It was a bright morning, sunny yet cloudy the rare may mornings in Karachi... As I glimpsed from my window to the sky upwards just for a second or less may be, it was blue- clear blue with floating clouds hiding sun.... it was beautiful!
The van was late this morning and to get ahead with the running minutes our driver decided to take the M. A. Jinnah Road route instead of the usual Stadium Road bend to Karsaz. I groaned slightly at this alteration I don’t agree with our driver, that route is more polluted and takes almost the same time.
But nearly every time it has given me something to think, something to ponder... either be it my old school dear S.T. Patrick’s (with delight), my childhood, sometimes the traffic sometimes the bazaars of Sadder, the painting of Frere Hall, and much more, every time I went there Sadder seems like a town out of the Alif Laila... my Alif Laila!
I was unaware what the other bend in the road might bring along. As we took a turn around the little roundabout at diagonals with Mazar-e-Quaid heading towards Sadder my gaze went up to the doom of the mausoleum.
The van was late this morning and to get ahead with the running minutes our driver decided to take the M. A. Jinnah Road route instead of the usual Stadium Road bend to Karsaz. I groaned slightly at this alteration I don’t agree with our driver, that route is more polluted and takes almost the same time.
But nearly every time it has given me something to think, something to ponder... either be it my old school dear S.T. Patrick’s (with delight), my childhood, sometimes the traffic sometimes the bazaars of Sadder, the painting of Frere Hall, and much more, every time I went there Sadder seems like a town out of the Alif Laila... my Alif Laila!
I was unaware what the other bend in the road might bring along. As we took a turn around the little roundabout at diagonals with Mazar-e-Quaid heading towards Sadder my gaze went up to the doom of the mausoleum.
It sounded distant yet gloomy, sort of sad I thought can buildings be sad yes may be they could, the once marble white tomb now gray with the impurities of the air defiantly looked wistful, it wasn’t just the doom, the beautiful and majestic garden, the graceful trees bending low seemed bend with a sort of weight just like the weight of conscience, that doesn’t shows up but bends and wrinkle the bearer with passing time! These trees just like the doom have witnessed more than a 50 years pass by! May be, I thought, may be all of them share the Quaid’s sadness at seeing his nation grown up but still so weak. As we passed the last grill faring the garden from the footpath I saw thick clouds of smoke wafting from a old overflowing dumpster filled with garbage…. Just in neighborhood of the Quaid’s resting place… what a shame I sighed…
