PARTING GIFT by ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE JR103MH08

PARTING GIFT by ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE  JR103MH08

Mark was born in London during the post war period, in the east end of London, which has been largely rebuilt since World War II when it suffered much damage from bombing. London at that time was crippled because of the depression which was an after math of the war. The birth of Mark brought relief to his parents – relief from a devastated world. You had to struggle to survive, as London was economically shattered also. It was hard to make ends meet. Even in those days Mark’s house was full of guests. Their family was known for its hospitality. One instance Mark remembered of his childhood was of his Mom’s spending the last of her saving’s to feed a less fortunate family. ‘Give and you receive’, she used to say. This image of his mother remained with Mark in his adult years.

She worked in a garments factory, which was a part of the textile industry that was established by France, an ally from the war. She brought home samples of dresses that fitted Mark’s sister, Elizabeth. ‘She’s such a Doll’, remarked a friend of Mom’s and she’d go pink in the cheek.

His father accepted building contracts, which were part of a rebuild London project. This is how they slowly became rich. He, as a building contractor, before putting up a building, used to first look at the site, choose the people who were going to work for him and plan a schedule of work so that he knew which people should be on the site at the right time. The bricklayers and the plasterer’s would often get in each other’s way. I’ll finish with the bricks in another couple of hours. ‘Oh! So you will, the last time you said a couple, you took eight’. He went off, leaving the bricklayer to finish, who was envious of his long break. He complained, ‘Boss, we both should get equal pay for the hours of work we put in. Mark’s father would tackle the situation, and he planned shifts, so that nobody would have any objection.

Then there was the time when Elizabeth contracted an infection after swimming in the pool. They gave her a Penicillin shot (which she was allergic to), but it was too late before they found out that she was allergic. She developed a rash, as if the infection were not enough. But they were a close knit family and that saw them out of such situations. Mark held her hand and teased, ‘your face looks like its full of Polka Dots’. ‘You’d know what it feels like if you had them’. Elizabeth, on the verge of tears, told him. Susan was born – in a communist setting. Later, she would question Mark about the gap between the haves and the have-nots. ‘Because, they deserve to be so’. He’d reply. Many other questions came to her mind, especially about religion, but her differences were not confirmed. Originally she remained a Christian. A product of the west, although she cherished faint memories of the large farms set up as collective units which were usually worked by 100 to 500 families, who reaped what they sowed. She was impressed and affected by the equal opportunity. And this would reflect, in her life, later on as would the prosperity of Hampstead heath, which is a large tract of countryside of London. (The latter as told by Mark to her). Her childhood memories would reflect in her adult life.

Once during a shortage of wheat (in London – where they were to stay after marriage), she observed that those collective farmers never went hungry whereas England imported wheat every year – and it was expensive. Mark would tease her, ‘the average income of a Londoner affords him the necessities as well as the luxuries’. ‘Capitalist thinking, that’, she retorted. With her there would remain a distinction between a necessity and luxury. ‘If it’s not necessary, why do it’, was an opinion of hers on many matters.

During his school days Mark enjoyed playing Cricket, and kept himself up to date with the score board of County Cricket. ‘The night watchman just might level the score’. ‘Not if the weather does not permit’. His friends enjoyed the game too. In 1882 Australia beat England at the Oval in London and after the match the ‘Sporting Times’ invented the term ‘The Ashes’. The paper told its readers of the ‘Death of English Cricket.’ The Ashes (from a stump burnt during the England tour of Australia in 1883) are kept in an urn at the Museum at Lord’s. Mark took pride in showing his guests this urn.

A fortune teller once told Mark that after his marriage he would be blissfully happy, but then he somehow did not want to reveal something to Mark – something terribly sad. He further added that Mark would have to part from someone he deeply loved. He said that an evil spirit would be the cause of his parting from someone he deeply loved. He further asked Mark to practice religion. Mark was not religious.

Who could tell that after so many years, life would be different.

They were madly in love. Happiness glowed on their cheeks when they faced the colourful world. Mark and Susan were the children of prosperous parents. Life had been kind to them but God’s blessings were only bestowed on a few as would be proved later on. Kind as in material posse  

Mark was born in London during the post war period, in the east end of London, which has been largely rebuilt since World War II when it suffered much damage from bombing. London at that time was crippled because of the depression which was an after math of the war. The birth of Mark brought relief to his parents – relief from a devastated world. You had to struggle to survive, as London was economically shattered also. It was hard to make ends meet. Even in those days Mark’s house was full of guests. Their family was known for its hospitality. One instance Mark remembered of his childhood was of his Mom’s spending the last of her saving’s to feed a less fortunate family. ‘Give and you receive’, she used to say. This image of his mother remained with Mark in his adult years.

