Chiffon Overalls
written by: Talya Salman
All the people we had spent the night with in Besar were the little family we got stranded with in Tatta Pani, too. 100 cars and we, blindsided, could recognize the ones that had been traveling behind us, ahead of us, and in between for the last 2 hours. All of us shared the same exhilarating feelings, scalding burns on the arms, the same chiffon overalls, and pinned up, dishevelled hair like constellations in the sky. All sensible people hurried off in the same clothes from last night, so did we. It was announced that landslides had taken the shape of shrubs everywhere, and they were traveling, so with people around, we were finding shelters underneath mossy trees from the summer heat.
“I think it is hotter from Lahore,” Taaha remarked.
“We have heavy trucks on both our sides. It’s stuffing the air,” Baba said.
Sitting underneath and embracing the morosely wild landscape of broken mountains, and the muddy river bursting with its morbidity, we wondered if we were on the correct route to Hunza.
“How could this barbaric landscape lead to Hunza? These gigantic, leafless mountains — could they really be the beauty everyone spoke of?” We had heard Gilgit was mind-boggling, exquisite, it overwhelmed the kaleidoscope of colors and the unknowingly stark scheme of beauty one had in his mind. Where were we? These thoughts crept into my mind while the bustle of the crowd panicked everywhere.
“There are people, Balti, covering the way ahead, saying females have to cover their heads or they would shoot them.” It was Gilgit-Baltistan, a conservative and narrowly stricken path. So, my brother covered his head with a cap. Everyone, though frustrated and sweating in the charms of streams, laughed and set up on mounds to see the happenings of the barriers, landsliding, and blocking.
If wilderness was something, these mountains were animalistic. It was the Karakoram Range. They were terrifyingly colossal, they looked like enormous walls of a fort, angry, heterographic and in points, in front of them lay a plateau, and a dipped ground of carcasses, like a pothole. It looked like a million posse of men could crouch their knees to their chests and sit like it was built for their size, a pothole for every man of his size. Sometimes it looked pretty, sometimes it looked deadpanning. It reminded me of a highway in Tamasha, and the blue car with the open sunroof taking the two friends to the adventure of freedom, weeds, lakes, ponds, and a conundrum of tangling streets.
“Take off your socks, you’ll feel relieved.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your shirt is so warm for this weather, take it off.” Mama tried to pick up my shirt and see if the black console underneath was appropriate.
“Don’t! It’s short.”
The route was cleared momentarily, and we continued for the challenge ahead. It got blocked again, and seeing it was nowhere near, for us to anticipate the clearance. I tucked in my nearly dead AirPods and started watching a leftover movie. I thought I would become agitated, and lose the patience I had managed to rebuild over the last dozen months. I could not let my effort choke me and sprawl in the muddy river. The shirt was left intact, the socks remained worn and black, the heat was seeping in and being absorbed complacently, and the car was accelerating, slow but in motion.
- Chiffon Overalls - May 15, 2026
- Shaving Off the Greenery - November 14, 2025
