I WANTED to put a noose round my neck not because my car tyre burst on the way from the Karachi airport to my house in the midday sun, and that I wanted to reach home as soon as possible after my two-week holiday in Islamabad (the reason being that I generally avoid using washrooms during flights). Neither did the malfunctioning of geyser or the refusal of my refrigerator to cool things the same evening inspire me to resort to such a drastic attempt. The reason I wanted to hang myself from the ceiling fan was well thought out and spanned the four years of my taking to freelance writing.
When I finally decided to take up freelance writing for a living, despite offers of well-paid jobs, I felt elated. For me, it was royal to sit at home and write, and send my documents through e-mail without ever visiting newspaper offices, except for friendly chats. I knew I would be working a lot more as compared to working in an office. I believed that when you worked for an office, you sold your time; but as a freelance writer, you were selling your potential. Being a workaholic, I enjoyed the bargain.
After a week or so, I started hearing bells ringing all around me. My mind would form a sentence describing the beauty of a painting or a sweet wrap for bitter criticism and the doorbell would ring, jolting me out of my fantasy world. I would rush to the door only to find nobody there or a courier with a petty leaflet announcing an exhibition of some designer’s jewellry. There could also be a milkman advertising his product without any adulteration for Rs22 per kg, against the ongoing market rate of Rs23 per kg. With experience, I learnt to expect a youngster calling for a mate to complete his cricket team; a burqa-clad woman seeking a job; somebody who wanted to know where Mr so-and-so lived; a salesman selling floor scrubs that could remove stains even from the Moon, only if he could go there; and mostly nobody because the boy from the top floor came down like a hurricane, touching the wall where my doorbell just happened to be; and a very old lady crawling up the stairs who unknowingly put her hand on my doorbell for support.
A recent addition included an anti-polio vaccination team looking for infants (I offered myself for vaccination, being the youngest in the family). Think of anybody unthinkable and I would find him/her ringing my doorbell! Sometimes, the bell would ring after every 10 minutes. I would have hardly settled down in my chair, trying to collect my thoughts, forgetting my nerves, pointing my fingers towards the keyboard, and there it was again.
Now, I understood what a renowned storywriter meant when she envied my colleagues and myself years back, showing astonishment at how we could write with so much noise, phone calls and visitors pouring in. She said that she sat down to write after everybody had left the house because she wanted pin-drop silence.
The immediate cause of hanging myself was the ringing of the doorbell after every seven minutes. When I told the unwanted visitor that I did not know where Mr Ali Quli Khan lived, he asked me to get him a glass of water. I told him politely that my refrigerator was out of order so there was no question of cold water. Nor was there any tepid water because the pumping machine broke down yesterday, and there was no running water in taps as well. My conscience did not permit me to install a tank for water in my bathroom for reasons unknown to me even. As luck would have it, my husband as a matter of right, took the last bottle of water with him when he left for work. I was also thirsty and if he did not mind, he could accompany me to fetch a pail of water from the mosque across the road.
He left with a strange expression on his face and a funny look in his eyes, providing me the reason and opportunity to hang myself to death. But wait, is that the bell ringing again? This time it is not the front door, but the phone. I will have to postpone the assignment. It could be a call from the Heaven.
I WANTED to put a noose round my neck not because my car tyre burst on the way from the Karachi airport to my house in the midday sun, and that I wanted to reach home as soon as possible after my two-week holiday in Islamabad (the reason being that I generally avoid using washrooms during flights). Neither did the malfunctioning of geyser or the refusal of my refrigerator to cool things the same evening inspire me to resort to such a drastic attempt. The reason I wanted to hang myself from the ceiling fan was well thought out and spanned the four years of my taking to freelance writing.