She worked in a garments factory, which was a part of the textile industry that was established by France, an ally from the war. She brought home samples of dresses that fitted Mark’s sister, Elizabeth. ‘She’s such a Doll’, remarked a friend of Mom’s and she’d go pink in the cheek.

His father accepted building contracts, which were part of a rebuild London project. This is how they slowly became rich. He, as a building contractor, before putting up a building, used to first look at the site, choose the people who were going to work for him and plan a schedule of work so that he knew which people should be on the site at the right time. The bricklayers and the plasterer’s would often get in each other’s way. I’ll finish with the bricks in another couple of hours. ‘Oh! So you will, the last time you said a couple, you took eight’. He went off, leaving the bricklayer to finish, who was envious of his long break. He complained, ‘Boss, we both should get equal pay for the hours of work we put in. Mark’s father would tackle the situation, and he planned shifts, so that no body would have any objection.

Then there was the time when Elizabeth contracted an infection after swimming in the pool. They gave her a Penicillin shot (which she was allergic to), but it was too late before they found out that she was allergic. She developed a rash, as if the infection were not enough. But they were a close knit family and that saw them out of such situations. Mark held her hand and teased, ‘your face looks like its full of Polka Dots’. ‘You’d know what it feels like if you had them’. Elizabeth, on the verge of tears, told him.

About the same time, in Stalin’s Russia, Susan was born – in a communist setting. Later, she would question Mark about the gap between the haves and the have-nots. ‘Because they deserve to be so’. He’d reply. Many other questions came to her mind, especially about religion, but her differences were not confirmed. Originally she remained a Christian. A product of the west, although she cherished faint memories of the large farms set up as collective units which were usually worked by 100 to 500 families, who reaped what they sowed. She was impressed and affected by the equal opportunity. And this would reflect, in her life, later on as would the prosperity of Hampstead heath, which is a large tract of countryside of London. (The latter as told by Mark to her). Her childhood memories would reflect in her adult life.

Once during a shortage of wheat (in London – where they were to stay after marriage), she observed that those collective farmers never went hungry whereas England imported wheat every year – and it was expensive. Mark would tease her, ‘the average income of a Londoner affords him the necessities as well as the luxuries’. ‘Capitalist thinking, that’, she retorted. With her there would remain a distinction between a necessity and luxury. ‘If it’s not necessary, why do it’, was an opinion of hers on many matters.

During his school days Mark enjoyed playing Cricket, and kept himself up to date with the score board of County Cricket. ‘The night watchman just might level the score’. ‘Not if the weather does not permit’. His friends enjoyed the game too. In 1882 Australia beat England at the Oval in London and after the match the ‘Sporting Times’ invented the term ‘The Ashes’. The paper told its readers of the ‘Death of English Cricket.’ The Ashes (from a stump burnt during the England tour of Australia in 1883) are kept in an urn at the Museum at Lord’s. Mark took pride in showing his guests this urn.

A fortune teller once told Mark that after his marriage he would be blissfully happy, but then he somehow did not want to reveal something to Mark – something terribly sad. He further added that Mark would have to part from someone he deeply loved. He said that an evil spirit would be the cause of his parting from someone he deeply loved. He further asked Mark to practice religion. Mark was not religious.

Who could tell that after so many years, life would be different.

They were madly in love. Happiness glowed on their cheeks when they faced the colourful world. Mark and Susan were the children of prosperous parents. Life had been kind to them but God’s blessings were only bestowed on a few as would be proved later on. Kind as in material possessions. Mark’s house was full of guests. It was there that in fact he met Susan. The first meeting was followed by a series of them. They decided to seal their relationship and with the consent of their parents they got engaged. Mark was a handsome boy. Girls did vie with each other for his attention. One such girl was his parents’ choice for his partner. Obviously she was his mother’s friend’s daughter. Very compatible, because she was in and out of their house very often and was almost a family member. Mark liked her – but the liking was never to turn into love.

Mark was a businessman; and his commitments kept him busy for the day. ‘The stocks of the company are experiencing a low’. He told a colleague. ‘The clients are not satisfied and are not ready to invest’. ‘We’ll have to work the nights’. But he spared some time every day for his beloved. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes over a meal, sometimes just to remind her that he loved the colour of her eyes, he always had time for such sentiments.

