Change the story

 

 

 

Naeem Sadiq

 

  

 

Dedicated to all those who suffered in silence,

And to all those who stood up to change the story.

 

 

 Chapter 1. One less mouth to feed

 

Zarina, barely eleven years old, sat huddled in the corner of the rattling three-wheeled rickshaw, her small frame trembling with each sob. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen, yet new tears came easily and unstoppably. With one hand she clutched a thin cloth bag to her chest—inside, a change of clothes, a tattered doll missing an eye and a few torn pages from her class 2 notebook.  With the other she clung to her father, never wanting to leave him, hoping that a miracle would make him change his mind or the reckless rickshaw driver change his course.  Zarina longed to cry out, to beg him to turn the rickshaw around – back to the humble mud house where her mother’s hope still flickered, and her siblings laughed and tumbled in the dusty yard.  But she had already begged the night before, and her pleas had been met with silence, averted eyes and uncertain words. Zarina did not fail to notice the traces of tears that her father Khadim Hussain was unsuccessfully trying to hide.

 

The lumpy potholed ‘kutcha’ road that reluctantly linked the insignificant ‘Haji Wala’ village with the inter-city bus stop on the GT road, meanderingly stretched to six kilometres.  Her father sat stiff, eyes fixed ahead, jaws clenched. He did not speak, nor looked at her.  His face was weighed with guilt, shame and resignation. His heart drenched in pain and sorrow.  It was the third time Khadim Hussain was undertaking such a painful heart-wrenching journey.   The first time when he took his 15-year-old daughter Sakina for employment with a merchant family in Lahore. Sakina was compellingly quiet and tearless.  She realised that the family had no food to eat, and someone had to be sacrificed for additional income.  She, being the eldest of seven siblings provided a painful but logical solution to this poverty alleviation scheme that would make the family richer by five thousand Rupees every month.

 

The second time Khadim Hussain undertook this emotionally demolishing journey was when he took his lovely playful 13-year-old daughter Halima for full time employment as domestic help at a junior police officer’s house in Chakwal.  He was very fond of Halima and never wanted her to go away. But he could not resist the temptation when a distant relative mentioned that the police officer’s family may be willing to pay up to Rs 7000 per month. The fact that the employer was merely an SHO, was not a true reflection of his real prosperity.

 

Each time Khadim Hussain delivered a child for employment to a stranger’s house, it acted like a one-time vent that relieved a small amount of financial pressure.  One less mouth to feed. One more ‘roti’ for sharing. One less person squeezed in the cramped two room house.

 

But all this faded into insignificance compared to the wounds Khadim Hussain’s self-worth suffered, each time he handed over a child. With every parting, a piece of him was stripped away.  He returned home a shadow of himself, smaller and diminished, after leaving his child in the care of families who often wore a veneer of virtue to hide insensitive layers of accumulated meanness.

 

This was his third such journey. This was however an experience he could neither imagine nor endure. Zarina was small, petite and innocent beyond words.  As she sobbed and clenched her father’s hand, Khadim Hussain was getting fragmented and torn into a thousand pieces, cursing himself and his poverty infested fate.  The rickshaw groaned and lurched over the broken road, carrying Zarina farther away from the only world she had ever known.

 

Zarina had been told a ‘story’ of a comfortable home, little work and plenty of food.  Little did she know how quickly her laughter and play would be replaced by scrubbing floors, washing dishes, ironing clothes and serving strangers.  She knew she would miss the scent of her mother’s cooking, the rustling ‘neem’ tree outside her window, her younger siblings and the feeling of bare feet on warm earth. Now, all of it was about to be traded – for a few crumpled currency notes given to her father each month. Zarina sobbed harder. Her voice was lost in the wind, but her sorrow was louder than the rickshaw’s engine.

 

Suddenly the rickshaw came to an abrupt halt. They had arrived at their interim destination. It was a congregation of a few shanty shops that sold fresh tea and expired food, a few broken chairs, two greasy uneven, slippery tables and two small boys with shoulder mounted dirty towels (ostensibly)to clean the utensils. With little sense of urgency, they served tea to half a dozen or so potential passengers.  Collectively, this informal composition was referred to as the local bus stop. It was a point where high-speed, multi-colour, tin containers oozing with tired and sweaty bodies, picked up yet more passengers for faraway towns and cities.  The last bus had left an hour back and the next was due any time. Burdened with a sense of guilt and sorrow, Khadim Hussain held Zarina’s hand, bought her a packet of biscuits and hugged her affectionately.

