On Bogie No. 8, 13 Up

Bogie No.8, 13 Up

Dr. Agha Inamullah

Karachi to Jungshai since April 5th 2017

Acknowledgement:
I offer my humble gratitude and a big Thank You to  the poor whose helplessness taught me patience.

The old crippling routine beggars without a life, or precisely life without a choice whom I encountered on my routine daily journey.

A hypo manic elderly who often smiled, and asked for  some money and then always came back with some sweets for me. His favorite was Baalu Shahi.

A chat with an 85 years old retired government employed Mid wife who was travelling alone to visit her son in Rahim yar khan.

An old beggar on crutches, with one bottle tied to each crutch; one containing water, and the other his medicine.

The Shevadari (Priest) from the temple in Jhempir who taught me lessons on humanity qouting verses from Koran.

The helpless elderly sleeping in corridors of Bogie, or leaning beside exit doors with no money to buy ticket.

The shoe polishers, disabled newspaper hawkers, blind walking through pleading for charity, and the other vendors who make their daily bread on train.

And ofcourse the site scenes from windows  that skid with speed adding up to my imagination and helping me relate to blend of emotions. 

The aging Trees. 

May Gold bless them all.  

 

 

After long pause of 7 years, when I last served as Humanitarian affairs officer at United Nations in north Sindh, I was recently selected to work in south for JSI (John Snow Research & Training Institute) funded by USAID. I have been posted at two districts: Thatta, the Babul Islam (Gateway of Islam), and also the birth district of founder of Pakistan; Quaid e Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah including the newly created another district from it on administrative grounds; Sujawal. Not many Pakistanis are aware of the historical fact, that Jinnah was a Thatta born. And altogether ignored; millennia old belongings, monuments, and historical ruins, which add to the rich culture of this land enlisting it to be of the earliest civilizations of the globe, but these facts are no more taught to children in history books; and our curriculum under global agendas is forcing us to turn our children in some kind of robots, dictated to obey to serve the interests of corporate. It already has begun to advocate devil’s agenda, instigating religious disharmony, political instability, financial insecurity, never-ending  turmoil, snatching hope, offering immigration incentives for many to fly out to West’s delusional Heaven, with instant ways of life earned at the cost of exploitation of snatching global resources; where relationships or culture have no values, but dollars do. The culture altogether is dying here and so is the history. History is even distorted; teaching our generations about the very founder of this country to be Kolachi born. I have always wondered and still do as to what gains will they have on their side, by merely changing his birth place. There has to be some spiritual connection that is being denied the acknowledgment of historical facts, embedded in his birth in a land where Islam left its earliest foot prints, much before the advocated Bin Qasim related claim. While the world is being pushed into Devil’s sponsored Islamic Jihad with one point agenda, depopulate and eliminate culture from Palestine to Kashmir and from Mecca to Bosnia. Jinnah’s twisted history seems to me to be part of same design, and since its inception Medina Sani (Pakistan) has been at their target, especially after it acquired nuclear capability. What they have been doing in Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Somalia, Egypt, Kashmir, Africa, Syria, and Yemen; is   the same agenda on board for Medina 2(Pakistan); only the way forward is variable.

