After traveling twenty kilometers on a seven-foot road, the pavement suddenly ended. For the next ten or so kilometers, we were to follow the traces of milk trucks on dirt so we could end up at Maujgarh Fort.

Navigating through the running camels, shrub and various other obstacles not suited to the driving environment for a Vitz, we finally arrived. Rangers stopped us and asked us where we were going and the friend I was with name-dropped his colleague’s father. The Rangers took one of our ID cards and held it, saying we could pick it up on the way back. While driving up a sand dune to the village, the car got stuck. We called over a few local men to help us push the car, a total of seven people.

We parked our car outside a friend’s house and proceeded in to a room that looked like an art museum. We were told that a painter from Lahore had specially come to make the room look that colorful.

After relaxing away from the heat for a bit, I was offered a glass of something that looked like lemonade. I was excited, having driven for so long, to get something cold in my system. After taking the first sip, I realized it was normal water, as murky as it was. I asked my hosts where it was from and found out that rain water was stored and drank throughout the year by the residents of Maujghar.

I sat and talked for a while with our hosts, and found out that before Partition, this village of 50 homes was a thriving hub of industry. Every week, Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims would have a Mandi here which attracted people from all over.

After relaxing and having Chai with Nan Khatai, we walked down the dune ready to explore all the wonders of Kila Maujghar. I was taken aback by how thick the walls would’ve been when it was made: at least 6 feet, or as our host told us, enough to have a car driving on top of them.

We proceeded to walk inside and admire the intricacy of the tile work.

The hosts told me that after the architect who had built Fort Pholra in Fort Abbas was done, his hands were cut off so that he couldn’t build another one like it. He then proceeded to build Fort Maujghar a few years later.

We climbed to the top of a wall for a better view. As we climbed, we talked about the state of a nation that doesn’t just fail to preserve its history, but actively works to destroy it. The fort’s bricks are not gone on accident: they were used in homes both in Maujghar and other places.

We started to walk to the resting place of the last Nawab inhabitant, about a ten-minute walk, and on the way saw people living a truly different life than the urban Pakistani is used to.

I arrived hoping to find historical markers, but found a domed building on its last feet ready to crumble. The stone signs that told the history of the place were missing, according to the hosts. We were unable to go inside because there were hundreds of bats.

On the walk back, we met Ghulam Haider, who, after asking us for a Gold Leaf, proceeded to tell us about the history of Maujghar. He was born and presumably will die in the village, and says he was sixteen when the Hindus picked up their stuff and left. He tells us about Deva Karrar, (“Karrar” meaning non-Muslim in Saraiki) who was his neighbor and had a thriving sugar business before he left to India.

We bid Ghulam Haider farewell and proceeded back to our hosts’ house, where we had fresh milk straight from the cow before we headed home. It was likely the best glass of milk I’ve had in my life.

First published in Daily Times, without images.