It happened way back in 1955, in those days most of the roads in Sindh and Punjab were narrow and bricklined. Travelling on these roads, dotted with potholes and long stretches of powdery dust was a night mare, with the slightest ripple of wind or the passage of even a horse drawn cart, the dust plumed up into a thick choking cloud, hiding the track and turning the world into an oven hot pale brown void. There were no roadside restaurants or workshops and only a few petrolpumps about 100 miles apart. The only telephone facility was in a few big cities. The white malmal cloth wrapped around his face and head was soaking wet with perspiration and had turned soggy brown with the coating of mud. After every half an hour, he would stop, readjust the cloth for easier breathing and then ride along. Many a times he thought of giving it up, how easy would it be to just turn around and head back to home. But he would not give up, he would rather die, alone and uncared for on this parched dusty earth rather than turn back and face his father. It had all started about 3 months back, when one day, he walked upto his father who was busy reassembling the carbeurattor of his 1948 Ford, and told him that he wanted to ride his newly purchased CZ 150cc motorbike to some far off place, just to test his skills a well as the endurance of his machine. His father, took his time in screwing down the high speed jet, fixed the float of the carbeurattor, looked up and saw a tall gangly boy, eager to prove to the world that he was now a man. His father, wise in the ways of the world advised him against it. But the son, had just turned twenty and was filled with the confidence that comes when you feel that you can grab the world by the tail and spin it the way you like. The end result was that his father dared him to go all the way to their village if he had the guts to do it. It was past midday and he was feeling hungry, he spied a clump of trees and rode up to the cool and welcoming shade. He got off the bike, letting it idle for sometime and cool down before switching it off. He then noticed the Khala ( small water channel for irrigating the crops). He took off his clothes lay down in the small stream and let his body soak in the heavenly coolness. After lunching on paratha and omelete, lovingly cooked and packed by his mother, he cleaned his motorbike with a rag, dusted the air cleaner filter, inflated the rear wheel with a hand pump, topped the fuel tank from the spare can and saying goodbye to the parrots and doves chirping on the trees he started off. He reached his village after 3 days and two nights of nerve wracking ride during which he escaped an attempt by the dacoits to loot him, applied countless punctures to the motorcycle tubes, repaired a broken driving chain, rode through dust storms and rain, but he finally did what he had promised his father. This is one of the incidents in the life of the man called Munir Hasan - my elder brother whom I love and respect just like my father.
Posted on: Fri, 25 Oct 2013 06:21:43 +0000
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