Every spring, the Margalla Hills overlooking Islamabad burst into life. Evening thunderstorms send torrents of water down the slopes and paths attract hikers and picnickers. Bands of monkeys scramble down from the trees to watch the weekend visitors.
But this season the forested ridges have taken on a new, ominous significance for residents.
“If the Taliban continue to move at this pace, they will soon be knocking at the doors of Islamabad. The Margalla Hills seem to be the only hurdle in their march towards the capital,'' Maulana Fazlur Rehman, a religious party leader, warned in a speech to parliament recently.
The image struck home. Islamabad, a placid, park-filled city of 1.5 million people, was built in the 1960s as a symbol of Pakistan's modern and democratic aspirations.
Its boulevards are lined with grandiose federal buildings and its side streets are home to an elite class of politicians and professionals.
Until several years ago, the capital seemed immune to the religious violence that bedeviled the country's wilder rural fringes.
But now, a psychosis of fear has gripped the Pakistani capital, driven partly by recent televised images of turbaned Taliban fighters occupying town after town in the northwest districts of Swat, Shangla and Buner.
Private schools catering to international and wealthy families have installed security cameras and gun turrets; many are losing students as embassies and agencies send families home.
The local World Bank office just moved into the heavily guarded Serena Hotel.
Police barricades, detours and checkpoints are sprouting so fast that drivers barely have time to learn new traffic patterns.
Without a foreign passport or a VIP licence plate, it is almost impossible to enter the federal district that includes the Supreme Court, the parliament and the diplomatic enclave.
“We're not going to let anyone come and capture Islamabad but we have too few resources to secure the city,'' said Nasser Aftab, the superintendent of police, his eyes red after a night of little sleep.
“We need more weapons and men. We need explosive detectors and vehicle scanners on the highway entrances. If a mullah tells a boy of 15 to blow himself up, how do you stop him? This is the capital and we don't even have a sniffer dog.''
It is the insidiousness of suicide bombers, more than the bravado of gun-toting Taliban troops, that keeps officials such as Aftab up at night.
The biggest bombing yet here came in September, when a truck full of explosives rammed into the luxury Marriott Hotel, killing 52 people.
The hotel has since reopened and the lobby restored to its former elegance.
But the inviting scene is hidden behind blast walls and the doormen who once swept open wide glass portals guard a narrow opening with a huge metal detector.
“The hotel looks like a fortress but security has to be our top priority,'' said Zulfikar Ahmad, the general manager of the Marriott.
He said hotel occupancy had plunged to 40 per cent of what it once was. “We maintain a calm atmosphere but if something happens tomorrow, it will drop again,'' he said.
An equally worrisome attack occurred in March, when a young man approached an open camp for off-duty paramilitary guards and blew himself up, killing himself and five guards.
The blast sent shoppers fleeing from the Jinnah Market a few blocks away. Now the market is half empty, waiters stand idle and merchants sit behind sale racks on the pavement.
“The future looks very bleak. Fear chases us everywhere, from the moment we leave home to the moment we return at night,'' said Mohammad Ismael, 46, who sells fabric for party dresses.
