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whitewashed dome with green flags snapping in the wind, I stopped to breathe.
A middle-aged man in a woollen hat shuffled out from a hut nearby. He introduced himself as caretaker of the shrine, which he said belonged to Pir Shah Shams, a wandering mystic. Local legend says Shams could control the desert winds, calming storms so caravans might pass. He pointed to strips of cloth tied to a tree branch outside.
“ These are mannats,” he explained.“ Prayers. If the prayer is answered, the cloth is untied and burned.”
I tied one myself, not out of any orthodox belief, but because in that moment I needed the road to be kind. Riding away, the flutter of those flags followed me in the
TRAVERSE 123