Transformation of Yatrub to Medina and making of Medina 2 (Pakistan), is the one historical coincidence that not many may know, and I keep advocating selected people on my journey to and fro between Thatta and Karachi. Thatta at one time had more than 400 universities, but it now houses 90% illiterates ruled by handful of Feudal, looting public under label of Syeds, who claim to be from same lineage as Prophet in Islam.  One ponders these days, while the world is pushed to obey the New World Order of secret societies, the very agenda in Pakistan as well seems to shake the very foundations and ideology, swiftly snatching that very faith of tolerance which holds us together and stronger with unique history and culture and the simplicity in our daily lives with rich language of multitude of indigenous ethnicity living together since ages adhered in  mystic bondage, that has over centuries so closely and tightly held them together. The plan was orchestrated within two years of its birth, and it has by now messed up this land of pure, leaving it to be governed by most corrupt and incompetent. It is forced in fact to fall in the hands of brokers of Dajal masked and veiled behind democratic trail of STDs -Sexually transmitted democratic dynasties.The real feel for freedom is still a far fetched reality, luring with mere change of faces of aristocratic families. Although cultural practices here are slowly westernized in everyday life style, but a growing number from rich and poor and both men and women are hooked up to growing Wahabi-Salafi propagated version of Islam aired on TV hosted by Tariq Jameel and among women through Farhat Hashmi. They have successfully filled the vacuum created after deteriorating education both in urban peripheries habitat by poor and in real rural settings, by establishing madrassas. And also the rich class, comprising both age groups. The old, who after enjoying years of pleasurable lavish lives look back to count their sins afraid of heavenly reprimand, while their aging bags are capable of nothing any more,  hence the fear of heavenly accountability  compels them to foresee their torment in  Hell and adopt to spend some in God's way, and count booties  promised in Heaven, moving beads on rosaries rolling with old feeble shaking wrinkled fingers.  The youth on the other hand is motivated by rage witnessing the atrocities committed against Muslims worldwide, joining Jihad movements, which sprouted among the more westernized richest of Islamabad, Karachi and Lahore; trickled to smaller cities and towns, and the extremist touch on the other hand reinforced from Lal Masjid to Waziristan spreading their terror network using Islamic tag. The whole dilemma is actually advocated from Devoband in India which was initiated by British Raj in 1800s and that now has acquired position of yet another separate sect. In addition, sponsorship from the custodians of holiest place in Mecca arming and funding them, eliminating real religious essence from curriculum at school. The real leaders in Pakistan have been eliminated, and power shifted to agents of corporate, which ensures all evils to prevail here, to push us in irreversible agony and that only to be relieved at their hands when they desired. Masses looted and exploited to be now living below their set poverty lines, forced to sell their daughters in prostitution to earn piece of bread. There have been countless incidents of women killing their children and then committing suicide. I do not consider them to be psychopaths.People here are doomed to pick on insanity. Since past 70 years, the problem always at its heart has been how to maintain the writ of the government while ensuring that marginal and peripheral groups are fully included as citizens of the state and their rights and privileges firmly safeguarded. We know that national security interests must be kept in balance with those of human rights, civil liberties and democracy. However countering consequences albeit of religious disharmony, political instability and foreign hand involvement that has engulfed our country with terrorism, may have led to loss of innocent lives as well; but has it not been worst when United States( the hub of corporate) besides precision of its war machine, has droned us to hell in the name of collateral damage. In addition to the foreign hand involvement in ongoing never ending turmoil, Martial Laws in past have been quoted to be the ultimate reasons as we repeatedly debate to be behind of what we face today, but what measures have we as a nation taken to curb the growing terrorism, injustice, nepotism, or voiced against economic disequilibrium that has almost transformed in to civil wars, displacing anger and rage into tribal and political rivalries, inter faith intolerance and racism with easy access to most deadly weapons including grenades. Who has made that access so easy? Did our Pseudo-intellectual-politico-feuds ever bother to have in depth analysis of the root causes? Did they ever bother to address them sincerely? Did they ever ask their salaried media to have a debate on; to take nation in confidence rather than telling them to envisage on foreign trips to attract business for Pakistan; while they make billions from here burdening the nation with foreign debts to clear; again stolen from the National reserves or the loans they take for development sector? Our Prime Minister to date has made 75 foreign visits, out of which 21 were to London. And out of those 21, 19 were for his personal engagements but using state resources, which you and I pay as heavy taxes, directly or indirectly. What does the constitution say when someone loots the country and plunges entire nation into never recovering state, rather for generations to suffer whereas it is so strict on labeling it as treason if someone loses its mind to abandon it and charged in court of Law under article 6. They have over the decades; carried on with making mockery out of their own sacred 1973 inventory, amending it to adjust to their greed. Have they ever thought for streaming million poor of this country? A Pakistani born in 50s or late 60s is desperately seeking that lost national unity, financial stability, security and peace, whose morning used to start switching on TV with IQRA and a National anthem to listen to before going to bed. Most Pakistanis from 60s, who have witnessed all stages of upheavals, are desperately looking for that lost brotherhood, tolerance, religious harmony, preached love and patriotism at school. Gone are the days when we as kids knew or learnt about heroes of this land, reading lessons on brave hearts, scholars, poets, scientists, reformers, preachers and leaders, like Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Fatima Jinnah, Tipu Sultan, Sultan Sallahudin Ayoubi, Hosh Muhammad Shedi, Shams ul Ulema Allama Umer bin Daudopota, Mirza Qaleech Baig, Sufi Shah Inayat, Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai, Baba Bullay Shah, Sachal Sarmast , Qalandar Laal and Allama Iqbal. Our kids now worry over learning to get best grades to flee abroad reading lessons in Cambridge on David Copper Field or Matilda, Prince & the pauper, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Whose agenda is being served anyway?? These characters in these Novels do not reflect our culture, or reflect our domestic values, cultural norms, societal ethics, respect or gratitude for parents and elderly. The facilitators of the status quo, fly out to New York or London when their five years old need to be looked at by the best doctors in the world for sneezing too much, while our children are not even sure if they will make home safe from their school, due to unleashed terror bent upon poor by the ruling elite the very brokers pimping agendas. Since past two decades, the mortality ratios of children under 5 have not declined but instead are on the rise and now stand at 85 deaths/1000 live births in Pakistan and the last maternal mortality figure known to me for my province stands at 318 women /100,000 due to insufficient resources or have access or awareness to cater to their health needs or advocating on prevention of diseases. We are poisoned here with deceptive advocacy on disease prevention, dosing us with vaccines, pushing us to drink their fluoridated water, creating scare on poisonous waste in our sacred rivers that have fed us for thousands of years, when we lived healthy and had none of these self created disease scares, or consuming their processed foods propagated on television, or growing their hybrid crops, while they fiddle with our air, spraying chemicals, polluting with new pests pushing us to get rid of our traditional crops that provide staple food resources. For last two decades they propagated on unsafe river waters and their sponsored rulers here never managed well; the drinking water facilities, pushing us to pick on their fluoridated water bottles. Fluoride was used as Rat Poison back in 1920's and by Hitler in water tanks to keep prisoners mostly Jews, submissive, altering your chemistry at Cerebral level, calcifying your Pineal gland, disturbing your circadian cycle of Melatonin release, the very LNB(Low noise Block) of your heavenly satellite dish antenna, distorting the supernatural  frequencies of your holy connection. Why should I believe what they teach me, even now that I am learning Public Health at Aga Khan University? Their apparent fancy documents that mentioned 8 millennium development goals (MDGs) in past, followed by now 17 SDGs (Sustainable developmental Goals) recommended through World Health Organization, under Global Agenda 2030, are all in continuity with Agenda 21 of the United Nations. And I am well aware of that. Agenda 21 I know, is the blue print for depopulation and total control, under the banner of saving the environment, deceiving us with three primary tools 1) Man-made Global Warming,2) Water Shortages and 3) Endangered Species Act. Sure we all want clean environment, good health and healthy food, but phony environment is designed to create fear among us to implement the policies of tyranny. The Globalists use governments and other major groups (Non-governmental organizations) to force their policies. That is one reason why they never intend to confront governments where they are intervening but swiftly intrude, corrupting them, signing in this contract and that contract through UN agencies, bringing in local reputable CBOs or International NGOs and the so called philanthropists. The real philanthropists of older times never wanted to have their names on banners for humanitarian work, and now it’s an industry. I remember one such name, Rao Bahadar Udho Das at (RBUT) hospital constructed about a century and half ago by a Hindu philanthropist in my parent district Shikarpur. His name is embedded in mosaic in floor right at the entrance as per his will. He did not want to feel the pride or be known as noble, rather desired his name to be on floor, for people to walk with their shoes on, only to feel humble and inferior. That was the philanthropy of those times that required no international planning. Just the other day, 5 children died of Measles, in my district of placement, Sujawal. I never knew as a child any one dying of Measles. Measles or Chicken Pox, we were never scared of Viruses, we only ensured to stay healthy by eating healthy diet to support our immunity or sensitize it to be ready by conventional traditional methods, unlike today’s art of science  by actually injecting live attenuated viruses in your blood stream. Back then people arranged “chicken pox parties”, at the house of individual who was infected, hoping that their children will be infected with virus before they reached adulthood, because it was in adulthood that the disease was severe. Back then practicing medicine was noble act, and not some evil business to make money at the cost of people’s miseries. We had no x-rays, ultrasound imaging, Cat Scans, Pat Scans, or MRIs. The art of diagnosis lay in reading faces, listening to heart sounds, and feeling the pulse, from the color of eyes, face, tongue, urine and stool. Many will tell me science is advance now, and it tells you, that mosquito not only can give you Malaria, but Dengue, West Nile Virus, and Yellow fever, Filariasis, Zika and now Chikungunya in Pakistan.

