Chapter 5 THREAT

"I will never cower before any master nor bend to any threat." - Dean Alfange.

Iqbal lived in Lahore with BLLF. The first time he paid a flying visit back to his home, Ghullah the owner of the carpet factory was like seizing him up with works.

'You have to come back to work.' Ghullah said. 'Then the other children will come back too.'

Iqbal tossed his head side to side in disapproval. And as the dark clouds drifted over the hills, another carpet maker threatened the mother of the little boy.

He vowed with the last drops of his blood to abduct her and her son if he doesn't return to work or pay off the debt that made him a debt slave.

And the third carpet maker added, saying to Sobia, Iqbal's little sister: "Your brother walks about like a judge in the streets whenever he comes home. But one day we'll get him."

'Shut up mister,' Sobia remarked rudely.

Of course, she had never dared to be rude to an adult before but she was forced to do so for the word 'threat' doesn't agree to her belly. So she spat out the bitter gall.

'Watch out or we'll kill you too.' Ghullah replied.

The day came. The day to bide goodbyes. A large number of friends and relatives came up to the train station to see Iqbal and his colleagues off to Sweden. The news that the slave boys gained self-imposed freedom and had got entry into study abroad spread fast.

Evening before the day of departure. The same day he was threatened by his master. As Iqbal strolled to the market place, he was surprised to hear the blacksmith hailed him.

'Behold a chest of golds! Come close, boy.' The blacksmith laid down the heavy hammer he had been wielding and smiled broadly. Iqbal went to shake hands.

'That's the way it should be,' said the blacksmith. 'Perhaps later, when you have become a doctor, and wear ties and all, we may seem too barbarous to you.

But now you're one of us.' Having said this, he rumbled into laughter, and his sinewy chest and arms seemed to roar with him.

'Have you seen your master?'

'No!'

'Keep your head low for now please!' He whispered.

'Alright.' Iqbal chuckled. 'But a free mind have no guilt.'

'You are really a man!' He said, tapping him on his shoulder. 'But be careful!'

This same blacksmith was one of the first to come to the train station. Iqbal and the other children arrived, accompanied by Mr. Ehsan who was deputizing the Bonded Labour Liberation Front, BLLF; and with the host of other countrymen who had came to say goodbyes to their wards. The blacksmith waddled out when he saw them.

'Is this learned man about to leave us?" He asked, feigning not to take notice of other children. They were about twenty one in figure.

Iqbal's old girl smiled and made a deep obeisance to the man in the manner of her people. Iqbal's head swayed, weighing over ten kilograms extra. He loved been addressed as a man.

Being referred to as a man was to him like a wreath of honour. And perhaps, mature enough to rule over his own will and his fate. Not serving under chains and shackles as a citizen of the forest.

'Where are our children going to?' an old man demanded.

Mr. Ehsan replied him softly. His voice of course reflected his physical charms of which no lady could resist growing in love or lust. The eyes were like metals of Indies. And his height agreed with his handsomeness - not too tall or short.

'I see.' said the old man, peering dimly at those children. They were impatient to leave. This was to be their first long journey away from Muridke. Most of them might had been to neighbouring villages, but had never entered train traveling more than a nine hundred miles from home.

'Time has come when our children would walk tall with pens, not forks. And thank goodness that I happened to see the start.

I can peacefully close my eyes at least the nightfall is over. Impoverishment is going. Slavery is starving at the dimming sun of my time...'

The old man blessed and wished them well. Mr. Ehsan tossed something into his palm. A fistful of coins. The old man was so delighted. The joy in his heart provoked the heavens to let loose of its dews upon the young man.

There is no one who does not like soup with fish in it. So Hussein, the blacksmith wasn't exempted from the same fortune. Then him and the blacksmith went to sit on an awaiting bench as the train screeched and disappeared out of sight.

This then was BLLF. A mammoth of other school children hung around the corridors. Some faces looked frightful while others were appealing.

Iqbal and his colleagues entered with an incredible flag of white and green bands, with half-curved moon. The show was certainly stolen.

As soon as other children saw some strange faces cladded on shalwars and kameez - shirts coming they all swarmed around them like clowns.

'What is your name?' One lanky boy with enormous spectacles asked, directly looking at Iqbal.

'I am Iqbal.' He said softly.

'And where are you from?' Another boy demanded.

'Pakistan.'

'And what's that filthy rag in your hands?'

'This is my identity and pride; not filthy rag. Buddy!'

'I see!'

'You all are Pakistanis, huh?' The third boy threw in another question.

'Yay, we are.' Iqbal answered with pride.

The students cracked into a deep nauseating laughter. Iqbal stood still trying to figure out what was happening. The other boys were worried too. What really prompted the laughter was like a puzzle.

One of the boys pointed to the floor and all eyes followed his finger. And the laughter escalated. It was the shalwar - loose pair of trousers of the Pakistanis children billowing as balloons in the wind. Those boys were deeply wounded. They hung their heads to the floor.

Iqbal looked squarely into the eyes of the jesters and whispered a remark of appreciation. He then turned to his friends, gave them a meaningful look and they all recoiled into a shell of provoking silence. And seeing this, the bellies of the bullies went sour.