 

 

Chapter 2.  A childhood cut short

 

The overcrowded sweltering bus executed a conclusive halt.  They had reached their final destination. Passengers moved, crouched, stumbled, stretched and rose from their seats with a desperate urgency to reclaim their scattered belongings.  Luggage appeared to ooze out of head racks, under the seats, between the legs and from every conceivable nook and corner. One could be forgiven for thinking the bus management was trained in the art of sardine-packing rather than public transport. Khadim Hussain and Zarina sat still. They had neither any luggage, nor any motivation to exit before others.  Finally, after all the passengers had disembarked, they stepped down from the bus with slow, awkward and uncertain steps. They felt and appeared dishevelled, tired, hungry and lost. A small, wrinkled piece of paper scribbled with the employer’s address, was the only link they had with the new world they sought so desperately.

 

The distance between the bus stand and the house where Zarina was to seek employment could not have been more than two or three miles.  Sensing that Khadim Hussain appeared not just a stranger but also naive in matters of time and space, it took only minor navigational errors on the part of the rickshaw driver to add many more fictitious miles to what could have been a very brief journey. Zarina was quiet, anxious and scared. The rickshaw reduced its speed, as they reached an area with wide, tree-lined streets, large houses, tall boundary walls and few human beings.  There were a few drivers or security guards who sat or strolled in front of the large gates.  Khadim Hussain instructed the rickshaw driver to get very slow when approaching a security guard. His eyes desperately searched for Murad Ali, the 70-year-old security guard, who was the main go-between for arranging Zarina’s employment deal.   Murad Ali also belonged to the village Haji Wala and worked as a 3rd party private security guard at the residence of Abid Shaikh – a senior government official.  As the street numbering defied both common sense and the wisdom of the rickshaw driver, it was decided to follow the ‘guard recognition’ rule, rather than the street numbers.

 

Suddenly Khadim Hussain recognised an emaciated, unkempt familiar face, an old security guard perched at the front gate of a colossal house.  Khadim Hussain shouted and waved with excitement as if he was not in a rickshaw but a bathtub and had just discovered the buoyancy principle.  The rickshaw came to a screeching halt.  Khadim Hussain jumped out and embrace Murad Ali.  They spent a few minutes exchanging personal, family and village news.  Murad Ali welcomed Zarina and affectionately placed his hand on Zarina’s covered head.   The seventy-year-old security guard had been working at Abid Shaikh’s residence, perhaps since much before Zarina was born. He was a tall figure, somewhat bent by the years and the arduous nature of job. Deep lines etched his weathered face, and his moustache was speckled with white.

 

 

Zarina stood at a little distance while Murad Ali and her father discussed issues that she did not quite understand.  She observed that the gate had a large size brass plaque, with the words “Shaikh Villa” inscribed on it. There were 4 cars standing outside the gate, and they all had similar looking green number plates on them. Their drivers hovered around exhibiting various manifestations of idleness, gossiping, strolling, sitting and napping.  She was curious as to why she did not see any residents – just guards and drivers.   Khadim Hussain desperately wanted Murad Ali to put in a good word for Zarina and perhaps also suggest a salary of seven or eight thousand Rupees.

 

Murad Ali maintained a polite, friendly and helpful stance and promised to exercise the best of his limited social skills. He went to a small room next to the gate and picked up a telephone-looking instrument to talk to someone.  Murad Ali informed the residents of the arrival of Zarina and her father. He was told to bring them in.  Murad opened a small partition of the main gate and led Zarina and Khadim Hussain through a side passage, going through the porch that led to a covered terrace.  The lawns of the grand white bungalow were trimmed to perfection. The Italian floor tiles reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers stood out for their black and white patterns and slipperiness.  The house was bigger than anything Zarina had ever seen or imagined.  The only residents of this house were Abid Shaikh, a senior government official, his middle-aged wife Parveen and their fifteen-year-old daughter Seema. Their son Ramez had left home at a very young age, qualified as a lawyer from Yale University and was currently working with Watkins & Cromwell LLP, a prestigious law firm in New York.