After a brief engagement they married. They went off on their honeymoon to Switzerland. Switzerland was an ideal place. A place without an army. A peaceful setting, detached from the morbid states engaged in war. Amongst so many people, from all around the world, the two of them saw only each other. Walking in the shadows of the Alps, hand in hand, they made a commitment never to let this end. ‘Wear your skis. I’ll race you’. ‘I’m too scared’. ‘Take the plunge’. ‘oo---oop---oops’. She was out of sight. Discovered in a pile of snow. ‘I thought I told you to watch it at the curve’. Seeing her red nose poke through the snow he stifled a giggle. Having made a special trip to separate them, guess who else was there. The same girl. She had not accepted defeat. She tried to blackmail him, by using his mother. Her befitting attitude towards his mother was a result of her long association with him. She was a good cook, unlike his mother and as they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. She once cooked a meal that was so tasty that they licked their fingers clean. Susan’s ego was offended.

But there was always Mark’s shoulder to lean on. He assured and reassured her. There was no need to worry. The ‘uninvited guest’ would never change his love for her. Other couples saw them as ideals for a perfect married life. His mother would tell him that marriage was not a bed of roses and not to be disappointed if anything went against his wishes. She went on, saying that Mark’s father had been short tempered at the start of their marriage and many times she kept quiet when he had an anger fit. Mark’s retort, ‘I know mom, I think I can handle it. You make it sound so difficult, when it is actually not’. ‘The situation would get out of control, otherwise’. She advised him, as any mother would her son.

Susan conceived a child in their first year of marriage. Their first child was not going to be planned. The gynaecologist examined her every month. A girl was a great help for the mother and they desired a girl as their first born. Frills, bows all in pink with linen to match, Susan visualised her daughter’s frocks and her room. Susan’s mother had good taste, which showed in Susan’s attire. She was nominated for the best dressed person at a party once.

It was the eight month of pregnancy. An ultra sound showed that it was a girl. Yet their elders were reluctant to make any baby clothes or other things for the baby before hand. They felt that others would be envious, and that was not a good sign.

‘I can’t wait to see her’. As he felt the baby turn in Susan’s belly. ‘Then you’ll say you’re pressed for time, because she is a handful’. ‘That will never happen’. ‘We’ll see’. She got the last word.

The name, what should the name be. Natasha was selected. Natasha was a Russian name. Susan’s parents had spent some years in Russia. Her father had held a good post in the Pakistan Embassy there. Her mother liked the name and had wanted to name her grandchild Natasha.

The delivery time was near. She experienced contractions. The doctor and nurses were by her side. But God’s blessing escaped them. Susan’s life was in danger. On their knees they prayed – the parents. ‘Oh! God, save her – if they are our sins you hold against us, do not make her pay, please God, please’. Some complications developed. Could it be that the evil spirit had entered Susan’s body? The evil spirit that the fortune teller had warned Mark against. Could it be that the profound effort of giving birth and the effort of fighting the evil spirit broke down a weary and tired Susan and finally killed her? Mark awoke to religion as he had been advised by the fortune teller – better late than never. The doctor tried his utmost best to save both mother and child. It was touch and go. They all huddled together outside the operation theatre, looking at each other for strength. The doctor arrived, his face sullen. The message he was about to convey to them was obvious.

Susan breathed her last on a shocked Mark’s lap. The parting gift, Natasha, lay in the nurse’s hands. Caught between sorrow and happiness, he had to decide, to get over his sorrow for Natasha, Susan’s and his Natasha.

Even to this day holding Natasha’s finger he visits the grave, talks to her and gets her response. It seems like she tells him, do not give up, for Natasha. And little Natasha clasps her hands in prayer, taught to her by her father. In a whisper, she recites ----- in the name of the father, the son and the Holy Ghost. Amen. He walks away with the child, a smile on his face, ready to take on the world. And still in the race is the girl, who however much she tries will not change matters or should she try through Natasha. She would not give up. Mark was worth it. They do not make them quite like him nowadays.

 

 . Mark’s house was full of guests. It was there that in fact he met Susan. The first meeting was followed by a series of them. They decided to seal their relationship and with the consent of their parents they got engaged. Mark was a handsome boy. Girls did vie with each other for his attention. One such girl was his parents’ choice for his partner. Obviously she was his mother’s friend’s daughter. Very compatible, because she was in and out of their house very often and was almost a family member. Mark liked her – but the liking was never to turn into love.

