MUHAMMAD ZUNAIR

In Pakistan, three kinds of babies are born to parents, boys, girls and ‘not specified’ ones and none of the ‘sophisticated’ and ‘civilized’ people of our society can’t even think of having a ‘Khawaja Sra’ as our child or sibling. We reject them from the very beginning and these rejected people then become the ‘hateful’ and ‘ loathsome ’ part of our society but at the same time a source of joy and amusement for the ‘honoured’ entities. We badmouthed them, we make fun of them but we never realize that it’s not their mistake that they are born that way. We don’t accept them as a part of us rather we treat them as a wound that remain in contact to the body, we never accept it and we always try to get rid of it but in that case we usually forget the part of healing it. We abandon them, we left them to the people who destroy their identities and make them their puppets. Because of the rejection from family and society, they become thankful to those who ‘adopted’ them. Although those

Dry as the peach coloured leaves of the autumn, still as the snowcapped mountains of the winter and pinching as the heat of the summer, sometimes life isn't as colourful as the flowers of the spring. And what makes life worth living and enjoyable is actually the bitter and competitive part of it. Like every other picture, the canvass of life has two sides, the one side is what most of the people keep looking at and the other side is what they keep dreaming about. From the womb of the mother to the grave, humans spend their lives longing for things and trying pretty hard to get them but to fulfill their never ending list of desires and dreams they lost what they really care about, they lost their beloved ones and they lost those for whom they do things in the first place. In the end deprivation, destitution and  impecuniosity  is all what they acquire. But greed in human nature makes a human a pendulum, moving to and fro between the ‘dreaming’ end and the ‘becoming true’ end. 

Sun was shining and people were cheering as the red dirt of Roland Garros was witnessing the making of a legend and eternity of tennis. A boy, aged 19, 6’1’’ tall, strong as lead, fast as bullet and fearless as a warrior, sweat pouring from his nose, muscles all pumped up, shoulder-long hair held back and ready to fly, right hand on the ball and the racket in the left. As prepared as a combatant, who is ready to fight, ready to bleed, ready to endure but also ready to conquer, ready to stand tall and ready to never ever give up. He was in sleeveless shirt and Capri pants , he was Rafael Nadal. It was Semi-final of French Open 2005 and Rafael Nadal was up against the then World’s no.1 Roger Federer. Nobody had thought of that Mallorca boy to beat the very extraordinary and versatile Federer at the grand stage although Nadal had beaten him previously. But to become the best you have to conquer the best and Nadal knew the script. Not only he defeated Federer but also won the Fr