Then

Roses littered the place. Gulaab kay baagh which was basically indicative of this place. In fact, if anything it looked like what the rose garden of heaven would look like. And smell like. The ground was tough and uneven but it was natural. It felt like this place was frozen in time in a time that most people would feel nostalgic for. Even if they had not lived through such a time. If nostalgia is optimism looking backwards, then this place was that feeling personified. The huts were clean and small. The chai was strong, pink, and the aroma carried around. The air was chilly and the people warm. The sounds of tractors from nearby fields, the sounds of the wind whistling as it whipped by. Grass on the sidewalks, on the streets, flowers sprouting up from unexpected places, making the heart go warm with delight.

People did not know about this valley. If they did, they would flock here in droves. They would come here in big cars with obnoxious children, they would litter, they would bring their money. They would destroy the place. People did not deserve to know about this place. They had already proved that in Murree, that once beautiful mountain station where the British army camped in the summers. That place was now a mess. On its way to becoming a garbage heap.

Someone began to play a flute, the air carrying around the sound and magnifying it. Others began to follow suit. The sound was beautiful and haunting and melodious. All who heard it felt a stirring in their guts. It was soul moving. It kept playing for a while then fizzled away.

The man who had began it put away his flute and picked up his cup of chai as the people around him clapped and clapped him on the back. They smiled, raucous and brotherly. He smiled back. The lines on his face would not show it but he was worried. There was a storm coming. He was a PhD in history and political science and there had never been a peaceful transition in the history of the planet. Something was coming. He could not place what. But he hoped it did not come to his country or to his valley. He hoped it stayed far far away. He also knew his hopes would be in vain. Because a mass migration this big was unprecedented. Because animosity this frigid could not fizzle away. The storm was coming. The clouds were big and black.

As evening drew near, the people in his shop began to leave and he locked up and walked the few flights up to his apartment. He embraced his wife and tousled the hair of his eight year old son. He lived for these two. It was their happiness and comfort in life he wanted most. He looked out the windows. It was dusk time, it was beginning to get dark. He saw the clouds roll by. It would rain tonight.