After walking past the Peshawar airfield, they decided to get off the main road. They set off down another road that branched off to the left and came to a railway line. They presumed this was the rail line from Peshawar to Jamrud they knew about from Murray's Handbook, the line they'd thought of following all the way to the Afghan border at Landi Khanna. But when they looked west down the line they could see the outlines of a large village that would be difficult to skirt. They could see people crossing the tracks, some of them women, and they knew in Pakistan the purdah system was taken very seriously. If they tried to cross through a village, or happened to look at a woman, they could attract even more attention, so they decided to head back to Jamrud Road and carry on.
Midway between Peshawar and Jamrud, as they were passing the treed campus of college or university on their right, they noticed some sort of a tollgate or checkpoint on the road ahead. They immediately sought cover in a hedge and debated what to do next. 'We can't go on this way,' said Dilip (Parulkar). 'I think we'd be better off taking a bus.'
And that is what they did. They returned to the road, which at this point was not busy. A little way along the road they found a boy sitting on a parapet and asked about buses. He told them that it was simply a matter of flagging down a bus whenever one came along. Before long a bus appeared and the boy flagged it down. Since the bus was already packed, the boy scrambled up a ladder which was fixed to the rear of the bus and they followed him. The roof already held other passengers and mounds of luggage, but they quickly found space. (THE ROUTE TO FREEDOM)
Travelling on the roof of the bus seemed to be the norm in this part of the country. Soon another boy mounted the roof to collect the fare. They paid what he asked for the ride as far as Jamrud. At the checkpoint they held their breath as the contents of their bags were examined, but their dried apricots and bag of glucose powder did not interest the inspectors. Even the strange tube of water did not arouse their curiosity. They were looking for grain and nothing else. They would pass another checkpoint and go through the same routine.
Soon they saw Jamrud Gate, a stone arch that spanned the highway. Through the gate they could look straight down the road to a range of mountains, only a few miles ahead. To their right was the famous Jamrud Fort, stretching along the highway like a giant battleship. It had been built by a Sikh general in 1823. (Malvinder Singh) Grewal knew that Jamrud Fort had marked the western border of the kingdom of the most powerful of all Sikh rulers, Maharaja Ranjit Singh.
The bus stopped near Jamrud Gate and they shouldered their sacks and climbed down. Strung out along the road near the gate a number of signs were posted, each one warning travellers about proceeding any further.
'You are now entering a tribal area,' read one. 'Visitors are warned not to leave the road,' said another. 'Welcome to Khyber. Visitors are warned not to photograph tribal women.' On and on went the warnings, written in Urdu as well as English. 'Visitors are advised to cross this region during daylight hours,' they read. Of course, apart from photographing tribal women, they intended to break all the rules. Once again, the plan was to leave town, find a place to hide for the rest of the day, and begin their hike through the mountains at night.
The next major town, Landi Kotal, was twenty-five kilometres ahead, uphill most of the way. But they weren't doing badly so far. At this point, it was about eight o'clock in the morning and they had already reached the beginning of the Khyber Pass. Once they attained the summit, at Landi Kotal, it was only another five kilometres downhill to Landi Khanna near the Afghan border.
They set off at a brisk pace and were soon out of town. From Jamrud on all the locals were literally dressed to kill - each one with his gun and ammunition belt. And the countryside was very strange, too. From what they could tell each dwelling, no matter how small, was walled and fortified, like a mini-fortress. The barren plain, dotted with these structures, stretched out around them and a few kilometres ahead were equally barren hills. Scarcely a tree in sight, only some scrubby bush.
Once again, as soon as they set off along the road, they attracted attention from the locals. People walking along the road turned around to stare, and a little boy of about eight, rolling a bicycle tyre along the road, followed them. He took a look at Harry (Harish) Sinhji and said, 'Angrezi hai.' (You're English.)
'Angrezi nahin,' responded Harry. 'Pakistani hai.' But the kid didn't give up. After following them for a few minutes longer, he said, 'Pakistani nahin. Hindustani hai.'
At this point Harry chastized the kid for being rude and told him to scram, but all three men felt extremely vulnerable. Perhaps he was simply a naughty kid, throwing insults at strangers he found walking along the road like aliens from another planet. Or could it be that he had watched enough Hindi movies to make a sound judgement? And if an eight-year-old could detect their nationality, what hope did they have? They knew they needed a hiding place immediately.
