My grandfather Syed Hayat Shah

I had played this moment in my mind for weeks. I had imagined it exactly to be the way it was. It was night and our plane was now flying over the hills and plains of Pakistan. Specks of light could be seen from the houses that clustered together in villages every few miles or so. I plugged in my earphones for the first time that night.

It was the beautiful voice of Maher Zain crooning Allahi Allah Kiya Karo.

And for the first time, it dawned on me how real this moment was. It was surreal. I had to hold back the sudden, overwhelming urge to break down and cry.

There it was again - the longing i had for my late grandfather Syed Hayat Shah. It must have been in his memory that we made this trip.

My grandfather was born in 1917. He came to Singapore and served with the Police Force, first at the HMS Sembawang Naval Base and then later at the Army Depot. He married my grandmother Halimah bte Syed Nadar Shah sometime in 1950. Together they had seven children, one of which passed away in infancy.

There was no doubt that life was difficult for them, as it must have been for so many.

Whatever else we knew of him was limited. He passed away in 1969 at the age of 52.

Whenever i asked my mother or any of her siblings about their father, the answers are almost always accompanied with tears. Sometimes i get the impression that their love for their father is one tinged with much sadness, and the longing to remember him. My mother was not yet 14 when he passed away. My eldest uncle was sixteen when he brought home his half-conscious and dying father in his arms.

It was in March 1969. My uncle told me once that he just didn't feel good that particular day and skipped school to visit my grandfather. He was then a guard at Connell House - a rest house and club for British sailors. One of the other guards there - an elderly Malay man - informed my uncle that my grandfather had been unwell for the past few days and that he was in the washroom, coughing too much. When my uncle managed to break open the door lock, he found my grandfather lying on the floor half-conscious.

My uncle actually took him back home. I have thought about it many times before. I imagine what it must have been like, for a boy sixteen years old, the eldest son in the family, supporting his father on his shoulder as they waited for a bus.

Those were difficult times; a time where people could not easily afford taxis. A time where a sixteen year old boy had to drag his semi-conscious father on a bus all the away back home to Nee Soon - some sixteen kilometers away.

It was difficult not to like my grandfather, even for someone who never met him. For the most part of his life here in Singapore after he left the Police Force, my grandfather stayed in a small dirt house built by a Chinese neighbour who took pity on him. There was no flooring, just dried mud. And there was no bed, only a single plank on the ground to lay on.

Before he passed away, he moved to Nee Soon where my great-grandfather Syed Nadar Shah had once lived. Living there was my grandmother's sister Bibi, a widow who not only took care of her four children, but also often my mother and her five other siblings. A small house was built for him and my grandmother.

My grandfather Hayat Shah with his six children and three nieces (the daughters of Bibi and Syed Gulab Shah) in 1965. This photo was taken less than 4 years before he passed away and was sent home to his brother Syed Muslim Shah.

The times when he came home from work, he would call out to his children. He would bring for them food. What they didn't know then was that he often didn't eat himself. My uncle described him as a big-hearted person whose whole life was for his children - that as long as they were happy, he was happy.

I have yet to meet a person who had something bad to say about my grandfather. He was patient, even with my grandmother who was often temperamental due to her psychological condition. She had witnessed her suitor fatally stabbed in front of her eyes just before they were to be solemnised. She was only nineteen then. But that's another story for another time.

As the plane finally touched down, i looked to my mother. "First time in all our lives," I said to her.

"Kalau tak pasal Abbas, tak lah Mami datang sini."

"Kalau tak pasal bapak Mami, kita dua-dua tak akan ada sini.."

I told my mother, "If it wasn't for him, neither of us will be here [in Pakistan]"

Is It Safe in Pakistan?

All the time i was there, i get this feeling that the western media had done much to make people believe that Pakistan is a dangerous place to visit.

Before i left, i had informed Habib Hassan that i was going to Pakistan with my mother. Indeed he looked worried and advised me to take care and stay away from crowded areas.

When i booked the flight tickets to Islamabad, i was more excited than cautious. In all honesty, there were some reasons holding me back from making the trip. Yet, the issue of safety wasn't one of them.