Mark was a businessman; and his commitments kept him busy for the day. ‘The stocks of the company are experiencing a low’. He told a colleague. ‘The clients are not satisfied and are not ready to invest’. ‘We’ll have to work the nights’. But he spared some time every day for his beloved. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes over a meal, sometimes just to remind her that he loved the colour of her eyes, he always had time for such sentiments.

After a brief engagement they married. They went off on their honeymoon to Switzerland. Switzerland was an ideal place. A place without an army. A peaceful setting, detached from the morbid states engaged in war. Amongst so many people, from all around the world, the two of them saw only each other. Walking in the shadows of the Alps, hand in hand, they made a commitment never to let this end. ‘Wear your skis. I’ll race you’. ‘I’m too scared’. ‘Take the plunge’. ‘oo---oop---oops’. She was out of sight. Discovered in a pile of snow. ‘I thought I told you to watch it at the curve’. Seeing her red nose poke through the snow he stifled a giggle. Having made a special trip to separate them, guess who else was there. The same girl. She had not accepted defeat. She tried to blackmail him, by using his mother. Her befitting attitude towards his mother was a result of her long association with him. She was a good cook, unlike his mother and as they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. She once cooked a meal that was so tasty that they licked their fingers clean. Susan’s ego was offended.

But there was always Mark’s shoulder to lean on. He assured and reassured her. There was no need to worry. The ‘uninvited guest’ would never change his love for her. Other couples saw them as ideals for a perfect married life. His mother would tell him that marriage was not a bed of roses and not to be disappointed if anything went against his wishes. She went on, saying that Mark’s father had been short tempered at the start of their marriage and many times she kept quiet when he had an anger fit. Mark’s retort, ‘I know mom, I think I can handle it. You make it sound so difficult, when it is actually not’. ‘The situation would get out of control, otherwise’. She advised him, as any mother would her son.

Susan conceived a child in their first year of marriage. Their first child was not going to be planned. The gynaecologist examined her every month. A girl was a great help for the mother and they desired a girl as their first born. Frills, bows all in pink with linen to match, Susan visualised her daughter’s frocks and her room. Susan’s mother had good taste, which showed in Susan’s attire. She was nominated for the best dressed person at a party once.

It was the eight month of pregnancy. An ultra sound showed that it was a girl. Yet their elders were reluctant to make any baby clothes or other things for the baby before hand. They felt that others would be envious, and that was not a good sign.

‘I can’t wait to see her’. As he felt the baby turn in Susan’s belly. ‘Then you’ll say you’re pressed for time, because she is a handful’. ‘That will never happen’. ‘We’ll see’. She got the last word.

The name, what should the name be. Natasha was selected. Natasha was a Russian name. Susan’s parents had spent some years in Russia. Her father had held a good post in the Pakistan Embassy there. Her mother liked the name and had wanted to name her grandchild Natasha.

The delivery time was near. She experienced contractions. The doctor and nurses were by her side. But God’s blessing escaped them. Susan’s life was in danger. On their knees they prayed – the parents. ‘Oh! God, save her – if they are our sins you hold against us, do not make her pay, please God, please’. Some complications developed. Could it be that the evil spirit had entered Susan’s body? The evil spirit that the fortune teller had warned Mark against. Could it be that the profound effort of giving birth and the effort of fighting the evil spirit broke down a weary and tired Susan and finally killed her? Mark awoke to religion as he had been advised by the fortune teller – better late than never. The doctor tried his utmost best to save both mother and child. It was touch and go. They all huddled together outside the operation theatre, looking at each other for strength. The doctor arrived, his face sullen. The message he was about to convey to them was obvious.

Susan breathed her last on a shocked Mark’s lap. The parting gift, Natasha, lay in the nurse’s hands. Caught between sorrow and happiness, he had to decide, to get over his sorrow for Natasha, Susan’s and his Natasha.

Even to this day holding Natasha’s finger he visits the grave, talks to her and gets her response. It seems like she tells him, do not give up, for Natasha. And little Natasha clasps her hands in prayer, taught to her by her father. In a whisper, she recites ----- in the name of the father, the son and the Holy Ghost. Amen. He walks away with the child, a smile on his face, ready to take on the world. And still in the race is the girl, who however much she tries will not change matters or should she try through Natasha. She would not give up. Mark was worth it. They do not make them quite like him nowadays. 

