front of the aqua green doorway of Kashmir. The dim lights at the entrance made me conscious. I shrugged the alarm made by my ever anxious, too cautious gut voice, and went in.

The aqua green at the entrance faded gradually farther down the alley. Terrifying deadliness seemed to swallow up the place.
The creativity of the artist touched its peak in this corner but lacked far behind in the maintenance part. This component was the most neglected and in dire need of make over. Though the artist had bestowed it with mystical charms of natural wilderness but… then abandoned it, probably. The masterpieces were scribbled, scratched, tarnished, hanged upside down, and framed in sheer bad taste. Whether the damage was on purpose, act of a mischievous child, pure negligence or some evil spell, the display was deplorable. Being a devotee of art, I could not bear that chaotic eerie atmosphere any more… I moved out.

This tour had drained out my energy up till now. Running from one hallway to another in order to seek a fine secure region where I could stay with peace and enjoy the wonderful paintings seemed to be the long lost dream. But hopeless optimism of mine, urged me not to think of exit before plunging for one last shot.

Punjab, the land of great architecture, the land of life, would be the answer to my quest, I thought and resumed expedition. I had heard many fabulous tales about historical, glamorous, cultural city of ‘Lahore’, from people who had visited this region before. I knew that this region was safe, stunning, and nonviolent. Therefore, I decided to take my time and entertain myself, with the jubilant ‘Bhangra’ music, theatre, fashion, and festivals.
This section exhibited the unique blend of old and modern, rural and urban, rich and poor magnificence of art and culture. It was the mini museum. Lahore especially and Punjab in general proudly highlighted the portraits of some of the finest Urdu, Punjabi literary figures of Pakistan. Lahore was known as ‘Paris of Pakistan’ by some and ‘City of Universities’ by others. There was prominent display of spring festival commonly known as ‘BASANT’, where artist had a fervent use of mustard yellow all over. Sky in those pictures shown flocked with various sizes and shapes of kites. Surely I had found my spot…the heart of Pakistan. I went further to explore the crops and cuisine, the parks and buildings of some more of Punjab. The zestful spirits of the people belonging to this part of the gallery was evident and captured with mastered skill. Then I went to the capital city Islamabad.
The picture of ‘Daamn-e-Koah’ which was the highest vista-point situated on green ‘Margalla hills’ covered with thick forest was breath taking. The site of that gleaming, clean park ‘Shakkar Peryan’ and ‘Rawal Dam’ resort never escaped the eyes of any visitor. Islamabad the capital city, stood out among all the other areas of Pakistan. It appeared that the fear, the turbulence, the disturbance, and the chaos developing at other regions of the gallery, had failed to reach here, somehow. I was contemplating my reasons when ________my eyes turned to one picture.

It was the picture of mosque…a red mosque. Suddenly it morphed into black combat fortress that was ballooning rapidly… about to explode any minute.
Bearded religious men stopped to perform prayers by force.
Black veiled women gathered for teaching and learning of Holy ‘Quran’ could not continue lessons any more.
The hands previously seen raised for prayers were hand cuffed.
The students circled around mosque for religious knowledge lined up in long queues as state prisoners.
As I was watching the tragic fate of the unique picture of ‘Red Mosque’, the rest of the photographs of the federal city started swinging like wild pendulum on the wall. Images of the quiet, composed streets of Islamabad flooded with black coats clad protestors. There was flash of flags, posters, placards by political activists. Police officers in blue uniform pointed guns towards their own countrymen.

Within a nanosecond, the black clouds of violent storm spread to every nick and corner of the region.
Noise from shelling of tear gas, bomb blasts, and liberal usage of heavy artilleries from Lahore, Multan and Faisalabad overcame the delightful lively music of ‘Bhangra’.
Yellow spring flowers withered.
Golden crops of wheat, and corn burned.
Art, literature, poetry, songs disappeared from the scene.
There was only fire, smoke, unrest, and anarchy everywhere.

I screamed loud for help___no one came. Where were the guards? Who was in charge? Where had the responsible staff of this gallery gone? I thought and then I realized_______

This gallery was functioning on its own. There was no one to control, no one to check, no one to question and no one to answer.

The realization was too disturbing. Why the guardians had left their own gallery at the mercy of intruders? Was that a wicked conspiracy, malicious meticulous plan by that mysterious hand or a curse by some one? Why the custodians of the place seen nowhere, doing nothing to save the beautiful pictures proudly own by them?

The flames kept on rising. It was a matter of time. The whole gallery could be blazed soon. I should run. The voice in my head yelled, “RUN…SAVE YOURSELF”.

I geared for a dive towards the near by exit door when my heart spoke.

“What will happen here, if you also joined those who fled to other more protected, organized galleries”? I stopped…I listened to my heart…I thought.

What should I do? Should I run for my survival or stay to do whatever I can to save this gallery, a gallery which was the origin of my journey?

I opted for the later.