It was in the seventies, there was no modern Pakistan, he stepped into the American library in Karachi and started reading. He was thirsty and drank knowledge, in a few years he excelled in engineering and moved to the United States. Work, work and just work. He was the only graduate in his family, the only lucky one to get a job abroad and the only breadwinner.

While working, he married Margaret, a white American. Growing up, his house, his car, his bank balance, he went from destination to destination.

Many years later, he returned to Pakistan with his wife today. It was the year 83. Everyone was very happy but the company called back with an important job. Asking his wife to leave Pakistan and return a week later, he left for the United States.

After a long journey of 26 hours, he opened the door of his New York home in the dark of night and lay down on his face to get to work in the morning. He barely set the 6 o’clock alarm.

His eyes opened at 11 o’clock in the morning, he stared at the clock for a long time, he jumped and tried to get out of bed but he did, he could not move himself an inch. He tried to scream in panic but could not make a sound.

Sometime in the night, when he was conquering the world in his dreams, nature approved of something else. He had a stroke and by morning his body, face and all muscles were paralyzed from any movement. His brain was working, but he was having a hard time. Wondering who he is? What’s his name? Wife, children, who are the parents? He was forgetting everything. Losing a memory is like committing suicide in installments. Slowly, slowly, faintly, all the people we call life go away from the mind. They live in the heart, but the heart is a collection of emotions. The brain gives names and attributes to form.

Today was the third day that Mr. Siddiqui was lying in bed. Mobile phones did not exist in those days and even if they did, who were they capable of waving their hands? The phone kept ringing in the house, sometimes the office people would call and sometimes the people in Pakistan would call.

The dead may not have been so helpless that at least they would have been relieved to know that they were dead. What a blessing it is to die today.

On the fourth day, the fifth day and today the sixth day, the postman accidentally saw the door open today and came to greet Mr. Siddiqui that his manners were good and he would always look at the postman and ask how he was.

When the postman saw the body with open eyes but still, he called 911 for emergency. They came and took it away. Siddiqui remained in a coma for the next 9 months. After regaining consciousness, he was transferred to a Haas Pace rehabilitation senator in Kentucky. People were kept here whose only cure was death itself. Days, weeks, months, and years passed.

The wife thought that he had built a house with ‘someone else’ and forgot about it. He also got married somewhere else.

Siblings and relatives felt that the lust for money forced them to break off all relationships.

The father thought that his son was busy with American life and there was no time to take care of his family. He became angry and died a few years later in the same anger.

Mother is mother again, she waited until the last moment that one day her son will come back. He also commanded at the time of his death that when his son came, they would bring him to his grave.

Today is the 33rd year and 4 months of this event. Mr. Siddiqui (no one knows his full name) still can’t speak but can eat and drink a little. For the last few months, a Pakistani named Shahid has been visiting the center. If Shahid had seen them, he would have suspected that they were Pakistanis, but it was difficult to guess by looking at a clean-shaven old man. They could not speak.

Today Mr. Shahid came up with a trick, he took Pakistani chicken biryani from home and put it in front of Mr. Siddiqui.

All eyes were on Mr. Siddiqui’s body, as if he were boiling today. The nurse would slowly put the biryani in the mouth with a spoon, but so many tears would be found in it that it would be difficult to guess whether the amount of rice in the spoon was too much or tears.

These tears were proof that the servant was either Pakistani or Indian. Shahid hugged the patient and they both cried for a long time.

Next 6 months
I Shahid found out who this person is but now 33 years later finding a family was a big problem.

He took pictures of them and posted them on Facebook. Within two weeks, he contacted Mr Siddiqui’s ex-wife and sister.

This week, Mr Siddiqui met his sister at a US hospital. He could not say anything and could not shake hands, yes, but tears are less fortunate to come out in paralysis.

Tonight Shahid was wondering what a man should be proud of. Out of the moving system, nature drove a man out of death for 33 years. He who thought that if he did not work, where would he eat? They fed him for 33 years by sitting him down and lying him down. Just look at yourself. Assess all the diseases that carry with you in your body and if any of them come out, it will not be anywhere, then pride and arrogance become tears.

By admin

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