 

Abid Shaikh was not yet home. His wife Parveen was a woman of cold demeanour and a still colder heart.  Her sole interest was to weigh the pros and cons of employing an eleven-year-old girl on a 24/7 assignment.  She made it clear that there were no holidays built into this job and Zarina must be ready to efficiently perform all the ‘usual’ household chores.  She reiterated that the work demanded high standards of upkeep, punctuality and perfection.  It must be said to her credit that at least on two occasions during her monologue, Parveen did mention that she and her family will take good care of Zarina, feed her, clothe her and to the extent possible also give her some education. A non-negotiable salary of Rs 7000 was offered to be paid to Khadim Hussain via the security guard Murad Ali, for the services rendered by the 11-year-old angel every month. Khadim Hussain appeared pleased with the arrangement. For him, the math was brutally straightforward – Rs 7,000 more every month, and one less mouth to feed.        He softly shifted close to Zarina and patted her affectionately.  Zarina had sensed that the past few minutes had permanently changed the equations of her childhood, her status and her dreams.  Her father nudged her, perhaps to utter a sentence of approval. But Zarina’s fate was already sealed, not by her own will, but by her father’s selfishness, ignorance, greed and poverty.  Except for a tear running down her cheek, Zarina’s ashen lips had little else to say.  She had already learned the art of submission and silence,

 

In a moment too short, Khadim Hussain said a swift and searing farewell to his daughter.  With an air of success, Murad Ali, the security guard sauntered back to his place of duty.  With a glance and a flick of the hand, Zarina was wordlessly commanded to move inside the house. A new era of subordination had been activated, much like an on-off switch.

 

 

Chapter 3.  Hierarchy of modern slavery

 

Zarina walked in slowly, her steps hesitant and her eyes mesmerised. The villa stood like a monument to wealth. Gleaming electrical gadgets seamlessly blended into the decor. Handwoven carpets with intricate patterns added warmth to the polished floors. Velvet sofas, so plush that no child could resist the temptation of attempting trampoline like simulations.   A well-varnished dining table, large enough to accommodate an entire village, occupied the centre stage of a huge dining hall – that remained vacant for most part of the day.  Crystal vases, sculpted figurines, and curated artwork were conspicuous for their elegance as well as overindulgence.  Their only function was to stand helplessly at their pre-determined locations and engage admiring visitors to take back maximum impressions of the wealth, taste and status of the Shaikh family. The ostentatious lifestyle and highfalutin contacts of the Shaikh family guaranteed an endless stream of friends, foes and freeloaders.  After all, the faker you are, the bigger your circle will be.

 

Considering that there were only three family members who actually lived in the house, the Shaikh residence, much like a government office, was hugely overstaffed.  There was a full time cook and a waiter, who took care of all culinary affairs. There were three drivers who were on the government’s payroll but provided full time chauffeuring services to the Shaikh family and their friends.  The two gardeners were a living proof of    Abid Shaikh’s nepotism and merit-less approach to life.   Being his poor relatives, he imported them from his village, got them enrolled as peons in his office and deployed them as fulltime gardeners at his residence. This act of manipulation had greatly increased the influence and status of Abid Shaikh in his village. The gardeners visited the government office just once every month, to draw their salary from the public exchequer and to impress others with their closeness to Abid Shaikh. While most other employees were envious, there were also those who looked down upon such ‘ghost’ employees. The Shaikh Villa was guarded by 2 security guards, each performing 12-hour duty every day. Zarina was happy that the helpful guard Murad Ali, whom she addressed as ‘Cha Cha’, was always on day duty from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.

 

In addition to the male minions, there was an older woman named Bushra, whose primary role appeared to be shouting instructions, enforcing discipline, ensuring compliance, making complaints and above all, looking busy. She also acted as the Personal Assistant to Parveen and took care of her needs and comfort. It was decided that Bushra be entrusted with the additional responsibility of keeping an eye on Zarina.  Besides many arduous daily chores, Zarina was also required to serve as Seema’s full-time assistant, catering to her many youthful whims and needs.

 

 

Zarina was handed over to Bushra, who delivered an exhaustive rundown of her duties – both real and fabricated – laced with a long list of rigid dos and don’ts.  Zarina was also shown an attic-like, narrow, stuffy and cramped quarter, that was to become the roof over her head for the foreseeable future.

