BARRING a patch in the mid-2000s, Pakistan’s economy has been mired in the quicksand of low growth, rising unemployment, increasing indebtedness, and galloping inflation for almost two decades. How have ordinary Pakistanis managed in these testing times?

The following pen sketches are of people I have known closely during this time and their stories of struggle and survival. It is hardly a representative set, of course, mainly because it is a miniscule sample that is largely urban. However, combined with the stories that we know of from the smaller towns and cities across the length and breadth of the country, these brief outlines of the lives of our compatriots, who are largely invisible to the rest of us, are revealing in their own way.

Khala Sakina: Our cleaning lady has been with us ever since we moved to Islamabad 16 years ago. Back then, she was a young mother with seven children; a few years later she was widowed. With all the usual epic struggles, she managed to raise her children — two sons, several daughters. The sons are lucky to have found employment in two separate defence-related organisations, and are well-looked after in terms of salary and facilities.

The outlines of the lives of our compatriots, who are largely invisible to the rest of us, are revealing.

However, despite a reasonable combined income, the household’s expenditures have been more elastic. Periodic weddings and funerals in the extended family have left Khala Sakina indebted on several occasions. Health shocks have been another constant drain on savings, with visits to quack health ‘practitioners’ not helping the family’s cause.

Of late, the electricity bill has been providing all the shocks. Despite the fact the family lives in Golra on the edges of Islamabad, their electricity bill has exceeded mine on several occasions. Quite a few times it has averaged around Rs5,000 a month—– an implausible amount for a family switching on a few tube lights and fans every night.

Asad: Asad washes my car each morning. An intelligent, hardworking and extremely well-mannered teenager, Asad is one of four brothers who wash cars full-time and don’t attend school. With a little help on the down payment, Asad bought a motorcycle on credit two years ago and has since seen his mobility — and income opportunities — improve sharply. However, without an education it is difficult to see how Asad will move up the economic ladder from here. The problem with financing his education is the opportunity cost for his family — someone will have to provide for the lost income before Asad will be willing to consider a formal education. A part-time enrolment may be an option.

It is sad to see Asad’s obvious intelligence and talent go to waste, but he represents millions of youth of this country who are all worthy citizens the state is too willing to ignore and brush under a ‘macro’ framework.

Shakirullah: An erstwhile trader in honey based in Nowshera, Shakirullah was heavily indebted when I first met him. A few bouts of disease and illness in the family had placed Shakirullah’s head firmly below water, so to speak. Financially, the final straw came when the floods in 2011 destroyed part of his house. Though he did eventually receive compensation from the government, it only partially covered the cost of reconstruction.

Barely literate, Shakirullah doesn’t have the capital to restart his business. Provided with some seed capital, a few attempts have gone awry, forcing him to work as a daily wage labourer for several months. To compound his worries, his daughter — the youngest among numerous children — has a heart condition that requires periodic hospitalisation; any saving that Shakirullah does eke out goes towards doctor’s fees and medication. In the past three years or so, his children have gone without proper food for countless days, with clear signs of malnourishment. When the domestic situation gets unbearable, Shakirullah ‘escapes’ with the help of the Tableeghi Jamaat — though his reason for leaving is always cast in more spiritual terms!

Babu: To me, Babu is the Pakistani we all forget about and leave behind. I have known him since he was a spritely teen, darting among cars hawking newspapers and the salacious, gossipy Indian film magazines at the Marriott signal in Karachi almost 40 years ago. We used to be on our way back from school, and Babu would be wearing his Hawaiian shirt and sporting his trademark smile.

Some years ago, while working out of my bank’s Karachi office next to the Marriott, Babu spotted me. Looking old and haggard, his physical condition didn’t allow him to sell newspapers anymore. Completely illiterate, he had limited options to earn a livelihood. A kind soul took on the cost of sending his two young children to school. To Babu that alone meant the whole world. Unfortunately after a few years, while the children were progressing at school, the private school had to be closed down. Located near Babu’s home in Korangi No. 2, the owner had been receiving increasingly nasty extortion threats — until she decided to move out. Scores of children in that poor neighbourhood have now been deprived of an education — and a chance at the future. Babu has now set up a vegetable stall (khoka) and his out-of-school children help their father.

Asif: Of all the ‘ordinary’ Pakistanis I know, Asif’s story is among the positive: he is clearly ‘on the up’ (along with his neighbour, Majeed, the laundry shop owner). Asif runs a mid-sized karyana store in F-11, and can be considered a successful shopkeeper. His weekly purchasing, all on cash, is close to Rs100,000 a week, and he has done well enough to recently buy a small plot of land near the new airport as an investment.

But for each story of hope such as Asif’s, there are countless other stories of bottomless despair across Pakistan. From the desperate emails and letters I receive, educated youth in small-town Pakistan are hurting the most, especially towns that are in the economic hinterland, not connected to a larger market town or industrial cluster. Lack of opportunities, administrative injustice and heavy-handedness, and a brewing public health crisis compound the everyday misery of millions. What can, and should be done, will be the subject of a subsequent article.

The writer is a former economic adviser to government, and currently heads a macroeconomic consultancy based in Islamabad.

Published in Dawn, July 11th, 2014