Mirages
The railway station was very crowded when Farman Bakht arrived at it; almost half an hour before the train was to leave, in hope of securing a window-seat, his favourite one. As he sipped through the cup of dark and too sweet liquid, which the chaiwallah insisted on calling tea, his thoughts drifted towards his village.
It had been seventeen years since he had first left it in search of a ‘better future’; and had come to Karachi, which he had hoped would offer more opportunities. At least, so had master Anyat Hussein assured him, though he himself had never been to Karachi in his whole life. In fact, the only time when he had been far enough from village was when he had gotten married. “Karachi is a huge city” master Anyat Hussein had always said, nevertheless. “nobody who lives there ever sleeps hungry or has to go without work for more than a few days. There always is some sort of job available.” The length of those ‘few days’ was never mentioned. He(master)had always believed that there was very little difference between Karachi and Wilayat(as almost all the people in village called England by that name)and that too was almost too insignificant to be noticed. “If you ask my opinion, Karachi is by far the better of two, why?” then after a pause during which all the elders in the village nodded their heads in approval of this opinion continued, “ why, because at least they are our own people, and you will never feel you are away from home.” Master always concluded his arguments with these comments and then chuckled(actually, snorted) while nodding his head in a very knowing way.
When Farman Bakht first came to the city, he found the realities very different from what the sanguine and sincerely ignorant master had always been used to portray. To begin with, it was not so easy to find some work; he had quit his studies when he failed for the fourth time in seventh grade. When the length of those ‘few days’ which the Master had assured him would secure him a job, seemed to stretch indefinitely, and he had half a mind to return to his village, he found work in a factory that produced substandard cement pipes, by the help of a fellow-villager.
“Where do all these people come from, so many of them?” he wondered as hundreds if not thousands of people bustled about him, like swarms of flies. “I wonder which is more numerous here, flies or people?” he puzzled over this, seeming unable to arrive at any concrete conclusion. But, when he was paying the sullen looking chaiwallah, he had finally arrived at the conclusion that both were equally abundant: except that flies were better off of the two.
Finally, he entered into a third class compartment and heaved himself on the seat, after having stowed his baggage on the sleeper berth right in front of him; as his father had always advised him to do, “always keep your baggage in front of you, so that you can keep an eye on it, you know what kind of cheats people are these days; they will rob you of the very clothes on your body too, if they could manage it.”
He didn’t get the window seat after all. A very fat, half-bald and formidable looking man had occupied it, possibly to escape his chattering, loud-mouthed wife. He was now dozing, and now scolding his children for being too unruly; while his wife constantly and noisily complained about the vendors, who in her opinion were ‘loitering’ around the compartment with various eatables with the sole intention of tempting her children, and thus upset the family budget. The lady on the opposite side fervently argued that the government should put a ban on all these vendors, who were responsible for the ‘unrest’ among the children of all ages, while her husband nodded his head in agreement purely out of habit.
A small boy of nine years old passed by him several times selling sweets and candies, Farman bought them merely out of pity for the young boy. “Why do parents send their children to work at this tender age?” he thought quietly to himself. Why indeed. Hadn’t he left his home when he was barely sixteen? “What could I do”. Father was old and could scarcely earn enough money to make ends meet. Then, there was a whole army of sisters to be married, the house to be repaired, and the younger brothers’ future to consider. Thus, the best part of his life had been mortgaged for the happiness of others.
Every year when he went back to his village, his father coaxed him to go and labour for just one more year. “Then, I will go to your uncle and ask for the hand of his daughter, Gul-Arzoo.” And he always blushed like a young girl at this. Gul-Arzoo, his heart’s desire, ‘the flower of his hopes’. But, for how many years could she wait for him? Her parents after waiting for some years finally wedded her off to someone else, someone who didn’t make their daughter wait for several years in vain. He didn’t even know how many kids she now had, four? five? six or seven?
He remembered how broken-hearted he had been for months after her marriage. He felt a pang of pain through his body. His mother had tried to soften his pain. “Don’t lose heart son, I will find the prettiest bride for you.” his father had tried to reassure him. His father still faithfully repeated his avowal of finding the finest girl in entire Punjab for him. But, he never blushed at the mention of it any longer, nor did it awake any particular joy in his heart. He felt that something had broken up inside him, and left an empty space, which not even the ‘prettiest and finest’ girl in the entire world could fill.
It was going to be a long journey. He will have to go to Lahore first, from there he will take the train, which will take him to Narang Mandi. His village was a few miles away. He was wondering which would be the best way to travel further on, the tonga or the dangerously overcrowded wagon.
The lusty crying of a baby recalled him to his surrounding. The compartment seemed to be full of small children, none of them seemed to be inclined towards either stop crying or else fall asleep. A young girl on opposite side, dressed in a shocking pink colour was looking dreamily out of the window. There was something very tender about her soft brown eyes, and he couldn’t help gazing at her, until he realized that the girl’s mother was staring at him unpleasantly, much embarrassed he averted his gaze. The fat man by the window seat had fallen asleep, while his wife still seemed to be muttering something though sound asleep, as if something she wanted to say had yet been left unsaid.
He was lost into another fit of deep thoughts, this time the subject of his contemplation was the recent letter by his father. Actually, it was this letter which had caused him to come earlier than his accustomed time of visit. It appeared that his father had finally found the ‘prettiest girl in the entire Punjab’. One of his sisters had secretly sent him a picture of the girl. She was very lovely, no doubt about that, with a fair complexion, long thick hair. Her eyes looked so bright and lively, even in the photograph; yet how little she is like her. He sighed heavily, “I wonder if she sometimes thinks of me. What’s the use of thinking about her now, I should not, she is somebody else’s wife now.” He chided himself , though, at the same time he rather wished that she should think about him sometimes, if not always.
“You had better bring all your savings along with you, for I’m planning to marry you to a very beautiful girl.” His father had particularly mentioned in the end. And had he ever disobeyed his father?
Had he indeed? He did not get the window seat this time either. “What can I do son? Your brother is young and rebellious and threatens to commit suicide if we would not agree to his wishes. You know I never can refuse him a thing.” his father had said entreatingly. He had not even been able to reply let alone protest. He left the very next morning, despite all his mother’s pleadings to stay for his brother’s wedding.
As the train rushed through the plains, the trees on each side of the railway line seemed to continually chase each other, yet never able to reach near enough. “Don’t lose heart son, I will find the finest girl in the entire Punjab for you” his father’s persuasive voice seemed to drum through his ears. “It’s a good thing you brought the money though” his father had declared in a much-satisfied tone, and his eyes dimmed momentarily.
28th January 2002
