Whenever I happened to go my father’s office (which contained two big office tables, one for his immediate boss and the other for my father), he sat behind a pile of large register, with printed proformas. Each registered contained names and designation, parentage, cost, features under the command of one Kaman Afsar (Captain).
There were some ten thousand plus force in Swat State. The detail of arms, ammunition with numbers were also recorded ,against each name. Changes whatsoever were recorded on retirement or recruiting etc. Above all this he had to write the same number of order slips of crop payments, countersigned by the Ruler himself. His immediate boss sat there like a huge bulk of flesh, snoring.
Once my father developed some skin trouble on the back side of his hands, covering complete .The bandages were changed daily by a male nurse of Saidu Hospital, Abdullah by name, who came twice a day to our house for this manner. Only the fingertips were open and my father continued writing as usual. At last, after a month, as Abdullah removed the dressings, a large number of white nail headed things came out along with the cotton. That was a blessing from Allah. Then the hands were totally recovered in original shape.
Though I was in class 8th then, yet I was yet thirteen years old and physically very weak. That is why I was mostly dependent on my elder brother. I was not allowed to go to swim in khwarh without my brother, or my neighbor boys, Asfandyar and Bakhtrawan. People thought us from the same family.
There were no regular Bus service between our village and Saidu Sharif. Whenever we went for spending holidays with my grandmother in Aboha, we hired a tonga. A big sheet of cloth would be tied at the backside for my mother. The coachman and my father were seated in the front. Starting from Saidu Sharif, the first stop was made a little before Thindodag to let the mare drink from the water channel called Barat Khelai Walah. It used to be crystal clear. A great Chinar tree stood over a cemented square platform for prayers. Then we started onwards to our village. The whole journey took two and half hours. My father used to return to Saidu after a day or two, visiting his fields with my uncle though large in size, but not so much productive as they are now because of centuries old seeds.
We used to spend our holidays with our maternal grandmother, though our uncle lived on other side of the street, dividing Miangano Cham and my ancestors, the mullas and Khandi khel Pukhtuns. So the local people thought we are from the Akhund khels, my maternal family.
One day I was going alone through a narrow street when an older boy, coming from the opposite side stopped me, putting his hand on my shoulder and asked me to be his guest. I was almost out of my senses and cried. He got frightened by my reaction and escaped. Later he received befitting treatment. He died last month very old and ill.