Where Five Rivers Meet

Sharif Bajwa stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a shaving brush in one hand and a bowl of shaving cream in the other. He dipped the brush into the bowl and waved the brush back and forth, painting his neck with shaving cream. He placed the shaving brush in the bowl and placed them on the sink. He picked up a straight edge razor an shaved the hair from his neck. Each stroke of his razor was slow and deliberate.

As Yasmeen stood in the hallway, she spied her father shaving in the bahtroom. She admired the way his salt-and-pepper beard received careful attention every morning. To Yasmeen, he was like one of the groundskeepers in any one of Lahore's Gardens.

As he worked, he whistled a song was vaguely familiar.

A moment of happiness, you and I
Sitting on the verandah,
Apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here, you and I,
With the garden's beauty
And the birds
Singing.

“Papa?”

“Yes, dear?” One half of his neck was clean-shaven while the other half was still covered in shaving cream.

“What are you singing?”

“An old ghazal.”

Yasmeen gave her father a quizzical look.

"It’s a song formed with romantic poetry. Have you ever heard of Rumi?”

Yasmeen nodded.

“He was one of the other great Islamic poets. His poems are about love, not deep thought.”

“Why are you singing that?”

“I guess I’m happy that you’re going with me. I made that song to go with the beautiful poem Rumi wrote. This trip reminds me of when I was young and I'd travel with your mother.”

“But you know I always like to travel, papa.”

She watched as he finished his shaving and rinsed off his face. He grabbed the square of red and white silk and wrapped it about his head, forming a neatly folded turban. He creased the edges of the fabric, pressing them firmly into place. He smiled at his daughter.

“Papa, I like your turban. You look one of the Mullahs from Badshahi Mosque.”

“I’m certainly not as regal as one of the holy men,” chuckled her father.

“I think you are,” replied Yasmeen.

He tilted his head to one side as he gave his daughter a puzzled look. He thoughtfully scratched his chin for a moment.

“Is that what you’re wearing today?” he asked.

"Is something wrong with it?"

"Not at all. I was just wondering if you saw the dress in your closet?"

"I thought that belonged to mother."

"That dress is yours. Your mother and I purchased it for you."

"Really?" asked Yasmeen.

Her father nodded. Yasmeen hurried to her bedroom and opened her closet. Hanging separately from the other clothes, the Georgette Suit stood out from the rest of Yasmeen's clothing. She peeled it off the hanger and quickly changed into her new outfit.

The Georgette Suit had alternating brown and white swirls. The dress was cut in a gentle A-line shape, narrow at her waist and flowing loosely toward her ankles. Yasmeen thought it was lovely. She quickily returned to her parent's bedroom. Her father smiled as she twirled about, modelling her new outfit.

"You've grown into a beautiful young lady."

They went downstairs for breakfast. Mrs. Bajwa left rice pudding in the refrigerator. Yasmeen and her father sat alone at the kitchen table, enjoying their meal. Yasmeen took a thoughtful look around the kitchen after a bite of pudding.

"Who wil watch Khan?" she asked.

"Mohammad will take care of Khan while we're away."

"That's good. Who will take care of the store?"

"Your mother will be taking care of that."

"That's good, too," she said.

"We've gotten everything taken care of except the new carpets."

"Who is taking care of them?"

"The two of us are taking care of that," said her father.

"Of course," replied Yasmeen.

They packed up the car and off they went into the Pakistani desert. She slept in the passenger seat while her father drove. For Yasmeen, the car ride was short and sweet. The first stop was a large carpet-maker's factory.

"Where are we?"

"We're about 150 kilometers from home," replied her father.

Actually, they were in the city of Jhang, situated upon the Chenab River. Inside the factory, boys and men of all ages squatted in front of looms, weaving wool between parallel threads of yarn. After each pass, the men pulled down on a wooden arm and pushed it back up again.

“What are they doing?”

“The wooden block presses the fibers into place for a tighter weave.”

Still, other men were cleaning the carpets, using scissors to cut stray hairs. They also used picks and awls to adjust the carpet fibers. They took special care of each thread row. Once they finished a row of weaving, it was hard to go back and fix old mistakes.

The warehouse sat sideways along the Chenab River. On one side of the warehouse, workers loaded the trucks and boats to ship the carpets to far-off cities, like Lahore, Islamabad, and Karachi. On the other side of the warehouse, there was a tiny carpet shop. Carpets were rolled and stacked, just like the carpets at Bajwa’s Finest Pakistani Carpets.

“Yasmeen, do you know how to test a carpet?”

“Yes, father.”

“I need you to do some important work for me.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I need you to help pick out some carpets.”

Yasmeen and her father split off into two separate direct4ions. She started at the opposite end of the showroom, sorting through stacks of carpet. She vigorously scratched the carpet fibers, looking for loose threads. She ran her fingernail under the edge seam, checking the stitching. If the carpet passed those tests, she turned it over and checked the glue under the mat. She sorted the carpets into two stacks: good and not good enough. When she finished sorted through the carpets, she returned to her father's side.