I googled up is it safe to travel to pakistan and found a page "Pakistan Travel Advice" by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. While reading through it, suddenly the disturbing images of the Islamabad Marriot Hotel bombing of September 2008 surfaced to mind. And for the first time, i did feel affected.

I read through the travel advice given:

"There is a high threat from terrorism and sectarian violence throughout Pakistan. Attacks could be indiscriminate including at places frequented by expatriates and foreign travellers.

Following the announcement that Osama bin Laden has been killed in Abbottabad, Pakistan on 2 May, you should be aware of a possible increase in threat throughout the country. This may include an increased threat against westerners. We already advise against travel to much of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, which includes Abbottabad and Charsadda, where a blast on 13 May 2011 killed at least 80 people. British nationals in Pakistan should be particularly vigilant at this time, including in all major cities of Pakistan. You should keep a low profile, avoid large gatherings and crowds, and limit movements on Friday afternoon. In Karachi, you should avoid the area around the US Consulate buildings in Saddar Town."

It didn't help that around this time i received a call from one of my aunts who had family in Mansehra and visited them there occasionally. Although happy for me, she gave me some stern advice:

"Chachi pesan, jangan berbual orang putih sana banyak sangat. Kalau naik public transport, baik diam aje. Jangan cakap apa-apa."

She told me not to speak English unnecessarily and if i was to take the public transport it was better for me to remain silent than risk drawing attention to myself. She added how it wasn't safe for young travellers like myself. Her nephew, while there, had his bus stopped along the highway by members of the Taliban. She added that the Taliban were concerned with young men of Pakistani descent returning to Pakistan, presumably because they were too western. At the same time, she told me to be wary of army personnel who frequently stopped buses and cars for checks. It seems the Pakistani army was concerned with young men of Pakistani descent returning to Pakistan, presumably to join the Taliban!

It didn't help that our flight on Thai Airways was arriving in Islamabad at 2210hrs, and that the journey to Mansehra by road will take at least another three hours. I emailed my aunt who was going to fetch us, asking her, "will it be safe to travel back to Mansehra the same night?" while all the time imagining a roadblock in the middle of a deserted highway with turban-wearing men carrying Kalashnikovs pulling me out of the vehicle and shoving me to the ground.

By the time our plane landed in Islamabad, i had honestly forgotten all of it.

We moved through the immigration and the customs without a single hitch. A cousin of mine who went to Pakistan by himself but landed in Karachi had described how he was left at the mercy of immigration officers there. They asked him for the address of his relatives - which he had carelessly forgotten to bring with him. They then proceeded to ask him to call his uncle who was waiting for him - despite his protests that he did not have a local cell line. Finally, sensing his desperation, they showed him to another officer and "advised" him (my cousin) to give a "tip" to the said officer.

All of this did not happen on my arrival, all through my departure.

Within half an hour, we were out of the Benazir Bhutto International Airport.

There is no stench nor sudden heat that greets you as you pass through the exit pushing your luggage trolley, on the contrary to what some friends may tell you about visiting Third World countries. What you see is an overwhelming image of hundreds of people, who at one glance all look the same, wearing the same shade of cream-coloured shalwar kameez. What i heard was my name being called, in the way that i already miss, "Abbas!" The "a" was fully aspirated and rounded, the "b" purely bilabial and "a" in the second syllable prolonged and "s" intonated with a higher pitch.

I knew to look to my left and i recognised my Aunty Noor immediately with her pink dupatta and my Uncle Zain in his blue shirt and bushy moustache. And what i felt at that moment cannot exactly be described in words.

After the initial hugs and greetings we went to the black Toyota they had rented for the occasion. I sat at the front throughout the journey. We first stopped at a gas station near Rawalpindi for a toilet break. I haven't use all the toilets in Pakistan to make an informed judgement on the state of cleanliness of toilets in Pakistan. But from first impressions, there really was nothing to complain about. It was clean.

Throughout the journey, the car was alive with chatter and laughter. There were numerous stops along the way, usually upon entering each town. Indeed some of them were uniformed officers, i wasn't sure if it was the traffic police or the army at those road blocks, slowing down cars and at times and occasionally flashing the torch through. Other times there were the toll booths that stopped us. But one thing i'm sure, there weren't bearded men wearing turbans brandishing Kalashnikovs to be seen anywhere. The journey to Mansehra took about three hours through the towns of Rawalpindi, Taxila, Hasan Abdal on the Grand Trunk Road and then Haripur, Havelian and finally Abbottabad on the Karakoram Highway (KKH).