 

Zarina was immensely tired, sad and exhausted. Sleep eluded her. For the first time in her life, she lay alone—without the comforting chaos, chatter, mischief, and quarrels of her siblings. The stillness felt heavy, and the loneliness, unbearable.  She realised that, with her freedom bargained, she was no longer the girl who had left Haji Wala just a day before. She opened her only piece of luggage, the thin cloth bag she had brought with her and took out the tattered doll and the torn pages from her class 2 notebook.  She placed her only possessions next to her pillow and went to sleep.

 

 

 

Chapter 4.   Short cut to glory

 

Abid Shaikh was born in a remote village. His father was a schoolteacher who believed in simple and honest living, He wanted his son to receive good education and build a great career. It was however obvious from the beginning that Abid Shaikh was into everything except education.  He had begun to bunk classes from an early stage. Fifty years back the schools had neither heard nor believed in any form of truancy tracking systems. Interestingly, they still do not.  Being the son of a respected teacher, the fellow teachers would tend to be overlooking and forgiving when it came to his academic inadequacies.  Thus, with a massive combination of unfair means and accommodative teachers, Abid Shaikh managed to cross the Himalayan hurdle of passing the 10^th grade.

 

Abid felt as if he had conquered the world.  One day, with an air of arrogance and misplaced self-confidence, he spoke to his father about his plan of starting a business venture, ostensibly by using the provident fund his dad had received after 38 years of government service. Though not well versed in financial matters, the modest father was quick to detect the caveat.  He knew that his son could squander his lifetime saving not in years but days. He therefore dissuaded Abid Shaikh from such bright ideas and pushed him to take admission in a local college, even if it did not appear in the list of local Ivy league.

 

With minimum attendance and maximum irregularities, Abid Shaikh dragged through the four years of college. On finally getting his BA degree, Abid Shaikh considered himself ready to chase the proverbial Quixotic mills. Unfortunately, there were no windmills in his village nor the neighbouring towns, and Abid Shaikh was forced to endure the humiliation of unemployment for nearly two years.  His life changed by a stroke of fate, when one day the big landlord seeking electoral votes for a Provincial Assembly seat landed in the village. After a stereotypical spiel and numerous rusted promises had been downloaded, Abid Shaikh’s father stood up and in a humble, respectable but firm voice put forward his request.  “Sir, we need neither roads, nor schools. We need neither hospitals nor factories. If you provide a decent government job to Abid Shaikh, the most highly qualified person that this village ever produced, you can be sure that 136 votes of our entire clan are at your feet.”

 

Three weeks later, Abid Shaikh was appointed on a hurriedly concocted post of Senior Labour Supervisor in the Labour Department.  The Grade 15 assignment was a strategic untapped gold mine.  Abid Shaikh instinctively knew and undertook the challenge.  Externally, he organised a panel of inspectors to create long term arrangements with employers for steady and heavy cash inflows, in return for looking the other way for violations relating to minimum wages and EOBI[1] Contributions.   Internally he identified all his superiors who would be the welcoming and silent beneficiaries of this unholy loot.  He focussed on keeping his head down and the pockets of his bosses full. He had correctly calculated that if he played his cards well, he would soon make more money in one month than his whole village earned in the last 100 years.

 

Abid Shaikh’s astuteness coupled with servile sycophancy bore rapid fruits. He received accelerated promotions, and his circle of beneficiaries and well-wishers began extending to members of parliament and senior party leaders. Fifteen years down the road, when the matter of appointing a Director General (DG) came up for discussion in the cabinet, there was not one who disagreed on the name of Abid Shaikh. He was amicable, well-liked, creative and equally generous to both Mahmood[2] and Ayaz[3].  Shaikh Saheb, as he was popularly addressed, was unanimously elevated to the prestigious post of the Director General of Labour, Human and Child Rights Department. He was also recommended for a high national award “for pioneering the largest informal circular economy in the country” – that restrained the flow of money to the least number of pockets.

 

Soon after taking over his new assignment, Abid Shaikh addressed a well-attended press conference.  Abid Shaikh’s brief address was conspicuous by its vagueness.  Deeply embarrassed, the Deputy Director moderating the event quickly opened the house for questions. This is what unfolded.

 

Reporter A: “Sir, I am Himmat Ullah Khan from Drawn newspaper. We all know that 70 % Pakistani workers are not paid even the minimum legal wage. Can you kindly explain the steps you would take to ensure compliance of minimum wage law and to punish the violating employers. “

 

Abid Shaikh: “Your question is very close to my heart. With the help of Allah and your support, we will Inshallah, take all steps to ensure wellbeing of all our people. Remember I am a practical person, and I always keep the ground realities in mind while making any decision.”

