The Riverbank

A thick mist surrounds the river. The riverbank is covered by grass, and tall dark trees make the atmosphere look grim, gloomy and dark. Mahmood sits silently in the boat, which is still as there is hardly any current. He rubs his eyes and looks towards the gloomy riverbank. He has known for ages that his lifelong quest shall sooner or later lead him to that very riverbank: the riverbank for the “Hopeless”, from where there is no return. The boat is a very old one and it makes those creepy creaking sounds that would make anyone shudder in a dark night. A cloak of gray mist surrounds him. The boat gives another lurch. Its color is long gone, and the wood is chipping off in a thousand places. It just has one broken oar with which Mahmood has managed to make it come this far. Anxiety furrows his brow. He has reached a decisive phase in his life. He cannot go on the way he has thus far come. He has the ability. He has courage. He has the will to make a change. To make a difference. He has everything but the gold. But that should not be a problem. Gold is not everything, he has told himself time and again. It requires more than just gold to make a difference and to pave a way for yourself in the world. Foolish! Utterly foolish! Anyhow, Mahmood yawns. The journey has tired him. But he knows that there are still more hardships to come. This thought revives his flagging courage. His heart beats faster. There is a knot in his stomach.

Suddenly Mahmood hears some voices on the riverbank. At first he sees nothing. Then the faces begin to appear: gray faces, faces with twisted mouths filled with paan, lips and beards smeared with red, and chewed particles flying everywhere. Faces with long beards and caps of various colors, legs with hitched–up shalwars showing the feet. Mahmood looks at them as they file past him. And then all of a sudden everything started to make sense. The speed of the scenes slows down and now he can even hear voices. Loud and angry voices. Light pleasing laughs. Angry accusations!

“ You do not qualify for a scholarship!”

“But sir I have the best result in Karachi.”

“As if I care! What does your father do?”

“He died sir.”

“What good is a dead man to me? Can he give me what I want? Can your dead father bring me five lakh rupees? Are you a son of the soil or son of an industrialist, even a dead one? What are you? Just a good student? Who cares! In Pakistan there is no place for a good student. We give scholarships to people who can give us something in return. Not idiotic beggars like you.”

The scene changes and Mahmood sees a heavyset Maulvi with a big beard talking to a young boy.

“We are the people of Allah! We do not do propagate evil. We do not ask for anything. But our Madrassah cannot help you, unless you decide to be a soldier of Allah and give yourself entirely to our cause . For that you need a beard, a huge Kurta, a Shalwar, and a gun. Hold it, I forgot! Do you have some money? I have been in need of an AC since the last two days. The last one got bad and I had to throw it away. In our Madrassah, our well wishers pay the telephone and electricity bills, buy us cars and give us money. That is what you have to

do to come in our good books. We cannot sacrifice our own comfort for others.”

He hears the cries of a fifteen-year-old girl being raped by four persons expressly ordered to do so by a court. By a panchayat. Long live people’s democracy!

Mahmood keeps hearing such sounds, one after the other. Each one more revolting than the preceding one. After a while everything becomes quiet on the riverbank. The gray mist thickens and it gets a little chilly also, but that worries Mahmood not now as he is in deep thought.

Is this the future that awaits me? So dark and so horribly ugly and bestial. Do I even have the courage to take the first step? Can I even lead a sane life in Pakistan? What will I do? Try to apply to a university for an admission? Which university? Karachi University? Huh! The ugliest place in Karachi, where 17 grade officers sell false B.Sc. degrees and still manage to get away. A place where everyone from the lowest to the highest is concerned with keeping his chair. A cesspool. A land where there is no place for a poor boy like him. A place where political gangs sell fake marksheets to third-raters who take the places that should go by rights to those with good grades. A place which feeds on the blood of the poor and gives back the produce to the rich. Can he apply to other private universities? But scholarships and financial assistance are given to students whose fathers are rolling in money and can afford to pay the fees very easily. A bunch of bloodsuckers which offers nothing but takes away everything.