The Hidden Favour ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE (JR98MH07)

The Hidden Favour ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE (JR98MH07)

Khatija was a robust, healthy, 19 year old girl. She had just finished her studies and had found a good job. Because of her good health she managed to work long hours, both in the office and at home. The envy of her peers who could not even do half the amount of work, she did. The secret behind this was that a lot of effort had gone behind raising her. Her mother had spent so many sleepless nights at her bedside, sometimes reading bedtime stories. Her father too had contributed a lot, towards his daughter’s up bringing. They both doted on her. Her life passed just like the brook meandering on its way.  Seldom was she unhappy like the ripples on the surface of the brook. But what does it take for the unexpected to be. But as luck has it, all good times are met with an unhappy event. One-day disaster struck. Khatija fell ill, not knowing what fate had in store for her. After a prolonged spell of illness and numerous tests, it was detected that she had to have a kidney transplant. Her parents tried to find a compatible donor but that is something which is not very easy as it is understood that a member of the family stands more chance of being compatible, then an outsider. Many family members volunteered, as it is common knowledge that living with one kidney is possible.

            “She stands a one in ten chance”, said the doctors. “She is young and has the ability to recover very fast, after her transplant”. But to everyone’s dismay his or her kidneys were not compatible. Kidney transplants were not child’s play, and yet people with one kidney or recipients led very healthy lives. Medical technology was so advanced that events such as the above that seemed impossible years ago were conducted nowadays and successfully at that, too. Medical research had opened up so many vistas and miracles were performed on the operation table. Khatija was aware of all this and it was this hope that kept Khatija going. The hope that, somewhere, someone would be a right donor. Although they seemed few and far between the search was on.

            Who would have dreamt that the donor would be overseas? There, lived a young man who decided to take a trip to his home country. He saw this appeal in the newspaper, for a kidney donor. Maybe it was his instinct, or a simple act out of human sympathy that he thought he should respond. Maybe it was telepathy, as indeed he believed such things did exist. Yes it was telepathy with Khatija. He longed to return to his home country and there could not have been a better opportunity.

            “I have not been home in ages, have even forgotten what it looks like”, he told a friend. “Better late than never”. He had also heard that a racket of selling kidneys existed in his home country and he wanted to do something about it.

            The hospital that had made the appeal had a good reputation and as he sat in the waiting room of the hospital, waiting for the doctor to see him, his thoughts travelled to the past. He recognized the hospital where his father spent his last days. Tears blurred his vision for a while, but they dried up quickly as he was consoled by the thought that his father had led a good life and had died peacefully at a ripe old age. But then, a father is a father, and nobody can be compared to him. The young man recalled his childhood days, when he had been taken ill. His father sat in a chair, beside him, until the danger subsided.

            “Do not let me down, young one. I can’t take any bad news, especially where you are concerned”.

            “Cheer up, Dad. I’ve almost recovered. I’ve had a hearty meal and a stroll down the road”.

            Many such incidents, showed the love his father had for him. He felt satisfied. Nobody could love his own son more. Abid (the young man) was an adopted child. He owed all he had to his father. His position in life, the respect he commanded and a never-ending list of favours.

            The Doctor nudged him to gain his attention. He had been so lost in his thoughts. He took him to a room and interviewed him, before conducting tests. Then Khatija’s particulars were given to him. His mouth opened wide in amazement. Khatija was the daughter of Mr.  & Mrs. Moiz Khan it seemed like his dream had been realized. His cherished dream of maintaining relations with his sister and now there was an opportunity to do so. Mrs. Moiz Khan was his sister; she had left a doting father, whose life became empty, until he adopted Abid. He had opposed his daughter’s choice of husband; he had banned her from returning to his home. You’ll regret, he told himself but he was not going to compromise on matters of principle.

            His sister’s daughter needed his kidney. The only kidney that was compatible. There was no going back, he assured himself. Even his father would have softened, had he seen his granddaughter’s difficulty. Difficult times had made friends out of enemies, and this was his niece. It seemed like all those long years when they were cut off, now seemed to have shrunk, because a chance for their reunion existed. But how could he hide his identity. He requested the Doctor to tell Khatija’s parents that the kidney donor was a dead man.

            The operation was successful. Mr. and Mrs. Moiz Khan’s jubilation knew no bounds. Their only child had a second life. The doctor fabricated the truth, as Abid wanted it to be. He was too scared to confess his identity. Scared, because he felt it might ruin everything and the matter was delicate – a matter of life and death, the kidney donation. “I feel a confession just might make matters worse. Let her recover fully. Then wait for an opportune, moment, “he told the doctors.

            Abid was at home recovering after his donation. He was a health conscious man. He ate well and exercised and hence recovered soon. He was grateful to God for the opportunity to return the favour his father had given him.