 

Reporter A: “Sir, can you tell us the percentage increase in minimum wage of workers planned for this year? Also please tell us why your department delays the minimum wage notification for almost six months every year.  Last year it was delayed only because it awaited the signatures of the Secretary, who was enjoying a holiday in Switzerland.”

 

Abid Shaikh: “As you know that ILO Headquarter is located in Switzerland and we must visit them a few times every year in order to reinforce our universal labour-friendly image.”

 

Reporter B: “I am Mahira Abdullah from ‘Voice of the People’ TV Channel. Can you please mention the steps you intend to take to eliminate child labour, especially those employed as domestic servants. Also, what is the minimum age in your opinion before which the children should not be made to work”?

 

Abid Shaikh: “I would once again emphasise the importance of being cognizant of our own ground realities rather than the Western narratives. Afterall these are our children, and regardless of their age, we must be kind to them.”

 

Reporter C: “I am Farhan Khan from Sunia TV channel. Can you please tell me what percentage of Pakistani workers are registered with EOBI and what steps will you be taking to register those who are not”?

 

Abid Shaikh: “Well, almost all workers of Pakistan are registered with EOBI, and I am completely open to register anyone who is not”.

 

By now, the reporters saw through the charade, recognizing the exercise as both hollow and wasteful. Some got up and left. Others followed suit. The press conference came to an abrupt and unceremonious ending.

 

Abid Shaikh’s purchase of a palatial house in a ‘posh’ locality, was much like his press conference – optics, status and hollowness.  The Shaikh Villa was a great happening place for ministers, industrialists, bureaucrats, billionaires and Chief Executives to not just rub proverbial shoulders but also each other’s backs.   Abid Shaikh was frequently invited as Chief Guest to deliver key-note speeches or inaugural addresses at seminars.  His secretary had prepared a standard, multi-sectoral speech that, regardless of the topic, could be delivered on any occasion. The speech unfolded thus, “Ladies and Gentlemen. In the evolving architecture of global jurisprudence, Human Rights stand as the inalienable cornerstones of equitable societies. Enshrined in multilateral instruments, Pakistan stands firmly committed to honour human, labour and child rights.   These rights transcend geopolitical boundaries, anchoring themselves in the universality of Islamic values, human dignity, the indivisibility of entitlements. We believe in the imperative for non-discriminatory inclusion, the intersectionality of Human rights with climate justice, digital freedoms, data sovereignty and gender sensitivity. Only then can we move towards a more holistic rights-based governance model. I assure you that my only focus in life is to safeguard human capital while promoting inclusive economic resilience.”

Like the emperor’s new clothes, his hollow speeches received a standing ovation.

 

Abid Shaikh’s narcissism at state expense knew no bounds. He asked his Deputy Director to commission a famous author for writing his biography – to serve as a role model for future generations.  Surprisingly, no sane or famous author was willing to oblige, despite the promise of an exorbitant royalty. The royalty was to be paid from the department’s ‘stationary & printing’ fund. With great difficulty, an obscure, lacklustre, drowning in debt, small-time columnist agreed to write this important ‘rags to riches’ story.  Kareem Sadiq, the selected author, set forth two conditions. First, he demanded double the amount initially offered. Second, he insisted that the entire sum be equally distributed among the city’s 12,000 underpaid daily-wage sanitation workers. These workers, employed through a complex chain of three subcontractors by the Solid Waste Department, received an illegal pittance of Rs20,000 per month—far below the legally mandated minimum wage of Rs37,000.  Without blinking an eyelid, Abid Shaikh shook hands and penned his signatures on the contract.

 

Abid Shaikh had a weak spot for luxury cars. He was officially allocated a Toyota Fortuner worth Rs 22.2 million. However, he managed to extract three more identical vehicles, one from each subordinate department, for the use of his wife, daughter and staff.  Thus, the taxpayers bore the cost of four gleaming Toyota Fortuners, valued at Rs88.8 million.  By default, the fleet also included four drivers and an allotment of 300 litres of fuel per vehicle per month.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5.  A day in the Life of a domestic worker

 

From her very first day, Zarina was thrust into a world of endless labour. She woke before dawn, wiping floors that seemed to stretch for miles. Her small hands scrubbed tiles in marble bathrooms, polished ornate furniture, and beat dust from heavy cushions that swallowed her whole being. The kitchen was her battlefield. She was routinely ordered to peel onions till her eyes burned, wash stacks of greasy dishes, mix spices and chop vegetables.  Her day could be summed up as an endless loop of sweeping floors, dusting shelves, ironing clothes, washing dishes, serving tea, folding laundry, scrubbing after meals—and suffering a stream of insults. As the sun set, she was still working, her feet sore, her eyelids heavy and her hands crying out with painful rash and allergic eruptions.