“I'm finished.”

“Where are they?” asked her father.

“Over there,” pointed Yasmeen.

“Pick out the patterns you like and have a salesman roll and tie them.”

After she picked out her favorites, the salesman prepared the carpets for shipping, just like her father said. Afterwards, she rejoined him at the register. A giant stack of rolled carpets sat on a cart next to the counter. Between Yasmeen and her father, they must have picked forty carpets.
Mr. Bajwa signed some forms and returned to the car.

“Aren’t we taking the carpets?” asked Yasmeen.

“They will ship them to the store.”

“I don't see any boats to ship the carpets."

"They will ship the carpets in trucks over the highway, not in boats along the rivers."

"But there are so many rivers in Pakistan."

"You're right, there are many rivers in Pakistan. In fact, the word 'punjab' means five waters. The five great rivers, Beas, Jhelum, Ravi, Sutlej, and Chenab all flow through Punjab and meet with the Indus River. Some of the greatest civilizations like Mohenjo-daro were built along the river. As roads were built, cities like these disappeared forever."

"I think I heard about Mohenjo-daro in school," said Yasmeen.

"It was one of the oldest civilizations in the world."

"What was it like?" she asked.

"The buildings were built from sand and clay. There were castle with towers and walls, like the Lahore Fort. The only difference is that Mohenjo-daro was a much bigger city. The people used the rivers to grow crops and transport their goods to other cities along the rivers."

The citadel at Moheno-daro was the greatest civilization in southern Asia for a period of one-thousand years. It was thought to be home to five million people. The people of Mohenjo-daro built elaborate devices to measure exact weights, heat bath water, and even drill teeth.

Mr. Bawa drove the car along the highway that followed the Chenab River.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“To Peshawar, in the Northwest Frontier.”

“Isn’t that far away?”

“It’s very far away, but I’m running an errand for the owner of the warehouse. There are plainsmen who trade fine lamb’s wool and he wants us to pick it up for him.”

“How long will that take?”

“The rest of today and most of tomorrow.”

Yasmeen heaved a sigh. She watched the passing scenery, not quite patiently, as her father crossed the Chenab River. Sandy plains stretched in front of Yasmeen as far as she could see.

Heat and dust rose from the road and filled the car, so she rolled up her window. She turned on the air conditioning and relaxed in the cool air.

Occasionally, they passed shepherds and their goats or oxcart drivers traveling alongside the road. There were also motorcycles and cars, but as they headed deeper into the Northwest Frontier, there was very little traffic in their way.

“I’m getting hungry,” said Yasmeen.

“What would you like?”

“Anything.”

“Just be patient. Once we arrive in Shahpur, we will stop for dinner.”

Time passed slowly as Yasmeen rested her head on the window. Up ahead, Yasmeen could see another bridge. Unfortunately, she also saw a road sign sitting in front of the bridge. As they neared, she read the sign

---> BRIDGE OUT – DETOUR 40 KM --->

“What now?” she asked.

“I guess we’ll have to find another way to cross the river.”

Mr. Bajwa turned onto a narrow dirt road. Even more dust kicked up from the vehicle in front of them. The dust cloud became so thick they couldn’t see out the window. Mr. Bajwa gripped the steering wheel and squinted his eyes. Traffic moved slowly along the river bank. As the river narrowed, Mr. Bajwa pulled onto the side of the road. Long flat boats sat along the shore, with men loading cars, cows, and oxcarts onto the boats.

Mr. Bajwa got out of the car and talked to one of the men. He pulled out his wallet, handed some rupees to the man, and turned towards the car.

“Get out,” he said.

“What?”

“We’re going to take the ferry across the river.”

Yasmeen and her father watched as the men pushed the car toward the river bank. Another man pushed the boat toward the shore and placed two long wooden planks beneath the car tires. They slowly pushed the car onto the planks and steered it on to the boat. Yasmeen had never seen a full-sized car riding on something as small as a rowboat.

The old man motioned for Yasmeen and her father. They stepped onto the boat along with several bags of rice, a cow, and three other men. The old man got on last. He turned on the motor and carefully steered it across the river. At the other side, Yasmeen let out a sigh of relief. She was sure the boat would sink in the middle of the river.

Everyone and everything was unloaded. Mr. Bajwa thanked the old man and got into his car again. “Weren’t you scared?”

“Scared of what?” replied Mr. Bajwa, “There aren’t as many bridges in the Northwest Frontier. In fact, things are sometimes very different on this side of the river.”

Small houses lined the dusty road on the other side of the river. The traffic was different, too. Mr. Bajwa followed a bus into Shahpur. People not only rode inside the bus, but on the roof as well. Motorcycles and bicycles crowded the streets. Mr. Bajwa steered his car slowly through the lazy traffic.

As they left Shahpur, the lonely sensation crept back into Yasmeen’s heart. The land was bare, with little in their way. The car zig-zagged through the empty valley. Only the rocky faces of the HImalayas stretched out before them. Yasmeen fell into a deep sleep as the car drove toward the limitless horizon.