            At the airport he waited in a queue for his turn to get his passport stamped. The passport, before him belonged to Khatija Moiz Khan. Again it was instinct that saw them together, this time hers and nobody knew where it would lead. It was telepathy indeed. There was a bond between    them.  A   bond   that   needed   to   be   restored   and   further strengthened. And this time he would take the initiative.  He smiled at her and she smiled back. It seemed like his father blessed them. Heaven had this affect on the hardest of them. He awaited the outcome, eagerly.

The Hands Deserve The Books BY ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE (JR97MH06)

 

The Hands Deserve The Books BY ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE (JR97MH06)

Child Labour is a crime against humanity. At this juncture I am reminded of a very moving story about one of the world’s greatest humanitarians Abraham Lincoln. The time, at which this episode took place, Lincoln was a candidate for a congress seat. And on that day, he had an important election speech to deliver. But he also had a far greater task to perform. A noble cause to fight for.

            He cancelled his election speech and entered the jam-packed court, which was already in session. Unnoticed, he sat down in the last row. The case being ended, the District Attorney rose and moved the trial of John Wilson for murder. There was a stir through the courtroom. In the doorway appeared the Sheriff, leading a childish figure, a boy of ten, dressed in poor homemade clothes. He was pale and desperately frightened. The judge faced the criminal, paused pityingly and steadied himself. “Have you a lawyer?” He asked. The lad shook his unkempt yellow head. “No, I dunno anybody. I ain’t got- Money- to pay”.

            The boy was in tears, his widowed mother was sobbing near him. “Do you wish the court to assign you a counsel?” In the stillness a boot scraped the floor. The man in the back seat rose, “May it please your honour” he said. “I am a lawyer. I should be glad to act as a Counsel for the Defense”. The Judge looked for a moment at the loose-hung, towering figure. “What is your name?” He asked. The man answered quietly “Abraham Lincoln”. Lincoln, who gave his life to abolish slavery, had come that day to re-pay a debt.

            Years back, when he was a struggling non-entity, the family of the then well to do little boy, then a baby, had given Lincoln solace and succor. Subsequently, the boy’s father died and the family was in a miserable state of abject poverty. The boy, John had to work due to force of circumstances, in a farm of one heartless man who was Shaughnessy by name. He was a cruel tormentor. One day, he started beating the boy so mercilessly that the desperate defenseless boy struck his tormentor’s head with a pitchfork. The man died after some time. The boy was charged for murder. This was the story. It was commonly said that the boy was doomed; No lawyer, even a smart one could get him off after some seemingly convincing evidence. But in the courtroom that day was no ordinary man. It was the great Lincoln, the unique humanist, who had come, jeopardizing his future career by cancelling his election speech, for a great cause- even greater than his own magnificence.

            “Gentlemen of the jury,” began Abraham Lincoln. I am going to try this case in a manner not customary in courts. I shall not call witnesses; the little prisoner over there is all the witness I want. I shall not argue. You know that at an age when this boy’s hands should have held schoolbooks or a fishing rod, they held the man’s tool that was his undoing; you know how a grown man goaded the child till in desperation he used the tool at hand. All I ask is that you deal with the little fellow, as you would have other men deal in such a case with little fellow’s of your own at home. Before the verdict, for a second, perhaps, no one breathed in that packed mass. ‘Not guilty’ was the verdict.

            It was a momentous Victory for a great cause. The cause of tormented and exploited ‘Johns’ of America.

            My story is an inspiration from the former. It is about the ‘Asims’ of Pakistan. A familiar figure in the homes of Pakistan. The not so lucky ones in the houses. I differentiate because cold callous concrete houses consist of ruthlessness.

            For one such house Asim worked. His mother was a widow and she washed dishes and clothes for her ‘Begum Sahiba’ who had suggested this couple for Asim’s employment. Asim had formerly tried his hand as a motor mechanic, but as circumstances would have it his boss had closed his workshop because of lack of funds.

            After getting the job, Asim worked for Amina and Aslam where he was required to do all the dirty and hard jobs. To clean the bathrooms, to sweep outdoors in the harsh summer sun of Karachi. On the face of it everything seemed fine. His masters bullied him sometimes. They would feed him with leftovers and not give him new clothes to wear, although he tore his own clothes doing the dirty work. Maybe, it was because poor Asim had not experienced the luxury of life. He could not tell that he was being dealt with severely.

            Amina was a frustrated woman. Aslam had two wives and she hated sharing him with his other wife. Maybe this was the reason for her being so cruel.

            One ill-fated day, Amina entered the house and heard a noise in the kitchen. A glass had slipped from Asim’s hands and was in splinters.

