The Unsung Artist

A Local Bus Journey: Knowing Different Shades of Life 

“If I can’t invest enough strength in pulling myself into the local bus, I am going to hang for 2 hours,” I support myself to launch on the bus, as a wave of passengers descending from door forces entering ones frantically. 

Partial anger of mine vented on the bus is owing to flaring fares of local transport. “Where are the ‘darn’ scientists sleeping? They should have invented hydro engines until now. The experts believe they are near to discovering a different solar system for us. New solar system! My foot! They can’t even lift our misery by producing hydro engines, at least during Captain’s government!” I complain to myself, but an unexpected calm sweeps through my brain after feeling that water in the world is vanishing, too. This leads me to stay satisfied with whatever means I have on the occasion. “Leave science! If that ‘cha cha’, who is seeing at my seat, lying empty, because I am still healing from scientific wounds, pounces over the seat, I will stay up,” I have my conscious and set up into the seat dead!

I am cursing my professor now. Dr Jabbar, a tall, slender and bald professor who taught us news writing during masters, had constantly told students, the ones who had their own modes of commuting. “Please go to your homes through local transport today,” he used to say to the pupils. He never told us the reason!

All the children, selling water bottles, move away. This marks the beginning of the journey. Uthal is the administrative town of District Lasbela of Balochistan province. If one, living in Hub or Bela (the principal city), has some work regarding her/his local or domicile issue, she/he needs to travel 100 km to arrive at offices! Thus, it’s ‘joyous’, sometimes, when one, after travelling for hours and going with fare of 200 rupees, finds the officers missing! One recalls and wishes why they didn’t pay off, at least half of that paid for fare, to the recluse or vagrant who, without a respite, begged for 10 rupees stopping only repeating the cliché “Kanjoos! Allah gharak karey” (Miser, curses upon you!). 

Books accompany me during travelling. Uthal has reached, and I have completed reading 17 pages of Ahmed Rashid’s book ‘Jihad’ in which Ahmed delves into the surge of Islamic Militancy in Central Asian states. 

Azad, a 5-year child who neither speaks nor moves!

The man standing at the gate looks as worried as a person swamped with unending problems! He hasn’t got a place after getting on the bus because he has his 5-year-old son, Azad, in his arms. Azad needs much care since he has suffered stunted growth in early childhood. Azad’s father has wrapped him in a green and thin towel which can barely bear the icy wind, like a big foot rushing to hit us with an ‘icy hammer, entering from broken windows of the bus.

“Brother,” I call Azad’s father, “please sit. The seat is free.” I offer him to sit as the seat gets vacant. “What happened to him?” I point towards Azad who lies still in his father’s lap. “Have you taken him to the doctor?” I inquire.

“No,” Azad’s father replies, “I have taken him to peer Juman Shah.” 

“Azad needs critical care in this condition and his father must take him to a pediatric!” I thoughtfully ask myself. 

“Azad has been in this condition since his childhood,” his father answers when I ask him about taking Azad to a doctor instead. “I don’t know what doctors did with my child after his birth. They instructed me to sign a document, and this led Azad to his present condition. They told me they had to take some fluid from his backbone. Azad has been immotile since,” says Azad’s father woefully. “The problem, you know,” he says in a dimmed voice, “is that he cannot even open his mouth and it’s hard to administer him eatable,” he waves his hand to me as his destination reaches. I silently wait for a miracle and continuously stare in Azad’s eyes to blink unless he is off to his own path.

The torn and blurred nipple of the feeder, which Azad’s father has been holding firm, speaks volumes about the financial condition of the family! 

The Unemployed Youth

“Curse the liar! It’s not good to help others now a day,” complains Sadat, who has landed in Uthal to take a test against the post announced by the government after construction a futsal ground in the city. Sadat has taken two tests as he says for 6 posts around 200 candidates have applied. He thinks that the chances of getting a job are too low. Sadat works in a steel-selling shop where he gets a salary of 18000 rupees. But he is rather raged right now. 

“A candidate travelling from Hub asked me to lend him my jacket, for he felt cold as he had to ride on bike to home (Hub). I gave him my jacket, and he promised to drop it at my shop and now he is not picking up the call. Neither has he dropped it at the shop,” Sadat complains continuously. 

Finally, Sadat departs too, since his destination reaches. 

After the tiresome journey, I wind down. My professor’s insistence on using public transport revisits my memory. I have found the answer. “Though his way of insistence was rigid enough, yet he wanted us to get closer to different shades of the society,” I smile after murmuring with myself. “May he live long,” I pray for my professor’s health and safety.