March 2021
I am here, after all these years. The cherries have blossomed. The apricots, walnuts too. You are different than I imagined. I think, better. You are not the conventional beauty. Rather eerie. Ghostly and fairytale like.
We have just officially finished winter here and so the cherry blossoms, but still winter hasn’t left yet. Before spring sets its pleasantries on us, winter makes sure it leaves its mark before making a final departure. Dense clouds set on the peaks surrounding us, ghostly and fairytale like. Pink blossoms have taken up home once again, reminding us that wherever man goes nature always prevails. Safeda trees create barriers, guarding them, claiming ground for the cherry blossoms.
By the time I have written this, a thick trail of cloud has formed in front of me, creating a separation between the snowy criss-cross peaks and the dry soil of the same mountain beneath. I could reach out and grab a piece of this seemingly soft cloud. Is it one or a series of many?
And by the time I finish writing the previous sentence, the cloud has gently diffused into the mountain, and now it sits, some remains of it, on nooks and corners of its mighty friends, wherever possible.
Eerie beauty I say, pastels and grays surround me. Black birds with white round stomachs and large wings. I could walk on one of the cherry blossom laden streets and be married. It could be the love of my life or it could be marriage to the thought of loving life.
This bird flies, wings stretched wide and when it lands, it stands immediately alert. I see that it’s not just black and white, there are shades of blue and green on its tail. Its head is jet black. These are some of the things I am learning here.
That not everything is as it seems first. There are shades to the truth, after all history is written in perspectives and this is what we learn. This tradition is genetic now, until someone decides to study the fact in the truth.
I am also learning, like the birds landing, I must stay alert, on my feet, eyes wide open, mind wildly awake. It is a different world out here. It is eerily beautiful, and what is beautiful is not easy. It’s not soft and sweet. It’s harsh, cold, stark and sweaty.
Smoke billows from a chimney of a Hunza home. I imagine, the central stove connected to the chimney currently glowing within as residents of the house find warmth in this winter that is unwilling to leave us yet.
I have been sitting at this cafe known for its walnut cake, for two hours. Things move slowly here, rather at their own original pace, not fast, not artificial but as they should be. I feel like time has stopped but the truth of the fact is that I am simply breathing air, without a hurry, after all these years.
Hunza, I have arrived.
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Note: These are pictures of Central Hunza which comprises of Karimabad and Aliabad. Hunza Valley spans beyond these two areas. People here speak Burusheski which is quite different from the local languages in Gilgit Baltistan. The people are warm and welcoming and you can feel safe walking alone on the streets here.
-N.