Tales of the Unheard

Continued.... How would you answer to Shazia’s questions? I often wonder could our conversation have ended in any other way.... with at least a few words, a sympathetic look or maybe a compassionate touch?? You see that’s how it is, we play with words, thoughts and moments in our little minds in a certain way in and from our own perspectives but we fail to assess how it would really go in that certain moment, an instant ....a split second that may change everything in you and around you. Isn’t it? The weekend ended and I got back to being busy in my own routine and work... but Shazia..... It seemed she started living within that very moment. A conversation of a few minutes that created a gap which had us completely tongue- tied for days, or maybe it was an opening of a distinctive bond of understanding her silence. Maybe.... maybe not! Well the silence was there but not entirely, she did greet me in the mornings, tried to do small talk when I was home and st

Continued... But this time it was different... finally that afternoon she spoke and she let it all out, her tears as well as her heart! “ I have been working here since the last two months, listening, taking in and absorbing all the taunts and insults other helpers or any of my employers made... I know well that I am incompetent, snail paced and not up to your mark for any work that I do but I am trying.... learning. I never had a mother to teach me to do all the little things that mean so much in our daily lives. Yes, I was raised by my aunt and grandmother who fed and treated me well apparently... ..” I stood there in silence listening to her with a blank expression as she went on.... “ No my grandmother didn’t teach me how to dress, talk, sit, walk or do anything that would make me worthy or of any value to me or any other person.” “ I was only a few weeks old when my mother passed away and since then fate has never been favorable to me. My own family, my grandmother an

Destiny .... I often wonder what it means. A word that holds only seven letters but means so much more. It’s funny how a few letters enfold such deep philosophies of life and death within them. But it still remains a conundrum ... a riddle ... a question of what really is our fate? What and where are we destined to be? Tears flowed down from her beautiful black bright eyes ... dimming the usual glow on her face. She pretended to wipe away all her pain, sorrow and sufferings that her tears reflected. It was the same every time she was scolded, never ever uttering a single word rather just listening and nodding her head to every taunt and insult directed towards her. She seemed to absorb every single word and let it all out in tears, for they were the only companions of her life full of doubts and misery. Shazia, a fourteen year old bread earner who knew nothing about work or life.... a domestic worker who hardly ever had a home or a family to learn from and live with, or to

LIFE…. So unpredictable, meaningless and unfair! Is it? Or is it the mind that thinks this, the soul that feeds on such thoughts or the body that functions with such negativity? Huh! So many questions that are so clear yet create thousands of uncertainties. We often read or hear stories about renowned people, read about their personalities and admire their beauty, and idealizing them at a certain point of time in our lives. But the question is why do we only obsess over the known and tend to ignore the hardworking ‘hands’ that remain unheard while being heard by the world. It is funny how we always stay oblivious to the existence of such beings that bring about sound changes and impacts in our lives by doing something which we often belittle. Confused?????? Today, you’ll be reading a story, a tale about one of these working hands that to date remain invisible to the majority of us. Now you must be thinking…. I’ll put a name and introduce a person but no

Continued... Tree : “ Tell me merchant, why does it seem that all life has been drained out of your body? What makes you so disappointed in life?” “My whole life”… I was born in 1955 in Peshawar. Coming from a family of merchants and clothiers, business was in our blood and we shared a fairly good reputation in the markets of the ‘City of Men’. My youth is full of good memories but as I grew older our fates turned on us. Times had changed; our country was facing political challenges and socio-economic issues, falling into despair day by day. And the same cloud of despair was upon our business now. Everything fell; our family shop was sold after my father got sick and left us in a great debt. Since we were unable to return the debt, our reputation in the market was lost. There was nothing left for us in our own city so we finally decided to migrate to Lahore. With my mother, wife and children, moving to a new city seemed like a big challenge especially being a pathan in

Yet another day as a wanderer, a searcher with empty hands and a provider with empty pockets… I am an old man that has lost all life. Riding around street by street in this scorching heat, my feet often go numb in an endless battle with the worn out paddles of my busted bicycle. My wrinkled and nearsighted eyes are weary and it seems my hands are slipping away leaving my two-wheeled companion uncontrolled as I go down the lane… ahhh I wonder will life slip away from me in this meaningless struggle or will I ever be able to take a sigh of relief… maybe peace?? I have lived a long life working tirelessly, but now I have come to a point where this old, exhausted and weakened body needs to regain strength even before the real work starts. Alas in a world where no piece of land is free, I often seek shelter under the shadows of these generous trees. Beautiful thick lush green trees under a magnificent blue sky… ahhh is it not how one defines peace?? “Yes! Indeed it is th

“ If only we could become stars and shine just as bright, a light that illuminates pathways and lives" – Nyla Little do we know of how much we can control our lives, at times it has no purpose or meaning yet it proves to be an everyday struggle. “I remember that I was only 6 or 7 years old when I realised life was as bitter and harsh as the winter. Our empty stomachs growled as the night grew colder...’ said Nyla, a fourteen-year-old domestic worker, a bread earner and another victim of the harsh realities of our ugly society. She smiles at me asking “ are you going to write a story on me too? ” I smile back at her, as I lift my pen, watching her hide her sadness just as she starts to unveil the unspoken truths of this world, holding back tears just to show how strong she is, she questions “what do you want to know first, how my life is or would you rather want to know how poor I am?” Blank, clueless and quiet, I remain silent, gath