June 30, 2005

Enjoying life’s luxuries at my cousin’s mansion in Defence and being taken by my relatives and friends to elite hotels and clubs during my visit to Pakistan, I was beginning to get an impression that the country was no longer poor, and that the quality of life was now even better than some parts of America and Europe.

This thought had become obvious after seeing people living in large, ostentatious houses, many of whom had armed guards. The illusion was cleared very quickly when my family went to Golimar. Our cousin’s chauffeur had invited us to his place for lunch. It was a modest home and he hardly managed to make both ends meet with his salary.

When we were coming out of his house, we saw an adjoining building. It was a shabby, dilapidated structure with small cell-like rooms and a common balcony visible from the outside. The complex reminded me of the remains of America’s notorius Alcatraz prison.

The chaffeur, on my asking, led me to the second floor of the building where a friend of his resided. The friend opened the door hearing the knock and invited us in. He was wearing old and frayed clothes.

He lived in a one-room apartment with his family. His wife was constantly coughing. On a table there were a few medicine bottles. I looked at an expectorant and when I read its label, I found that it had expired three months ago.

The man’s 13-year-old daughter was washing dishes with not very clean water in a bucket. The corner where she was standing in was used as the kitchen area. His 11-year-old-son was reading a history book and the page he was reading was about the Pakistan movement.

Looking closely at the room, I could see that the walls badly needed to be painted and the doors and windows were in need of repair. In the oppresive May heat they didn’t even have a small fan.

The head of this household was a labourer working at a factory and his meagre wage lasted not more than two weeks. The chaffeur pointed out that a majority of the country’s people lived under such conditions.

On a visit to Thatta a few days later, I stopped at a village which had small mud houses.The residents were busy doing their routine chores. A young man offered me tea. I asked him whether he owned a piece of land and if he lived a happy life. He shook his head and said, “We dont have any as Chaudhry Habib owns the land. We just work on the farms. All those who work are paid Rs 50 per day and have to work from dawn to dusk.

“Our children generally do not go to school. One of our village’s maulvi teaches them to read the Quran and basic Urdu. We have no electricity and use kerosene lamps.”

I felt that I had to meet Chaudhry Habib and asked the villager where his house was. He lived in a bungalow in Thatta. Arriving there, I located the bungalow with some difficulty, but couldn’t meet him as he, along with his family, had gone to Murree to spend the summer months in a cool environ.

What a difference in the lifestyles of the poor people and those living in posh localities. Such a wide chasm between the haves and the have-nots was painful to see.

How can poverty be alleviated in our country? This question kept bugging me. At a dinner I was introduced to a construction company owner and finding an opportunity I popped up the question.

“Look here, my friend,” he said. “We are all doing what we can, giving donations to charitable organizations, paying zakat, looking after the needs of our employees, but the poor actually do not want to get out of their situation. If they were bothered, they would’nt be having so many children. And why do they indulge in intoxication and crimes?” he asked in return.

I was left flabbergasted to say the least. His little speech seemed to explain everything. It also made it very clear the kind of nation we have become.

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