This is a painful era we live in – an era of disconnection, where relationships are sacrificed in the pursuit of material success
We all have connections, but how many of us truly have relationships?
By Nisar Banbhan
We were sitting in a tanga, the horse-drawn carriage moving slowly along the bank of the canal, tracing a dirt road that meandered away from the paved path. This journey, through the simplicity of nature, always brings me home. On this side of the canal lies my village, and each time I travel there by tanga, it feels like the best journey of my life.
There were two other passengers with me that day: an elderly man and a boy, perhaps no more than eleven or twelve years old. The boy sat quietly, absorbed in the serene silence that surrounded us, watching the water flow steadily alongside the canal. In a moment of thoughtfulness, the boy turned to the old man and asked, “What is the difference between a ‘connection’ and a ‘relationship’?”
The old man gazed at the boy, as if weighing the question in his mind. After a pause, he asked, “Do you have an elder brother who lives in the city?”
The boy responded without hesitation, “Yes, I do.”
The old man, still gazing ahead, asked, “Who else is in your family?”
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The boy’s voice softened, “My mother died giving birth to me. It’s just my father and my elder brother who lives in the city. And there’s my sister—she’s married and lives in a nearby village where we go by train.”
The old man nodded and asked gently, “Do you speak to your father often?”
The boy hesitated, reflecting for a moment, before admitting, “Not really.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” the old man inquired, his tone thoughtful yet probing.
After pondering, the boy answered, “Maybe a month ago. I only asked him to sell some goats so I could get my school clothes.”
The old man didn’t reply right away. After a moment, he asked, “Do your brother and sister come home often? When was the last time the whole family gathered?”
The boy thought again and answered with a tinge of sadness, “The last time we were all together was a few years ago, during Eid.”
“And how long did you all stay?” the old man continued.
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“Three days,” the boy replied. “Then my brother went back to the city, and my sister returned to her village.”
The old man then posed another question, “During those days, did you or your brother spend time sitting with your father? Did you all eat breakfast, lunch, or dinner together? Did anyone ask him how he’s been, how he’s managed since your mother’s passing?”
By this point, I was listening intently, drawn in by the exchange between the two. Even the tanga driver smiled quietly at the conversation.
The boy, feeling the weight of the old man’s questions, was silent. The old man then took the boy’s hand gently and said, “Don’t be ashamed, my child, nor feel sorrow. I mean no harm. But in your questions lie the answers. You all have a ‘connection’ with your father, but you’re not ‘related’ to him. A connection is merely a bond, but a relationship—ah, that is something deeper. It’s built on sharing meals, time, conversations, touches, and care. You and your siblings are connected, but you’re not truly related in the way that matters.”
That journey taught me an unforgettable lesson, a truth that resonates deeply even today. Whether at home or in society, we have countless ‘connections,’ but few genuine ‘relationships.’ In our busy lives, we often fail to nurture what truly matters: the heart-to-heart bonds that come from spending time with loved ones.
As I looked at the boy, I wondered if his young eyes could grasp the sadness that lingers in the hearts of parents when their children leave the village for the city, only to forget them. How often do they yearn for a few moments of togetherness, for the touch of a hand, for a simple conversation?
When we rush to start our cars and race ahead in life, we leave behind more than just our villages. We leave behind our parents, our heritage, and our roots. The elder generation, who spent their lives and savings raising us, are left to wonder why the new generation is so caught up in trivial pursuits, so detached from the importance of relationships.
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In this frantic race for success, we forget that the old father, once so strong, now struggles under the weight of his burdens. We forget that the mother, cooking over a smoky fire, endures her hardships silently. Life in the village may seem simple, but it’s a life filled with meaning, with a sense of belonging. Yet, in the glittering city, these things fade into the background, and we lose touch with the very people who shaped us.
I thought about how often we forget the small acts of love our parents perform for us. The father standing in line to deposit money into his child’s account, the mother cooking through her tears—these are the moments that bind us. But when they are gone, all that remains is regret. No amount of success or wealth can fill the void left by their absence.
This is not just a reflection on the past but a reminder of what we risk losing. The younger generation, caught up in their dreams and ambitions, fails to see the danger of drifting away from the people who truly matter. They believe they are chasing happiness, but in reality, they are moving toward loneliness. The elders, though silent, feel this loss keenly. They know what it means to be forgotten by their own children.
As I watched the old man and the boy, I realized that this is a painful era we live in—an era of disconnection, where relationships are sacrificed in the pursuit of material success. The village, once a symbol of life’s simple joys, now seems a distant memory, replaced by the hustle of city life. The new generation may thrive on convenience, but they have lost sight of what truly nourishes the soul.
In the end, the old man was right. We all have connections, but how many of us truly have relationships?
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Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 24 years of diverse experience, including 3 years in journalism, 21 years in a public sector organization, and a longstanding career in writing and freelancing. He specializes in content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyricism, poetry, short stories, and the crafting of articles and columns in both Sindhi and Urdu.