After the successful launch of drones, tested for their efficiency by number of targets they hit, killing many, only to be dumped under label of collateral damage in both Pakistan and Afghanistan, reports reveal that back in 2007, US government was accused of secretly developing robotic insect spies at the John Hopkins University. John Hopkins University affiliated NGO, JHPIEGO, has been working in 15 districts of Sindh, in MNCH (mother, neonatal and child health). I worked at MCHIP(JHPIEGO) office from July to September as an intern at their Karachi office as per requirement of the Degree program of Aga Khan University, to learn about their organizational structure and interventions as part of academic curriculum. A team of researchers at the John Hopkins University in conjunction with the U.S Air Force office of Scientific Research at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Arlington, Virginia, had developed MAV (Micro aerial Vehicle) to take various espionage tasks. You could control it from a long distance and it is equipped with a 0.15 grams camera, a built-in microphone, a memory card, and managed remotely wearing a helmet. Putting on VR (virtual reality) helmet, the operator finds himself in butterflies, dragonflies, or mosquito cockpits, in real time. It can fly effortlessly and infiltrate urban areas with dense concentrations of buildings and people and land precisely on human skin, use its super-micron needle to take your DNA sample and fly out, or even inject a micro radio frequency identification (RFID) tracking device right under your skin, and all you will feel is the pain of a mosquito bite without burning sensation, and yes swelling off course. Can it not inject the desired virus; to give me the reason to intervene in your country dealing your epidemics bringing in army of donors to do some business with your state to tackle your problem? How about that???

Al Jazeera and WHO reported that hundreds of children died in Pakistan as a result of measles outbreak, in 2011, 12 and 13. Provincial health official in Sindh said that the disease had hit especially those areas where poor families did not vaccinate their children. No I am not laughing mysteriously, I am serious. Also many Pakistanis, especially in rural Sindh, or Fata and KPK, view vaccination campaigns with suspicion as a western plot to sterilize and kill Muslim populations at large. Really!!! I guess they are being paranoid. Why would west do that!! They are more humane than us. We, the illiterate filthy fundamentals, bloody commoners of third World. Right!!

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Sir Winston Churchill was a spokesman for the elite of his time and a Freemason. He said, “An unhealthy and uneducated nation is much easier to rule than a healthy and educated one” But that is a fact is it not! Just go through the budget books of all provinces of Pakistan, throughout its history since its inception , you will be shocked to learn the statistics of allotted low funds in these two sectors especially Health & Education. 

Chapter 27 of Agenda 21 recognizes vital role of NGOs, and other “major groups” in sustainable development. This leads to some intense arrangements for a consultative relationship between the NGOs and UN. The development of NGO sector post Earthquake in Kashmir in 2005 and exactly 05 years later, during Flash Floods 2010, enhanced rapidly in Pakistan, and that occurred in western countries as well as a result of process of rebuilding. Agenda 21 is about depopulation of World by 80-90%. How do you achieve that goal is multi-targeted and context specific to different regions. Interestingly we are watching it happening already, through self induced disasters with work of science H.A.R.P, the innovation of Russian scientist Nicola Tesla to meet the future energy requirements of globe, who was murdered a century ago and his technology stolen to be only used now for more sinister plans of Globalists. Self induced poverty, self induced diseases like AIDS, Cancer, Ebola, self created conflicts; bombing people in the name of combating bad guys and helping good guys. I am sure we are all aware of phrase, “Good Taliban and Bad Taliban”. How many of doctors remember the phrase “Good Cholesterol and Bad Cholesterol”. It’s about time for you to ponder, because the terms are coined by the same elites. You do not have to agree with my fears but doctors, and especially the Public Health Specialists, go back to your books and recall, and do remember the slogan, Population control and sustainability.  “DEPOPULATION” is the Agenda.

