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LIVING in unhappy times as we do, the landscape of Pakistan often looks formidably backward and resistant to change. With the news full of shocking stories of violence and retrogression, it’s easy to become hardened and cynical.
But occasionally, the reverse also occurs, so I’m concerned with presenting today an example of shining good: for the past several years, I have from close quarters been watching unfold, in its own very modest way, a story of liberalism, tolerance and progressiveness.
There has been a new twist to that story recently, which takes it to a level where I cannot help but record it, for certainly it will make no headlines or be found flashing across the bar on your television screens.
This story will make no headlines and will not flash on TV screens.
There is a man I know who has worked for most of his life as a chowkidar in Karachi. Now in his 50s, he was born in a village in interior Sindh to a peasant who died in poverty.
He never received an education, but has taught himself to read Sindhi to the extent that he can scan the newspaper, which he does religiously.
He says that he was married young — in his early 20s he thinks — to a girl from his village. The couple remained issueless for many years.
Eventually, two daughters were born to this gentleman. His wife wanted more children, but he was reluctant, he tells me, because he felt strongly that a man should only bring into this world what he is capable of supporting — a fairly unusual stance in this country of 180 million people where fatalism often leads men and women to live in the present and let the future take care of itself any way it will.
The chowkidar was widowed early in life, and he never remarried, preferring instead to devote his energies to his daughters. They both started going to school when the time arrived, and this is where his story diverges quite significantly from the ones we have become used to.
He tells me that he saved money and managed to acquire a small plot of land in his village. He misses the rhythms of the agrarian life to which he grew up; decades of life in Karachi haven’t yet accustomed him to noise and smog.
In the early years after his wife’s death he had planned to return to the village and grow for his own kitchen.
But, as the daughters were growing older, he realised that returning to his roots would deprive them not just of a good education, but also an easily accessible one: the area where he is based in Karachi has several schooling options for the economically underprivileged, and many within comfortable walking distance.
This, he says, was key: not just did he want his daughters to go to school, he wanted them in a school where he could drop them off and pick them up himself or have someone he trusted do that.
These girls are both much older, now, and I know them well. One has graduated from college and found a job as a schoolteacher at a branch of one of the major education franchises in the country; she borrows Georgette Heyer and Harry Potter books from me.
But she has little spare time because after work she earns extra by giving tuitions to some of the children whose parents work as domestic help in this affluent area. The younger wants to become a doctor, and her father says that she will. The family all continues to live in the quarter provided by his employers.
I tuned to this admirable example of doing one’s best by one’s children when the chowkidar, having known me a while, wanted to discuss their marriages. He confided that there was great pressure on him from the rest of the family, especially his mother-in-law (who lives with him), to have the daughters ‘settle’ down, as they say in Pakistan.
He was resisting; he felt they should have jobs and their own incomes, before they became financially tied or dependent on a husband.
Especially given the context of the sort of stories about the treatment meted out to girls by their fathers that are so woefully often in the news here in Pakistan, this story would certainly mark him as a saint amongst men. And yet, it gets better.
The elder daughter recently participated in a lucky draw contest organised by a large corporate entity. I might not be the only cynic who has wondered, on occasion, whether these things are scams and if the big win really does go to some randomly selected participant.
But, this girl won it — a prize equalling Rs1 million. And, more importantly, she has already been given the receivables (after tax deductions).
Call it karma, call it fate or good fortune — but certainly, it is justice in a world that often doesn’t see any.
The writer is a member of staff.
Published in Dawn, June 6th, 2016