 

Parveen, the mistress of the house, treated Zarina with a coldness that could compete with the winter temperatures of Antarctica.  Her words were sharp, piercing and laced with disdain. “Did no one teach you how to sweep properly?” she would shout, even when the floors gleamed. Any mistake, no matter how small, earned Zarina a rebuke, sometimes accompanied by the threat of being sent back to “wherever you came from.”  Not to be outdone, Bushra, the senior female supervisor who hardly ever altered her GPS coordinates was relentless in inventing errands to keep Zarina perpetually on her feet.  Her instructions routinely shouted in a harsh, demeaning tone – were dramatically magnified whenever Parveen or her husband were within hearing range.

 

 

At a very tender age Zarina had entered a world, far removed from the carefree innocence of her village childhood.  At first, she cried silently at night, clutching her doll, one of the last remnants of her former life. Her small hands, unaccustomed to scrubbing floors and washing dishes, grew rough and blistered. But Zarina was an intelligent and gifted girl.  She watched intently, rehearsed silently and quickly mastered each task. Gradually, she began to understand the daily rhythms, shifting moods, and unspoken rules. Within a short period, she had become proficient in her job as well as in rebuke-prevention techniques. Survival, she realized early on, depended on hard work, quiet efficiency, and the ability to remain unseen and unheard.

 

Days turned into weeks. The Shaikh household retained its unkind and cruel demeanour.  Zarina had grown resilient, gradually adapting to the relentless rhythm of her daily grind.  She learned to anticipate needs before they were voiced, to read emotions in the lines of a frown or the pace of footsteps. She was beginning to find a fragile sense of control.  She was beginning to learn how to comfort herself – often through whispered lullabies of her childhood.  She found small ways to reclaim her sense of self – a smile exchanged with another servant or a stolen moment by the window to watch the sky.  In the face of harsh adversity, she was no longer the frightened girl who arrived trembling at the gate.

 

Unnoticed by all, a slow, quiet and imperceptible bond of friendship began to develop between Zarina and Abid Shaikh’s daughter Seema.  In a large house drowning in harshness and devoid of compassion, Seema was the only person who radiated a trace of kindness, warmth, and hope.  Seema was gentle and friendly with Zarina, treated her like an equal, and even shared her fruit or sweets.  Zarina was most impressed to see Seema take her studies so diligently. She watched carefully and silently the way Seema made her notes and wrote sentences that Zarina knew nothing about.    Seema showed Zarina where she had kept her old schoolbooks and gently encouraged her to read whichever ones she liked.  While Zarina had studied up to class 4 in the village school, her inadequate knowledge of English language made it impossible for her to make any sense of Seema’s old class five books. But then, Zarina was in no hurry either. One word, one line, one paragraph, one page and one book at a time, held by Seema’s helping hand, she began to learn at a surprisingly fast tempo. It was the only joyful task in her otherwise miserable routine.  Zarina had silently enrolled herself in an informal one-student, one-teacher school.  She, a keen learner and Seema the friendly teacher were quietly executing a task that would have momentous implications in the future.   Stolen between tasks, her time spent with books, gave Zarina a glimpse of what friendship, freedom and future might feel like.

 

Chapter 6. The umbilical cord

 

Amidst the abundance of brutality and discrimination, Zarina had gradually found yet another source of solace and fatherly affection.  Murad Ali, the security guard was always protective and affectionate towards Zarina, not just because he came from the same village but also because they shared identical chains of brutality, oppression, and suffering. Murad Ali received a salary of Rs24,000 for 12-hour duty each day and was not allowed any day off, except once every 4 months. Murad Ali deeply felt and empathised with Zarina’s sense of imprisonment, anguish, sorrow and suffering.  The seventy-year-old security guard spent most part of the day standing at the gate, his frail body wrapped in a wrinkled blue uniform, frayed at the edges and unravelling at the hems.  Murad Ali was no stranger to mistreatment. He had been a guard at the Shaikh Villa for over a decade.  He endured the misery and torture of his job, for he had a family to feed. Back in the village, his son was sick, his grandchildren needed schooling, and his wife depended on his meagre earnings. It must be said that despite a decade of inhumane treatment, illegal salary and miserable working conditions, he retained a kind soul and a warm heart.

