Falsa, Jaman Aur ’Phole’ Sey Bachey

It’s after midnight and we are thrown out of an ice
cream parlor in Clifton. We head towards the parking
lot, joking and laughing amongst ourselves. We had
all wondered about the new Falsa stick inside. I had
gone to the counter and bought the lesser expensive
Jaman stick after our main course. I returned to the
table and was able to successfully pass it off as a
Falsa stick to everyone (they were both the same
’mela sa’ dark color once you threw away the wrapper).

Mujhey (lajha lajha kai) khaTa Deekh kar, aik sahib kou
baRa josh chaRdha. He got up to actually buy the Falsa
stick. Before he reached the counter, everybody at the
table was in on the switch. He returned to the table,
licking his Falsa stick. Mou basoorTey hoey he said,
"Yaaar, yea Tou baRi khaTTi hai!" . I said, "Acha ?, meri
Tou nahi hai" . The table broke out in uncontrollable giggles.

I asked him to taste my Jaman. Ussey chakh kar he goes
"Yar, Tumhari achii hai!". We howled. He didn’t suspect
anything yet and the more bewildered he got, "Kiya ho
gaya ?, kiyouN huss rahey ho ?" , the funnier it seemed
to us. Sonay pay sohaga he was able to drip some of that
Falsa stick on his brand new suit, "BaiRa gharak yaar!
this stick SUCKS!" . Everybody now roared.

As we made our way to the car, we began explaining the
Folger’s Crystal Switch to him and instead of directing
his ire at the Falsa, he is now getting mad at all of
us . As we load up into the car and are ready to drive
off, with him crying "Yar Tum log baRay zaleel ho!...",
I hear the sweetest, cutest lil voice:

"Pool laylo".

It came out as "Poo laylo". I look to my right and there
is the prettiest, gayest, cutest little Afghan girl standing
on her tippy-toes, so she could present a rosebud encased
in a plastic wrap towards me. She had been rebuffed all
day long, maybe cursed by angry motorists. But her innocence
had survived yet another Karachi day. She hadn’t become a
cynic yet. She wasn’t bitter, or resentful. Atleast it did
not show. She was trying, putting forth her best cheery
smile and looking at the world through hopeful doe eyes.

She was wearing a boy’s drab gray khaDDi shalwar kameez
and no shoes. The dainty little feet were covered in dirt,
except for her toenails, which were painted bright red.

She belonged in a mahal. A Mohd. Ali-Zeba movie where the
children get to celebrate their birthdays like 4th of July’s.
To see her standing in that stark parking lot, devoid of
basic necessities, it seemed a cruel joke of nature. Why
couldn’t she have changed places with one of the many brats
who live in the lap of luxury ?. Failing that, how about
just a regular mom and dad, who would love her and care for
her at this tender age ?. Who had decided that she belonged
barefoot, beech bazzar kai, unescorted at that hour ?.

I took the rose and smelled it. "Iss meiN Tou koi khushboo
hee nai hai" . She snatched it from me and mimicked my smelling
of her flower. "Hai! hai!", she said, offerring it
encouragingly to me again. I smelled it once more, looked at
her expectant face and said "HaaaaN!, ab hai". She beamed.

As I was pulling out the change, her bro appeared outta nowhere
thrusting his wilted rose in front of his sister’s. I secured
the money in her little palm (when really I wished to pick
her up and give her the world).

As I drove off, with the rosebud on my dashboard, I saw her
brother chasing her all over the parking lot for the money.
She was running for dear life, in circles, laughing and crying
outloud and in that moment, they were like any other bro and sis,
far removed from their reality and it suddenly felt as if the
heavens had opened up, showering us with cool breezes and
sweet smelling flowers, from above.

Someone up there, knows.


----------
The Director of Afghan Women Refugees in Peshawar was on PTV
last week. She explained how her father had been a governer
of an Afghan province before the wars. They lived carefree lives.
But war came and they ended up as orphans in Peshawar and had
to learn how to sew clothes as little girls to put food on the
table.

She said she and her sisters would stay-up day and night, to
complete orders. Their youth was spent doing adult chores. Tears
began to well up uncontrollably from her eyes, as she recalled
those years. Today she is sitting in a big leather chair, but
zara sa khurcho Tou inside she is forever that little girl,
carrying the battle scars of wars that she fought, on this
side of the border.
i.