'A culvert,' said Dilip. 'There is nowhere else. We will have to find a water pipe and scramble in when no one is looking.'
At the next culvert, perhaps a kilometre or two beyond Jamrud, they sat down on the parapet. For a few minutes they were all alone. There was no need to rush. They had already come much farther than they'd ever expected in such a short time. In a minute or two they would head down the embankment and into the culvert and spend the rest of the day there.
Then, in the distance, Dilip spotted a bicycle heading towards them. We will have to wait a little longer he thought. Let this fellow pass. But it turned out the boy had spotted them from afar and had come to meet them. He apparently had no other mission in mind. When he reached them he dismounted, greeted them with 'salaam alaikum', and sat down beside them. A fellow in his late teens, dressed in the typical white salwar kameez of the region, he was very curious and wanted to know all about them. Dilip tried to divert the conversation to the boy himself. He asked him about crops in the area and then about his job. The boy said he had no job, that unemployment was very high. But the diversion didn't work for long. Where were they from, he wanted to know. On the spur of the moment Dilip made up a new story that he hoped would help explain their strange accents and motley appearance.
'We are Pakistanis from overseas,' he said. 'We have come back to see our country.'
The boy seemed to believe him, but the questions continued. When he learned they were hiking to Landi Kotal, he was very concerned. It was much too far to walk, he told them.
'We like to walk,' said Dilip. But before they had a chance to fend him off, their good Samaritan had flagged down a bus and they were once again settling themselves on its roof, as the boy waved them farewell.
Soon they were in the mountains. From the roof of the bus they had a clear view of lookout posts on the peaks, and further down, cave dwellings cut into the slopes, their entrances covered in cloth. At each cave entrance they could see a huge hound standing guard. Whenever the bus passed near one of these dwellings the hound would bark ferociously. Just as well, they realized, that they were not trekking through the territory at night.
After getting off the bus, the trio again sought the shelter of a dhaba for tea. All they had to do was find the road to Landi Khana and be off. Ten hours on the road and only a few miles to go!
Had they known what was happening back at the camp, they might have had even more confidence in their success. (Vidyadhar Shankar) Chati had done a good job of cleaning up the rubble, replacing the bricks, and making sure the blankets folded on the beds resembled his roommates. The next morning he made excuses for them.
'We played bridge too late last night,' he said. 'They're still sleeping.'
When breakfast was ready, rather than rouse the three sleepers so that the POWs could have breakfast together in Cell 5 as usual, the attendants set out breakfast in the former interrogation room. If the camp commandant or even MWO Rizvi had been on duty, it would have been a different story.
Meanwhile, in Landi Kotal, the three men once again played the role of tourists. 'While drinking tea,' says Sinhji, 'we casually asked the locals where this place called Landi Khana was. They did not seem to know so they asked their neighbours in a sort of "pass it on" game. About the fifth or sixth chap seemed to have some idea and he pointed to one road and said it was about four miles that way.'
'Any buses to Landi Khana?' asked Grewal, who was still doing the talking. The fellow told him that there were no buses, but he could get a taxi for thirty rupees. Thinking that being too generous with their money had aroused the tongawala's suspicions in Peshawar, Grewal decided to reject the price.
'Thirty rupees for four miles!' Grewal exclaimed. 'That's too much! We'll walk.'
With this, they left the dhaba and headed to the bazaar where they'd been told cotton caps were for sale. Everyone else was wearing them, and Dilip figured their lack of caps was what had been attracting much of the attention.
'No cap for me,' said Harry. 'An Anglo-Pakistani would never wear a cap.'
Of course neither would any Christian, but at this point Dilip was not considering their assumed identities. No one had asked their names so far, and he was sure it was their appearance that was out of sync. So he left the two others standing by the road, and went down to the market, which was not far from the dhaba where they'd had tea. When he returned he had two caps, but neither fit Grewal's large head, so he donned his own and dove once more into the market to buy a larger cap.
