Every time I climb the Malakand pass on the way to Swat, I am enchanted by its rugged beauty. My earliest memories are that of a voyage when I was barely four years old. I remember walking on the Chakdara bridge and some one commenting that big Mahseers (Mayan as the Pukhtuns called them) had been caught that morning under the bridge. Little did I realise that the same spot would become one of my favourite fishing site.
Twenty two years later I was to experience a surreal and the most profound experience of my life.
On 25th Dec 1977, my squadron commander invited me to join him for a fishing trip to Chakdara. I had heard that he had caught trophy size Mahseers from there but was not too sure if the season was right. However trusting his judgement and experience I decided to go with him since he had already made the arrangements at the Chakdara fishing hut close to the famous Churchill’s piquet.
I remember that little kids were standing close to the bridge selling narcissus bouquets. I was a little surprised as in Risalpur they were still in buds but quickly realized that it was Swat and deep winter had set in.
The friendly staff and particularly the Mali baba were excited to see the Wing Commander. The bonhomie between them was infectious to say the least. The color of Swat River was deep blue, inviting and flowing with gay abandon along the steps of the hut. Quickly the fishing gear was unloaded, and readied. The Mali baba magically produced the Kataseri (A local bait fish) from his mangay (a terra cotta pitcher) and before the cup of tea could arrive a few rods had been rigged and positioned at strategic locations along the steps.
We sat down on the chairs to enjoy the heavily sweetened tea and biscuits. Mali baba and my boss were reliving the last shikar in which he had bagged a forty pounder after a great struggle in the fast flowing river. This fish talk really gave wings to my imagination. I visualized a big Mahseer at the end of my line however this excitement began to vain as the next two hours passed without a bite. We had to quickly decide what position to take before it got dark.
I decided to go down the river and try my luck with a Batkhela spoon. Sure enough on the confluence of small and warm spring water stream and the main river, I struck. Not a Mahseer but a two pound Swati (also known as snow trout) ….good enough to rejuvenate me.
Cast and reel….. Cast and reel…. By the end of an hour I had bagged about 10 Swatis but no Mahseer. The Mali baba was good enough to take them to the fishing hut and prepare them for dinner. In the meanwhile my boss was fish less so I relinquished my spot for him and went back to the hut to take some rest as I planned to fish the whole night to catch my forty pounder Mahseer. My boss also trudged in close to dinner time having bagged a dozen Swatis. No Mahseer for him.
At dinner time, we were not exactly disappointed however the missing Mahseers intrigued us. My boss theorized that they would start biting after midnight. To this day I have not been able to fathom this midnight theory. Perhaps the water flow, perhaps a change in the temperature however I never questioned his wisdom. A delicious dinner of the freshly caught fish followed by a big mug of coffee was enough to recharge us.
When we got out around ten o’clock ,we gasped, as the cold December air of Swat hit us like a hammer. Back to the rooms to put on whatever woollies we had brought with us. On the river ,I could see that the lights from across the river were being switched off. The people of Swat were calling it a day and the crazy officers from Risalpur were about to embark on the hunt for the that magnificent fish called the Mahseer.
We took our position on the river bank and got into the rhythm of cast and reel-in , Cast and reel-in. Changing the lures in the dark can be pain especially in that bitter cold. However our efforts didn’t go waste as we began to catch Swatis. We made a pool on the river bank and kept throwing them in it. By now we were beginning to treat them like pest. Somehow I felt that these fish were not giving a chance to the Mahseer to strike the lures. I was on a slow retrieve when I felt a tug quite different from the ones felt earlier. My heart beat quickened as I hooked and instantly the reel screamed. I instinctively knew a Mahseer was on. It made a couple of dashes towards the main stream but to no avail. A struggle of about seven to eight minutes and I was able to bring it to the slower and warmer stream. It was a beautiful specimen of around six pounds. I looked at my watch in the dim hurricane lamp light…. Ten minutes past midnight. Hmmmmm… I lovingly released the fish into the improvised pool. A few minutes later, another splash in the dark and the same pulsating rushes towards the fast waters. This one was also the same size as the first one and it also joined its cousin in the pool. No forty pounder yet.
By now I was beginning to feel cold and the strain in my back was beginning to tell so I wore my Air Force issue great coat and sat down on the soft sand bank to have some coffee. I looked up at the bright starlit sky and the shimmering River Swat humming along as it has done for millions of years. I imagined the beautiful people of Swat in their heavily quilted brastans sleeping peacefully. I must have dosed off because when I opened my eyes the stars had perceptibly changed position. I almost got up to go back to the hut to sleep but suddenly I remembered the fishing tale of an old Mahseer angler. According to him Mahseers hunt in a peculiar protocol. The more agile and juvenile hunt for the bait fish in the front of the shoal and the bigger ones hunt at the tail end.
Keeping that in mind I cast a Rapala plug as far into the mainstream as I could and let it go down at least a hundred yards before retrieving it slowly along the warm water deep channel. Nothing. Cast and reel-in… Cast and reel-in. It was getting colder and I felt like a zombie. I heard the muezzin’s call the believers for the morning prayers. Allah ho Akbar………. The lights across the river started coming on one by one. The pious ones were getting up to prepare for their Fajr prayers.
Cast and reel-in….cast and reel-in. Where are you my mystical, shy, illusive and majestic Mahseer?
