A life cut short by antibiotics
Ghulam Farid was the brightest kid in his year of the village school where I went. All kids have their gifts; his was calligraphy and folklore, especially a poetic rendition of a quarrel between a man's wife and his mother. He used to have the whole school spell-bound when he recited this one. He was equally bright in reading and writing. His favourite pastime was to memorize spellings of long English words which he then challenged the rest of us to match. His father was a carpenter. Farid couldn't continue his school beyond year 10 (only a few of us were fortunate enough to do that). He became the village ‘painter’, making his living from his calligraphy skills, preparing billboards, banner, posters or simply painting colourful slogans on walls for local politicians. He made a good living out of his hobby and was very well known and respected for that. But then came the ‘panaflex’ – the computerised printing of billboards. Farid was out of work for sometime, then he bec