FOUR MILES TO FREEDOM
Escape from a Pakistani POW Camp
Author: Faith Johnston
Publisher: Random House India
Pages: 182
Price: Rs 350
Midway between Peshawar and Jamrud, as they were passing the treed campus of college or university on their right, they noticed some sort of a tollgate or checkpoint on the road ahead. They immediately sought cover in a hedge and debated what to do next. 'We can't go on this way,' said Dilip (Parulkar). 'I think we'd be better off taking a bus.'
And that is what they did. They returned to the road, which at this point was not busy. A little way along the road they found a boy sitting on a parapet and asked about buses. He told them that it was simply a matter of flagging down a bus whenever one came along. Before long a bus appeared and the boy flagged it down. Since the bus was already packed, the boy scrambled up a ladder which was fixed to the rear of the bus and they followed him. The roof already held other passengers and mounds of luggage, but they quickly found space. (THE ROUTE TO FREEDOM)
Travelling on the roof of the bus seemed to be the norm in this part of the country. Soon another boy mounted the roof to collect the fare. They paid what he asked for the ride as far as Jamrud. At the checkpoint they held their breath as the contents of their bags were examined, but their dried apricots and bag of glucose powder did not interest the inspectors. Even the strange tube of water did not arouse their curiosity. They were looking for grain and nothing else. They would pass another checkpoint and go through the same routine.
Soon they saw Jamrud Gate, a stone arch that spanned the highway. Through the gate they could look straight down the road to a range of mountains, only a few miles ahead. To their right was the famous Jamrud Fort, stretching along the highway like a giant battleship. It had been built by a Sikh general in 1823. (Malvinder Singh) Grewal knew that Jamrud Fort had marked the western border of the kingdom of the most powerful of all Sikh rulers, Maharaja Ranjit Singh.
The bus stopped near Jamrud Gate and they shouldered their sacks and climbed down. Strung out along the road near the gate a number of signs were posted, each one warning travellers about proceeding any further.
'You are now entering a tribal area,' read one. 'Visitors are warned not to leave the road,' said another. 'Welcome to Khyber. Visitors are warned not to photograph tribal women.' On and on went the warnings, written in Urdu as well as English. 'Visitors are advised to cross this region during daylight hours,' they read. Of course, apart from photographing tribal women, they intended to break all the rules. Once again, the plan was to leave town, find a place to hide for the rest of the day, and begin their hike through the mountains at night.
The next major town, Landi Kotal, was twenty-five kilometres ahead, uphill most of the way. But they weren't doing badly so far. At this point, it was about eight o'clock in the morning and they had already reached the beginning of the Khyber Pass. Once they attained the summit, at Landi Kotal, it was only another five kilometres downhill to Landi Khanna near the Afghan border.
They set off at a brisk pace and were soon out of town. From Jamrud on all the locals were literally dressed to kill - each one with his gun and ammunition belt. And the countryside was very strange, too. From what they could tell each dwelling, no matter how small, was walled and fortified, like a mini-fortress. The barren plain, dotted with these structures, stretched out around them and a few kilometres ahead were equally barren hills. Scarcely a tree in sight, only some scrubby bush.
Once again, as soon as they set off along the road, they attracted attention from the locals. People walking along the road turned around to stare, and a little boy of about eight, rolling a bicycle tyre along the road, followed them. He took a look at Harry (Harish) Sinhji and said, 'Angrezi hai.' (You're English.)
'Angrezi nahin,' responded Harry. 'Pakistani hai.' But the kid didn't give up. After following them for a few minutes longer, he said, 'Pakistani nahin. Hindustani hai.'
At this point Harry chastized the kid for being rude and told him to scram, but all three men felt extremely vulnerable. Perhaps he was simply a naughty kid, throwing insults at strangers he found walking along the road like aliens from another planet. Or could it be that he had watched enough Hindi movies to make a sound judgement? And if an eight-year-old could detect their nationality, what hope did they have? They knew they needed a hiding place immediately.
'A culvert,' said Dilip. 'There is nowhere else. We will have to find a water pipe and scramble in when no one is looking.'
At the next culvert, perhaps a kilometre or two beyond Jamrud, they sat down on the parapet. For a few minutes they were all alone. There was no need to rush. They had already come much farther than they'd ever expected in such a short time. In a minute or two they would head down the embankment and into the culvert and spend the rest of the day there.
