Peshawar. Contrasts. 1992.

“There is something quite beautiful in this country’s pain and , seeming, unfairness, but yesterday I was watching the kites against the brooding, on-coming storm. Bright colours, flying free against the blue-black, lightening-laced fury. They were stunning in their frailty.

All of the beauty I see here seems to be frowned upon. The dirty street dancers, of no gender, laughing in the face of Islam, introducing some old magik into this man-made spirituality. The drunken musicians who play with such spirit, the big lady dancing, in a trance to the music, completely escaping into the rhythms and turning and stamping. These images make me feel like crying because the contrast is so great.

You cannot know beauty, unless you understand ugliness. You cannot know happiness unless you know pain. And in this country the two seem so interwoven that I am carried and torn between both continuously.

Pakistan IS beautiful and very different from India. The best I know I have not seen yet. Just now it is cold and wet and I feel tired, yet unable to remain still.

A bit frustrated and contactless. tomorrow will be different and then I shall fly.”


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