 

Zarina and Murad Ali found solace in each other. In stolen moments of rest, Murad Ali told her stories of the village they both had left behind. He told her that the village got its name from a person who was famous for his notorious activities. However, his entire life changed, when one day, on a routine robbing mission, he hit a jackpot.  The robbed wallet contained 3 million rupees, an amount far beyond the collective imagination of the village.  The ill-reputed character was advised to perform Haj, the ultimate act of piety.  He agreed to this proposal, with one caveat that he would resume his professional activities soon after his return.  As luck would have it, his tarnished heart was deeply touched by the experience of Haj.  Overwhelmed with guilt, he decided to discontinue all mischief and live a decent life.  He was profusely garlanded on his return, given the tile of Haji and was ceremoniously buried in a large grave a few years later. Thus concluded his journey from a sinner to a saint, while the village became known as the Haji Wala village.

 

Zarina was absolutely fascinated by the stories of the village.   She told Cha Cha Murad of the childish tricks she and her classmates played with the teachers at the village school.  It was a small 4 room school, that had 4 teachers who taught 5 classes consisting of 85 children. Murad Ali listened to these stories with great amusement and encouraged her to keep talking even when he did not understand or hear some of the things she said. While Murad Ali had never stepped in a school, it was obvious that he was doing what any other professional psychotherapist would have done.

 

Deprived of four legal holidays every month, Murad Ali could only visit his village once after every four months.  While Murad Ali desperately looked forward to going home, the event was emotionally shattering for Zarina. She imagined Cha Cha Murad walking through the streets of Haji Wala, hugging his children and eating fresh home cooked food.  It was the same soil where she was born, where her parents and siblings lived, where she went to a school and where she played with her friends.  Like an umbilical cord, Cha Cha Murad had become the only link between her past and her present.

 

Zarina would send a brief handwritten note for her mother, each time Murad Ali went to the village.  She would write short sentences to suggest that she was fine, that the food was good and that Seema was friendly.  Murad Ali dutifully delivered Zarina’s letter to her mother and handed over Rs28,000, Zarina’s four months’ hard-earned salary to her father.  Zarina, excitedly looked forward to Murad Ali’s return. She wanted to hear first-hand account of the smallest words uttered by her mother and her siblings.  What were they wearing? How did they look?  Did they have enough to eat? Did they miss her? Murad Ali would provide answers to all these questions at great length, diligently exercising the ’edit’ option where needed.  Every time Murad Ali returned from the village, Zarina’s mother would lovingly prepare some ‘halwa’, pack it neatly in a plastic box, and send it along for her daughter.  For Zarina, this was not just food. It was an emotionally loaded package of grace and blessing – that brought tears in her eyes.  She would take the box in a solitary corner and imagine her mother was sitting next to her, as she slowly relished every bite, stretching the joy as long as possible.

 

 

 

 Chapter 7.  “bolo ke roz-e-adl kī buniyād kuchh to Ho[4].”

 

Zarina had completed over two years of hardship and indignity at the Shaikh Villa.  Seema continued to be the only person of the Shaikh family, who carried a measure of humanity and kindness towards her.  Zarina preferred to spend much of her time taking care of Seema’s clothes, tidying her room, making tea for her, entertaining her friends and doing her odd jobs. What began as a work-related association had blossomed into a companionship rooted in friendship and mutual respect.  When not doing anything, Zarina was reading Seema’s old books, taking notes, asking questions and solving math problems.  Seema turned out to be an exceptional teacher, always encouraging, giving attention, making effort and motivating Zarina to do more.  Seema was convinced that Zarina had now become as proficient as any class eight student.

