Broken-Hearts, Dream-Filled eyes

You see them everywhere. You see them on the roadside begging, or in a waste dump collecting worthy trash, or bringing you hot cooked food on a roadside restaurant, or trying to sell you roses or a cheap bouquet at a traffic signal. They are everywhere. All around you. But you fail to cast anything more than a mere fleeting glance at them. Dirty, torn clothes, bare feet, dirty black hands, empty stomachs, cute faces, broken hearts and dream-filled eyes. Poor, homeless, dirty creatures with no past and no future known as the Pakistani children. 7 year old with small dirty hands comes running to ask you if you need a paan after your hearty meal at a restaurant. Hoping that you would give him a rupee for his service. If you look in his pockets, you will find nothing more than twenty rupees for a whole day’s work. But he is happy. Happy to have earned those twenty rupees. He will take them home. A filthy shack by an open gutter line. That is his home for him. There he will have food with his family. Some old leftovers from a restaurant, or probably some bread collected from trash. Everyone will sit together and eat and then he will sleep. Sleep on cold bare earth with no covering. He has a little sister too. She is very young and very cute. He loves her and cares for her. That is why he gives her his own blanket in the night so she would be warm and cozy while he suffers the ruthlessness of the cold. Next day will be another day of hard work, another of day of hunger, and another day of dismay.

If you ever come across such children always look into their eyes. Yellow eyes. Eyes filled with the debris of a thousand broken dreams.
Dreams of kings, dreams of queens. Dreams of fairies, dreams of horses. Dreams of happiness, dreams of laughter. Dreams of joy, dreams of hope. Dreams to get a little more money at work, to be able to buy a new set of clothes for their family. Dreams to be able to taste the same food that they deliver on hungry, empty, growling stomachs. Dreams of love, dreams of hate. Dreams to become the same as the masters they serve. Dreams that can never be fulfilled. Dreams that are meant to be broken. Dreams, which will always be dreams. Just dreams.

If you look at their faces, they will tell you tales. Tales of hunger, tales of death. Tales of violence, tales of disgust. Tales of hard work, tales of puppy love. Tales of girls, tales of abuse. Tales of embarrassment, tales of humiliation. Tales of unimaginable human aggression. Tales of unheard-of human heinousness. Tales of crimes committed against all humanity. Tales of despair. Tales of sleeping on cold bare floors in the strongest of winters.

Tales of burying a small sister beneath six feet of earth. He and his mother had cried and pleaded with the doctors to take a look at his sister who was still alive when they had gotten to the hospital. But he had other arrangements. Far superior arrangements than taking a look at a poor, little sick girl. She was crying very much. His mother was holding her close to her chest. After a while her breathing had started to get heavy. He still remembers her small black eyes. So beautiful. So deep. There was a small tear in her left eye sparkling like the moon. She had looked at him and smiled one last time before the final call came. One hiccup! She fought for breath for a second and then her head fell backwards and her deep black eyes were still forever. He wanted to kill the doctor but he was so overcome with pain that he could not move. It was like a pang of pain had suddenly burst in his heart. He cried like he had never cried before.

Another lad of seven could not even cry because of the severe pain in his anus. A glass of whisky puts the Arab to sleep. But he is awake. Confused and unable to understand what has happened to him. He feels ashamed. As if somebody has stripped him off his dignity in public. His whole body is like one big blister and the pain bites through his bones. He remembers his parents and his small sister. They made him work but they loved him. They loved him. He remembers everyone now. And his small sister. The way she used to give him sweet, wet kisses. The way she used to come and ask him quietly to bring a toffee for her, before he left for work, so that mother would not hear it. The way he used to save money by walking back home from work and buying the toffee from his bus fare. He used to feel so happy after that. She used to run around joyfully showing all her friends that her brother had got her a toffee. He used to wait the whole day just to see the smile on her face. Suddenly there is a pang of pain in his heart. His eyes are filled with water, and the debris of broken dreams finally and painfully washes away. He cannot speak and neither can he cry. Here he lies, with blood trickling down his anus; face down on a bed beside an Arab to whom he was sold. The Arab is asleep, but his whole being is going through throbbing pain.

Rooms with high ceilings and small windows. Rooms with no views. Rooms inside the meat-market. The meat-market. All sort of meat was available here. Rooms where men became men by overpowering the weak for-sale women. Rooms filled with laughter and tears. Rooms filled with light. Rooms where flesh moved. Moved to seduce the customers and make them raise the amount they were wishing to pay. Young girls. Girls with no future and a horrid past. Girls who had a dream. Girls whose innocent cries were subdued by the ecstatic cry of the man. Girls who were just girls. Flashy clothes, sloppy make-up and cheap jewelry. Girls who were meant to be used. Girls who are called randis.

An eight-year-old girl looks horrifyingly at the person standing in front of her. Her one hand is tied to a pole and the other one is tied to a wooden hump. The man stands in front of her ready to perform the horrible act. She is trembling with fear. Her small form starts to shake violently with fear. She tries to protest but at the same instant the man raises his hand, there is a brief flash of steel and the clever comes down hard striking the girls hand on the wooden hump. There is loud thud and the hand falls to the floor. The girl is shocked at the sight of red blood sprouting out of her arm. This is too much for her and she faints because of pain, shock and loss of blood. There. The deed is done. Another impressive beggar is created successfully in the sovereign state of Pakistan.

Young girls. Beautiful girls. Girls kidnapped from the Northern part of Pakistan. Girls who resemble fairies who used to descend upon the Lake Saiful-Muluk hundreds of years ago. Girls with brown hair, white skin, green eyes and well developed bodies. They will be sold to politicians and high-ranking officials so they could make important decisions for the country once their frustration was all gone. They will be sold in the meat market. They will be sold to wealthy Arabs so they could, add them to their harem and make use of them any time they want a little flavor of Pakistan. Girls with simple faces and innocent dreams. Dreams of valleys, dreams of herds. Dreams of rivers, dreams of riverbanks. Dreams of moonlit nights and dreams of snowy days. Dreams of simple, urban festivals and dreams of marriages. Dreams to listen once again to the song created by the bells hanging in the neck of the cattle. Dreams to be free. Free like the wind. Dreams to listen to the sound of the flowing river. Dreams to catch the wind. Dreams to go back. Back to their awaiting families. Back to their lush green valleys and back to their tall mountains. Back to the village called home. Where there is a tree right in front of her house. Where she can see the sun rise behind the mountains and set behind the hills. Where there is love amongst everyone. Where there is everything. Back to that heaven on earth. Away from this meat-market. Away from this hellhole. Away from this cruelty and away from this aggression. Back. Back to the village called home.