Just to remind you, steroid hormones are grouped as corticosteroids and sex steroids including Vitamin D derivates. Now you know steroid hormones help our bodies control metabolism, immunity, inflammation salt and water balance and also help develop sexual characteristics. They also help you to withstand injury and illness. Every third Pakistani has Vitamin D deficiency. Deep seeded corruption has made us incompetent, inefficient. Where it has spoilt our national image and created problems, it somehow has protected us as well I would say, because globalist’s agendas are not yet successful here due to deep seeded corruption. Vitamin D helps intestinal absorption of calcium, iron, magnesium, phosphate and zinc, and very few foods contain Vitamin D. So is it scarce food? Or is it something else? The natural Steroids in our body (to flag here Testosterone or Estrogen) are synthesized from Cholesterol. So keep your cholesterol low and you know where you are heading. They are concerned about us, initiating variety of poverty alleviation programs and Nutrition support projects. They care for us. Right! They love us really. The real essence behind poverty elevation programs and nutrition support initiatives under Humanitarian flags is never helping you stand back on your feet. It’s rather mapping your dire needs, to further push you down to succumb to your own load of needs. It’s about humiliating you, turning you in to habitual beggar rather than initiating any sustainable change for you to stand on your feet because then it does not serve their goals. Funny isn’t it! Create troubles yourself and then give them your published book of solutions. Spread the disease and then sell them the antidotes to make few million bucks or black mail in exchange of their demands, bomb them with Daisy cutters, MOABs (mother of all Bombs), Tom Hawk cruise missiles and then move in under humanitarian flag to mop your mess calling it collateral damage. Alienate them in their own land and sell them your tents. Deprive them off their crops with your weather bombs and initiate World Food Programs turning their minors in to disabled orphans and then assemble them to rob rest of world raising funds under variety of UN Flags. Suck the marrow of life out of humanity and occupy their resources under humanitarian flags, or sponsor terror brainwashing people with psychedelic drugs, forcing them to fight your hi-tech weaponry to occupy your lands, labeling you terrorists, fooling the world with their documented peace proposals. I just ponder, believing the fact that more than 60,000 of our troops have already been martyred combating terrorists, and double that figure of civilians as well when they bomb you in your cinemas, parks, hospitals, schools, mosques, Imam Bargahs, temples, Churches, Police Headquarters, Army Headquarters but not in KFC, MacDonald’s, Duncan Donuts and Pizza Huts. They propagate to you that religion is evil, and encourage gay marriages, while who does not know that they have been spraying Estrogen on the inner lining of steel food cans, playing with your body chemistry to increase number of homosexuals and spreading breast cancer in women.

Well! My daily routine these days has been to climb down in the tunnel roofed with railway track, and about 20 yards walk through it for about 60 seconds. Those 60 seconds often hypnotize me on the rhythmic echoes of my own footsteps. Thoughts sinking down the depths of various time zones and bizarre dimensions more complicated than what we know of 3D or 5D theater shows, from colonial times crimes to galloping cruel hoofs of horses of Bin Qasim looting in the name of Islam, raping women and ripping apart bellies with tip of swords; raising the bleeding embryos and fetus, depopulating and orchestrating fear, only to rule and enslave, and loot riches of this land, until I reach the other end of platform. It’s the only railway station in Pakistan that has under pass walkway under the railway track unlike others with over head bridges for pedestrians to reach the other end. As I make the last steps emerging from tunnel up on the other side of the platform, I often find myself suffocating in oblivion of torment, and depressingly wake up from time strip that stretches from Babylon to lonely aimless wander through the streets of Moen Jo Daro, pushing myself back in reality only to realize that: Alas! Nothing has changed ever since, except the repressing art of control, reining poor, whipping them like mules.  

Unlike busy railway stations elsewhere in Sindh, Jungshahi seems to me to have some kind of spiritual connection, to past, to present and to forthcoming future. What is it? I am yet to figure it out. But I feel the strong vibes. It leaves me to anchor my thoughts to parallel universes floating along with my identical counterpart, merged in its misty western coastal winds and surrounding atmosphere. Apart from frequent speeding roaring trains, as only few have assigned halts here, it otherwise is so peaceful and calm, where sitting on benches rowed along in front of erected metal bars fence behind; you could hear the music of leaves rattling, and fluttering in the strong winds in one of the oldest Papal tree that stands its age majestically with gray plump trunk and branches stretched in wider circumference with adventitious roots hanging down from all of its branches, as if Kate Winslet in her 80s stood naked waiting for Leonardo Di Caprio, leaning on the steel fence of Titanic deck with her long hair drooping down the edge of ship, lost and  demented from the tragic ship wreck trauma, sliced in tiny bits of time frames to be experiencing altogether, without any physical limitations of time and space.

In the evenings it’s even more beautiful and peaceful and out of world experience, as just before the pale sunlight dips in dusk, it often tinges clouds with blend of shades between orange, red, pale blue, and charcoal gray; irregularly rimmed with strong deep golden shade. Clouds sail gently, caressing the rough cheeks of barren stout hilly crusts overlooking the troughs on either side of parallel railway tracks. Most of rocks reflect yellow tinge. Even the popular tombs at Chaukhandi grave yard at about 66km from here, which date back to one of the earliest civilizations that lived, who knew stone carving, preferred yellow sandstone acquired from Jungshahi railway station area.

The station was built during British raj in 1830. In addition to railway, British’ other wonder of engineering was irrigation system on mighty Indus, that traverses taking snake turns along the footholds of majestic Kashmir mountain trains, to finally kiss the Arabian ocean with its multiple creeks at various places here and in neighboring Sujwal district. Sujawal often has many pilgrims to its two famous holy sites of shrines, built on Sufi Saints, one being the famous reformer, Sufi Shah Inayat and Shah Aqiq. Sufi Shah Inayat was martyred on orders of Mogul emperor for launching a movement for rights of peasants which killed more than 24000 of his followers, with then anti state slogan, “The one who ploughs has the right to land”. More than 300 years gone by, peasants to this day or common men generally are yet to know their basic rights. The land of Thatta, the Babul Islam of Sindh, also holds in its belly the ashes of more than ten million who are now fertilizing scattered Cacti, Babuls and wild vegetations of desert. One of the most ancient cemetery with resemblance to Roman Empire ruins, most of which now stand as mere brittle eroded pillars without domes at what is known to be world’s largest necropolis at Makli, with the most historical scenic beauty that peeps from the eastern window of my office. Each day as dawn breaks after a morning prayer, I leave home in Karachi, situated in the neighborhood of Misiri Shah Bukhari, brother of Ghazi Abdullah Shah, who was also killed during a dual with forces of Muhammd Bin Qasim. Bin Qasim is quoted in our history books with claim to have introduced Islam in sub-continent, only reaffirming the blame of West that Islam was spread at the tip of a sword, to be only denying the fact if Muhammad Mustafa the prophet in Islam had any role in spread of peaceful message of love, brotherhood and equality among all human beings, with his followers, already in Sindh. Infact prophet’s companion Abdullah Shah Ashabi entered Sind, much before Muhammad Bin Qasim’s invasion, resting at Makli necropolis. To me Hijaj bin Yousuf’s nephew’s invasion of Sindh was mere old version of ISIS, nothing more, nothing less.

