t a certain time of the year, it is the most beautiful place on Earth. The clouds descend to the streets and I am no longer in the world I know. By day, it is magical, but at night, it is otherworldly.

It is a town built three quarters of the way up a mountain. Streets run above and below one another. Everyone is either on foot, on a bike, or on horseback – no cars allowed. The mountain rises up on one side of the street and falls away on the other. Lofty evergreens grow out of the dark red earth on either side.

I, who have been city-bound my entire life, have never seen anything like it. I try not to blink – I don’t want to miss any of it.

The soft mist glows with the hues of multi-colored neon lights. Ghostly figures float in and out of the clouds. I catch fragments of chatter, laughter, and singing. The air is fragrant with the smell of wet earth, hot tea, and sizzling spicy delights.

The road is lined with stalls set up just for this occasion. I approach a man selling trinkets made out of silver. Pure silver, he claims. I am unable to place his accent. He sees my look, and laughs. He is from Iran, and he comes here every year just for the Independence Day festival. His manner is charming, and his pitch is convincing. I buy a skull-ring for my sister; it is the kind of thing she would like.

I sense a change in the air around me. People seem to be moving in the same direction, heading for the center of the town. I see my friends following the crowd, beckoning me to join them. I say farewell to the silver merchant and follow.

A huge stage has been erected at one end of the main street. My friends inform me that there is going to be an all-night concert. There is an air of expectation in the crowd. People are stamping their feet and chanting the name of a popular Pakistani rock band. I have never attended a concert in my life, never experienced an atmosphere this intense. I feel giddy.

I look around at the throng, and my eyes rest on the face of an angel. Our eyes lock for a brief moment. She looks away abruptly and my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. She looks up again, sees me still looking, and smiles - not because she wants to, but because she can’t help it. My heart leaps into my throat. It is hard, but I make myself look away. I look back a few moments later. Once again she catches me looking, and once again she smiles.

Loud music fills the air. It is not the rock music the crowd was chanting for, but a type of local folk music. The performers are unknown to me, but the tune is catchy, and the crowd’s enthusiasm is infectious. My friends start dancing with the crowd. I try to move as little as possible; I don’t know how to dance, and I’d only make a fool of myself.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” says one of my friends. “If you won’t dance, we’ll make you dance!”

Several pairs of hands grab my arms and legs, and I find myself horizontal, completely at their mercy. There is a countdown, 3 … 2 … 1 … and I am launched into orbit. They catch me as I come down, and send me back up again. On the third attempt, they step back and let me crash to the ground – luckily, we’re standing on soft grass on the roadside.

“Come on, Kami. You’re dancing!” roars the biggest of our bunch. A space is cleared for him, and he grabs me and leads me into the clumsiest waltz in the history of waltzes. He finishes up by sending me stumbling into the laughing crowd.

Once again, several pairs of hands grab me, this time to stand me up. I find myself face to face with the angel. She looks a little embarrassed, but there is a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. The song has ended, and the crowd is clamoring for more. I smile and try to think of something to say. Before I can say anything, the band starts up with another song, and a whole swarm of people comes in between us.

“Next time, think faster,” says my waltz partner into my ear.

I do dance during the second song. I figure I couldn’t possibly look any sillier than I must have looked while being tossed in the air and waltzed around. I try to make eye contact with her once more during the song, but she doesn’t look in my direction.

The band finishes the second song to a roar of approval from the crowd. The stage lights go out and a single spotlight focuses on the lead singer. He holds up a hand and, as if by magic, the din starts to go down. After a few minutes, there is almost complete silence.

I wish the singer would get to the next song. The crowd is getting a little impatient too. But he seems to have something else in mind.

“Long live Pakistan!!” shouts the singer.

The stage erupts. The lead singer is a dark shadow in front of a blinding display of sparks and flames. Firecrackers go off like a thousand rifle shots. Every few seconds, the sky burns as bright as day and the mountain is bathed in cold white light.

I look over at my angel. She’s clapping her hands and hopping up and down like a child. She looks over at me and smiles again, but this time without the slightest trace of shyness.

“Go. Go now. There won’t be a better time.” It’s my waltz partner again.

I look up at him. He nods encouragingly. A big smile forms on my face as I turn back towards her. She’s still looking at me, still smiling. I take a step forward.

And the world goes dark.

A few moments pass while everyone comes to terms with what has happened. The crowd starts to hum with disappointment. A huge pair of arms grabs me and pulls me back to the side of the road where my friends are standing close together, holding hands. It would be folly to move around in the darkness.

It takes the organizers ages to hook up and turn on the backup generators. When the lights finally do come back on it takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the sudden brightness. As soon as I am able to, I look around for the angel. She is nowhere to be seen.

The crowd is considerably thinner than it was before the blackout. The generators aren’t big enough to power up the sound system, so the concert is, for all intents and purposes, over.

“You guys want to make an early night of it?” asks one of my friends.

I don’t reply. I keep looking, fingers crossed.

“She’s not here.” It’s my waltz partner. “It’s not that big a place, only a handful of hotels and rest houses. You’re bound to run into her again.”

“Come on, Kami, we’ll look for her tomorrow. We’ll split up and comb the mountainside if we have to,” says another friend, putting an arm around my shoulders and playfully ruffling my hair.

“And if that fails, we’ll put posters up all over town. Take out an ad in the newspaper. Get the police involved. The FBI, the CIA! Whatever it takes.”

By now they’re all laughing, and thoroughly enjoying my situation. I can only shake my head and fall into step with them as they head back to our hotel.

My waltz partner pulls up beside me. We walk in silence for a while. Presently, he says, “Don’t worry, we’ll find her tomorrow.”

“Enough already!” I snap. I’ve just about had it with the teasing.

He smiles, and is silent for a while longer. “Kami?”

“Yeah.”

“Forget what I said earlier. Next time screw the thinking. Act fast!”

I have to smile at that.