culture

They sat on the charpai weaved with jute. The wind inside the bamboo tent was picking up. Three men in traditional clothes walked to the center of the tent. Two had drums, one had a unique looking flute in his hands. They began to play. 

The sound filled the tent and their hearts. His began to throb with the beating of the drums. It was a primal sound, as ancient as the redwoods of the beginning. Something inside him awoke, urged on by the sounds. A smile broke free on his face, as his heart became free as a bird, soaring.

He only then noticed that the drummers were using their sticks like extensions of their hands, sticks taped to their middle fingers, open palms beating the stomach of the drum to produce those sounds that were so enticing.

Two men, one in jeans, another in a simple black shalwaar kameez began to dance around the musicians. One step in, hands clapping, another out as they turned their bodies to face away. Then around to face in. Almost in perfect harmony, yet it felt as if they did not know one another. Just a dance that was in their blood. Passed down from sire to sire until it reached them. 

The one in jeans smiled through his eyes, they twinkled in delight as he moved to the sounds of the music that he was a native son of. The smile travelled all the way to his lips and a smile stretched out so wide and so pure that hearts leapt with joy.

The smell of cardamom and pistachios rang through the air as the tea maker ground them in a white marble bowl. The teapot whistled as the air inside it became hot signaling that the water was boiled. 

The other man, the one with the simple black shalwaar kameez smiled a little, eyes sparkling with joy. It seemed he was hesitant, maybe he thought he was whoring out his culture to people who would just see it and leave. Maybe so. Maybe not. For now, the city boy watching was entranced. His heart was racing, his head throbbing gleefully with the beat of the music. It ran through his body like a crack in a ruptured earth. Snaking through him like lightning on drugs.

They looked towards the stage where two women were decorated head to toe in traditional clothing and from behind which came almost a dozen young men in white shalwaar, red vests buttressed by yellow, holding blunt, dull, safe scimitars. They too, began to dance. The dancing carried them and viewers, transporting them to a world beyond time, a world that had transcended borders, a world where the singular law of the land, the one law of physics was music. Where everyone danced to the beat. Where it was as natural as breathing. Where music was taking deep breaths. It transported them to a land in a country that would soon be divided. Where people were hospitable. Where they were kind, a people whose generosity knew no bounds.

The music carried on. In the tent, a sign said, ‘culture of khyber pakhtunkhwa’