I hurry to station in cantonment, and usually just make in time before train departs, with daily routine being, getting laptop hand carry screened, a brisk walk to ticket counter, and quick rush to tuck shop to buy bottle of fluoridated Aqua-fina, as I often need to soak my dry throat due to cigarettes I smoke, before hopping in Bogie no 8. You only get water if you were ordering breakfast on board, or a cup of tea maybe, which unlike back in 80s, now smells less burnt or have any foul smell from goat’s milk whitener, as they now serve tea bags with pasteurized milk. I prefer travelling on Bogie no 8, to be specific, the Bogie that is marked 8, as the carts keep changing sometimes old outdated ones and sometimes newly imported Chinese ones, but the mark no. 8, is the one I get on,  because it stands lined close to the ticket counter. I travel in non Air-conditioning, not because I could not afford an AC Bogie but because I know 95% of Pakistani poor from lower-class, lower-middle, middle-middle and upper-middle class travel in economy level or some of them in lower AC level. I need to be among the sweating and hard working labor of this country, exploited at the hands of masters since ages through their brokers titled as Sir or Khan Bahadurs, during pre-partition era and weaning years of this country and even now at the hands of their grandchildren. I feel more comfortable, privileged and proud sitting next to their shoulder, chatting and exploring variety of context specific problems, in a dusty compartment of bogie that is magnetically toed to the next air conditioned bogie of riches that might just be killing their time playing candy frost on their androids. It’s a free zone here in these economy class compartments. The vendors, the beggars with disabled limbs and blind, bless you and plead for some charity, frequently walking pass your seat, from bogie to bogie. Shoe polishers incase if your shoes were dirty for PKR 20 only. A deaf and dumb newspaper hawker does not miss a single day, convincing me to buy newspaper from him. A blind man that walks pass requesting charity, vendors selling Hyderabad bangles, tin packed sweets from Multan, locally prepared all brands of soft drinks carried in metal bucket, the routine patrolling police constables, the ticket collector, conductor guards, and train Stewarts who by now have known me so well and greet me with hello and a smile on my daily routine and most of the staff at Jungshai railway station including often a friendly encounter with Jungshai Police Station House Officer. These are the people who make real social capital of Pakistan. And this everyday’s one and half hour journey has taken me to different feels, and emotions, and helped me learn about some valuable historical facts as well, which I have learnt from them. They share their views about current governing systems, crises, suggestions, innovative polices, which you may not find in most of recognized renowned university academia policy documents. But is there anyone to listen to them!!! It’s more thrilling, challenging and heartbreaking experience to learn about variety of problems of everyday life, if nothing else, just being a listener makes them relieved. And it’s more efficient and productive utilization of your travel time than to tie yourself up surfing through posts on face book in your androids counting how many like tags you had for sharing post on Angelia Julie’s wardrobe. But here you find many faces with variety of expressions, and I ponder what they were thinking through. What could be their problems? My eyes anchor, reading their gestures and blend of emotions; their body language and pressure of speech. Those miserable and under privileged Pakistani people, whose daily routine starts with problems doing even routine chores from dawn to dusk without any state provided basic facilities of lives. And these are the people who are real fodder to elites’ multi-billion ventures. Life is about challenges, opportunities, smiles and sorrows, we all know, but sharing that pain is humanity. That ought to be our moral value. I know we all live our time assigned and tasks and challenges, but it has always been so important for me to have the treasure of memories taking back with me on my eternal retire. And I am glad that by default I am rebel to this system and by default I happen to be on those fault lines which will hopefully shake one day, the very socio-cultural fabric knitted with unjust socio-economic volatile yarn of disequilibrium and disparities. I believe everything has a reason. Each moment gives birth to next and next seeds another one, and all actions and words are reactions to one another, and it’s a cycle of life that goes on tightly bound in rosary of time eternal. So I wonder, what is my duty beside the task I am in for? Is it just to be part of system I am in, and play same tune that nothing could ever change here! Or is it to keep mapping the gaps in health system where I am assigned to technically support? Is it about advocating my fellow passengers and those in ruler areas where I visit, to fight for their rights? To fight at each step against injustice and make a collective contribution, not to earn any medals or applauds but just to ease each other’s pain and be sensitized to basic human rights practiced elsewhere in the world or as mentioned so well in Koran. Otherwise my daily travel from Karachi to Thatta via transit at Jungshai, is duty assignment as Field manager to technically assist the losers like myself in our very own failed health system, financed by those who have mounted their agendas. But since beggars cannot be choosers, so even though I may hate Melinda and Bill Gates, curse Ford or Rockefeller’s foundations, dump Mr. Trump’s retarded hate speeches, or tremble in fear looking at minors in mothers’ laps during journey recalling Clintons horrifying Pizza Gate Scandal of Pedophilia, or child trafficking for sex reported from Baba Bullay Shah’s home town Kasur in Punjab, I still have no choice. I had absolutely no choice but to get in to their system, to feed my needs, just like these people are part of the system enduring to have two ends meet. But we must ensure to keep our conscience alive and wait for the opportunity, and keep working silently. My mother is the most worried woman as I recall her worried face looking at these worried faces up on train. My mother is scared of my writings and she probably sees my fate as those of two brothers of Sialkot who were brutally beaten to death in open day light in front of hundreds of spectators who were more keen on making videos of that horrifying event through their cell phones than to stop the culprits, or recently how Mashal Khan met his fate in KPK, in his own university campus, framed in to fake accusation of blasphemy, humiliated, stripped, shot and beaten to death by mob of no illiterates but university students. Where are we heading really!! My 78 years old mother,  stares at me with her weary eyes, advising with her humble stare, “please stop it Inam, I do not want to lose you, neither does your wife and children.” So for now I have joined them and they are funded by USAID, United States Agency for International Development. Even though I know how USAID helped dictatorships in Indonesia and Pakistan. I have decided to clean our own shit with their urine. The Corporate have so cleverly divided us through sectarianism, racism, and aired tribal conflicts, supplying heavy arms. We have forgotten altogether that no matter what, we all are human beings. I am just about done with my mug of tea, at a local non air conditioned restaurant of commoners, and trying to hide my tears; ducked my head with blurred gaze on marble top table that vividly projected recalls of Mashal’s horrific murder. I was hiding my face so that waiter does not see me cry recalling helpless creeds of fellow passengers on train, compelled to take a journey without a choice in the daily transport that runs in such sorry state, but what could they do? I could write volumes of their miseries. People have no choice. They cannot even dare vote on their choice. They are wary of the consequences. They know the real power holders behind the ballot boxes are strong enough to imprison, enslave, murder or rape their women and children.  At this very restaurant by now, they all know me and respect me and do buttering, not because I know I am just another human who feels the pain of masses and dwells among them and can anticipate their needs and listen to them, but because I am well dressed chap with gray hair, who stops by every day to buy breakfast; and who comes in 2017 model Toyota corolla blessed by corporate under humanitarian flag. They know they have no choice but to consider me either their messiah, knight in shining armor or even a nightmare, choice is theirs. Like it or not, they know I am an NGO, and they have to bear with me.

