The other evening, I was sitting with a friend at a roadside tea stall in Karachi, sipping gurr-coloured milky sugary tea in a cheap glass tumbler and watching rickshaws and trucks pass by. My friend is an educated fellow with well-manicured hands, which reflects his refined nature. Taking a pause from his exasperated monologue about job worries, he looked into my eyes and asked, “Do you know what I do whenever I am in some sort of quandary?”
I was puzzled.
He took a deep breath and said, “I sit in a quiet corner of my house, close my eyes and let the disturbing thoughts settle down. After a while, I think of my father and assume that he is still alive. I seek his guidance. I contemplate: if he were alive, what would he advise? It is no more a surprise that I can soon feel him near me.” Continued…
Story: Fathers and sons by Irfan Javed http://ow.ly/hmSAw