My blog has been silent for a while… actually, I think this
has been the longest silent stretch ever. But that does not mean I have stopped
writing. Ever since my last tour up north in the country a couple of months ago,
I have come back and started to work on something. The blog’s real purpose was
meant to be a stepping stone and while I can’t say that I utilized my blog’s
potential to the fullest, I have taken a leap of faith.
It is quite extraordinary that while I try to chronicle the odyssey from Peshawar since my return, I have found myself being hurtled
with stories from the city...At times, they come out so unexpectedly that they leave me in wonder. Was that a coincidence?. Today was
another such incident, where someone painted a snapshot image from their past.
It was a bright Sunday morning and my father pushed open
the door to the neighborhood barber shop. I caught sight of the owner behind
the counter shaking hands with my father as I entered after him. Filled chairs
and busy barbers met my father’s gaze as he looked around for a moment before
turning back to the owner for a chat. I stood next to him and listened to their
conversation in the constant, rhythmic snip and clip of scissors around me. The talk went to touch the
subject of the extravagant VIP protocols all over the country and the sorry
state of our nation as usual, but in that chatter something unusual happened.
The elderly owner started to recount one of his own
experiences and he addressed my father, “Sir! I was a young boy, less than
eight perhaps when I was in Peshawar with my younger brother.”
My ears followed his story as he continued, “the year was 1948 and we were standing on Mall Road in the early morning. There was hardly anyone else about on the road, and I saw the Quaid-e-Azam pass by in his car.” He looked into my father’s eyes and added, “It was a black Chevrolet with an open top, and Fatima Jinnah sat next to him. There was only one other car in his protocol.”
“Really?” exclaimed my father, “Just one car?”
“Sir! That is not all… When I saw him, I recognized his
face. My brother and I gave him a scout’s salute and he responded back to us as
his car passed, returning the salute.”
It was at that moment when I noticed the owner’s eyes had
turned blood red and he was close to tears. My father and I shuffled
uncomfortably before he regained his composure. “Sir! It was that moment from
my childhood and the protocols you see today. Has there been any leader like
him in this country since then? Not one.”
The owner being a retired army man, I guessed it must have
been his patriotism that drove him close to tears… Maybe.
But for me, he painted a snapshot… Another portrait from the
city of Peshawar. While I try to write her story, she continually sends me
these erratic postcards from different people and sources.
But today, as I share this postcard with you, I can
comfortably say that I have taken a leap from this stepping stone of mine, this
dear blog which has helped me hang on to my dream of writing under the most
challenging of situations.
Now I wait with my wings spread out, not knowing
whether I will land on the green banks of the river or drown in the rapids
which lie between this stepping stone and the haven beyond.
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| On to our dreams... |
