My Roots

My Roots

Author Rizwan Ahmed Memon

We have a great attachment to the place where we are born, the places where we played games in our childhood, and the streets on which we walk every day. These places are our roots and anywhere in the world we go, we miss them.

I remember the streets on which I played in my childhood. They were not made of cement or tiles. They didn't look like floors or roads. They were simply of dust. The earth was smooth and soft. The dust lifted and blew only when a big vehicle crossed. In the summer, when I played on those streets, they felt cold and comforting. They used to be damp because the shadows of the trees and walls of the houses, which were made of mud bricks. They hardly allowed the sunshine through. Whether our streets and houses are made of cement, tiles, or of other materials, we love them because we have a history with them.

However, among us there are some people who do not feel a relationship with their roots. They always complain about everything around them, and they seem to be fed up with their surroundings. They try to move to a big city and live away from their countryside. On the contrary, the people who love their roots think of them as deceivers who only take from their roots and don’t give anything to their roots.

If you ask me, I have a great attachment to my roots. I feel happy to be where I was born. I like to sit on the ground where I played games in my childhood. In 2010, when I went to university, I had to leave my countryside. I studied in a university which was three times larger than my countryside. Everything was available there: wide playing fields, libraries, gyms and the Internet cafe. In spite of all those things, I missed my village. In the lights of the big city, I missed the quietness of the night of my countryside. Whenever I got to go home on holiday, I felt great happiness. In university, holidays for me meant a chance to go to my rural area. My small town was at a great distance. Many of my classmates spent their holidays at the university, but I always went to my village on the holidays. It took a whole night if I traveled at night, and a whole day if I traveled in day. The big city’s wind could never win my heart. The gym or the wide playing fields of the university never gave me that joy which I got on the little streets in my hamlet. The bank of the river of my region, where I had spent hours, always came in my dreams. When I was at the hostel, the trees, the fields and the streets always remained in my memories.

After completing my education, I came back to my roots to give to them all those skills I gained at university. The people of my community didn't like my pants and shirt, and my clean-shaven face, but I liked them. Because I knew I had to teach them it was no sin to wear pants and a shirt, and it was no sin to learn the English language, and that they could grow beards if they like. I am proud of my roots, my simple countryside farmers, and the laborers.