Two Yards of Dream

Finding good land in this world is a task far more difficult than building a house upon it. In Pakistan, good land has now become as rare as pure food—teetering on the brink of extinction. Building a home and living in it peacefully is, after marriage, the second great dream of almost every sensible adult. For this dream, a man wagers his body, soul, and savings so that he may finally be spared the daily torment of migration and the ritual humiliation of moving his household goods.

My friend Aasar-e-Gum-Gashta—a man who has devoted the last twenty years of his life to the noble profession of selling pakoras and samosas—harbored the same dream. It was an inheritance from his late father, who left behind only two items in his estate: one pakora cart, and one dream of building a house. Both were equally dear to his talented son, who loved them more than life itself.

Whenever this topic arose between us, I would offer him the same advice:

“First look at the size of your coat, then stretch your legs.”

Pakora carts and private houses do not usually share the same universe. I would urge him to abandon such fantasies and instead worry about acquiring the real estate that truly matters—a burial plot—since even that, I had heard, was becoming hard to secure these days.

But he always had the same reply:

“After hunger, the poor possess only dreams. Do you want to snatch those away too?”

I had no authority to speak on poverty, but on dreams I felt entitled to issue a public warning: dream according to your capacity and convenience, or suffer the consequences. To save him from himself, I would regularly visit his stall, consume a quarter-kilo of pakoras, and attempt—bite by bite—to empty the sack of his aspirations.

When persuasion failed, I consulted an acquaintance who was a contractor to inquire about the basic requirements of building a house. After educating me at length on cement, sand, gravel, bricks, and other instruments of financial ruin, he asked the most dangerous question of all:

“Where is the land, and how much is it?”

I replied with the honesty of a respectable man:
“The land hasn’t been bought yet. Where it will be, and for how much, is still under divine consideration.”

He clenched his teeth, swallowed his anger, and finally said:
“Then go see Arth Shastra.”

I asked if this was a neurologist.
“No,” he said, “it’s a real estate agency.”

As I rose to leave, he stopped me:
“What does your friend do for a living?”

I sat back down comfortably.
“He is the CEO of Shehryar Pakora House and a major stakeholder in Dani Chatkhara Point.”

He leaned back against the seat.
“So both empires are managed by his two sons?”

“No,” I replied. “Actually, to avoid taxes, there are two signboards on one shop. One customer gets fifty rupees worth of pakoras, while the next is handed a cup of dahi bhallay from the same tray.”

He smiled faintly and said:
“Then consider it a blessing if you can secure even two yards of corner land in Silent City Housing Society—even if it isn’t commercial.”

“Two yards?” I asked. “What does one do with two yards?”

He took another drag of his cigarette and said:
“Even Bahadur Shah Zafar didn’t get two yards, despite being emperor. And you ask what two yards are for.”

I left without understanding the wisdom of the statement.

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When we reached the office of Arth Shastra, a young maiden welcomed us with arrows in her eyes and a sorrowful smile upon her lips. After hearing that we sought a plot to build one single house on this fragile planet—a plot as radiant as her forehead and as spacious as her heart—she visibly rejoiced at the thought of her forthcoming commission.

She ordered us a drink so cold that it extinguished all fires of liver and stomach alike. Then she began her inquiry.

I explained the boundaries of the plot in such scientific detail that even satellites would have been confused. The sun’s rays were to enter at dawn, reflect at forty degrees, exit at fifty-five degrees, and reduce global warming.

“What’s the benefit of this?” Aasar-e-Gum-Gashta whispered.

“Minimal refraction,” I replied confidently. “The rays will take their energy back with them.”

“Who taught you this technical knowledge?” he asked.

“A TikTok video.”

“Then it must be correct.”

The young lady wrote everything down and said, “Go on.”

My friend added that the north wind should erase his past, heal his wounds, and that walking barefoot on dew-covered grass at night should make spring bloom even in autumn.

She nodded. “Very right.”

A handsome young man entered, handed us a file. Seeing English text, I claimed to have forgotten my glasses and passed it to my friend—who, like me, had been expelled from school in eighth grade due to chronic absence.

We requested a summary in Urdu.

She smiled and asked us to deposit fifty thousand rupees. My friend paid immediately and stored the receipt in the pocket reserved for lovers’ photographs.

After this essential legal procedure, she informed us that the plot would cost two crore and fifty lakh rupees, of which fifty thousand had already been paid as earnest money.

“So I can build my house now?” my friend asked.

“Absolutely. Consider the house built the moment you take possession.”

“When will possession be given?”

“As soon as you deposit the remaining two crore forty-nine lakh fifty thousand rupees.”

My heavens lit up instantly. My friend fell silent like a man mute since childhood.

“Can we get our fifty thousand back?” I asked.

She smiled.
“Our machine only accepts money. It does not return it.”

“Then how will he go home?”

“I live in a rented flat myself.”

“We don’t even have fare.”

“No problem. Walk. Walking controls stress, blood pressure, and diabetes.”

Her medical advice being sound, I agreed completely—and carried Aasar-e-Gum-Gashta on my shoulders, singing:

‘Forced we go, far from your world—remember us