Chak 123/GB
Punjab.
Someone broke into Shareef Miskeen's house and stole the last bag of grain his wife had stowed away for the winters. It was a poor neighborhood and grain was their lifeline through the haze and chilly winds. Shareef was not home and his son was away tending the flock to what was left of grass in the nearby meadow. Afeefa, Shareef's wife called for help and soon the townsfolk converged on the crime scene.
Used to as they were, the men and the women, even the kids, began sharing her sorrow in their own way. They all expressed their sympathy, told her how bad an act it was and condemned the scoundrel. Chacha Allah Rakha informed all of a string of such unfortunate incidents taking place all over the tehsil. People speculated. Chachi Allah Rakhi yearned for the good ol' times when you didn't have to worry about such mischief and corruption. Ashraf Bhai, weary of the indifference all displayed, declared he was going to call the Chak's khoji. All appreciated his concern, few even offered to accompany him to the Khoji's. And they set off on their newfound quest.
Diyaanetdaar Khoji's household was the last to keep this centuries old tradition alive in the tehsil. He was in his nineties and too old to work. His two sons, Samajhdaar Khoji and Zaahirdaar Khoji helped people follow and nab thieves. When Ashraf Bhai and his companions arrived at Diyaanetdaar's house, they were disappointed to learn that Samajhdaar had fallen ill and Zaahirdaar was with the cattle. They rushed to the meadow, found Zaahirdar, told him they had come for his help and asked him to come along. Zaahirdaar obliged.
Arriving at Shareef's house, Zaahirdaar quickly got down to business. His method was meticulous, his movements precise, his gaze observant. Like a predator he touched, smelled and looked for clues left by the thief. It wasn't long before he was able to isolate a set of alien foot prints tranversing the boundry wall. He straightened his back, cleared his throat and asked for everyone's attention:
'Our man here, let's call him Uchakka, is a well built fellow. He's tall, has long, strong legs and can run really fast. He limps with his right leg and this can give him away. He's wearing a Peshawari and his right heel bleeds. He is injured.''You have identified the man well my son, now tell us where did he go. Where do we head from here?' asked Chacha Allah Rakha.
'This shoe he wears is not worn in our Chak anymore. It is too expensive. He came from a place where people who can afford such shoes live. He's a rich man.' came the reply.
'But where do we go now?' 'Be specific, what you tell us is nothing but vague.' All present were more than eager to run after the culprit and nab him and beat him blue. They knew every passing minute was a minute wasted.
But Zaahirdaar would just lead them to the next print and start all over again: the thief was tall, strong, a fast runner, injured in one leg and limping. And he was rich. And someone would tell a story of a similar incident where they had been unable to find the thief and Afeefa would sigh with grief.
It was well past noon now and the congregation had started to thin out. It seemed they would never be able to catch the thief. Ashraf Bhai decided to go and ask Samajhdaar Khoji for his help. Samajhdaar, too ill to go out, told Ashraf to convey a message to Zaahirdaar. Ashraf hurried to the scene, did as he was told and they were able to locate where the prints were headed. The thief was caught and the bag of grains returned to Shareef's wife.
Samajhdaar Khoji asked Ashraf Bhai to tell Zaahirdaar to connect the foot prints. Plain and simple.
Today, a bomb blast makes a foot print in our history, same as the one Uchakka left in the dirt. We analyze it. We look at it from different angles. We try to figure out who did it. Some times we succeed, some times we don't. What we fail to do almost every time is to connect the dots. And if someone does connect the dots, he's busy with his life. And those who care to help, are seldom heard.
Robert Fulgham wrote a book titled 'All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten'.
Why don't we just connect the dots and make a picture as we did when we were young. Why don't we color the picture and take a step back to look at it in its enitirety. Why don't we pay heed to those who've already done that. Is a single dot so beautiful. Is a single foot print so worthy of our attention. Are we afraid of the complete picture?
I guess we're too weak to have the will to survive. And yes we're busy. Busy squandering our resources. And we're too middle class to leave the comfort of our shells and take risks. And we're too consumer to be creative enough to do all the connecting and coloring. It all takes time and effort, and time is what we never have had enough. So many movies to watch, so many songs to listen to, so many softwares to download. So many parties to attend, so many luxuries to live for. And such short life. Who needs to connect the dots.
Kiss our ass good-bye. That's where we're headed. You know it. I know it too. You're okay with it. I guess I am too.
I recently bought a book I would recommend all youth to read. Its 'Itlas e Futuhaat e Islamiyya' (Atlas of Islamic Conquests). Its in Urdu, and the publisher (Darussalam) says the first of its kind in the language.
