A father said to his son, “When Abe Lincoln was your age, he was studying books by the light of the fireplace.” The son replied, “When Lincoln was your age, he was President.”
Electricity is playing hide-and-seek in my area, Orangi Town. A downtrodden town where muhajirs (emigrants from India and Bengladesh) came to live after East Pakistan was severed from West Pakistan, the present Pakistan. So, should I narrate my pathetic living pattern with so religiously consistent commitment or leave it aside and work for improvement in anonymous state?
I need to write on MQM and its role in violence. As an assignment for my niece. Sometimes, literally you fail to comprehend what bugs you. When you want to believe you’ve got everything to live a successful life, again you fall into the trap of self-doubt and shaky confidence in your intelligence and ability to reach for the stars the moment you come across some standards out there and face the fact that life is not fair to you.
I often complain at home that the meal served for basic sustenance doesn’t contain ingredients to nourish body and soul, vitamins and minerals, enough calories to accelerate grooming and increase weight and imrpove health. Poverty is struck so hard in our case we can’t afford high cost of physiotherapy exercises at this stage. But it’s all a matter of owning personal belongings sans care about conferring priviliges to coming generation. We have not reached the stage of generosity at this moment, according to Erikson.
When I requested my sister to save Rs400 from being spent on the futile physiotherapy exercises each time Tauseef comes home for this purpose, she turned down my recommendation and suggested to mind my own business as it was all my father’s money, not mine, being spent on his treatment. And, yes, the treatment is showing effect as my father has started walking on his feet fast and go to the length of visiting my elder brother’s home, which is at some distance from my own home where my father lives with me, my two sisters, one 37 and the other 38, unmarried, and my own mother…my father’s wife who hates my father for marrying him.
What to say now? Writing about daily experiences will not pay dividends in terms of accolade or recommendations of alternative living styles by well-meaning meandering visitors. However, for my own sake till full recovery from depression and anxiety, I must write every day in the diary of blog form, whether somebody cares to read or not.
I also complain of poor memory. I don’t remember anything. Life has always been so cruel in the past few years, sometimes it shows its benign nature and sometimes it strikes hard with some fatal calamity to render a person helpless and senseless.
Age matters. If I now start practising memory tricks for enhancing the cognitive functions which otherwise are on fast decline as a result of lacking nourishment and proper hygienic living pattern–I smoke–maybe I recover and start showing performance like a genius. Am I?
Enough for now. I should relate this account to the why of delay in post on the blog. You must be wondering if Rashid died on 14 because he didn’t post any report of his life on this day.
I didn’t. There was no electricity. GOOD NIGHT!
