A minute too long in the sun

The interior of the car was cool but not enough to make the intensity of the sun any easier to bear, the brightness of the rays still ached my eyes and made me dizzy. Always having a little of a motion sickness within airconditioned cars which speed up suddenly and then brake equally suddenly, I was trying to overcome my nausea by resting my head against the headrest and squinting at the sultry world outside. At this particular instant the car came to a halt at red signal and the usual swarm of beggars, car washers and flower and paper sellers came rushing towards each car. I looked blankly at each of them through half closed eyes and felt to the tips of my toes the heat they must be facing in the scorching sun. My own throat was dry and scratchy and a subtle yearning for a cool drink of water was squirming somewhere in my mind, but it was a good 3 hours and a half before the fast broke and I resisted the urge to think about water, when a singular female beggar caught my fancy.

She was a youngish looking woman, in her mid twenties maybe, clad in the traditional flowery print and wearing the hideous nose ring. Her dupatta rested on her carelessly and her look and manner were sharp, not miserable and not sorry…someone you just don’t want to give your pennies to. She was the only one who had reached our car and was standing right outside my window saying her usual business lines. I could not hear her nor I tried to read her lips, my numb mind was focused on the infant, whom she carried. The child was very small probably quarter or half a year old, and was most carelessly carried by the begging woman. Childs face was upwards where sunlight directly went into his eyes and his head was bare of any sort of cloth or cap that could keep the heat off.

My head was now aching, I wanted to pick up my purse and give the woman some money so that she would buy some milk for the baby but I knew it as good as anybody that she’ll be damned if she did that. All my change would have seen at the moment would have been the dark, filth of the money bag, full of coins and dirty, rotten notes. I doubted that the baby was that woman’s anyway since no mother, however needy or in anguish she is, can hold a child with such nonchalance and perfunctorily, laying the child bare to the harsher elements of the world.

I can’t remember if I was staring at the sorry sight or was pretending to be asleep while I observed this but I can clearly remember the wrenching of my heart as I ached to take out a 10 rupee note from my wallet but did not since I was not alone in the white cab but was along with my friend and my HR manger who had once before also remonstrated me for giving in, to the stirring speeches of the begging mafia…I was acting like a big coward, shriveling up inside my safety net…..but I also did not want to give that woman anything either. All I wanted was to shout at the woman to ‘get lost’…I wanted to tell her to find other creative ways to cadge money but just not use someone’s baby as an excuse to earn a living.

The nausea turned into throbbing of my nerves as I recalled the horrendous scenes of babies dying when these beggar mafia rented them from parents to use as begging tools, my vision instinctively switching towards my baby sister who is not even knocked with a feather. ‘God!’ I could feel the heat suddenly increasing in intensity, I looked at a small towel selling boy and could feel the sweat trickling through my back….oh the pain!

Having been properly disappointed from our side the beggar woman swaggered on towards another car and then walked back towards a comparatively shady part of the signal when she found there was no oil in these seeds….her walk was careless and alluring, I felt ashamed and sorry for her at the same time.

The signal turned green, the driver eased the clutch and put pressure on the accelerator, our car picked up momentum, fighting against inertia. The tramps at the other side of my window pane rushed back towards the foot path, their recluse directly under the sun. The car made a U turn towards our pretty HR manager’s house and my eyes followed the indifferently carried child till I could not see him without lifting my head and turning around. I felt too tired, drowsy…..my throat was choked and scratchy but it wasn’t because of thirst…the thought of water was nowhere in my mind….

I closed my eyes.

Where sleep comes….

 “Sometimes when I close my eyes

   I dream of a place with a tall spire, flat roof or a dome

   I see a palace or a simple wall under the skies

   But all in all I dream of a place I call my dear home”

 The car did not move on the road, it swam on it….it was a black Land Cruiser a giant of a  4WD that cruised on the pothole ridden roads of Karachi with an authority. It ruled the streets, and SHE drove it. Her Daddy was a bureaucrat and she a child born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She slid the gear stick onto 2 from D and her engine vibrated with silent power as the car picked up momentum.

The digital clock on the dash board reflected 22:00 while she increased the pressure on the accelerator and banged her head against the pulsating beat of ‘…somewhere I belong…’ of Eminem which throbbed the car as the woofers amplified and synthesized each note. She had, had a long day today. She was an executive at ABN AMRO, very successful in consumer banking because of her excellent interpersonal skills. Nowadays with the financial year ending they had each to put in long hours to rectify all their records.

