Pabbi is a small speck on the map of Peshawar region. It is located 15 miles east of Peshawar on GT Road. It has a small railway station where nowadays only the slowest of the slowest passenger trains stop. The town of Pabbi is located about a mile east of the railway station, on both sides of the GT Road.
Its only claim to fame is that a former Commander in Chief of Pakistan, Gul Hassan Khan, was born in this place that once was a dusty little village. It is also known for the tomb of a holy man, Shaikh Babar Baba, that draws the faithful from far and near. When I was in primary school, I spent many a summer vacation with my brother Ijaz, who was the Ziledaar or revenue officer in Pabbi.
When coming from Peshawar on GT Road about a mile short of the village, one comes to a crossroad. A right turn goes southwards towards the hill station of Cherat about 20 miles away. Upon taking a left turn, the Pabbi railway stations comes into view, barely a stone throw from the main road.
Ticket window at Pabbi Raiway Station
To the left of the road leading to the railway station and close to it, there was a large clearing at the edge of which were mud and brick quarters or residences for the staff of the Canals Department. In this row of contiguous one-story quarters, there was one that was used as patwaar khana or the revenue office. On most weekdays, a number of patwaris and a girdawar would attend the office with my brother. At midday, a tea tray would be brought from my brother’s home for the staff. The only source of water for the few houses was a shallow well at the far end of the clearing, close to the railway station. The water had the distinct taste and smell of sulphur. Our main source of drinking water came from the railway engines, when they discharged steam and hot water during their brief stop in Pabbi.
Its only claim to fame is that a former Commander in Chief of Pakistan, Gul Hassan Khan, was born in this place that once was a dusty little village. It is also known for the tomb of a holy man, Shaikh Babar Baba
The large area between the houses and the railway station was our playground. My nephew Saeed, who was two years older, and I, along with the other kids in the family, would play football, kabaddi or just run around. Occasionally, we would go to the adjoining orchards to help ourselves with seasonal fruits. The chowkidar would look the other way because we were from the household of Ziledaar Sahib. The clearing in front of our quarter was also used to entertain guests. Chairs and charpais were laid out and tea or meals were served.
Bean seller in Pabbi Bazaar
While we were quite content spending time in the little world in front of our residence comprising of the railway station, adjoining orchards and our playground, occasionally we would venture to the GT Road and walk a mile or so to the village to buy treats. The area between our house and the GT Road had a few shops including a butcher shop run by one Gul Muhammad. He was reputed to have committed many murders. While going towards the GT Road, we always walked on the far side of his shop, even though the man appeared harmless.
Twice daily, the arrival of the train at the railway station was eagerly anticipated. An hour before the train’s arrival, hawkers and vendors would make their way to the station. They sat on their haunches waiting for the train. A few tongas would also come to the station in case some disembarking passengers needed a ride to the village. The train would whistle while still a few miles from the station. When we heard the whistle, we would drop everything and run barefoot toward the station. The station master, a dark-complexioned middle-aged man, would come out of his office in his white starched uniform and white pith hat, his uniform wrinkled at the knees and at the seat. As if there was any doubt in his being the boss with white starched uniform and a white pith hat, he also sported a golden pin on his left chest pronouncing him the Station Master.
Station sign
The hawkers and vendors who had been sitting on their haunches would swiftly get their wares in order; sweetmeats, spicy boiled beans, pastries and butter-drenched buns etc. All of them, including the station master, gazed expectantly in the direction of the approaching train.
More often than not, we would run to station either with a clay pitcher or a bucket. The train would slowly come to a stop and the passengers would disembark while others would board. As this commotion went on, we would rush to the side of the engine and wait for the discharge of steam-created water. We would fill our vessels and by this time the station master would blow his whistle and the train would slowly move out of the station. The water was hot, but once it cooled down, it tasted much better that the well water.
One of the nurses grabbed hold of my bleeding wrist and stopped the bleeding by applying pressure. She asked me if I were trying to go to the bathroom. Still groggy with sedation, I replied “No, I was trying to get to the train door.” She smiled reassuringly and said, “Of course.”
At the end of our summer vacations, we would return to Peshawar full of anticipation for our next visit. Those memories of our carefree days in Pabbi remained with me all my life.
During my adulthood, whenever I traveled on a train from Peshawar, I would expectantly stand in the door of the train compartment to see the small Pabbi railway station, the mud quarters at the far end of the clearing and the fruit orchards come into view and then recede. It was a ritual I cherished and enjoyed. Occasionally, while traveling on GT Road, I would make a brief stop at the railway station, walk around the deserted station and then be on my way. Somehow that railway station and the mud houses had a strong hold on me.
Clay pitchers photographed at Pabbi Bazaar
In 1991, I was struggling in the coronary care unit of the Medical College of Ohio Hospital in Toledo after suffering a heart attack. When the conscious mind recedes into the background, the unconscious mind takes over. I dreamed of things I had forgotten but somehow, they came forth forcefully and in vivid details.
In one dream, I boarded the train in Peshawar for an eastward journey towards Rawalpindi. As was my habit, I wanted to go to the door of the compartment to see the little train station of Pabbi pass by. However, I realized I was being held and I could not move. I knew if I did not get to the train door soon, I would miss the opportunity to see the railway station and the surrounding areas. I struggled hard to free myself and in the process a few of the intravenous tubing and arterial catheter became undone, spraying blood all over the room. This triggered an alarm at the nursing station and the nurses came running in the room. One of the nurses grabbed hold of my bleeding wrist and stopped the bleeding by applying pressure. She asked me if I were trying to go to the bathroom. Still groggy with sedation, I replied “No, I was trying to get to the train door.” She smiled reassuringly and said, “Of course.”
Hallucinations and psychoses in critical care settings are not uncommon.
The well-known American writer and columnist Joseph Alsop (1910-1989) was in a hospital undergoing treatment for leukemia. One night he woke up thinking he was on the train to Baltimore. He wanted to get off at Baltimore Station. He stepped out of his room, thinking he had stepped off the train onto the platform. He decided he did not, after all, want to get off the train and so he went back to his room.
In my case, I was also not interested in getting off the train at Pabbi. I just wanted to have visual reminders of a wonderful childhood. The hospital incident after my heart attack happened 30 years ago – and in so many ways, I am still on that proverbial train trying to connect the past with the present.
Dr. Sayed Amjad Hussain is an emeritus professor of surgery and an emeritus professor of humanities at the University of Toledo, USA. His is also an op-ed columnist for the daily Toledo Blade and daily Aaj of Peshawar
The author is an Emeritus Professor of Cardiovascular Surgery and an Emeritus Professor of Humanities at the University of Toledo, USA. He is the author more recently of A Tapestry of Medicine and Life, a book of English essays, and Chotha Album, a book of profiles in Urdu.
In recognition of his work in preserving the cultural and linguistic legacy of the walled city of Peshawar, the governor of the province bestowed on him in 1996 the title of Baba-e-Peshawar.