Driving and roads seem such a feature of my trip to Pakistan as i would immediately learn. Right from the first night when my uncles Zain and Farooq took turns driving us from Islamabad, i got the sense that Pakistanis are the most skillful drivers in the world.

"Formerly Pakistanis did not drive fast, only dangerously. With the advent of improved roads, drivers now take additional risks by still driving dangerously, but also faster." 

- Discovery Channel Insight Guides: Pakistan

I recall what Amee (Ameera Begum Aslam) told me (my cousin) Nawaz had said to her the one time she gave him a lift home - "You drive like a [real] Pakistani." I thought if only he was there to witness it himself.

Pakistanis drive with the recklessness of a monster-truck driver and yet with the finesse of a cyclist. It speaks volumes when the first road sign a traveller spots is one that reads, "Avoid over-speeding." Imagine that - avoid over-speeding!

Most roads or 'highways' including the famed Karakoram Highway (KKH) are single carriageways with no divider to separate opposing traffic flows. That means it's a single lane to drive on and if you're stuck behind a slower moving truck (slow of course is just a matter of relativity), then you're going to overtake the driver in front. The overtaking of a vehicle is done from the right facing oncoming traffic and with the driver hitting the honks in order to wake the whole of Pakistan up!

The hilly slopes of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa can be tricky to negotiate. Accidents can occur if one is not careful.

Indeed, this goes back to the very question i had been asked again and again, "Is it safe in Pakistan?"

More than once when over-taking, the Peugeot or the Mehran Uncle Farooq was driving seemed to be in for a head-on collision with the oncoming car, only for him to accelerate and successfully cut back into his lane a mere two metres (i exaggerate not!) before the oncoming car crashed into him. And there were other times when you'd think the road is barely wide enough for two cars to pass by one another, a third car approaches and finds a way to squeeze through!

My mother had a significantly higher blood pressure while we were there. She attributed it to the tension she felt sitting in the car watching Uncle Farooq behind the wheel negotiating the bends along the moutain slopes, where really, a split-second break in concentration could send the whole car plunging hundreds or even thousands of feet down to certain death.

So is it safe in Pakistan? Well, if your uncle is driving and he's Pakistani, then yes, it is indeed safe in Pakistan..

Uncle Farooq has made the 30 hour drive from Karachi to Mansehra more than once. He's ever please to drive us around.

Pakistan 2011: The Preview

I haven't had much time to upload pictures and start blogging on what a meaningful experience it was visiting Pakistan. The past few days had been spent catching up with sleep and work. With that said, i had presented the slideshow of the photographs from our trip no less than 3 times. And there were about slightly less than 600 photos in all.

I've edited some of them and here's a preview of what's to come!

Scenic view of the Kunhar River and the Kaghan Valley

This is one of my favourite photographs from the whole trip. This was taken at one of the stops on our trip to Shogran - one of the mountainous destinations along the stretch of the famous Kaghan Valley. The Kunhar River flows through the valley. The water is ice cold, even though it is in the middle of summer. Drink stall owners selling carbonated drinks like Coca-Cola and Mountain Dew (a Pakistani favourite) will simply dip the bottles in the water instead of relying on ice. Cool, no?

The Kaghan Valley and the Kunhar River are the slightly more popular tourist attractions in Mansehra.

Essentially our trip can be said to be divided into two - Mansehra city and village Bandi Sadiq in Oghi (pronounced Ooghi).

My late grandfather, Syed Hayat Shah came to Singapore from Mansehra. To be specific, he came to Singapore from a village called Hado Bandi, which is only a few kilometres away from Mansehra city.

Both the village and the city are within Mansehra District. (Imagine a district to be like a state. In the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province, there are 25 districts in all. Mansehra is one of them.)

There are many other Singaporeans (and even Malaysians) whose forefathers came here from Mansehra. My grand-aunt's husband, the late Syed Gulab Shah was also from Mansehra. I was told that Haji Mohd Ayub Mohd Yusoff was also from Mansehra. So too were the late chacha Kushal Khan and Syed Ali Akbar Shah.