   Somewhere not very far from a posh residential area a little flower girl walked towards the slums behind the posh area. Her slippers barely covered her feet which were black with grime and smoke, her heels were very rough and at the moment positively burning with pain too. She had walked kilometers trying to sell her bouquets of roses and jasmine. She had tapped the windows of the cars, smiled at pretty ladies and batted her lashes at young men just so they would buy a bunch or two of her small roses. Now she was tired and her steps were languid. She scratched her golden brown head violently and then wiped with the back of her hand a thin trail of saliva that had trickled down unawares. She had just one, neatly wrapped yellow rose left…but it was drooping and was not anymore pretty…maybe if she was lucky another 10 rupees would find a place in her dirty pocket…but she was too tired to try for it.

Scratching her scalp once more she picked up her heavy steps calling it a night, just as a big car screeched at a red light on the very road. Since she was crossing the road anyway, therefore she went to the car and showed the smart lady at the drivers seat her wilting rose…there was not any conviction or element of groveling in her look or manner yet the lady’s window slid down and gave her a 10 rupees note…the little girl handed her the last yellow flower and gave her a big smile and then crossed to the other side of the road, her tired steps jaunty.

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She had always liked roses, her Daddy always had vases full of all colored, fresh roses for her and she knew even now the crystal vase in her room would be holding a big bunch of fresh flowers. God! Was she ever tired! She couldn’t wait to reach home, kick off her high heeled sandals, and plunge on her soft cushy bed and sleep. She put the flower in front of the blower and pressed the accelerator as the traffic light turned green, her car had zoomed a furlong long before other smaller cars had even shuddered on from first gear into second.

 

She rounded the bend to her street, where it was a dead quiet…she could hear the faint wheezing of the crickets as she turned the cd player off which was now giving her a headache, and rolled down her window to let some fresh air in. She honked as she reached her gate and few minutes later a sleepy looking guard opened the large wooden gates. She parked the car behind Daddy’s Kompressor and Mummy’s Civic and got off the car grabbing her purse and the leftover Big Mac. Clicking her heels on the marble tiled floors she went to towards the main door while she fumbled in her purse for her spare key. As she turned the key in the lock and entered the house, she was greeted by a penetrating hush and the dimly lit lamps. She did not care if everyone was asleep or busy elsewhere, she was just glad to be home….Her footsteps echoed in the large main hall as she skipped towards her bedroom, impatient to be asleep since tomorrow was going to be another very busy day. Reaching her rooms she stretched luxuriously, switched on the Split unit and crashed on her bed…..Ah home sweet home.

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The little girl had sold ALL her flowers today, won’t Ma be very happy she thought and her tired body soon found enough energy to carry her running towards the dirty dwellings of the vagabonds. The very poor dwellers of this place had used tin, cloth and card board to put together, what they called ‘houses’. Her house was a bit better, it was within a mud boundary wall but they had used tin sheets for the roof which got awfully hot in summers and unbearably cold in winters. Her street reeked of garbage, gas and human waste while a ‘naala’ with its filthy green water attracted all sorts of mosquitoes and nocturnes. She walked on the rutted road unaware of all this, at long last reaching the mud boundary wall.

The wooden frame of the decayed main door creaked as she rapped on it ever so loudly. A woman inquired after the rapper loudly and then opened it wide as she heard her voice. There was a line of four other kids who were standing in the verandah, half asleep, their faces brightened when they saw her enter…she smiled and showed them a bag full of fruits…bad fruits, discarded by the keepers due to some faults. She handed the loud woman some stained, notes who kissed her on the forehead and went off to fetch her a glass of water.

 

It was sometimes later as she lay down on the cool floor of her verandah, Ma had the bulb switched off by asking Chotu to disconnect the ‘kunda’, a  small wire from the main live wire outside. Everyone was sprawled on the ‘chittai’ and already asleep, her lids were also heavy as she stared at the stars…they were not sleeping in, what they called their ‘room’ because it was a bit stuffy there…she thought , tomorrow would be another long, tiring day but for now she was happy to be at her grungy, smelly living place….Ah! her home sweet home!

 

As wise men say: “Home is where heart is”

Be it a Prince or a pauper…the place where he lives is his kingdom and no place is more dearer to him than that.