A
Bite of Fury
By Rafiq Ebrahim
Glen Ellyn, IL
It was on the third day of our stay in a cozy
guesthouse in the Blue Area of Islamabad last
month that I met Aurangzeb Khan. He was the head
housekeeper, good-looking and very courteous.
The way he got our room done was simply praiseworthy,
yet he didn’t wait for a tip. Later while
going out, I met the manager and told him about
the efficiency and courtesy of Aurangzeb. He just
smiled and said, “Yes, everyone has a word
of praise for him. I wonder how he manages to
be so pleasant in spite of the recent tragedy
he has experienced.”
“You mean he feigned a cheerful look?”
I asked, struck by the words of the manager.
“The October earthquake left his life with
deep grief. He had left his family in Muzafarrabad,
while earning a living here. His house was destroyed,
his wife got buried in the debris, leaving behind
a two-year son, his mother, an uncle and a sister
with a broken back.”
I was grieved to learn of all this and got anxious
to see him again. My wife and I went back to our
room and I dialed Housekeeping. Aurangzeb picked
up the phone and I asked him to come to our room.
I told him that I was so sorry to hear what had
happened, and that I would be happy to help him
in whatever way I could.
His look of cheerfulness began to wear out and
I could see that his eyes were getting misty as
he began to narrate the tragic happenings. “That
evening I was working here as usual and we all
heard about one of the Marghalla towers collapsing
and the people living there getting buried under
the collapsing walls and roofs. I had no idea
about what was happening up north in the mountains.
It was late in the evening when I got a call informing
me that doomsday had occurred in my village and
other places in the mountains. That shook me completely.
I rushed out of the guesthouse, got into a rickshaw
and headed straight to the bus stand where I hoped
to catch a bus for Muzafarrabad. There were only
a few buses, which were overcrowded. Luckily I
got a standing space in one of the buses. Those
who had heard about the earthquake and who had
families up north had rushed out and were visibly
eager to reach them as soon as possible. The buses
and other transportation managed to reach a point
near Neelam Valley but not beyond. The road was
broken, covered with heaps of earth and there
were deep craters everywhere. Part of the road
was just washed out. It was simply inaccessible.
We all got down, and realizing the hopelessness
of the situation, began to walk on that dangerous
road.” He paused and asked me if he could
sit down on a chair. I nodded and asked the room
service to send us some tea.
“Sir, it took me more than eighteen hours
to reach my village, wading at times in knee-deep
water, braving cold winds and rains, with nothing
to eat. Here and there I gulped some water. Just
by my house, or what was left of it, I collapsed
due to exhaustion, hunger and sleep. When I came
to my senses, I saw my mother offering me a glass
of milk. That gave me some strength to realize
what had happened. My wife was nowhere to be seen.
I was soon to learn that she died when a huge
piece of rock hit her and the earth beneath her
feet gave way. My little son, my mother and my
uncle were alive, unhurt. My sister’s back
was broken. I would have swooned again, but my
little son who came rushing towards me saved me.
Clasping him, I regained some composure. They
had not eaten anything for two days, but now I
saw some light in a shattered house a few feet
away. A man had made some rotis. I begged him
to give me at least one for my family. He was
kind enough to give me three. The heaviness I
felt in my heart because of my wife’s death
in such a manner lessened a bit when I saw the
fate of other families. Some had completely perished
beneath the earth, some people had lost their
limbs, others were crying and searching for their
loved ones. It was like qayamat.”
“Two days later an ambulance came and carried
the badly injured ones to a hospital in Islamabad.
My sister was placed on a stretcher and taken
to an ambulance. A relief camp nearby provided
us with some food and warm clothing. The following
day, a few trucks arrived to take us away to a
safe place. We came back to Islamabad, and a friend
gave us a room to live.” He now broke down.
I offered him tea.
“So now how are you pulling along?”
I asked.
“My sister got some initial treatment, and
the doctors told me that it would cost at least
one lac rupees to continue to treat her. Naturally,
I couldn’t afford that and so we brought
her home. We are giving her less expensive treatment.
At least she can now get up and walk a bit. My
son is now three.” He paused to take out
a picture from his wallet. It was his son’s
photo. He looked so charming and innocent. He
continued, “ Luckily my mother is there
to look after him. We are now in a rented house,
costing me two thousand rupees a month, couldn’t
find any cheaper house.”
“Didn’t you get any monetary help?”
“The government gave me twenty-five thousand
rupees and promised to give me another seventy-five
thousand if I produced a blueprint from an architect
for a house I would build in my village. How can
a poor person like me afford to pay the charges
for the blueprint?”
“What about the place where you work?”
“They paid me nine thousand rupees, three
months’ salary during my absence of three
months and also gave me three thousand extra.
Some of the staff also attended the Fateha Khwani
held for my wife.” Saying so, he got up.
“Sir, now I have to attend to my duties.”
My wife had already stuffed some money in an envelope
while he was narrating his tale. She gave it to
him. He profusely thanked us.
Before leaving Islamabad for Karachi, I asked
him to look after the education of his son and
the well being of the family, and get his sister
treated properly. I also assured him that I would
do what I could on reaching Chicago.
Aurangzeb Khan lives in house number 440 B, Sector
G-7/ 3-1, Islamabad and his phone number is 051
2201705 or 0345 506 5411.
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