In 1958, when I was under 30 and single, I went to Afghanistan on voluntary transfer. You are making a big mistake, said several of my colleagues at the development agency in Delhi where I worked. “Who would want to go to that wilderness?”
In the weeks that followed, I began to suspect my colleagues were right after all. My flight to Kabul (from the Safdarjang airfield in those days) was delayed by 10 days because of heavy snow at the destination. That was my first-ever flight. The cabin of the Dakota was not pressurised and it was bitter cold inside. There was no tea or coffee, but the steward handed blankets to the three passengers on board.
The last stretch of the flight was over seemingly endless ranges of snow-capped mountains. When we finally started our descent into a valley, the ground was just a sea of snow. There was no glimpse of any city or even the airport. There was no runway, only a patch cleared of snow. There was no terminal, only makeshift adobe buildings for immigration and customs. As arranged, an Indian Embassy friend took me to his house and lodged me with him as a paying guest until I found suitable accommodation.
Heating, both in homes and offices, was by bukhari , a large drum-like oven by the wall. It had a small door in front for feeding it with balls of coal dust mixed with earth. A pipe led out of its back into an opening in the wall for the smoke to escape but the smoke often chose to hang indoors.
Week after freezing week, my colleagues’ words rang in my ears. Summer was not too bad. In September, I rented a small house and moved there. I engaged an Afghan named Malik Jan, a humble, pious soul, for household jobs . By then, I had acquired a smattering of Farsi, to communicate with him.
One day in March, Malik Jan brought to me a man in tatters and told me he was a baaghwaan . I had no clue what that meant. By miming digging, planting, watering and smelling of flowers, Malik Jan conveyed to me that baaghwaan meant gardener. He would make me a nice garden in my backyard, Malik Jan said. He would come three times a week at a wage I thought was ridiculously low.
Smell the roses
In less than two months, a lovely garden came up in my hitherto desolate backyard: well-trimmed rose bushes, dahlias, sundry flower beds, sunflower plants and other nameless beauties. I had never had the luxury of a garden. The flowers seemed to smile at me. Morning and evening, I would stroll in that garden and admire the work of the baaghwaan .
When my one-year lease was over, I had to vacate the place. It was hard to say farewell to “my” garden, which still had a few flowers. I wanted to say Thashakkur (thank you) to the baaghwaan . Malik Jan told me he had returned to his village. He was just a summer visitor to the capital for work. “He will be back next summer,” he assured me.
That perked me up: something to look forward to in my new backyard — another garden in the ‘wilderness.’
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