A hard fact of life in Pakistan is the way some people are regarded as not having any real value as humans.  Many poor people hire themselves out as labourers to very wealthy and powerful landlords.  In truth it is not individuals so much as families that are hired as bonded surfs.  Their lives are hard and they are given few, if any, rights.  The system seems to protect the rights of the rich over their workers.  
The labouring family can expect to be loaned a plot of land to work for the landlord.  In return, the family must provide half of the seed for sowing, half of the fertilizer, all of the water, (which is expensive) and all of the labour.  In return the family are entitled to as much as a quarter of the produce of the land.  They are often too poor to afford the seed or the fertilizer and so must take a loan from their landlord to buy it from his store.  The family must also feed and clothe themselves until the crops come in, so they take out even more loans which must be paid back at harvest time.  It is not uncommon to find at harvest time that a family ends up owing the landlord more than they have earned.  
This state of affairs will continue until one of two things happens.  The landlord may decide to recoup his loss by transferring his workers to another landlord, or a brick kiln or a road gang owner, to work off their debt.  If that happens the debt could last several generations.  The alternative is when the family do what is known as a Chandi Jana, a moonlight flit, and run away.  Some flee to another province, others to a city, searching for a new life.  Those who end up in the towns and cities often became sweepers, the untouchables.
They sweep the streets and clean the toilets of public and private buildings.  It is a thankless and dirty job.  It may pay better than farming, but there is a high price to pay.  It is the stigma of being an untouchable, an outcast, unclean.  No longer able to mix socially with anyone who is not a sweeper, they are segragated physically as well as emotionally.  They are not allowed to eat or drink at a hotel and sometimes they are not even allowed to use a simple public village pump or stand pipe unless someone condescends to turn on the tap for them provided they use their own cup or hand to drink from.
Many of the Punjabi labourers run away to the southern province of Sindh, where I worked in the parish of St. Joseph, Matli.  Most of the Christians who lived in the towns of the parish were sweepers.
Part of my work was to travel around the parish searching out and visiting the Punjabi Christians whereever they could be found.  This would often involve long and difficult journeys across the dusty, hot land, in an old rag-top jeep.  
Once while visiting a small group of Christians who worked as sweepers in a sugar mill, I overheard something that caught my interest.  They were talking about a rumour of a group of families who were supposed to have run away from the Punjab years ago and had never been heard of since.  I asked Master George, who was with me, to find out more.  
Over the next few days he put out a question on the so called 'Grapevine'.  He asked if there were any Christians who were living in the area that we were not aware of.  Within a week, we got word that in a small town on the banks of the Indus, called Mirpur Bathoro, there were Christian families.  I had never heard of the place, so I looked it up on my old map.  I eventually found a dot and the name.  It was some 60 or 70 klms. away.  That meant we would have to spend a night or two somewhere.  
After making arrangements in the parish centre to look after the many other things I was supposed to be responsible for, we set off early one morning.  As the sun rose, so did the heat.  The unpaved road was dusty, rough and slow going.  It was nearly midday when we came in sight of Mirpur Bathoro.  I was stunned.  This was more than a dot on a map.  It was enormous.  It sprawled across the horizon, a dirty smear under a haze of grey hot smog.
I looked at Master George and shook my head.  I could not imagine any way we could possibly find a few families in such a large town.  Master George shrugged it off with a smile.  If there are any

Christians there, we will find them, he said.  We drove into the town slowly.  It was a busy, bustling place.  There did not seem to be a paved road but the dirt track was fairly well kept and we were soon in what I took to be the central market place.  
There were camels, donkeys, goats and every kind of bird.  There were stalls on wheels, shops, people peddling their wares carried on their heads or strapped to their backs.  I was enthralled. We seemed to be the only motorised vehicle in the place, judging by the attention we attracted.  
Master George suddenly told me to stop.  He climbed out of the jeep, stretched himself and dusted himself down, then strode away to the nearest shop.  I got out and shook the dust out of my clothes and cleaned the windscreen as a small crowd of curious children gathered round the jeep.  A few moments later George reappeared with a small boy in tow.  He was beaming from ear to ear. Almost gloating he said he had found them, and the little boy would show us the way, for a fee.  
The little boy squeezed himself between Master George and myself in the jeep and gave instructions of where we should go.  His language was Sindhi but I could just about follow what he said by the way he pointed and waved his hands.  Mind that donkey, turn here, look out --- the old man!  Turn there, look out, a camel!  Careful, a vegetable stall is coming.  A dog! get the dog! Aw, missed it!  The boy was having the time of his life, commanding the jeep driven by an Engrazi Sahib an english gent!.  
As we drove towards the far side of town, the sky seemed to get darker and another sound filled the air, not to mention the smell.  There was a kind of a droning noise mixed with shrill screams.  Then I realized what it was.  The air was filled with large black birds, vultures, kites, crows, all swirling and fighting.  Suddenly there were no more buildings and we came into the open, if I could really call it that.  We had arrived at the town dump.  A dirty, hazy, smoky pall hung over the place.  It stank of only God knows what.  I had to catch my breath but gagged on the stench.  The boy pointed to a high mud wall over to one side.  Masihi -- Christians! he shouted, scrambled out of the jeep, and was gone.
We drove up and found a gap in the wall, parked and walked closer.  It is not the normal practice in Pakistan to enter any village or compound without announcing yourself and waiting for an invitation.  Master George called out, and a few moments later a bent wheezing old man appeared in the gap and hobbled slowly towards us.
He looked at us with suspicion.  Then in a rough growl asked 'Who are you?'  Master George answered, saying that I was the new parish priest of Matli and he my catechist helper.  'Never heard of you!' he said.  I spoke up and said