Tales of the Unheard

Continued..... Home is a feeling, an emotion and a blessing in disguise …..   It was all that I knew and believed during my early years. For this little space/ our house built with only four mud walls and a leaking roof was the world to me, a magical world that kept me shielded from the dark and ugly realities of the human race. We lived in a small village in Sharak Pur (Punjab) where living surely was difficult but life… life seemed quite simple. I often stared at buildings and houses/homes ... lost in their charm, observing how each and every brick played an important part (role) in holding such mighty structures together. In my own little imagination my family was our home, where the twelve of us (9 sisters & 3 brothers) were the bricks and our parents the main foundation. You know it’s funny that such a feeling as home and a family could turn every bit of darkness into light. I loved every little thing about our small, wrecked and empty house,...

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...

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 ...

“ 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...