There are many ways this story can be told but since in this age of electronic “time-steal” and “memes” a properly designed story has become boring and out-dated for many.So,i shall simply state the actual incident and leave you to draw inferences from it.
December mornings in Karachi are the most romantic part of the season.When there is a sweet lazy battle between the desire to stay tucked in a warm blanket and the equally potent longing for a hot cup of tea from nearby tea-stall.On Sundays,this tussle goes on for an hour until Hameed,my pesky room-mate,ends all romance by putting on his shrill morning dose of English pop.
Before i dive into the actual incident,a few words about him.He is a short lean person with very excitable and impressionable temperament.He has a weak head.A little “reading” would go straight to his head.What can one say about a man whose favorite history figure is Ranjeet Singh.His personal development went through many phases since we enrolled in University three years ago.Presently he is a devout follower of “higher liberalism” ,which according to Dostoevsky is “a liberalism without any aim whatsoever”.Despite whichever ideological camp he followed he always chose the role of the fervid sarcastic.
But this particular morning;even he chose to forego his “loud” breakfast for a more saner option of going to a tea-stall.Soon we were both sitting in the crisp morning sipping our tea silently.Time stood still as if it was drowsy and negligent too.Suddenly,we became aware of this awkward hush and looked around to find something to stimulate our dull minds.
There was a young pashtun boy around 15 cleaning the tables and setting up chairs for coming customers. Hameed brightened up and called the boy to come over.He walked clumsily towards our table.I observed him to be gruff with rough features.He had uncommon thick hands.His name was Gawal(gul) Khan Mehsood..He came from tribal areas.His father had been killed off by a stray missile.Him and his mother lived in an IDP tent in the outskirts of city.She worked as a charwoman now.We asked him about his education.He had studied till 5th class back in his village.The only fragment he retained from his earlier hazy school days was the famous incident of King Mehmud and The temple of Somnath. Hameed asked him to recount it just for the fun of it.He blushed with secret pride while recounting it in broken Urdu. Hameed observed him closely.
The owner shouted his name from the back of the shop and he broke off.We paid him our bill and prepared to leave.Then the strange incident happened.As soon as his back was turned,a mischievous smile came on Hameed’s face.He took out a 10 rupee note and called sarcastically “O Ghazvanid! come take your tip”.The boy stood stock still for a moment.When he turned around his face was red with shame and anger.With an unveiled hatred in his eyes he spoke in a husky voice,” Ghaznavi ba bia ra’azi,sta’so nawi butaan matawalo la para”* and left hurriedly.
I looked disconsolately at my room-mate.He was left speechless by this unforeseen result.The wicked smile had visibly dried on his lips in an instant.We slowly walked back to our hostel in gathering gloom and deafening silence.

The End

;*(Ghaznavi will rise again,to break these new idols of yours.);

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