Poor People are Dogs or Even Worse!

He always amazed me. Such a dynamo he was. He defied all the stereotype notions I had about the feudal political families. He was different. He would stand with us in the protests against the child labor.

He supported us unwaveringly in our cause to promote democracy and create awareness for human rights. And above all, he would take rough and tough questions with smiles accepting the nexus of feudalism and the establishment to keep the people of Pakistan in the ultimate depths of poverty, hunger, deprivation and above all: ignorance.

Yes. Aqil was different. Way different.

I met him four years ago when I was invited by a group of students in the Social Sciences Department of Quaid-e-Azam University, Islamabad to deliver a talk on the issue of politics and youth. He was there to educate them about the gravity of child labor and the sufferings that these poor innocent souls will endure during the first fourteen years of their lives.

His candidness, grip on the knowledge and above all sincere spontaneity overwhelmed all of his audience. I was also deeply touched and that motivation became the reason to extend my hand. We shook hands and thus our hearts and minds met. I found him friendly and warm.

He was full of energies and sympathies for the cause of human rights and children rights in particular. We made good pals and started meeting at least once a week. We shall compare notes, carve out strategies for the next week, eat our dinners together and will exchange books. His study, like his heart, was vast and enlightened. He has this ability to engage his guests in any discussion of his choice.

He came across as someone with full of logic and reasoning on each and everything; anything from Sex to God. His knowledge of the historical, contemporary and likely future issues was captivating and he could explain with strong facts and figures. Seldom I saw him failing to convince someone in a debate. He was the perfect personification of a romantic revolutionary that I thought Pakistan needed.

“It’s revolution in my mind Mubashir,” he would tell me and would add, “I am in favor of using arms to start a militant struggle of the suppressed masses against their domestic and local oppressors.” His approach was astonishingly clear. His ideas of revolution were solidly based and he did not envisage a national revolution to change Pakistan politically. “We have so much differences on the basis of cast, creed and language that we cannot bring about a national revolution at once,” he would argue with his interlocutors.

“The beginning has got to be at the local level and then these local dots could be connected to form a bigger phenomena at the national level,” he would then justify.

I envied him in the positive sense of the word and wanted to be with him more often. I felt myself mentally completed when with him and soon after departing his house, I would long for to be with him again in a day or so. I saw in him my own aspirations manifested for the greater cause of our nation and its people. “I will always support you Aqil. No matter what,” I would make a promise with myself.

He married another icon of the feminist movement in Islamabad and we all hailed the decision of both to be with each other “till death do them apart.” They made an extraordinary couple in the social, political and development circles of Islamabad. His wife’s name was Shaheena (though she preferred going by as Sasha) and Aqil would tease her for being a perfect depiction of her name and she would do the same imitating his style of conversation. They both made an ideal combination of intellect and courage.

It was just the last month when he called late in the night telling me that his father has passed away in Bahawalpur and he needed to rush back home.

Next morning, I took to the road and reached his city after a tiring drive of eight hours. The landscape in and around the city was beautiful but had a suppressed tone of society. I managed to spot his place and when I met him, he hugged me and cried. I have not seen him so dejected since all the time we have met.

His grief made sense to me for he was really much attached to his father. “He was not my father only; he was my best friend too. He trained me to become what I am and his shadow and guidance was always over my head. I miss him Mubashir,” he cried and had jolts among his grief and effort to control. I hardly cry but I cried too.

The next day, I thought I should leave but he stopped me to stay back until the third day. Came the fourth day and as I was packing up in the morning, Aqil called me for breakfast. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I shouted back.

I joined the table and was moved the way Aqil was taking care of me despite the grief that has struck him only a couple of day ago.

Then it all changed.

The first entry in the room was from a six years’ old girl carrying the crockery to place on the table, followed by even younger – clearly her sister – carrying the water jug. As she reached closer to me, her left foot hit the leg of the chair and she spilled a little water on me. “Oh. It’s okay baiti,” I said and as I moved my eyes from her to Aqil. I saw him – and his image – shattering away before my eyes.

“Nazar nahi aonda, kuttiay. Harami na hovay tay. Taikoon kitni vari samjhaya heiy keh iss kein naal naa laiahvya kar, Kalsoom, par teri samjah vich kuj nahi theenda,” (Don’t you see bitch; you illegitimate child. How many times have I told you not to bring her with you Kalsoom but nothing makes way to your mind) he yelled at the mother who was coming in the room carrying the food. “Maafi day dayo saain. Bachi heiy, ghalti thee gaiy heiy,” (Forgive me. My lord. She’s just a child and has thus made a mistake) she begged.

“Roti rukh tay dafa ho ja aithaaon. Aisun chuk kay bahar bitha. Phair kuj sut daisee mehmaana ooper,” (Place the food here and be off. Make this (daughter of yours) sit outside lest she would drop some more on guests) he commanded. Kalsoom obliged and moved out.

“Bhain Chod. Eh Ghareeb Kuttayan Toun Vi Bhairray Hein,” (Fuckers of their sisters, these poor people are even worse than dogs) he fumed underlip. I was dumbfounded. Lost for words.

“Eat. You rascal,” he flashed his smile on me.

I ate quickly, wanting to rush out of there. He always amazed me. He did not disappoint me this time too.