View of Mansehra city and the villages surrounding it



My great-grandfather, Syed Mahmood Shah had four children, of which my grandfather was the eldest. My grandfather had two younger brothers - Syed Younis Shah and Syed Muslim Shah - as well as a younger sister Zuriya Sultan.

My grand-uncle Syed Younis Shah passed away in 1994, but his children and some of their families are settled in Mansehra city. On the other hand, Zuriya Sultan was married off to a syed from a village called Bandi Sadiq in Oghi. The town of Oghi is located about 30 km away from Mansehra city and as we found out is about an hour and a half travel by road. My grand-aunt Zuriya Sultan passed away only late last year.



The valley of Agror, as seen from the window of my uncle's house in Bandi Sadiq



Work in Progress and Continuation..

Finally got to updating this blog!

I changed the name to Project Bostan - in memory of my late great-grandfather Bostan Khan. His name is just so unique. I don't think you will ever come across anyone here in Singapore with such a name. There is however a place in Baluchistan called Bostan.

We're leaving for Pakistan in less than 2 weeks!! I still have to wrap my brain around that! Pretty exciting stuff. What exactly can i expect..?

Here's to updating my blog more regularly.

Allah Hafiz!

Regards from Pakistani relatives

Two Sundays ago, i came up to my mum and asked her if it was ok we wrote back to her cousin, who wrote to us back in 1997. My mother was more than willing to accommodate . And for reasons like this, i truly appreciate my mum. She has been nothing short of encouraging as i try to piece together our genealogical trail and account for the history of the community here.

I drafted a letter (which my mum said was good) and put pen to paper something i wished we had done years ago. In truth, i think my dad did write back, but the correspondence never got past the first letter it seems. I spent almost an entire Sunday evening writing a two page letter, scanning photographs (my mum's idea!) of my grandfather and of his brother Yunos Shah's family. And on Monday, with a feeling of excited trepidation, i queued up at the post office and delivered two letters - one to Oghi, Mansehra and the other to Karachi.

To be honest, i felt more hopeful than anything. What if they have sold the land? What if they have moved? What if they weren't receptive? What if the mail was lost? For nearly ten days, i would spent 5 minutes daily, keying in the tracking number of the two registered articles to see if they have reached their intended destination.

And when the surprise came, it took me totally off-guard!

its me zahid shah son of misken shah bandi sadiq your letter had been recieved wait for reply

these 18 words that i have read, and re-read till i've practically memorised them. It came through my gmail, yesterday (Friday). And when i woke up for Subuh this morning, i found another couple of emails. 

The process of correspondence has begun - or perhaps re-started you may say.

Alhamdulillah.

Eid Mubarak

What a Hari Raya this was.

For the past two weeks, i had been trying to meet my uncle Syed Akbar Shah to pass him an article i had found, relating to his late father Syed Gulab Shah. And truly it was God's will that i managed to pass it to him on the Blessed day of Eid.

My uncle had said that he had planned to do korban in Tanjong Pinang. He had even booked his flight but an intuitive feeling within him had made him decide to stay here and forego the trip. He had no idea that i was going to pass him the article. In fact, no one in the family even knew such an article existed, especially since it was published in 1950. He read it out in front of us all, reciting Subhannalllah every few lines. I think it must have been overwhelming for all. My uncle described the news as one of the best he has ever received in his life. (He was three when his father passed away..)

It was a heart-warming reunion as he recounted stories of his late father and my maternal great-grandfather Syed Nadar Shah.

Earlier in the day, i also had the opportunity to visit Nenek Mak Besar, my cousin Nawaz's grandmother, with his family. Her full name is Zeenat Nissa bte Nassir Ali Khan.

Name Change?

On Friday - the Deepavali Holiday - I spent the afternoon at my uncle Syed Mahmood Shah's place.

There, i showed my cousin (his son) this site and he suggested i rename it to Project Hindustani Heritage. He said "Indo-Pak" is a little confusing. This is the second time somebody had thought the "Indo" referred to Indonesia.

So maybe i might consider changing it in time.

Work on this blogsite has been a little slow due to work commitments.

Insya Allah it'll speed up within the next few weeks. :)