            In a rage, she ignited a matchstick and placed it on Asim’s hands. Singed he ran out, followed by Amina who seemed in a frenzy. Luckily, for him, she was heavy and could not move as fast as he.

            In his mother’s embrace he told his story, to his mother’s mistress who listened patiently. She could not even think that Amina could do this to Asim. She was determined to amend the wrong done to him.

            She went to Amina’s house, but Amina completely denied that she had been cruel. She knew Amina was scared of being blamed publicly. So Asim’s mother’s mistress threatened Amina to compensate Asim for her ill-doings or she would go to the Police.

            Amina was asked to pay a handsome amount to Asim for a life-time in lieu of her attempt to burn Asim’s hand, which escaped several burns because of him not losing his senses and wrapping up his hand tightly so that no air was left to blow the flame.

            Asim’s mother’s won the money and with that money Asim joined school with zeal to become something, and look after his mother.

Why Should I Be Hungry BY ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE (JR94SS05)

 

Why Should I Be Hungry BY ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE (JR94SS05)

Salman come and have your lunch” shouted his mom from the door of their hut in the Katchi abadi. He was playing marbles with his friends of adversary. His mother was thin, a widow who lived in a slum of Karachi. Her husband died when Salman was 6 years of age. He was 10 now in the adolescent phase. She worked hard as a domestic servant in the city. Their slum was outside the city. Salman knew that she always kept the meat for him. If Salman asked her to have it she would say she had eaten at Begum Saheba’s. But Salman, although not so old, knew in his heart of hearts that his mom was laying.  He knew that she saved as  much food as she could for him, of the little that they had. He entered his hut with his friend; his mom looked up as if to say, there is not enough for the both of us. But she told Rahman to come in. So Rahman and Salman sat together and ate the dried bread with curry.

            One day Rahman told Salman that a guest to the slum whom he called, Ustadji, had given him 5 rupees, which was a lot of money for Rahman. He asked Salman to come with him to meet Ustadji. Ustadji seemed to be a nice person. He gave Salman Rs. 5; only nice persons gave money, just like that, thought Salman.

            Upon enquiring Salman found out that Ustadji lived in the city. He told Salman that he had a big house and he, Salman could come and stay with him. He would receive Rs. 500 per month. Salman convinced his mom to let him go. He wanted to help his mom by earning some money to give her.

            They sat in a taxi, which wound through roads that Salman had not seen in a lifetime. After an hour or so, the taxi stopped outside a building. Ustadji stepped outside and asked Salman to follow. A boy about 14 years of age came to Ustadji. He enquired about who Salman was. Ustadji asked him to take Salman to his room.

            There Salman saw a quilted robe and Kashkoll A pair of crutches were propped up against the wall.  Many cases of children being deliberately mutilated and disabled by their inhuman Ustadji’s for the purpose of beggary have been reported. A substantial amount of takings from these poor and innocent child-beggars fill the purses of their cruel tormentors.

            After a couple of days, Salman found himself on the streets with the boy who shared his room, begging for money. He had to report to Ustadji in the evening, declaring the amount of money he had collected to him.

            It is facts that a vast majority of beggars are able bodied and have taken to this lucrative profession as a means of making some easy money. Well, meaning people give alms to them on Fridays in particular and during Ramazan. But they don’t realize that by doing so, they are not really implementing the spirit behind the concept of charity. No doubt, some of the destitute need our help, but by giving alms to them we are really encouraging them to become lazy and to harass people.

            Salman hated this job, but what could he do. He missed his mom and Rahman very much. But what could he do. Ustadji kept giving excuses for not sending him home. Salman did not know how to find his way home. At night he cried himself to sleep. Take this money. Ustadji gave him Rs. 10 as a bonus whenever he was in a good mood.

            One day, Salman set out early. In the midst of the crowd, he thought he saw Begum Saheba. She lived in the city. He ran like a bullet towards her. With wet eyes he told her his story. She said she would take him to his mom. She gave him some clothes to wear and made sure he had a bath.

            He hugged his mom and would not leave her. He hugged Rahman and thanked Begum Saheba, profoundly. He would skip a meal, even three and live on an empty stomach as long as he could be with his mom and Rahman.

            One wonders where the crores of rupees which the government annually collects as zakat goes. Of course the bulk of the amount should be given as annual aid to the poor whether they live in slums or are beggars.