On 22^nd April I remained quiet most of journey and kept staring out from the window, at all the commercials painted on walls of houses and compounds of barns in katchi abadies alongside rail track. Most of which have chalked names of local so called spiritualists along with their cell numbers with claims to have solutions to all your problems. It’s a big business and it reflects growing unrest and problems of this unhappy society. The most common name I came across was of Amil Juned Bengali.

 I got up to take a walk and went to stand close to the door where I found this old man in his 70s sitting on floor, relieving his tiring aging lungs to breath fresh air and was probably meditating with the rhythmic thumping, roaring and hissing sound from speeding metal wheels of train, screeching on metal track from friction. The thrust of air  admixed with thick cloud of dust slapped our cheeks and I decided to sit down shifting load of my bum on bent ankle, with toes anchored to metal embossed floor, leaning my back to hinges of door to level my gaze with his. I smiled at him. I was twitching my eye lids. The sclera was dry and felt pins and needles from dust that had gushed inside from broken windows. And I was giggling recalling claims of our honorable railway minister on National TV. This old man sat on floor as he had no money to buy a ticket hence he did not dare to take a seat, and ticket collector usually does not mind checking people sitting on floor.

Yesterday evening I had to travel standing for one hour on this hour and 45 minutes long journey of 95km to Karachi, as there was no vacant seat despite having a ticket. It was pitch dark, and people had switched on their cell phone screens for visibility. Some electrical fault may be. But the next day on inquiring, station master at Jungshahi told me that usually technical staff up on trains, sells allocated oil for the generator used to light the train, and that it was no technical fault. They do it because those who have appointed them have fixed certain amount to be paid to them, so they could keep their jobs intact. But today around 9.30 am, lights are still on and strange enough, fans are off, and it’s fairly hot day today. So I could not really get the story behind it, whether a technical fault or corruption. I pulled pack of cigarettes from my pocket and light up one, taking deep puff, exhaled smoke that clouded old man’s face, so I moved my hand forward to offer him one too. He smiled and sliding one out from pack, asked me, “Which brand is it”. I smoke those sleek, low tar Esse lights, which usually do not hit those, who are habitual of Gold flake, which comes with lowest rate in market. He told me he was heading Benazirabad, the parent district of the pioneer in art of corruption; the ex president of Pakistan, Mr. Asif Ali Zardari. The old district Nawab Shah, re named Benazirabad after the tragic assassination of first woman Prime minister of Muslim World, Benazir Bhutto, the daughter of man whose creed was Roti, Kapra aur Makan (Food, Clothes & Shelter) and who armed Pakistan with nuclear arsenal. He was sent to gallows, on the orders of Washington. All the Bhuttos by now are humiliated in their graves by Mr. Zardari. The old man said he lives with his retarded daughter in her 30s in Benazirabad along with his other son. He began to dig out from his pocket the national identity card of his daughter to show me her picture. He had gone to Karachi to look for a place to earn their daily bread as it was hard finding work back in his parent district. He looked sad, while telling that only one room 10x10 in Karachi was for PKR 10,000 ($100)/ month and he could not afford that much. Hence he was going back to continue with his fate, the life in Benazirabad. I smiled in my heart and laughed at my embarrassment, how deeply and madly we loved Benazir, and how she roared in her speeches for the rights of poor, and yet could not stop her husband from buying a Palace in UK which became ultimate reason behind their slander in corruption, “The Surrey Palace”. I could only imagine the helplessness of this old man or the others to not even be able to afford single 10x10 rooms and yet still raise slogans, “Long Live Bhuttos”. Do they have a choice!!!  Even the den at Surrey Palace must sound huge to him. The train began to slow down, we were about to reach Jungshahi, I got up to go back to my seat and pulled my laptop from the rack, and smiled goodbye to old man, handing him 100 rupee note and small packet of peanuts as I walked stepping down in front of him from the exit door where he sat. That brought big grin on his face and his pupils dilated in joy, like a thirsty would discover a pond in Thar Desert in scorching heat of June. My mind boggled as usual as I began to step down in to tunnel to reach the other end, and I began to interrogate myself, portraying myself in the very court of my conscience, accused for this very act. “Was it a motive to bribe God” or Did I do it to help the old man? Was it a charity to please God? Or was it simply being a human? It was actually my lust applauding and praising me for the act, declaring that God was very happy on this Agha. Oh shut up I said, get out and do not intrude my privacy, I was only being human. It surely was a Devil’s broadcast, polluting my simple act to be orchestrated by God and instigating in me bargain to seek reward in return. No way. I am not looking for any. I said to God, Hey! Do not consider it another milestone achieved in your name. I was just being me. And I wasn’t doing any bargain with you. And even if this was an act of God, then who was I? I am no puppet. No Sir. I am not. I am simply trapped in your cycle of events, and it’s about time, you must either change the actors, or bring in different event cycle, as this nation has had enough. My mind was now being mortar shelled until I was rescued by a loud greeting from the station master.

