History, swiftly fading: Bhaun Village

While in Chakwal, I visit the village of Bhaun (Bhone) with Professor Shahid Azad. 12 km from Chakwal city, we stop near an itwaar (Sunday) bazaar and a giant rubbish heap. Goats tear apart plastic bags with their teeth, and a dog lazes in the winter sun. I look up and see a tower, part of a pre-partition Hindu temple. It stands completely alone. Built by Ram Das, some of its etchings have managed to survive – especially one of the god Hanuman.

We enter the village to take a closer look. To my surprise, the professor knocks on a door and a squinting man emerges. The professor asks him if he can show his guests the temple tower up close. He asks us to wait while he asks his women to go inside, then lets us in. We walk into his house courtyard, in the middle of which the tower stands. I have heard that people have built houses around the temples of Bhaun, but I am not prepared. We go into the room inside the tower, where a locked door presumably housed idols many years ago. We do not ask.

We take a picture or two, and leave quickly. This is someone’s private property now.

We go looking for another temple nearby. A smell of fresh dung welcomes us as we are granted reluctant entry. It is a cattle pen. We maneuver around ambling goats and a cow to get to the temple tower, trying not to slip in dung. I am thinking of how this was a revered place for a lot of people pre-partition. I am thinking of the travesty; of what kind of people we are to allow history to be neglected, forgotten; nay, desecrated in this way. I think of my holy places being treated this way, and my imagination fails me.

The rest of the village is like stepping into the past. Narrow lanes, dogs lazing in the sun, wooden carved doors and balconies, yellow brick, archways, a marriage hall (Janj Ghar). I lack the technical vocabulary to describe it, but I am familiar with neglect. It is dusty and covered with cobwebs, paint peeling, wood crumbling. Balcony railings have missing rails, giving it a toothless appearance. Telephone wires crisscross the air: technology, bulldozing its way into the past. New gates made of iron – blood red and electric blue – are fixed into lovingly carved wooden frames. Naalay (drains) overflow. A stained glass window has almost all its panes missing; I wonder how many will be left the next time I come.

When we have seen every thing we haven’t managed to destroy yet (it takes a very short time), we head to the outskirts to see the remains of the railway station of Bhaun.

Before leaving, we come full circle to the Ram Das temple. My camera picks up the juxtaposition of the garbage heap and the temple tower. My first instinct is to frame the picture in a way that doesn’t show this dishonorable behavior, but I know I cannot. I must not. I may be helpless, but what I can do is point my pen and camera at things that need to be seen, shameful though they may be. For unless we see them, we shall not think, or rise. Or act.

(Go to the Gallery to see more pictures I took of Bhaun village.)