TRAVERSE 138
sweet, poured into a chipped cup that seemed to hold the residue of countless journeys before mine. A group of men had watched with quiet curiosity that turned, as it often does, into conversation. When I told them where I was heading, there had been a pause, a shared glance, a moment of recalibration, and then that word.“ Inshallah.” It had followed me long after I left, echoing faintly beneath the hum of the engine as Islamabad dissolved behind me and the road began to stretch north.
The change had been gradual at first. The land had tightened, folded inward, risen in subtle increments. Then, without ceremony, the mountains had arrived, not as scenery, but as presence. The Indus River had appeared beside the road, not calm or accommodating, but forceful, insistent. It hadn’ t flowed so much as carved, cutting through rock with a persistence that felt ancient and immovable. The highway had clung to it, sometimes barely, as if aware that drifting too far from its course meant surrendering entirely to the terrain.
There had been moments when the scale became difficult to process.
TRAVERSE 138