“Welcome back sir”. How was the journey last night? It was late again by an hour. But that is routine, you will have to get used to it”

I smiled shaking hands with him warmly. “I know master sahib, I am not a foreigner, so please do not be deceived by my dress code”

Driver Rafique snatched my laptop and 

he does not let me carry the weight out of respect. We headed DHO office Thatta. Hope it’s a good productive day and I find him on his chair and not in absconder with fake excuse of being with Deputy Commissioner in DPCR (District Polio Control Room).

16th May

I was little upset yesterday not to find Bogie no.8 and instead Bogie no 17 was lined up from where I hop in train. Even If I wanted to find it, I would have to walk 9 bogies distance down and there was not enough time left. The train would have departed any minute. Something was not right. Why? I began to ponder in dismay superstitiously, but then eventually eased my discomfort and agony, that sum of 17 is also 8. During school days I had developed interest in reading about Palmistry, and I had set of books by world’s best palmist Chero. One of his books called Chero’s numerology was my favorite. Since that time I have researched as to which figures were good or bad omen for me. And besides I had already developed intimacy for figure 8. Anyway I calmed myself down adding up 17 to be 8, (17=1+7=8). Today I am back in bogie no 8, but change of destiny. Not jungshahi today, but Hyderabad instead, where I spent 35 of my 52 years. Thirty five years of drama and action, see saw between joy and despair, all but memories to cherish. The sinking and emerging flashes, from skidding gaze that slid on track running beside, while my right temple leaned on the edge of broken window frame. I got confused for few moments; the frames of site scenes outside were different. I was moving backwards today with 100km/hour slide show. But soon I realized that I was not only sitting on the other side of Bogie, but my chair faced backwards today, unlike normally as I sat facing east, so everything moved backwards, backward in time, back into years of innocence to remember. My mind slipped back looking back at years lived in Hyderabad. How I used to drive in rain, splashing on flooded roads, bunking school heading uptown from Gidu Chowk to Gymkhana, Prem Park to Cantonment –Thana, Tilak incline to Heerabad, Hilltop to Latifabad. Sometimes bicycling, listening to Bob Seger’s against the wind. Kiddy fights over Frisbee at school, Farooq bhai’s Music Cabin, saving money to buy new pop charts collection. Going out to movies at cinemas; Odeon, New Majestic, Venus and Capri, checking on Billboards from Basant Hall to Bombay Bakery. Renting out romantic movies, Endless love, Love story and Dead Poets society, crying out hysterically to tears coughing on cheap cigarettes smoked. Dancing and rocking out to sweat on Meatloaf & Metallica and hanging out with friends at video games arena, Battle Star Galactica. Little theft thrills with friends, and gambling and spending that bootee at convey karahi, Thelay wala Baba’s ice-cream, Shabir Briyani, and Public School gate Kebabs. Evenings Tombola at Gymkhana, Kachello mangoes, Marjeena’s coffee, Ali Baba’s flying saucer, Pala Fish at Al-Manzar, medical college days’ group studies and dissecting bodies, book fares and library teenage stares, valentine parties, New Year nights and much more, missing all the fun, and now counting my days  residing near Kolachi shore. A loud noise and honk from crossing train hit head on with my train of thoughts. The man seated right across in front facing me was smiling at me, and I realized I was already wearing a big smile to which he was responding probably. He did not know what I was thinking. The beautiful memories perhaps had stirred my soul, and charmed my face enough to leave unnoticed  smile. I wondered he must be thinking I am hallucinating. I left my head free to swing synchronizing with wobbles of bogie as it swung on rough track, that is often heard to have skidded bogies off the track, but I was overjoyed to pet any fear. I smiled again remembering Olivia Newton John’s billboard hit of 70s, “Lay your troubles on my shoulders, put your worries in my pocket, and rest all your love on me for a while”. I loved that song. My thoughts drifted again and hooked to word shoulders and figure 8 chalked on bogie. I recalled when we worked as house officers at Civil Hospital, and used to tie crap bandages in figure 8, in medical terms for fractured clavicles. The clavicles which hang your rib cage, where remains imprisoned your very heart which heaps and shrinks from struggling captive soul in torment for never ending tests, only optically wired to the binocular sockets connecting it to the multi-verse dimensions of parallel worlds. Shoulders which you lend to a crying heart or to a crippled aging cage, and which help you carry the load to earn your daily bread, shoulders of mother which you rested your delicate rosy cheeks on, in infancy; rocking you to sleep, and shoulders that will carry your coffin. 

I slipped my shoes to shoe polisher while I continued to talk on phone with my supervisor, only to realize after a while that my shoes were done and the shoe polisher had disappeared. Oh no, how could he leave without taking his wage. Why? Was it because of beige trousers and black shirt and he thought probably I was a police officer and did not dare to ask. This was a different boy. I have seen usually three, and this was the one I had not encountered yet, otherwise the others know me. I was uncomfortable, until I could find him. Will I find him again? I hope so. I need to give him the wage. Most of the vendors in Pakistan are accustomed to the fear of not daring to charge anything taken or services offered to Police on duty. No I do not want to be recognized as one. I hope I find him soon. Should I get up to look for him in other bogie, or should I wait. 

