First Flight
It
was just another day in my life when I was lying on a charpai (bed) with my
siblings when my father called out my name, “Faisal! Faisal!” I ran downstairs
and saw my father strolling in our sehan (lawn) here and there with hands
crossed behind his back. I paid salutation to him after which he broke the news
to me that I was going to the shehar (city) to complete my studies. This was
sudden but not unexpected, as such were the customs of our gaon (village). Some
of the boys, after completing their middle education, were sent to shehar
either for work or for study. He then went on to tell me the related details.
He told me that I would live in Abdul Raheem Sahab’s house and will help them
in house chores while continuing my studies. I couldn’t resist nor ask any
question; we were bound to accept our parents’ decisions as final. I completed
my middle school last year and was now spending my time playing cricket all day
long. My father had a desire to educate his children, and my good percentage couldn’t
let my father see me wasting my years. He decided I had to go, so I had to go.
The words “help them in house chores” equaled that I would be a servant there
and will be admitted into a government school to complete my education. I knew
it and had no problem with it; many kids from our gaon used to go to shehar to
study while working in someone’s house with whom their parents had salam dua.
That
night after packing my clothes and putting other necessary items in my school
bag, I went to bed. Staring at the ceiling, many images formed in my mind.
Images of radiant bazars, hustling bustling streets, and big houses. We used to
go to shehar every wedding season, filling a whole bus and enjoying our way
there. It was an event, especially for the women and the kids. I and my cousins
used to enjoy variety of foods and colours there. Until now, these were my
memories of shehar. I looked at the charpai next to me and saw my two brothers.
They slept after crying at the news of my departure. I pondered on their fate
and what the upcoming years had reserved for them. Whatever it might be, I made
a promise within myself that I would work really hard so that they would never
have to compromise on their dignity and live in someone else’s house. Although,
I was not showing it but deep inside I was also despising the fact that I would
have to live in someone else’s house.
The
day of my departure arrived, and all the relatives came to see me off. My
brothers were still crying about my departure; I consoled them and bid farewell
to all the relatives. Abba Jan came to the bus stop with me and patted my back,
saying, “Make me proud”; these words scared me more than raising my hopes. Thus
the bus arrived, and started my journey of being a man from a boy. I reached
shehar, took a tonga, and reached Abdul Raheem Sahab’s house, my new abode. I
was welcomed by Fazeela Baji who was sitting on the lounge sofa, and her two
kids were playing around her. I greeted her, she pointed me to sit and I sat on
the floor near her. She then went onto explain the rules of her house, the
routine of every family member, and then showed me the way to my room. It was a
small, clean room; a foam was placed in the center. I sat there and began
contemplating on all the events that have happened until now. I thought of my
family, friends, and gaon. I then thought of my new lodging and these people.
It was a family of six, and the house was spacious, clean, and silent. I
wondered if shehri birds also flocked their wings silently. After some time,
their son who was my age called me and said, “Food is in the kitchen, heat it
up and eat well.” I was going to take a pot when he, Hamza Bhai, showed me a
heating box i.e., a microwave. He showed me how to use it. It was nice but in
my heart I still doubted if it’s healthy. It is our nature; we think food
cooked on wood is best, stove is unhealthy and now this microwave seemed beyond
dangerous. Hamza Bhai’s kind voice was a relief after a whole day in this
foreign place. By night, I had met all the members of the family and concluded
that the kids and Sahab Ji were friendly, but Baji and Bari Baji kept their distance.
However, before coming here, my uncle said to me, “Do not fall for these
shehri’s sweetness. They know how to keep us in place. Know your place; they’ll
be kind, be loyal; they’ll be generous, but be a friend; they can’t do it.” I
kept this in my mind.
The
next day after breakfast, Sahab Ji took me to school for admission. On our way,
he talked about my gaon where he used to go in summers and about the activities
he enjoyed there. While listening to him, my eyes were glittering to find
traces of similarity between his activities in the gaon and mine. He was in the
office for the admission procedure while I wandered around. The school was very
big and organized compared to my gaon’s school. It had proper classrooms, a big
ground, a cafeteria, and somewhat decent students. I liked the school and was
satisfied with my father’s decision. Sahab Ji instructed me to work hard and
said that as long as you are disciplined, you’ll make your place in everyone’s
heart. At home, I washed the daily dishes, ironed the clothes, and bought daily
groceries. These works were neither tiresome nor long so I had ample time to study
as well. When I was not working, I was in my room either studying or lying
idle. I also observed that my presence anywhere in the house except kitchen was
not much accepted, so I abstained myself from doing so. For school, it was
going well. It was not the best, but it started teaching me a lot. I also
started to gain teacher’s attention due to my quick wit.
One
day, I was watering the plants when Hamza Bhai asked me of my hobbies, I told
him, “I don’t have many, but I play cricket and am very good at it.” He said,
“Oh that’s good! I would take mama’s permission and take to you to the ground
next Sunday”. On Sunday, after completing all tasks he took me there. It was a
big ground, boys were in proper uniforms wearing pads and helmet just like we
see on television. It was not like our cricket; they had proper teams, an
umpire and prizes for the winner. Hamza Bhai was a left-hand batsman and played
really well. On every six, I used to jump and clap the loudest for him. He smiled
at me as if he was proud. Their team won the match, and he was happy. But I was
more excited than him, I kept telling him the way he looked while hitting big
sixes. He was smiling fondly. When we reached home, he told me, next week they
are having trials, I can also come and give it a try.
This
gave a new life into my body and I spent the whole week in anticipation of that
day. When that day arrived, Baji gave me permission to go after doing the
dishes. I was doing it hurriedly to reach there. I was putting the utensils in
the cupboard when my elbow accidentally touched a glass placed on the edge of
the shelf and it fell to the ground. It made a huge noise and pieces of glass
shattered in the whole kitchen. Baji came running, shouting, “Where is your
attention, it is all because of that damn cricket; you are not going anywhere.”
