MY LIFE OF INSPIRATION
My Story of Inspiration I walked on land that was supposed be a stream. I stood with people who were
supposed to be ‘animals’. Well, I myself wasn’t really supposed to be there at all, for Machchar Colony,
an unrecognized community, is a cradle of crime in Karachi. Swarms of languid plastic bags blew in the
densely fetid air, the man-made earth blooped each time I moved with the stream stirring threateningly
under my feet. Ta.ered straw huts do.ed the sides of this path, from which curious faces popped out to
stare at my unceremonious slog with heels. I /nally reached the school where I had volunteered to
assist. The entrance was a big oval hole blasted in a wall, curtained with a hole-riddled cloth. The
building consisted of 10 rooms, a small courtyard and a back garden. As I walked from class to class I
realized something missing—there was no teacher. The children were playing noisily around; the desks
were being used for passionate gra4ti cra5 work or as obstacles in the obstacle-races. The older boys
listlessly ambled about in the courtyard, smoking keenly. It seemed that they were clinging to the last
vestiges of their fast evaporating childhood, by visiting school before they would have to make their way
into the criminal world. Finally I found a teacher in the last room. She was cha6ng animatedly on her
cell-phone, so I waited. When she finished, I told her about myself and that I wanted to help her teach to
gain work–experience. She looked at me quizzically, suspecting me of ulterior motives. A5er interrogating
me more, and satis/ed that my motives, whatever they were, would not involve her, she gave me the
approval and went back to her happy chirrup. I was uncertain from where to start. I had brought my box
of paper, pencils, erasers and crayons, so I grouped all the kids together and handed out paper and
