Youth matters

Listening to a radio show last evening themed on the Pakistani youth I got flashes of the legions of youngsters that I come across every now and then in different job interview spots, waiting for their turns to be interviewed and grab whatever chances they are offered to be employed.
The glimpse that I mentioned above, to my knowledge, have multiple reasons behind it. There is an abundance of the talented graduates who have cropped out of the system but they cannot be absorbed in the job market accordingly. Graduates having studied subjects like literature in different languages, Islamic Studies and even social sciences to some extent aren’t accepted into the fold of companies rendering professional services. If they can’t be fitted into any of the professional organizations then why are they graduated in the first place? or why isn’t there something where they can be readily accepted to mature and groom?
The second mix of the individuals represent the higher numbers and can be found at most of the interview locations. Most of them serve in different capacities but aren’t satisfied with their present jobs most obviously due to their low remuneration packages against the ever increasing inflation. This portrays a darker picture of our failing economic system.
The last component of the desirers are the most unfortunate; the unemployed professional degree holders. They are the cream of our youth who are waiting to be given a chance to prove their mettle and if given proper opportunities they can prove the more uttered and less cared adage of our leaders, “ youth are the backbone of the nation “. I’ve rarely seen a job advertisement where there isn’t a demand of an individual without the column of ‘the professional experience’. How the hell would they acquire it when you aren’t ready to get them in?
While coming across the budding talent of Pakistani youth can be a source of pure contentment for an optimist one cannot deny the fact that our youth is fast disenchanting from the national matters courtesy their ill handling in our society. Brain drain is on rampant. There are serious issues to ponder on part of our policy makers lest we would be devoid of our hopes.
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our stony hearts

But the reservoir
of our mutual understanding
didn’t grow cold
overnight. Yes!
It was a gradual decline
like a building catching rust,
and with a weakening base
bowing down brick by brick
into the ground.
Our souls; the erstwhile uniting force
are no more there for bondage
when the hearts turned into bricks.
It is but impossible
to lure back the departed warmth,
and we have to tread
our own cold paths
albeit unwillingly.

The Donor

It was a prominent private hospital where people from every nook and corner of the country would come to seek cure of their ailments. The news of Mr. Abdullah’s kidney transplant surgery spread in the area like a wild fire.

On the day of the operation the hospital was filled to the full by a multitude of people, notwithstanding the efforts of the security personnel to check their inflow. A complete disorder prevailed in the hospital. Relatives, intimate friends, acquaintances and business colleagues of Mr. Abdullah rushed towards him to embrace, hug and encourage him not to lose heart just when he was heading from ward towards the operation theater.

“Don’t worry man! its just a matter of minutes and you know Dr. Tariq’s a genius in such sort of surgeries” A friend tried to encourage a paling Mr. Abdullah who was further disturbed by a paging voice coming out of the roof right above his head.

“Patient Abdullah and the donor Ghulam Akber are requested to report in the operation room.”

Hearing his name the donor Ghulam Akber; a young man of around 40 bolted in to the operation theater while Mr. Abdullah was still engaged with a throng of his near ones. The repeated announcements made Mr. Abdullah move towards the operation theater albeit unwillingly.

It was a long operation. Most of the visitors left, some rambled in front of the operation theater while the others divided into groups sat outside in the lawn busy in conversations and the topic of their conversations being Mr. Abdullah.

“Alas! how serious ailment in such a tender age!” exclaimed one and the other responded, “ I’m really worried about his business!”

Another group which comprised mostly of his employees were awestruck by the architecture of the hospital. “Look at this building! how beautiful it is! I’m not feeling like going back home!”

Chup sha, bewaqoofa! pray for yourself not to fell ill, lest you’d be lying rotting in a stinking government hospital, for its only people like Mr. Abdullah who could afford to come here!” ridiculed the other.

In an elderly group, a bearded man with a prayer beads held in his hand was giving sort of a sermon to the rest “ This world’s surviving just because of a handful of people who sacrifice their lives to save those of their fellow beings. Look at this gentleman who’s prepared to save Mr. Abdullah’s life by donating him one of his kidneys just for the sake of humanity”

Hearing this a youngster in another group rose and silenced all by saying, “ Strange are the ways of life where one could come across people losing their kidneys through excessive adulteration while others are left with no option but to sell their kidneys out of poverty”

“ Poor over here are given strange names like a miserable hotel waiter is given the name of a ‘donor’ whom we all knew up till now as Ghulam Akber” complained a laborer.

Someone informed the lot that Ghulam Akber would be given an amount of Rs. 20,000 as a reward of his sacrifice.

“ The deal is actually brokered by an agent who’d retain an amount of Rs.10,000 out of the sum” furthered another.

A youngster asked whether the doctors knew of the deal and that how come they called Ghulam Akber a doner if they were aware about him selling the kidney.

Marha! it all actually was the suggestion of Dr. Tariq who happens to be a close friend of Mr. Abdullah” the information moved everyone to sigh and murmur prayers for the poor of the land.

In the meanwhile there appeared two stretchers out of the operation room. One was pushed quietly towards the ward by a hospital aide while the other was swarmed by the throng of visitors.

Footnote: Inspired from a pushto short story by Sardar Jamal