The Pass

It was just after sunset when Yasmeen woke. The world around her had not changed much at all. The valley roads and the mountain ridges were still the same, but at least there were people to watch.

Up ahead, a man, a boy, and a collection of goats walked on the other side of the road. Just like their goats, the man and boy were layered in heavy wool. Just like the men of Lahore, the man and boy each wore a plain white shalwar kameez. Unlike the turban or kufi that men of Lahore wore on their heads, the goat herders wore sturdy wool caps called pawkul. Yasmeen hurriedly rolled down her window to get a better view of the herd. A gust of cold mountain air blew on her face.

It was no wonder why the men were dressed in heavy clothing. The thick wool cloth kept their bodies warm in the mountain valley. Yasmeen rolled up her window and turned off the air conditioning.

"How long was I asleep?"

"About four hours," replied her father, "do you know where we are now?”

Yasmeen shook her head.

“We're near the Khyber Pass. Do you see the Himalaya mountains ahead?"

At the foot of the mountains sat a camp. Mr. Bajwa pulled off the road and parked the car at one edge. .

"Is this it?" asked Yasmeen.

"Yes it is. I need you to wait here while I speak to one of the men."

Camels were herded into the same pens as the mountain goats. Large white tents defined the boundaries of the main camp. A group of men gathered around the campfire. They talked and laughed as food roasted in the fire pit. Yasmeen stayed in the car as her father got out and approached the camp. A man approached her father and they spoke briefly and then shook hands. Her father seemed to know everyone.

Yasmeen's father motioned for her. She got out and joined the men.

"Mr. Afridi, I would like you to meet my daughter Yasmeen."

"It is pleasant to finally meet you," he said, "your father talks about you often."

Mr. Afridi took Yasmeen's hand ankissed it. He then led Yasmeen and her father to one of the large white tents.

"This will be your house for the night," he said.

"You should change into somoething more suitable for the night," said her father. He then went to the campfire, leaving Yasmeen inside the tent by herself. After changing into layers of clothing, she carefully folded her Georgette Suit and packed it away. She also draped her hair in a dupatta, protecting her ears from the cold mountain winds.

Mr. Afridi and her father were talking about the goats when Yasmeen approached them.

"Yasmeen, we're going to the goat pens. Why don't you come along?" said her father.

Yasmeen tagged along with the two men. As Mr. Afridi combed the fine goat hair, Mr. Bajwa petted the goat across the back. He then invited his daughter to pet the goat as well. Yasmeen carefully approached the goat. She was a little afraid of touching the goat, afraid of the bony shoulder bones sticking out behind his neck. She ran her hand along the rear of the goat, which was fatter than the rest. The goat's warm body soothed her. She stroked the side of the goats belly.

"Their hair is soft," she said.

"It's not hair, it's fur," corrected her father.

"Acutally, it's some of the most valuable fur in the world. It's called Pashmina."

Yasmeen had seen soft pashmina scarves in Anarkali Bazaar, but never thought where they came from. In fact, they came from the backs of the Pashmina Goats. Yasmeen also made a second discovery. The luxurious wool called Cashmere came from the Kashmir valley. Although Kashmir was far away, the mountains were all around her. The Pashmina Goats lived only in these mountains.

After awhile, they returned to the warmth of the campfire.

"Would you like something to eat?" asked Mr. Afridi.

Yasmeen nodded.

Small clay pots sat atop the hot coals of the fire. Mr. Afridi removed the hot lid with a fire hook. He then dipped a spoon into the pot and ladled pieces of grilled goat meat on a platter for everyone to enjoy.

"We've grilled kunna for tonight's dinner. Fill a plate with as much food as you would like," offered Mr. Afridi.

Yasmeen glanced around at the tribesmen eating food. It wasn't that different from home, either. In addition to the goat meat, everyone ate rice and naan bread. They folded the naan and used it to scoop food into their mouths.

Yasmeen ate her kunna in the same way, too. The goat meat was tender and juicy. Yasmeen thought of the goats in the pen.

"Papa? Is this Pashmina?" she whispered.

"The tribesmen depend on every part of the goat for their livelihood. Goats have given their livelihood to sustain Paskitanis for generations. For that, Yasmeen was thankful.

After dinner, it was time for evening prayer. Instead of the usual call to prayer coming from minarets rising above the city, one of the tribesmen cupped his hands around his mouth and arched his head back. He sang out the call to prayer.

