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The eastern horizon holds the blush of a rising sun. The
breeze is cool and refreshing. The sky is still clear-no trace of a
cloud marking its vastness. To the right, some distance off, his eyes
could make out the faint outlines of houses. If the hurry they could
make it to the nearest town before the sun fully comes up with all its
wrath - digging daggers into the flesh of this poor straggling caravan
of a family-his 3 daughters and 4 sons, the eldest daughter now 14.
His gaze shifts to their writhe like forms as they return
from gathering some dry wood to make a fire. They’ll scavenge some
poor impersonation of a hapless meal before they trudge on wearily
towards their destination. He looks at the scraggly and bedraggled form
of his eldest child and his eyes mist over at the corners. He
obstinately refuses to acknowledge this unexpected shower of feelings
now hounding him. Does she know? He wonders. Does she know the purpose
of this long march across the wide expanse of this trackless draught
stricken desert. He hopes not, yet some part of him knows that she does.
Perhaps it’s in her stance, or that startled to and fro darting of her
eyes that belie her seemingly calm exterior (like a scared deer ready to
take off at the slightest hint of danger). Yet, he sees the compassion
residing in these frightened eyes as she feeds the last mouthful of her
precious food to her younger sibling.
It’s for the best, the incessant incantation begging,
pounding his temples again.... tormenting his already agonized soul.
Ashamed? Oh yes, in his heart he is-sort of-he shouldn’t be, he tells
himself...its not his fault... but he is.
In the deepest recesses of his soul reverberate the echoes
of his uselessness-his inability to provide for them despite being
ordained the breadwinner of the family by society and God alike. His
heart bleeds at the thought of the madness he is set out to commit (this
is not the “zamana-ae-jahalat”, he chides himself) He has set out to
sell his daughter so that he can quell the fire of hunger that is
smoldering in them, threatening to blot out their very existence.
His wary gaze shifts once again towards her (shameful
thoughts), she might fetch a good price if she has something nice to
wear and if she is all washed and cleaned up. Now she looks a sorry
sight with her lusterless hair peeping from under her torn scarf, a
blotchy face and dark leathery skin clinging dearly to the contours of
her face-the wizened old face on a young body. The only thing alive
seems her bright, keen, suspicious eyes and they too are too shrewd for
such a young one. Thrown off balance at her questioning eyes he quickly
looks elsewhere. Should I ask her to wash her face- but water is too
precious and rare a commodity to waste just now - he shrugs the thought
off.
His expression changes. Have I sold my soul to the
devil...? A shrill, pitiful voice cries within him-appealing to him,
trying to make him realize the magnitude of his folly. He looks at the
sky to see some sign of mercy...a lone stray cloud perhaps but all in
vain. Even the advancing day seems to be holding its breath as the
man-the husband-the father- contemplates on the virtue of strangling all
his family members versus the vice of selling a piece of himself-his
daughter. His heart tells him to go for it. Finish all this misery -
this tiring drudgery called life. Kill them all. But the instinct for
survival tops it all. He looks at the other miasmic faces. He makes his
decision. (Once again the meek come to the rescue of the mighty.)
Sighing, he raises his voice (a broken spirit, or perhaps a strong human
-who is to tell -who is to be the judge??) and tells them to pack up and
get ready to leave camp.
(Article influenced upon reading the news of a man selling
his daughter in the draught stricken province of Balochistan)
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