Photo Credit: Google
My one year old son was running a temperature. My husband had been posted as an instructor to the School of Mountainaring and Snow Warfare, so he wasn’t with us. I was with my in- laws in the village. No doctor was available there. Doctors prefer cities to earn a better living.
I couldn’t go on my own to the city. My father-in-law took us in a tanga (a horse drawn carriage) to Charsadda. He didn’t drive, and in those days there were no taxis available in villages, unlike now. The tanga went Plip-Plop. I was holding my little son in my lap. I sat in the tanga after a very long time. I was wearing silken clothes. If I had known how I was going to fare in a tanga, I would have changed into cotton clothes.
I was sitting in the back seat. My father-in-law sat in the front with the tanga driver. With every jolt of the tanga, I would slip down from the seat. With one hand I was trying to hold onto the tanga rail, with the other I was clutching my sick son. I was near tears on my predicament.
Finally we reached Charsadda, and got into a taxi to reach Peshawar. After showing my son to a doctor, we went to stay with my elder brother for a night. I wanted to make sure the medicine was working, and my son would be alright.
That was my second ride in a tanga, and thankfully I never rode in a tanga again.
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