In all the families I know, of all the parents I know, all are joined by a single loose thread. That link is a desire to watch their children touch success. Families expect to surge forward by the thrust of their young, who are fuelled by the blood and ambitions of generations. Your ancestors take every step with you, like a thousand feet stepping at once on the same patch of sand. All seemingly move forward together towards a lighter future where name, happiness and wealth abound. But I wonder about our hidden histories. Were we always a line of bankers or traders? Is there a thief's blood within us and also that of a journeyman? And more importantly, how did they know which way was forward?
During rare moments of absolute clarity the road forward appears as muddled as during times of confusion. Do I take the path taken before by my ancestors? It guarantees a degree of fortune, if not fame. Or do I choose the road that appears more desolate? Because trading, not writing, is in my blood? But what of its rewards, those intangibles that leave the sweetest of tastes?
A reward of this nature is difficult to explain to anyone but those who have sought it and tasted it. It is like the first drop of the monsoon or a warm conversation or a meal prepared well. The rewards are beyond value. You feel as if you have been touched by life itself. It is a tempting path to take.
I wonder whether years from now a sindhi child with a wide nose will imagine his predecessors. "Do I take the path taken before by my ancestors?" the child will ponder. "There is fame, but no fortune. Or do I choose the road that appears more desolate? Because writing, not trading, is in my blood?"
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