From Fields to a Hatchery: A Journey of Dignity, Hard Work, and Transformation
This story is not about self-praise, nor is it meant to diminish anyone else. It is a story I carry with pride, and I want to document it so that others, especially young people, can find inspiration in it. I have always believed that success is not an elevator that lifts you overnight. It is a staircase. And those who climb step by step build a journey that is stable, meaningful, and lasting.
My journey began in 1978, when I completed my matriculation at the age of sixteen. In my village, this was considered a significant achievement. People congratulated me warmly, and like any young boy, I began to believe that I was now ready for a respectable office job. I had even started learning typing, hoping it would open doors to a better future.
But reality was very different from expectation.
We belonged to a modest family, living below the poverty line. There were days when food was sufficient, and days when it was not. In such circumstances, waiting for the “right opportunity” was not a luxury we could afford. Life demanded action, not dreams alone.
Soon after my exams, the wheat harvesting season arrived. Without hesitation, my younger brother and I went to work in our relatives’ fields. It was daily labor. From sunrise to sunset, we cut wheat under the open sky. Our payment was not in cash, but in kind. At the end of the day, we received a bundle of wheat.
Each worker tried to make their bundle as large as possible. There was an unspoken competition. The tighter and bigger the bundle, the more wheat you would take home. But often, these bundles became so heavy that we had to divide them into smaller parts just to carry them.
After some time, we moved from daily labor to contract-based work. We would take responsibility for harvesting an entire acre, and in return, we were paid one maund of wheat per acre. This decision was not easy.
My father strongly opposed it.
He believed that working as a laborer in his relatives’ fields would lower his social standing. He scolded us, even tried to stop us. But we had already made up our minds. We told ourselves that it was better to work hard and earn our own food than to spend the year borrowing flour from others. It was not just about survival. It was about dignity.
Then something remarkable happened.
Our mothers joined us in the fields. Both stood beside us, cutting wheat under the same sun. After some time, even my father, who had initially resisted, came to the fields. Still frustrated, he eventually picked up the sickle and started working with us.
What began as resistance turned into unity.
For one or two seasons, we lived this life of continuous labor. During the day, we cut wheat, and often at night, we worked on threshing machines. There were days when rest was minimal, but the purpose was clear. Through this effort, we managed to collect around twenty to twenty-two maunds of wheat, enough to sustain our household for the year.
That phase of life taught me one of the most important lessons I have ever learned: dignity comes from effort, not status.
After this period, my father decided to take me to Lahore in search of a job. He had contacts with a well-known business group, and he believed this connection might help me find employment.
I still remember those visits vividly.
Their office felt like a different world. Outside, we waited in the heat on a veranda, while inside there were air-conditioned rooms. Every time I met them, they would ask me to come again after a few days or weeks. Interestingly, each time they gave me two hundred rupees in fresh notes, enough to cover my travel expenses.
After several visits, I was finally given a small handwritten note addressed to their General Manager. That note was passed along, and eventually, I was referred to a Hybrid Hatchery.
I went there with hope.
I believed that my matriculation would earn me a respectable office position.
Instead, I was offered a job as a worker.
For a moment, it felt like everything I had imagined for myself had collapsed. I struggled internally. I kept telling myself that I deserved something better.
For the first few days, I decided every evening that I would not return the next day.
But each time, I remembered my reality.
In the village, labor meant working from sunrise until it was too dark to see. Compared to that, this job offered structure. Eight hours of work, a defined break, and a more organized environment.
Slowly, my thinking began to shift.
On 11 May 1981, I formally joined the hatchery as a worker.
Life there was simple but disciplined. Workers lived together in shared rooms, usually with four to six people in one space, and shared common bathrooms. There was a clear hierarchy. As the newest worker, I was at the bottom.
My primary responsibility was cleaning trays.
These trays were used for eggs and were often dirty with broken shells, residue, and waste. First, they were soaked in large water tanks until the dirt softened. Then, using brushes, we scrubbed them clean. It was physically demanding and repetitive work.
But I did not treat it casually.
I took it as a challenge. There was even a sense of competition between another worker and me. We would push ourselves to clean more trays than the other. It became a test of endurance and discipline.
Gradually, I started learning more.
Senior workers initially did not share much knowledge, but during busy periods, they had no choice. They began teaching me how to sort eggs, identify quality, and prepare them for incubation. I learned about the difference between layer eggs and broiler eggs, and how to handle them carefully.
Later, I was introduced to the hatching section.
Here, chicks would emerge, and we had to sort them. Over time, I learned how to distinguish between male and female chicks, often by examining their wings. Female chicks were sold at a higher price, while male chicks were sold cheaply in bulk.
This part of the job also brought one of the most difficult experiences of my life.
When male chicks were not sold, they had to be disposed of.
The method was harsh. They were placed into water-filled drums and drowned. The first time I saw this, I felt deeply disturbed. It was painful to watch. These were living beings, and it did not feel right.
But I was told clearly, “This is part of the job.”
And I had to do it.
Over time, I learned to carry out my responsibilities, but that initial discomfort never completely disappeared. It stayed with me as a reminder that work is not always easy, and sometimes it demands emotional strength.
The hatchery taught me more than just about labor. It changed my thinking.
Coming from a village, I had grown up with strong social and religious boundaries. At the hatchery, Muslims and Christians lived, worked, and ate together. Initially, I resisted this. I avoided sharing utensils and even drank water separately, directly from the tap.
But slowly, observation changed my perspective.
I saw people working together with respect and without discrimination. I realized that humanity is greater than labels. Within a year, I had completely adapted. I shared meals, built friendships, and even cooked together with colleagues from different backgrounds.
When I returned to my village, some people questioned these changes. But I knew that what I had learned was right. It was growth.
Alongside my work, I continued to invest in myself. I worked day and night, and I also practiced typing regularly to improve my speed. I understood that if I wanted to move forward, I had to prepare myself, even while doing hard labor.
I worked in the hatchery for about fourteen months.
Looking back today, I realize that those fourteen months were among the most valuable periods of my life. They did not just provide me with a livelihood. They built my character.
They taught me discipline, resilience, humility, and the importance of continuous learning.
Even today, I say this with pride: I started my journey as a worker, and I have never been ashamed of it.
If there is one message I want to share with young people, it is this.
Never hesitate to start small.
Do not wait for perfect opportunities. Take the opportunity available to you and give it your best. Because every step, no matter how small, is part of a larger journey.
And if you keep moving forward with honesty, hard work, and patience, that journey will always lead you to a better place.
