The Freeing Gulshan

GULSHAN / It was the day before I would be paying the debt of my first brick yard family. Gulshan, with her daughters, Saba and Samra, were making 400-500 bricks a day, trapped in debt bondage. Gulshan had labored hard, eleven years, as good as widowed by her husband, who had fled the brick yard. I was pondering how much we’ve been given on ‘our’ side of the world, as I drove along. For the first time on this familiar stretch of lawless highway 70, in north St. Louis, I found myself going with the ‘flow’ of traffic; 15-20 mph OVER the 55 mph limit. Out of the corner of my left eye, there came erratic motions in the left lane, a man pounding on his steering wheel, and hollering, seemingly angry because he was boxed in and couldn’t pass. The family in the van was unaware of the temper tantrum, being had in a car, mere inches from their bumper. At 75 american miles an hour, our eyes met and I shrugged at him in a gesture, of “WHAT”S THE MATTER?” He jerked his finger, back and forth, hard at the van, pounding with his hand, mouthing his torment to me, that they would not move out of his way. I slowed down so he could swing around the family’s van, into my lane and speed his hasty life on. As he angrily gunned his engine, a large black puff of smoke spewed from his shining bright black car. It was Sunday morning, on my way to church, and here I was, sinning, gleeful that the man had just blown his motor. I muttered “I’m sorry” to the Lord, and thought back to Gulshan, and the brick yard furnaces of Pakistan, that spew a puff of the amount of smoke of a blown engine, in a split second.

GU GULSHAN / It was the day before I would be paying the debt of my first brick yard family. Gulshan, with her daughters, Saba and Samra, were making 400-500 bricks a day, trapped in debt bondage. Gulshan had labored hard, eleven years, as good as widowed by her husband, who had fled the brick yard. I was pondering how much we’ve been given on ‘our’ side of the world, as I drove along. For the first time on this familiar stretch of lawless highway 70, in north St. Louis, I found myself going with the ‘flow’ of traffic; 15-20 mph OVER the 55 mph limit. Out of the corner of my left eye, there came erratic motions in the left lane, a man pounding on his steering wheel, and hollering, seemingly angry because he was boxed in and couldn’t pass. The family in the van was unaware of the temper tantrum, being had in a car, mere inches from their bumper. At 75 american miles an hour, our eyes met and I shrugged at him in a gesture, of “WHAT”S THE MATTER?” He jerked his finger, back and forth, hard at the van, pounding with his hand, mouthing his torment to me, that they would not move out of his way. I slowed down so he could swing around the family’s van, into my lane and speed his hasty life on. As he angrily gunned his engine, a large black puff of smoke spewed from his shining bright black car. It was Sunday morning, on my way to church, and here I was, sinning, gleeful that the man had just blown his motor. I muttered “I’m sorry” to the Lord, and thought back to Gulshan, and the brick yard furnaces of Pakistan, that spew a puff of the amount of smoke of a blown engine, in a split second. familiar stretch of lawless highway 70, in north St. Louis, I found myself going with the ‘flow’ of traffic; 15-20 mph OVER the 55 mph limit. Out of the corner of my left eye, there came erratic motions in the left lane, a man pounding on his steering wheel, and hollering, seemingly angry because he was boxed in and couldn’t pass. The family in the van was unaware of the temper tantrum, being had in a car, mere inches from their bumper. At 75 american miles an hour, our eyes met and I shrugged at him in a gesture, of “WHAT”S THE MATTER?” He jerked his finger, back and forth, hard at the van, pounding with his hand, mouthing his torment to me, that they would not move out of his way. I slowed down so he could swing around the family’s van, into my lane and speed his hasty life on. As he angrily gunned his engine, a large black puff of smoke spewed from his shining bright black car. It was Sunday morning, on my way to church, and here I was, sinning, gleeful that the man had just blown his motor. I muttered “I’m sorry” to the Lord, and thought back to Gulshan, and the brick yard furnaces of Pakistan, that spew a puff of the amount of smoke of a blown engine, in a split second.