محفل Mehfil under the Mulberry Tree

The mulberry tree sways gently in the crisp Chitrali air, its shadows dappling the faces of men gathered beneath. The warmth of a fire flickers from the Bukhari inside, a constant reminder of the winter that has firmly settled across the valley. But here, under this ancient tree, there is a gathering—a mehfil—a space thick with stories, laughter, and the quiet hum of companionship.

These men—my friends, my confidants—have become the lifeblood of my days in Chitral. They bring tea and stories; they help me navigate the labyrinth of bolts and screws, curtain poles and fixtures, tasks that tether me to the mundane reality of building a home. But they also ask me, with an earnestness that catches me off guard: How is your heart today?

Through their company, I’ve discovered forgotten parts of myself. I’ve found a joy that feels as if it has been quietly waiting, biding its time until now. There is a glimmer in their laughter, in their care, and in the way they offer their presence so freely. It is overwhelming—a cascade of emotion I never knew I needed, but which fills me with a sense of aliveness I had almost forgotten.

I grew up in a world where men were shadows of themselves, cloaked in silence and stoicism. In Scotland, where I came of age, I saw men who seemed to live at arm’s length from their own emotions. It was a relational void, an absence that left me yearning for something I could not name. I thought this was just how men were, everywhere. But Chitral has shown me something else entirely.

Here, the men hold a different kind of space. Their lives, untouched in some ways by the sharp edges of modernity, seem softer, more tender. There is a rhythm to their existence, an unspoken understanding that allows vulnerability to seep through the cracks. These are not men unbroken by life; they carry their scars, their battles, their uncertainties. Yet, I trust them. For the first time in my life, I trust them.

I ask myself why it took so long. Why did I grow up believing that the company of men could not be healing? Was it the conditioning of a postmodern world that taught me to see men as competitors, or as stoic figures incapable of care? Here in Chitral, these assumptions unravel.

Women have their sisterhood—behanchara, as it is called in Urdu. But what I have found here defies naming. It is not simply brotherhood; it is deeper than that. It is a mosaic of chivalry and leadership, directness and respect, mystery and love. It is poetry in conversation, woven from the threads of sensitivity and care. These men nurture, but not in ways that mimic the maternal. They nurture with their presence, their steadfastness, and their willingness to open themselves, slowly, piece by piece.

In Chitral, care and tenderness are not the exclusive domain of women. These men, through their actions and their words, challenge this notion in ways both profound and subtle. There is something revelatory about their way of being, something that feels like a gentle revolution against the coldness of the world I thought I knew.

Perhaps it is true that we attract the energy we are ready to receive. Perhaps this bond—this nameless bond—was what I had been searching for all my life. I do not want to name it, to fit it into the neat boxes of brotherhood or camaraderie. That would be to limit it, to confine it within words that do not hold its depth. Instead, I let it be. I let it live in the laughter under the mulberry tree, in the quiet moments of shared tea, in the care that flows freely between us. This, I realize, is what it means to find home—not just in a place, but in the hearts of others.