The breeze felt cool, I looked out from the window again, and we were crossing Jhempir. Kalri Lake looks more beautiful from this end. Wind Power Plant farm spread on the other side, in few square miles. The land here looks more fertile around Kalri and Jhimpir area. The air has different fragrance and mystic feel. I think I even sighted one temple in the far sight that dipped in lake and my vision flickered with fluttering flag at the tower erected at temple.  The landscape changed, as the train moved ahead, leaving past waiting travelers at Jhimpir station, and life around orbiting their tasks in town. Lovely landscape, slowly steeping rocky layers of yellow sandstone, changing shades at places from camel brown to even resemble lighter human complexion, with widely gaped scattered bunches of cacti grew like goose pimples on fairest skin of young lass in her teens. It was getting warmer again; I think I had reached an area where I could now smell the blend of coastal mist with dusty dry hot air, a transitional layer of atmosphere in between the two. That too brought changing complexion of soil, with now gray sandy irregular patches glittering silver under sun. Hilly Plateaus triangularly blocking coastal winds and leaving the apex of corridor to northern winds to gush in to Hyderabad region, leaving it hottest in summer and coldest in winter. Some of the isolated hills angry from rest of its mountain range stood proudly like Giza pyramid. Oh NO! Not again. A pyramid always clicks me back to the pattern drawn on back of one dollar US bill. How monetary funding has enslaved the world and divided it with discrimination and treats it with disgust, calling rest of us the Third World, as if we were some kind of roaches to be fumigated which they proudly do with cluster bombs, labeling most of us terrorists. That very hill, reminded me the stages of freemasonry and it’s associated horrifying, humiliating rituals to be member of its fraternity. How humans have been humiliated, disgusted, pumped with all the devilish desires. How the interlocking chain of commands are depicted, with the symbol of pyramid, as an icon that represents Dajal who forces you to obey for piece of bread. Who through its brokers and war mongers invade you, bring in regime change of devil’s order and the NWO protocols, kidnapping your children, killing them to harvest their organs, raping your women through its Zombified  human hybrid demons, tagged with Islam to malign it. How it illustrates itself with an Eye at the apex of pyramid having power of invisible Global government, representing IMF (International Monetary Fund). Although enjoying the site scene from the window, I was struggling against thrust of hot air but my discomfort mainly bred from that pyramidal hill. I began to hallucinate as if Dajal is following me everywhere, considering me to be a potential threat to his plans here. The hilly Pyramid represented 12 layers sandwiched between the eye at the top and at the base, spread out footholds of secret societies. I could feel he is watching me from the apex of that hill, and commanding his secret societies’ members to follow me immediately. He does not want to eliminate me yet. But wants to give it a try to infest my brain, use some of my abilities for his devilish goals. At least it wishes to give it a try until it could decide to get rid of me. Right under the Eye of Dajal (IMF), is layer of Builder-burgers, sitting on business Advisory Council which commands council of foreign relations. The council of foreign relations controls United Nations Banking Complex, which in turn controls Federal Reserve’s System and other Central banks. The FRS runs UN. Under UN sits common Market and Atlantic Union. The union controls Seato, NATO & other front alliances. And they in turn run Tax-Free foundations (Clinton Foundation, Ford Foundation, Gates foundation and so on).  These foundations channel Income and Estate Taxes. The 12^th layer, just above the base of secret societies, comprises Communism, Socialism and allied “isms” (the most visible aspect of the apparatus) all of these based on footholds of secret societies. I took a deep sigh, feeling the air suffocated for its room in my lungs not because I have smoked much today but anxiety, and fear for our future generation. How will our poor survive, who are already entrapped under heaps of foreign debt? What is their future? Is our fate same as that of Syrian refugees, or Palestinian children, grabbed and pulled from their shirt collars and pushed to operation theaters to suck our blood out and rip our bellies to cut out our organs to be shipped to Zionist organs harvest business? I began to sweat and suddenly until I began to condense again with cool breeze and new site scene, of shepherd dressed in blue shalwar Qameez following flock of his goats in very far sight on top of another hilly range. Ah there he is, the boy in rust shirt, the shoe polisher. 
Hey, you left without taking a wage?
Its ok Sir.
No, its not and I am not Sir.
He smiled. "OK Sir"
Again!!!
"Sorry!"
Tell me why did you leave without asking for wage?
We strongly believe in fate Sahab g.
"If today's bread is in fate, I will have it, otherwise we poor keep no temples of hope"
But that is your right, silly boy.
"So it is, and I knew you would find me"
Really!, I thought you probably had walked away frightened to ask for it?
"No, Sir, you were busy, and appeared restless talking on phone." He smiled and moved ahead  voicing Shoe polish-Shoe polish. Suddenly train began to lose speed and was dead slow giving me an opportunity to see un- turned pebbles and rocks since centuries or millennia may be. Murky pebbles, gray, and bronze shades with scattered dry dead leaves everywhere. Little ahead I saw streaks of black oil stretched along either side of track, a mile distance, from tripped oil carrier bogies that happened last Friday, which is often frequent, from our unrepaired railway that British constructed more than two centuries ago. The air blew hotter and hotter; I was nearing Hyderabad, the central hub once of the tyranny; the Mongols, Afghans, Portuguese, Tarkhans, Arabs, Talpurs, Mirs and Soomro dynasties, that ruled this land and humiliated poor until they were kicked by British to stay for another two centuries. But peace loving people of this land never revolted and were subjugated since ages to the levels that slavery has now become integral part of their genetic makeup. Who will rise for them? Who will be their voice? That very tongue will be pulled out of throat, that hand which writes for them will be forced to stab its own soul. Being the student of science, tormented by the art of poverty which has been my ultimate inspiration to paint our sorrows, in the very culture where I dwell,  I consider it to be my moral and ethical duty to pen down their screams, and have the courage to tell monkeys behind Lion masks, that their mouths stink. That their hands are stained with blood and sweat of our people since ages and enough is enough.  Its about time, we rise for the justice, fairness, equality, morality, peace, love, harmony and tranquility that has been snatched through elite brokers. Its about time Medina Sani draws courage from its deep seeded agony in masses and triggers them to draw their swords behind forthcoming Imam . From the poverty here, will emerge power that will change the shape of the Globe, and I will continue to battle with words as my weapon. I will rise as human and I will die as human for humanity to win, no matter what it takes.
God bless Pakistan.