Normally when a plug gets stuck in the rocky river bed or brush you gently tug and release line and most of the time it gets released. But this time it seemed to get stuck on a log. In desperation I gave it a strong jerk and the log got dislodged and started going towards the main stream. Fearing that I might lose an expensive plug I tightened the drag so that the log could be dragged back into the slow stream. Hello … What is this log doing? It is going against the laws of physics. Dead wood flows down the river but this one is going up the river…. Oh My God.. The reality sank in me. My heart in my mouth and total concentration on the pressure on my rod and I re-hooked and hell broke loose. The reel screamed and kept screaming. The fish was stripping line as if there was no drag on it. I dared not touch the drag as it was already set at around 15 pounds and I was fishing with a 20 Ib line test. This incredible run lasted for about a hundred yards and my rod was pointing 45 degrees to my left. The river was flowing left to right, it meant that the full pressure of the mid stream and the drag didn’t deter this fish in its hundred yard dash. It stopped in mid river. I said to myself “Flt Lt Pervez Akhtar Khan , you have met your match“. The King of River Swat has finally arrived . The massive dose of adrenalin in my blood stream broke sweat in that cold weather. I could feel it trickle down the nape of my neck. I looked around in the dark, I couldn’t see my partners. I had to finish this fight on my own. The King stood its ground for about ten minutes. I thought that my shoulder was about to give -in under the constant strain, when the fish moved. I started the familiar pump and retrieve motion and gained back about fifty yards from it. Still shaking I tried to bring it to slower waters but it refused to budge. A five minutes reprieve was good enough for it to make another fifty yard dash toward mid- stream. But this time it went right in front of me. The valiant fish couldn’t fight two forces at the same time. Another patient wait as the fish stayed in the fast flowing water. When I tried to retrieve the line it came very reluctantly. I was fearful that if the fish made a run down stream it will go into the rapids about 200 yards below our position and I would lose it. I had no intention of swimming after it in that dark and cold water.
Another five minutes and it started coming in and I thought of bringing it in the small warm water stream. I didn’t realize the mistake at that time in the dark but the moment its belly touched the cobble stones at the confluence it panicked and took off downstream. Surely this time it wouldn’t come back. I stood stupefied as the King of River Swat was using the flow of the river to its advantage and hurtling towards the rapids. I had to make a decision and very fast. Should I tighten the drag or not? I felt for the line in the reel and was surprised as to how little was left on the spindle. Now or never….Use it or lose it….. I tighten the drag to full but that didn’t stop the fish from running but only changed its direction from swimming directly into the rapids towards the slower and deeper waters on my right. The original place where it was hooked. I was beginning to fear that it would take all the line so I started retrieving some line while going down on the river bank till I came to the warm water stream. Another choice had to be made quickly. I knew the water was waist deep so I entered it. When I reached mid stream , the water reached the bulbous part of my anatomy and I yelled. “Cold and warm“ like “rich and poor” are relative terms. So one should always be careful in using them. The shock of cold water momentarily distracted me from my prey. But as I was crossing the stream , for the first time I could feel the familiar and predictable behavior from the fish. It started to move towards the river bank. At least I will get to see it. Scrambling up the little stream bank, I stood for the first time at an advantage to the king.
Pump and retrieve…. I brought the fish to around 25 yards from me . Now I could see its dorsal fin, it seemed huge…. at least 12 inches. When I would try to bring it into shallow water it would move its head from side to side as if saying “NO”. Any other fish would have gone belly up by now but not this guy. I tentatively brought it in about three feet of water and for the first time I could see my fish. Dark greenish at the top and rusty gold at the belly. It was still fairly dark as I figured we were another half an hour from sunrise. The most critical part of the operation was to grab the fish. Keeping the rod high with my right hand I slid my hand behind it left gill. This spooked the fish and it ran a few feet dragging the plug which was stuck outside its mouth on the stones below. My rod went limp as the plug came off. I threw the rod on the bank and prepared to jump and sit on the fish but something told me to stop. This is unsportsmanlike. The fish had not given up, it had not gone belly up. It would be a sad end to a monumental fight. I stood up and kept watching the fish as it recuperated from its ordeal in the so called warm stream. Majestically wagging its tail and gasping it remained in my sight for about a minute before sliding into the main river. Adieu, Long live the King.
Slowly I got back to the bank and sat down on a sand barge. I looked across the river towards the hills. The light was dramatically changing as the sun was about to rise. The river changed its color from dark green to emerald green. A calm descended upon me like benediction from the heavens. I felt totally at peace with myself and the world around me. Momentarily I entered this surreal and enchanted world , an altered state of consciousness. Time and space transcended . I felt a profound sense of well being, ecstasy and optimism. My heart was filled with an inexplicable joy. I felt united with the Absolute. It became unbearable and tears began to roll down my face. I wanted to do something but what. Should I shout and tell the world that this world is the paradise. Could paradise be more peaceful and beautiful than this? Not knowing what to do I fell to the ground in a Sajda. However no words came out . I just stayed in that position feeling secure and glowing. Slowly I came back to the real world.
I gathered my stuff and walked back towards the fishing hut, towards the warm hospitality of Mali baba..
Thank you Mahseer for keeping me awake. Thank you Swat for giving me the glimpse of paradise.