Jheel Saif ul Malook

Lake Saif-ul-Malook in summer time.

The morning I left home to wander in snow and meet the good Saif-ul-Malook Lake in its frozen glory, the mountains of Hindu Kush had seen the last snow shower of the season; mild rays from the sun had just kissed the eaves of the roof of my house; a fresh red rose within the flower pot had just blossomed; my wristwatch told me it had been eight o'clock.

A horse rider in Paye.

You see numerous small ponds crammed with freshwater, meet horse-riders wandering about and smell wild yellow flowers blooming everywhere. With the Makra Peak set as a backdrop, the sweetness of the Siri Paye meadows involve life.

The road to Kaghan valley.

The vehicle sped up the curvy mountain roads, passing by Army Burn Hall College, Kakol academy, then Mansehra. It left the town of blue roofs, Balakot, behind. It ran along Kaghan Road and received Paras, where I saw a marble gravestone with a weird inscription, which read:

"He died in an accident while beating drums within the middle of the road."

I rubbed my eyes, but the inscription, rather than revising itself, became more vivid. I laughed so hard, doubled down over myself, that it seemed the planet around me had spun over the wrong way up, which the River Kunhar was flowing upstream – from Balakot to Naran.

                                                            Naran bazaar in the winter.

The River Kunhar.

 Jalkhad.

It is a neighborhood with friable clay hills, with pathways traversing these hills, with bushes guarding wildflowers, and with many small forests of acacia. a couple of herons had perched on three or four of the acacia trees, making it appear as if they were laden with fruit. The herons were silent and still, completely lethargic, drowned in thoughts, and digging their beaks in their bodies; perhaps, the whole drove had lost the will to fly.