Pakistan has always been a home to natural disasters as well as political instability. Since 1947 we have been facing wars, partition, water and food crisis, health issues, terrorism and unstable government.
I always remember my grandmother, when we all were able to shift to our separate homes she still kept her wooden box in her mud house although she had been living with us in a much bigger cemented house. The box contained essential and expensive things like her gold nose pin, a long in Urdu, much heavier and round in size than a common nose pin( we always wondered who would be lucky enough to get this one) and silver ear rings, and I can still smell those dry fruits. I remember a red colored copy (pension copy) and money within it every month; we waited for the copy for whole of the month because it brought ten rupees for all children.
I always insisted my grandmother to shift her box to our place but she refused every time. I was curious about mud house; it had some speciality that our new home didn’t. One day I came to know from my father that they were refugees and a part of land they got was hit by land sliding and their home was gone under the surface. They were helpless, homeless and had no resources; my grandparents hardly managed to live. They raised their three children living with their relatives. My father left his studies and started to earn for his family. At last they had enough to build a house of two rooms; their own home. It was smaller than many houses in the village, they hadn’t enough land to cultivate, they had to sleep without having a meal most of the time but they were still happy to own a home.
My grandmother found nothing more peaceful, lively, beautiful, and protective than that mud house. Her belongings were safer in her home. Nothing was more expensive than her wooden box. Every stone of that house was priceless. She knew that no one could understand her feelings; she never explained her love and attachment with that house, wooden box and even the small unnoticed things.
When she was dead, we all gathered at our home after her funeral. Her wooden box was opened and things were distributed among children and grand children. Wooden box was still sacred and kept at a safe place. Nose pin had lost its charm as we grew up. Kitchens were never deprived of dry fruits. We got more cash than red copy. Even the mud house was turned into plan cultivation and labors were paid.
Her mud house was an example of dedication, hard work, struggle, patience and sacrifice. My father sacrificed his education, my grandmother sacrificed his whole age for her home, and my grandfather sacrificed his youth and spent whole life in struggle. After division of sub-continent every individual sacrificed. We can’t forget their sacrifices just like wooden box, we can get millions from anyone else but ten rupees of red copy are always more special. We can get every kind of product but a Pakistani made is always special. We are the protector and guardian of this country. Everyone is just trying to destroy this country in the name of change, development, fame and aid. We have not achieved MDGs and we creep around democracy and dictatorship. Every year our land is ruined by flood but we are still fighting over dams. Every year many people face food crisis but we are fighting over sects. One simple solution to all these problems is to get rid of personal benefits either it is democracy or dictatorship. Today we are fighting for ordinary things; we cannot lose a special one. Polish the box and save this one as jewels are more protected there.