"Allahu Akbar!"

Evening prayer was nothing unusual, though. The only difference was the mountain wilderness around her.

"Papa, how do people live in these harsh conditions all year long?"

"They find ways to survive. This is where the other half of Pakistan's history book was written."

"Why do you say that?"

"All of the great conquerors of the world came through those mountains. Gengis Khan, Alexander the Great, Akbar the Great, and the Ottoman and British Empires."

Yasmeen looked up through the mountain passes. She thought about ancient warriors travelling over the rugged mountain terrain. How many lives had been lost over and through those mountains, nobody knows.

The mountain passes were to the Northwestern Frontier what the Partition was to eastern Pakistan. The mountains not only defined the wars, but they defined the people living there, too. The men sat arond the fire, weaving fanciful tales of their past.

"There was a man named Akbar the Great. He was the first of the Mughals, extending his empire from Mongolia to Afghanistan. His soldiers fought back invaders from the north, west, and east. His armies also defended the central empire from several opposing kingdoms."

Yasmeen listened with great intent. The storytellers imagery was vivid and pure. He painted pictures of great raids on the empire and swordfighting battles involving hundreds of foot soldiers.

"This was written in the book of Akbar. It was written by a man of his court. Akbar called his court 'The Nine Jewels,' These men included a poet, a singer, a writer, a finance minister, a general, and a mystic. These men helped form the centerpiece of his empire."

Sparks licked from the coats each time the storyteller struck his walkiing staff in the fire. His face lit up in a golden red glow.

"They expanded the empire east to China. They also crossed the Himalayas and into the valleys of Afghanistan. At it's greatest point, the Mughal Empire stretched across five modern-day countries."

What the story teller didn't reveal was that his greatest legacy wasn't the Empire. It was the people of Pakistan. The Pashtun tribesmen surrounding Yasmeen were proof of that. Although it was a very different world from Lahore, it was still part of Pakistan. The culture and food of the goat herders was just like the culture and food of Lahore.

At the end of the night, a bright blue moon hung in the sky overhead. The cold mountain air was crisp and clear. The view around her was unlimited. Yasmeen laid awake in the tent. Her father slept in his bunk, snoring quite loudly. Late at night, she snuck out to the goat pen.

Like Yasmeen, one of the goats was still awake. He knelt on the bare earth. As Yasmeen drew her hand across his back, her fingers traced each backbone. His wool was silky smooth. His eyes drooped as her loving pets put him to sleep, too. Yasmeen finally returned to her tent, curling up in her bed.

Through the night, Yasmeen kept warm beneath her heavy wool bedding. In the morning, dense fog joined the cold mountain air.

Yasmeen and her father prepared for their trip home. Mr.Afridi's men loaded bundles of wool into the back of Mr. Bajwa's car to take back to the carpet-maker's factory.

"I have something for you, too," said Mr. Afridi.

He placed a small coin in her hand. It had a hold in the center.

"It's a touch coin. It is said to bring luck to whomever holds it."

"Thank you very much."

Yasmeen grasped the coin in her pocket on most of the journey home. She imagined luck flowing from the coin into her body. The luck may have been that the journey home seemed short and sweet. Yasmeen looked up at the moon as they crossed the Chanab River again. Chenab literally meant “Moon River.” Mr. Bajwa and Yasmeen unloaded all the wool and were on the road again. When they arrived home, they found everyone waiting around the kitchen table.

"How was your journey?" Mrs. Bajwa asked Yasmeen.

"It was long and cold, but I felt like Shah Jahan."

"Shah Jahan?" asked Mrs. Bajwa.

"His armies rode camels through the mountain passes, protecting it from invaders," replied Yasmeen.

He was the third and favorite son of Emperor Jahangir,” said her father.

“Am I your favorite prince?” said little Khan.

“All sons are equal in my eyes. Mohammad is my scholar, Faisal is my athlete, and you are my dreamer,” replied Mr. Bajwa.

“What does that make me?” asked Yasmeen.

“You are my one and only daughter.”

A smile stretched across Yasmeen's face. It looked as if her jaws would hurt from such a happy smile, but they did not. Yasmeen could not wait to conquer another part of the world with her father. Until then, her love for Lahore grew even more. Like her mother often said, "I have purchase Lahore with my life."