His thought turns to the Madrassahs and his mind’s eye conjures up images of bestiality, torture and filth. Sickening places where brown bodies clad in white rock back and forth in unison like a mindless orchestra conducted by the mullah with his stick and big beard. The sadism inculcated in him by his teachers oozes out of his whole being to wreak vengeance on the hapless children: he hits them without cause or orders them to come to his room after hours for special studies. Then another scene assails his memory: an arms dump in an underground room in a madrassah guarded by a fully armed mullah. Places of pious Islamic learning now converted into arsenals! A rich booty for restless fingers, which find solace and hope of salvation in the hard touch of the trigger.

Pakistan! The land of the pure! The land that is only for the son of the soil! The land for Muslims now a graveyard for the living. No sense of education. Fat cats getting degrees without ever entering a classroom only because they can hugely bribe the powers that be to pass them. A place where politicians seek the help of Vice Chancellors to get them a false degree so they can stay in power. Not everyone is as honest as Mr. Gauhar Ayub. I am a part of the land where the religious scholars have never done anything better than to misguide the ordinary people especially the youth and turn them into utter morons. Disgusting! I am one of the Pakistani people who disowned Dr. Adbul-Salam only because he was Qadiyani. The giant went in the Nobel Prize ceremony wearing a black sherwani, khusa, and a pagri. The national dress of Pakistan. Yet he was shunned and banished! He could not establish his center for physics in Pakistan and had to take it to Trieste, because the bearded bigots feared it. Scientific education would definitely undermine their absolutely fiendish power.

Mahmood felt as if he was choking. Choking in the polluted environment of our society. A society made up of hypocrites! Utterly foolish society. A society where the poor wants to study but cannot because the rich who do not want to study fill up their places at important universities just to find new girls/guys, hang out, turn into the likes of western teenagers, and do everything else but study. So what will a teenager of his age and his ability be able to do in such a polluted and twisted environment? Nothing! Nothing at all!

Suddenly, a ray of light shatters the mist around Mahmood. He looks towards his left and sees the other riverbank starting to lighten up with the rays of the sun. He had not paid any attention to the other bank since he was here. Now he sees a beautiful garden with colored flowers and lush green grass. A couple of beautiful perfectly trim trees are heavily laden with fruit and birds. Again he hears a lot of voices and a lot of faces start to go by. Then as suddenly as the other event had started to slow down this one also started to make sense and he could hear loud voices. Voices which were very comforting. He kept on hearing everything; and his nerves started to calm down. And he started to think again.

The west! The land of opportunities! The land for everyone. Where everyone has a born right to education, a healthy and comfortable life, and a stress-free atmosphere. Where qualification and ability is the only requirement to get into a good university. Where no one points a finger at you and asks you whether you are the son of the soil or not. Where there are no mullahs and no madrassahs. Children have a right to choose instead of being made to choose. A land where there is no Nawaz Sharif, no Benazir Bhutto and no Asif Ali Zardari. Asif Ali Zardari! Why has he been given an “A” class jail when people who have done lesser things than him are being put in dungeons and given bread of sand-loaded flour to eat. He gets a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label every week if not every day. And probably chicken too. Every day. Prostitutes would be making a fortune out of him. Well, God provides for everyone. Every government office to help you pay your utility bills. The west, where the roads are not cleaned only when a general comes to town, but are cleaned for the general public only. A place where doctors try to save and not kill. A place where a poor black man has the same rights as the white man. Heaven on earth.

Mahmood looks at both riverbanks and then shakes his head. He has been living in a dream. A dream to turn his country into the best in the world. A dream to set out and make a difference. A dream to be successful in Pakistan.

No dice!

He carefully stands up, stretches, and looks in the direction of the well-lit riverbank. He sees a bunch of people all smiling and welcoming him. He picks up his small bag and jumps onto the riverbank. He is greeted and warmly welcomed. At last his dreams will come true. At last he is in the right place. Far from the madding crowd. Far from the corrupt society, and far from dismay. Far. Very very Far.

Mahmood turns around and casts a fleeting look on the other side and sees hundreds of young people caught in the whirlpool of distress, dismay and chaos. His heart fills with gratitude to good God. He heaves a sigh of relief and starts to walk the other way to lights and laughter.