Much has been made in the media about the distribution of free laptops to ‘deserving’ students by the Punjab government. Public opinion is divided over the need for and the fairness (read transparency) of the process of selection along with a significant rumble about the cost of the dole out.
In Pakistan today, wealth is as plentiful as misery. If governments wish to make a difference, I believe they can. Empowerment, however, in my book, has more to do with honest labour than with dole outs. As for the benefactors, one has watched the rise, fall and rise of the Sharifs with interest. Many years ago, as a concerned citizen, one had on occasion met Mian Nawaz Sharif and discussed issues concerning culture, education and the role that women can play in government. A much younger, slimmer and dashingly clad Mian Sahib sporting a crimson pashmina scarf over a crisp shalwar kameez would drive himself to select dinners, sit politely through harangues and debates, laughing off even the most audaciously provocative statements by detractors. The younger brother; though less of a social charmer and more of a no nonsense man, distinguished himself with a rapacious curiosity for innovation. Both partnered each other well, offsetting each other’s weaknesses while capitalising on mutual strengths.
Much water, as they say, has flown under the bridge since those halcyon days of the Punjab. We now live in increasingly troubled times with few, if any signs of improvement in our daily lives. The fortunate small minority still employed finds its take-home cache depleted daily by the impact of sky rocketing rates for electricity, petrol, and across the board inflation. Interest rates having plummeted, pensioners face depleted returns on their savings while the number of unemployed continues to swell to tidal proportions.
It is good news that the Punjab government is investing heavily in the sports sector. A good workout on the field offers temporary respite from perpetual angst, but my cynicism notwithstanding, no amount of state sponsored football playing could keep the Tunisian spring from blooming! It is reminiscent of schemes such as giving away sewing machines at the drop of a hat (stitch!), without finding a market for sale of products; purchasing the best electrical machines for the cutting and grinding of quarried marble in an area without electricity connections; and buying railway carriages too broad for our station platforms. The free distribution of laptops also falls into the category of poorly thought out schemes by federal and provincial governments. In the first instance, the lucky recipients are a drop in the huge sea of unemployed youth struggling to survive. Secondly, the only positive fallout is the possible impact on vote banks in the next election; but litigation is already afoot with reference to the funds spent by the Punjab University for the organisation of the award ceremony.
My take on this is purely personal and unapologetically brutal. I believe that in life, there is no such thing as a free lunch. This I was taught at an early age in a household marked by its warmth and hospitality as much as it was for its simplicity and dignity. Hand me downs scrupulously freshened and tidied up for the next season meant that the boys were at the receiving end of an assembly line of clothes, uniforms, books and other paraphernalia playing a constant game of musical chairs. Being the only female among the children, one was privileged to receive a new wardrobe every season much to the feigned resentment of the male siblings. For us therefore, Eid was like a true Christmas. Each one, accompanied by the tactile joy and smell of mint fresh ten rupee notes, shiny, squeaky new shoes, made to measure clothes, and a lunch fit for kings, was celebrated with an innocence that is now a distant memory.
The domestic colony of servants that resided on the premises would present their scab-kneed, oil-slicked, kajal-laden, snot-free progeny for inspection and eidee with wide beams of pleasure matched only by the depth of the furrows on mother’s forehead as she counted the number of fresh additions to each family. The gardener’s seventh attempt at a male child being thwarted yet again and the cook’s brood of six, boasting still more expansive waistlines, were met with warm smiles for the children and strict warnings to the temporarily shamefaced fathers. The postman and milkman distanced themselves from the horde by positioning themselves outside the library door. These were ‘professional’ service providers and not mere servants! All however, would lunch together, seated under the soft shade provided by the expansive front verandah, the children bolting their food even as they chafed at the chance to shed their heel-pinching boots for a game of barefoot cricket on the main lawns.
The only free lunches in my memory were these bi-annual affairs. The rest of the year, everyone, including the children, got only what they worked for. Raking leaves, fetching firewood, milking cows, planting the kitchen garden were chores that were paid for, albeit tiny amounts by today’s standards, but enough for a finger-lickingly icy kulfi or a pack of roasted grams to be devoured while seated under colossal jaaman trees.
(To be continued)
The writer is Academic Advisor Lahore Grammar School and can be reached at [email protected]