Then, in the distance, Dilip spotted a bicycle heading towards them. We will have to wait a little longer he thought. Let this fellow pass. But it turned out the boy had spotted them from afar and had come to meet them. He apparently had no other mission in mind. When he reached them he dismounted, greeted them with 'salaam alaikum', and sat down beside them. A fellow in his late teens, dressed in the typical white salwar kameez of the region, he was very curious and wanted to know all about them. Dilip tried to divert the conversation to the boy himself. He asked him about crops in the area and then about his job. The boy said he had no job, that unemployment was very high. But the diversion didn't work for long. Where were they from, he wanted to know. On the spur of the moment Dilip made up a new story that he hoped would help explain their strange accents and motley appearance.
'We are Pakistanis from overseas,' he said. 'We have come back to see our country.'
The boy seemed to believe him, but the questions continued. When he learned they were hiking to Landi Kotal, he was very concerned. It was much too far to walk, he told them.
'We like to walk,' said Dilip. But before they had a chance to fend him off, their good Samaritan had flagged down a bus and they were once again settling themselves on its roof, as the boy waved them farewell.
Soon they were in the mountains. From the roof of the bus they had a clear view of lookout posts on the peaks, and further down, cave dwellings cut into the slopes, their entrances covered in cloth. At each cave entrance they could see a huge hound standing guard. Whenever the bus passed near one of these dwellings the hound would bark ferociously. Just as well, they realized, that they were not trekking through the territory at night.
* * * * *
The bus wound up one mountain after the other, then came to a broad gorge with steep walls on either side. There were no more cave dwellings, just craggy walls of shale and limestone closing in on them. After a few more miles the walls of rock retreated and they could see ahead a broad valley or plateau ringed with mountains. Soon the bus pulled into Landi Kotal, the town at the summit of the Khyber Pass. It was a little before ten o'clock but Landi Kotal was already teeming with people. Sunday, it turned out, was market day.After getting off the bus, the trio again sought the shelter of a dhaba for tea. All they had to do was find the road to Landi Khana and be off. Ten hours on the road and only a few miles to go!
Had they known what was happening back at the camp, they might have had even more confidence in their success. (Vidyadhar Shankar) Chati had done a good job of cleaning up the rubble, replacing the bricks, and making sure the blankets folded on the beds resembled his roommates. The next morning he made excuses for them.
'We played bridge too late last night,' he said. 'They're still sleeping.'
When breakfast was ready, rather than rouse the three sleepers so that the POWs could have breakfast together in Cell 5 as usual, the attendants set out breakfast in the former interrogation room. If the camp commandant or even MWO Rizvi had been on duty, it would have been a different story.
Meanwhile, in Landi Kotal, the three men once again played the role of tourists. 'While drinking tea,' says Sinhji, 'we casually asked the locals where this place called Landi Khana was. They did not seem to know so they asked their neighbours in a sort of "pass it on" game. About the fifth or sixth chap seemed to have some idea and he pointed to one road and said it was about four miles that way.'
'Any buses to Landi Khana?' asked Grewal, who was still doing the talking. The fellow told him that there were no buses, but he could get a taxi for thirty rupees. Thinking that being too generous with their money had aroused the tongawala's suspicions in Peshawar, Grewal decided to reject the price.
'Thirty rupees for four miles!' Grewal exclaimed. 'That's too much! We'll walk.'
With this, they left the dhaba and headed to the bazaar where they'd been told cotton caps were for sale. Everyone else was wearing them, and Dilip figured their lack of caps was what had been attracting much of the attention.
'No cap for me,' said Harry. 'An Anglo-Pakistani would never wear a cap.'
Of course neither would any Christian, but at this point Dilip was not considering their assumed identities. No one had asked their names so far, and he was sure it was their appearance that was out of sync. So he left the two others standing by the road, and went down to the market, which was not far from the dhaba where they'd had tea. When he returned he had two caps, but neither fit Grewal's large head, so he donned his own and dove once more into the market to buy a larger cap.
FOUR MILES TO FREEDOM
Escape from a Pakistani POW Camp
Author: Faith Johnston
Publisher: Random House India
Pages: 182
Price: Rs 350
Published with permission from Random House India