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.