The Honest Taxi Driver by Zeenat Hussain (JR93MH04)

The Honest Taxi Driver by Zeenat Hussain (JR93MH04)

What all is involved in a taxi drivers life; physical labour and not much exercise for the grey matter. One such driver was Anwar. He got his driving license from the back door. He did not learn how to drive a car, neither was he aware of the traffic rules and regulations. He was however, a man with a generous heart, known for his hospitality.

            Overheard conversation,( as he sat with his mates at a tea stall). “Tea keeps me on my feet”, have another, everything should be done in moderation”. “Tea is a milder addiction”. The conversation drifted to the price of petrol and passengers. “Things have become so expensive. I bought a kilo of meat for Rs. 150/-. It seems that if the price does not come down, it will be difficult for us to make ends meet”.

            One of the reasons why Anwar stood out amongst his mates was his wife. She never harassed him for extra money. The hard work that he put in was evident from his bronze rugged skin tone. Tanned from the hours, days, years that he had spent driving his cab, exposed to the merciless sun. He was so vigilant that he pierced the distance with the sight of an eagle soaring in the skies and nose-diving to pick up the prey from ground.

Proof of his vigilance, “stop the thief, “cried the lady, whose purse had been snatched. Nobody moved from amongst the onlookers. Anwar from a distance approached the scene of the theft; “move aside” he roared “corner the thief”. The thief was a smart cookie. Dodging Anwar he entered the alley and hid behind a rubbish can. To the thief’s misfortune a cat inside the can scared of the noise the thief made, leapt out of it. Anwar pounced on the thief and recovered the money from him.

            Like the lady above, his work led him to interact with persons from various strata of society. Sometimes there were persons from affluent families also. One bright sunny day when fate was to take a turn for Anwar, Mr. and Mrs. Ahmed sat in his cab. “We want to go to Nazimabad. Will you take us?” “Hope in.” said Anwer. ”We are going to this place for the first time. I hope you will be able to follow our instructions,” said Mr.Ahmed. After clearing a few traffic jams, they finally arrived at the destination. They got off on the main road and said they would manage on foot the rest of the way.

            To his utter surprise Anwar found a parcel on the back seat of his cab. This was when he stopped for a meal after dropping Mr and Mrs. Ahmed. The parcel had jewellery inside. He was somewhat anxious regarding how to locate them so that he could give them their parcel back. He searched for some form of identification, but to no avail. His friends tried to persuade him to keep the parcel. But he took pride in being honest and there was no way he would compromise over it.

            Little did he know that this parcel was to seal the fate of a couple about to be married? The couple was Ammar and Shagufta. Ammar and Shagufta had been engaged for a year. It was customary to give dowry to the daughter. Not to display wealth, but to support her in her new home, till she was self-sufficient.

            He reached home and asked his wife to keep the parcel in safe custody. Weeks passed, and lo and behold, he spotted Mrs. Ahmed. She was shopping in a market where he had just dropped a passenger. He hurriedly approached her and told her that she had forgotten a parcel in his taxi. She told him, she had searched for this parcel. She could not hold back her happiness and gratitude. “I was so worried. The parcel had jewellery, which was my daughter’s dowry. I had fallen sick due to the loss.”

            This jewellery was an heirloom. It had been handed down from Shagufta’s grandmother to Shagufta’s mother and then to her. The grandmother was married to one of Ammar’s father’s uncles. Shagufta’s grandmother had grey eyes and brown hair and so had Shagufta. These qualities endeared Shagufta to Ammar.

            Anwar arranged for the jewels to be returned to Mrs. Ahmed. “We will expect you and your family at the wedding”. Mrs. Ahmed’s happiness knew no bounds. The return of the jewellery meant a big load off her delicate shoulders. Mrs. Ahmed just could not stop praising Anwar. She told everyone she met, about how honest he was and how difficult, it was to find people like him. She thanked God, five times a day, when she prayed.

            “Welcome Anwar”. Anwar was welcomed in a big way at the wedding. All the family were eager to know him, although he was not a rich man and the other guests were all, well, rich people. But who could deny, that Anwar was ‘rich at heart’.  He was the richest in the gathering at the wedding. He walked, in with his head held high. He felt so good, after returning the jewels. Although he was in a gathering of rich people, he did not feel lost as he was bestowed with ‘wealth’ of honesty.

            And as Shagufta wore the wedding band, she looked at Anwar and smiled a smile of gratitude, before she was whisked off to her new home. Her wedding was memorable right from the beginning to the end. A new life, lay ahead of her, and as she entered the threshold of her new home and prepared to remove the heavy necklace, she heaved a sigh of relief, recalling all that had happened.