She kept nagging that it’s Hamza Bhai’s fault who is showing me new arenas. I
kept standing there and started picking up the glass pieces. One pinched in my
hand but I didn’t care. I kept on picking them and suddenly noticed my blood
drops on the floor. I took the floor clothe, wiped the floor, went into my
room, and began crying. I thought of the trials which were going on at the
moment and a wave of tears came into my eyes. These tears were of sadness,
humiliation, and alienation. I knew I worked in their house but they didn’t own
me, my dreams, or my thoughts. I thought of giving up and going home. But the
fear of my father and the future of my siblings restrained me to do so. This
small incident would not have impacted me so much but it was the difference I
felt at every point in this house. In my utensils and theirs, in my books and
theirs, in my clothes and theirs, and in my position and theirs. Difference was
in every aspect, every time some guest came, Baji used to tell them, “We treat
Faisal just like our son” but it was not true. I knew it can never be, nor I
demanded it, but her claim itself was demeaning to me. The Baji’s sister used
to come and treat me as a toy for her kids. She had given me the nickname
‘Kaliya’ from a TV character. It was done out of love according to her, but her
kids, three or five years of age, used to order me around saying, “Kaliya
Kaliya.” It might be modern-day slavery practiced in almost every other house
in Pakistan. After these incidents, I restricted myself in their house and
decided to spend the next few years quietly for the sake of my studies.
Two
years of mine had now passed in this house. I completed my matric with 85%
marks. It was an impossible task for someone like me and not so achievable with
the education I was getting. I had bought a cheap smart phone while saving up
some money and learned every topic from there. If someone like Hamza Bhai used
to learn a topic in 30 minutes, it took me 2 hours, but I kept on striving.
Without knowing, I developed a love for reading, and my learning capability
also expanded. Books were also an escape for me to envision an honorable life.
Everyone was surprised by my result; some were very pleased. However, Baji
concluded that these schools have connections and make their students get grace
marks. I didn’t care but was complacent with my work.
It
was winters in this house, the winter sun was shining on the high window panes.
We were busy taking out blankets and quilts to be placed under the sun. I was
in the store room with Baji, taking out the quilts out of the techy case when
Bari Baji came and opened her cupboard’s lock and put some money. I didn’t care
much, but it passed my eyes. We went on the terrace, laid the blankets, and sat
in the sun. The kids came and laid on the foam. While lying under the sky, they
made different shapes out of the wandering clouds. One declared it as a chicken
piece, the other as a car. It was an amusing scene to watch and made me
remember my siblings. Next weekend, I was going home and promised my younger
brother that I’ll bring him a remote-control car. For this, I had asked Sahab
Ji for early salary, and he agreed to it. Sahab Ji was a kind person, he appreciated
me for my achievements, and made sure to buy me new clothes on Eid. I had a
high regard for him.
A
few days later, an incident happened that left an indelible mark on my life. The
whole family went to attend a wedding. They left me home to look after the
house before them. The two days passed, and they came home at midnight. In the
morning, I went to college and on my way back bought some vegetables and fruits
which Baji had asked me to do so. As I entered the main gate, the whole family
came out and Baji came running and pushing me, chanting “Chor! Chor! Where is
the money? Where have you spent it? I told you not to believe these people.
They have a habit of stealing and can’t live long enough without it”. I didn’t
know what happened. I tried to prove myself, asked for a minute to explain
myself but got nothing in return. I looked at Sahab Ji and Hamza Bhai with
hopeless eyes, but they kept standing there watching me receiving curses and
slaps of Baji. I left the fruit bags which I had bought for the family there and
went straight towards my gaon. I cried on my way in the bus, remembering the
days in which I served them loyally despite the humiliation. After all this, I
deserved trust; if not trust, then a chance to explain. Her words kept on echoing
in my head, and no one said a word on my behalf. I reached home and cried in
front of my father for the first time. “Abba my izzat (honour) is tarnished there
every day, I don’t feel human anymore. I don’t want to go there”. My father
hugged me for the first time and patted on my back while I kept crying. He knew
such things happen in the shehri houses with us. I spent my next few days lying
on my bed, trying to recover from a long trauma. The fact that I could move
from one room to another easily, sit wherever, laugh wherever, talk in a high
tone mad me cry at first. But it started liberating me slowly. After two weeks,
I received a call from Sahab Ji who told me that Bari Baji had forgotten where
she kept her money and accused me without proving it. He apologized to me and
asked me to come back. I listened to him but politely refused. He was
disappointed but didn’t insist further. I also didn’t want to imprison myself
in that house anymore.
I
spend few weeks recovering myself. My father didn’t pressure me about anything,
but I could see a hidden desire in his eyes for me to be an educated person. I
knew it and also wanted to do the same, but this time differently. I wanted to
live in a private hostel at my own expenses so that I could complete my studies
without burdening my father or anyone else. I went to the shehar and tried to
find a job in a call center. After a week of searching and applying, I finally
got the job. I then started going back to college while doing the job. It was
on hard on me physically, but mentally I was relieved. I kept on working for my
brother’s case to save them for the traumatic experience which I had to go
through.
After
two months, I was on the hostel terrace looking at the city lights, fast moving
cars, and tall buildings of the city which were once hard for me to look at.
But now, looking at them, my feelings had changed, I could now think of
dreaming of them and possessing them. My decision for my self-identity few
months back had led me to this point. I knew that back in the gaon, my father
would be happy when thinking about me, my siblings would be envisioning me as
their mentor. I was proud and started walking towards my friends who were
waiting for me to explain to them some concepts of physics. The weather was
really pleasant these days.
