We should have a State in which we could live and breathe
as free men and which we could develop according to our own lights and
culture and where principles of Islamic social justice could find free play.
Quaid-e-Azam
One:
The beseeching siren of an Edhi ambulance -- a dying
epileptic inside. The road seemed opulent, adorned with sleek, lustrous
vehicles of the rich; all still before a traffic signal in the country's
capital. Some engines roared while most had gone dead. The lights signaled
green, but personnel of the traffic police kept the scene intact. Below the
three-coloured flags of a political party clinging to the streetlights, the
people in the cars waited and abused, most of them eager to catch a sight of
the white shrieking vehicle amidst them; its sounds piercing through the
still air, louder by every minute. Finally, the wait was over. On the
transecting road, enveloped by luminescent motorbikes and brand new Hondas,
passed the conceited Prado of a federal minister. The cars began to move,
furious at the imposed wait; but not this white vehicle, not this one. The
siren didn't reverberate now. Its sound had been replaced by that of
mourning.
Two:
Shama looked at the banner again. The 11 year old's
attention was solely focused upon this slightly torn banner, glued to the
wall of a shop. 'Free education for all', it proudly read. The writing
stirred her mind, an up-surging procession of memories blotting her insides.
She thought of her 'government' school. She thought of her class teacher who
rarely turned up, of the insulting and patronising attitude of the staff, of
the condescending behaviour of the faculty, of the slangs and abuses of the
Urdu teacher, of the walls that housed bats and pigeons. She then rolled up
her sleeve only to expose the slack blue skin giving way to flesh, a
memorandum of her teacher's cane. Free education. She grabbed the hanging
edge of the banner, tore it down, stomped upon it, and went forward; to
school.
Three:
The largest province of the country was up in hot smoke.
For a country having experienced a similar trauma before, this was most
inopportune. The revolt was gaining momentum, heat and support. The richest
province of the country de facto was suffering the most. Its land: swathes of
barren patches, its people: indigent and indignant. Despite the reiterating
assurance of the leaders, nothing was being done to alleviate the state of
the province; nothing at all. The government procrastinated and evaded. It
made half promises and forgot them. The countdown for the province's
independence had begun. 10, 9, 8…
Four:
For four hours, thirty two minutes precisely, Shaheen Bibi
had been waiting in the queue before the Utility Store, but she was nowhere
near the window. She had heard of the fatal stampede in Karachi killing 18
women, but even if she were to stay back home due to fear, her family would
die anyway. So here she was, being elbowed, pushed and pulled. Hundreds of
miles away, in a place she could only fantasise, a lavish dinner was going
on. In the red zone of Islamabad, inside the Parliament house, an extensive
table was jam packed with all sorts of edibles known to man. The crowding men
ate and chatted, laughed and smirked. They threw furtive glances towards each
other atop their half-filled glasses. Shaheen, of course, didn't believe
there was a heaven in this world. If only she could see this lavish dinner…
Five:
Abeer Aizan thumbed his cell phone, read the forward
message and forced a smile: half victorious, half exasperated. The
'democratic' government was playing its cards slyly, much to the dismay of
the poor millions of masses. The government had offered meager good news to
the nation in its tenure, if any at all. And to garnish the authoritative
semblance sported by the unpopular president, he had just banned all SMS,
E-mails etcetera mocking or caricaturing him. Under this incomprehensible
Cyber Crimes Ordinance, any person found involved in degrading the president
will have to spend no less than twelve years of his life behind the bars, all
for a mere joke. Abeer read the message again, an adroit text it was. It
didn't name any names, but the connotation was crystal clear, clever. Abeer
replied, "Keep going, for Pakistan is the only country that perhaps
enjoys more freedom under a dictator."
Six:
Af-Pak. It always hurt the retired colonel to hear this
term. In 1971, one of his legs was irrevocably injured, leading to
amputation. But the juxtaposition of Pakistan with Afghanistan made him feel
completely handicapped; his joints devoid of bending, his muscles unable to
contract. He still remembered the golden days, when the development of
Pakistan was envied, and its Five-Year Plans were borrowed. When
international agencies assented that Pakistan was making progress three-times
faster than the country it shared its independence date with. He longed for
the days when his country was 'the' Pakistan. But now, all Pakistan could
match was Afghanistan? Where had the colonel's country fallen to? Where does
it go from here?
