The English language is a funny thing by any standard and this fact is brought home in no better way than in that wonderful book, “Eats Shoots and Leaves”, (interpret it anyway you like). So when you see the title of this week’s column, please do not pass a hurried judgment on yours truly, for penning down a tale featuring four-footed canines and their feline contemporaries, for the piece in your hands is about the recent bout of nasty weather that kept many residents of the federal capital homebound. I am fortunate to be living in a place where I can sit in the relative comfort of my study and enjoy the spectacle of snow covered hills. I also have the added advantage of having much time on my hands when rain and thunder force me to abort all commitments away from my home.
This time, all my calculations went wrong as driving home from my workplace I was caught in the fury of one of the wildest thunderstorms that Islamabad had ever seen. Sheet lightning lit up the sky all around, as bolts from nature’s awesome powerhouse struck the ground in repeated strikes.
To compound matters, a normally placid stream on the way to my humble abode had become a raging torrent. Negotiating these obstacles safely, I reached my house to the luxury of a hot mug of soup in front of a roaring fire and was soon lost in a trip down memory lane.
The schools had closed in Lahore and my family was embarking on their annual migration to the hills. This was the summer of 1956 and we were looking forward to the long awaited vacation at our house in Sunny Bank. Days turned into weeks as three happy children went on with their boisterous routines, oblivious of the fact that heavy rain had been falling incessantly for the last many days. And then one bleakly cold morning, my grandfather dropped the bomb that we were moving back to the plains the next day. Our pleas that we still had four weeks of holidays before our scheduled return, fell on deaf ears and three sulky children found themselves en route to Lahore the next afternoon.
As we crossed Kharian town beneath a leaden sky that poured rain in increasing quantities, we became aware that the landscape along the Grand Trunk Road was nothing but water. At one point near Wazirabad, we were stopped and told that River Chenab was in high flood and water was flowing over the road. We were warned that negotiating the spot was fraught with danger of being swept away and attempting a crossing would be on our own risk. I could see concern on the faces of my parents and my grandfather, as the latter ordered the driver to drive on at a snail’s pace. The solidly built Morris Oxford swung with the current, but managed to live up to its robust reputation carrying us safely across.
Crossing the Ravi Bridge outside Lahore was an unforgettable experience. The river had risen so that its frothing waters battered the very top of its huge pillars and the horrifying scene was completed by dark clouds, lightning and rain.
Reaching home and switching on the radio, it dawned that we had just made it in time, as the road link between Rawalpindi and Lahore had been cut. Two days later, we heard that waters of River Ravi had entered Krishan Nagar and were rapidly moving towards the General Post Office on The Mall.
The next evening was another unforgettable experience, as Lahoris in thousands climbed rooftops to render the ‘Azaan’ seeking Divine help against the threat. Miraculously, the rain eased off the same night and waters began receding, thus averting what may have been a huge disaster.
At this point, a huge thunder clap snapped me out of my reverie, as the power to my house was cut off and I was brought back to reality and the fact that it was definitely raining ‘cats and dogs’ in Islamabad and surrounding area.
The writer belongs to a very old and established family of the Walled City. His forte is the study of History.