It was several years ago in a remote wilderness of the scenic Swat valley in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa when I first heard about Dabgari Gardens, the erstwhile hub of Pashto musicians in Peshawar.

We were sitting on the banks of raging Ushu River, a tributary of Swat River, around a crackling log fire, with the snow-capped peak of 18,000 feet Falak Ser Mountain in the background, reflecting the rays of setting sun in bright crimson colours. There was silence except the sound of gushing river and an occasional crescendo caused by firing of rounds from automatic weapons somewhere deep inside the forested valleys.

It was in this backdrop when a band of two musicians from Peshawar started playing a Pashto song, aided by the mesmerising intonations from rubab, an inseparable component of Pashtun music tradition. While I understood little of Pashto song, the electric movements of the musician’s fingers along the strings of rubab and the ecstatic expressions on his face as he sang the melodious songs literally cast a delirious spell which lasted all through that memorable night.

While returning my compliments next morning for the magical performance of the night before, musicians from Peshawar very generously invited me to visit Dabgari Gardens in Peshawar -- to personally witness the richness of Pashto music.

Fifteen long years passed before I had the opportunity to visit Peshawar to try to meet my musician friends from that magical night in Swat valley.

I was heartbroken to learn that Dabgari Gardens -- once the musical face of Peshawar -- had long ceased to be the hub of Pashto musicians. Turbulent times that have been the fate of this historical city in recent decades also took a heavy toll from the musicians who had left the locale now largely occupied by doctors and other medical professionals.

My dear friend -- a Khan from Charsadda -- who took me to Dabgari Gardens was very practical about the eviction of musicians from the area and the preponderance of medical professionals. "Peshawar now-a-days needs healers of body wounds rather than your rubab playing soul healers. So, have no ill feelings," was how he summarised the death of music lore from its historic abode.

But being a caring and hospitable Pashtun, he was not going to disappoint his guest who had come a long way to meet the musicians of Peshawar. Spending the next couple of hours around  thebustling Dabgari Gardens, my Charsadda Khan was finally able to elicit some clues about the area where musicians had reportedly sought temporary refuge.

As we headed towards the new abode of our musician friends through the old city areas of Peshawar, I was introduced to a new kind of sightseeing. Peshawar, like Lahore, is an old city famous for many historical gates, several of which exist to this day. Expecting to be shown some of these gates -- Lahori Gate, Ganj Gate, Sard Chah Gate, Kohati Gate -- I was a bit surprised by what was painstakingly pointed out by my friend, "This is Koochi Bazar where the famous bomb blast claimed many lives. This is where DIG Police Malik Saad was martyred in suicide bombing, guarding a religious procession. This is where extensively reported church killings of Peshawar happened".

I was left speechless on being exposed to this queer form of tourism.

And halting at the bustling crossing in the old city, my friend showed me the place where Ghazala Javed, melodious singer from Swat valley of Ze Leewanay da meeni fame (I am mad for love) was silenced forever in 2012. "She was not fortunate, like Malala, as all six bullets fired on her reached their mark," he explained, as I tried in vain to decipher the expression in his fiery, sparkling eyes.

Declining his proposal to stop there to offer our respects and prayers for the poor departed soul, we moved on. Famous Pashto poet Ghani Khan was perhaps right, "Pashtuns love music but hate musicians".

Passing through the crowded Qissa Khawani Bazar (Bazar of Storytellers), we finally entered a labyrinth of narrow streets to listen to what are surely the dying story lines of Pashtun music. After much trouble, we were able to get hold of an old man, donning decrepit clothes, who promised to take us to the building which housed dozens of displaced Dabgari musicians.

True to Peshawari traditions, our old guide would not move before offering us hospitality, his poverty-stricken appearances notwithstanding. In a dingy street, we were taken to a small, traditional shop of tea-seller who poured black and green tea from a large, quaint metallic utensil (samawar) which was offered to us by our old guide with shivering hands.

Serving tea in this manner is a centuries’ old tradition of Peshawar city. It took rather long for our poor old guide to collect coins from the many pockets of his shirt and waistcoat to pay for his hospitality and, as advised by my Charsadda friend, we looked the other way lest his pride be hurt.

Our guide took us to the second floor of a stinking building, where many small rooms, with half-opened doors and carrying pictures of singers and musicians, were before us, and where sounds of muffled harmonium, earthen drums and inevitable rubab rang through our ears. An air of misery, fear and impending disaster conspicuously hung all over the place as suspicious looks were exchanged between the inmates of the poorly-lit rooms. We were ushered into one of the rooms and my friend started talking to the group of singers and musicians who appeared pleasantly surprised by our visit.

I gathered from the discussions that Khan was requesting the musicians to sing something on rubab for his friend from Punjab. On hearing the word "Punjab" the whole group of musicians appeared startled and more arguments in Pashto ensued. I could see Khan trying hard to calm the musicians but I luckily did not know at that time what it was.

Khan later told me that musicians had recently been to an adjoining city in Punjab to perform when the local police raided them. Since use of loudspeaker is banned for hate speeches in Punjab, the local police hauled them to the nearby police post, not heeding the musicians’ pleas that they were only singing love songs of Ghani Khan, the great poet of love from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. It was only after exchange of some semi-precious belongings from the musicians by way of silver chains and Swat gemstone rings that these poor artistes were allowed to leave.

Traditional Pashtun hospitality and deeply ingrained respect for guests soon allayed the bad feelings, as the displaced musicians from Dabgari Gardens took up their instruments and soon I was transported back to the wild Swat valley of yesteryear. As the musicians sang Pashto couplets, Khan kept translating these to me in muted voice. Those were all about moonlit nights, dancing fairies with blood red lips, burning love and charms of the motherland -- a far cry from the depressingly lit and scary room where we were huddled.

Every now and then, the principal singer would spit blood red beetle leaf juice in a brass vessel which left me a little puzzled. I thought Pashtuns rarely chew beetle leaf. But I was later corrected by Khan that it was not beetle leaf juice but actual blood that the TB-infected and poverty ridden musician -- a magician with rubab and an expert of love songs -- was spitting. "Blood has always been the ruling passion in this part of the world and continues to so be even today," he said.

We must have been listening for some 30 minutes when suddenly a commotion broke outside. The singing stopped forthwith and a few people entered the room and started arguing in heated voices. After a few minutes, Khan signalled me to leave the room and as we rose from dirty mattresses, I saw some currency notes slipping from the hands of my Charsadda friend to the pocket of the blood spitting, rubab playing musician.

On our way back, I asked what had necessitated our hasty retreat and was informed that the owner of the building had been furious because the musicians had violated the terms of occupancy by singing poetry from an Afghan poet, eulogising the blissful pleasures and torpor associated with acts of drinking.