 

Seema, while somewhat aloof from her parents, kept in regular touch with her brother Ramez, who was now a well-established lawyer with a leading law firm in New York.  Ramez had left home at the age of 15 and never returned even for a short visit.  It was always his parents who went abroad to meet him.  Ramez had some idea of the space, style, luxury and comfort that was offered at his father’s Villa.  But he had no idea that it owed its existence to the hunger and misery of the poor. His only memory was a small house in Gulshan Iqbal, where they lived, when his father was a grade 15 supervisor.  Abid and Parveen, had been inviting and motivating Ramez to visit Pakistan since the past few years.  Ramez however was so heavily and happily involved in his work, that he always side-tracked the subject.  Thus, one day, when Seema woke up in the morning and instinctively hit the WhatsApp icon on her phone, she was surprised to read her brother’s brief, crisp and clear message: ” It is time for Pakistani professionals, scientists and engineers in North America and Europe to end their slavery to the US dollar and return home. By staying on, they become complicit in the Gaza genocide. I have decided to return to Pakistan and practice law with every ounce of ethics, skills and standards that I learnt.  Please tell mum and dad that their son arrives in Pakistan by EK-602 landing at 11:45 on 17 March. Love. Ramez. “.   She could not believe her eyes and read and reread the message to reassure that she was not hallucinating.  But then the truth dawned upon her.  She had missed his earlier WhatsApp note, written 2 weeks back, “Seema, I am in the process of making a life changing decision. Shall let you know the details in the next few days. Love. Ramez.”.

 

 

Seema jumped out of her bed and ecstatically broke the news to her parents, who were overjoyed beyond words.  Seema also called Zarina and broke the good news. Not entirely sure, Zarina felt a twinge of unease at the thought of yet another person giving her orders.  Little did she know that Ramez’s arrival would mark the lifting of the burden that she carried on her eyelids each night and each day of her existence.

 

17^th March was just a week away. Parveen ordered complete revamping, cleaning, painting and polishing of the Shaikh Villa.  Essentially that translated into 26 hours of work each day for Zarina during that week of preparation.  Abid Shaikh got numerous top restaurants booked for elaborate dinners with seating for 20 plus guests. Of course, it was well known that no restaurant ever charged Abid Shaikh for the frequent feasts that he threw to appease his well-placed connections. A spacious guest suite was prepared for Ramez, complete with a private bathroom, changing room, study, and a cozy sitting area.  Parveen and Abid wanted to leave no stone unturned to comfort, please and pamper Ramez.

 

Emirates airline touched down at the Karachi airport, 5 minutes before its expected arrival time.  Ramez picked up his briefcase and began to walk down the Passenger Boarding Bridge.  He had hardly walked a few steps that he saw an officious looking man, holding a placard that had RAMEZ written in bold words. Ramez paused briefly, more out of curiosity than by need.  The experienced official knew that the right person had been spotted, but reconfirmed by asking, “Sir, are you Mr. Ramez?”  Ramez replied in affirmative.   The official introduced himself as the Protocol Officer, assigned to facilitate the arrival of the friends and family of the DG Saab[5].  “Thank you so much. I guess I will be able to fend for myself”, Ramez replied somewhat curtly.  “Sir, I have already lined up all check points at immigration, health, customs, security and the staff at the luggage belt.  I beg you to kindly follow me. These are the instructions of the DG Saab.”  Uncomfortable with this uncalled-for pampering, Ramez reluctantly began walking behind the smart alec.   Ramez was already getting a feel of why Pakistan was not making progress.  Its brutal elite was also the biggest law violator.  In less than ten minutes Ramez had crossed all checkpoints, exited the lounge and was being warmly hugged and kissed by his mother and sister. Abid Shaikh, of course, did not believe in Public Display of Affection.

 

 

The family sat in the large drawing room and kept chatting and sipping teas till very late at night. Ramez was very happy to be back home though felt uncomfortable at the gaudy opulence all around. It seemed to him like an assault on everything he had come to value.   There would be a conversation block each time Ramez asked a searching question, such as “Why is the entire staff up at this hour of the night?”.  Abid and Parveen felt appropriate to let Ramez acclimatise for a few days and excused themselves.  Seema showed Ramez his spacious suite and said good night to her brother.

 

Ramez could hardly sleep that night.  Was it the jet lag or was it the overbearing and contradictory nature of the new environment. He got up early and took a short walk in the garden. Admiring the solitude of the terrace, he picked up a newspaper and was about to pull a chair to sit down that he heard a loud thud and a painful shriek from somewhere close to Seema’s room. Instinctively, he dropped the newspaper and ran towards the source of sound to discover a 13-year-old girl crumpled on the ground, her breakfast tray all over her body, her one arm badly burnt and a deep gash on the other.  Ramez sensed that the girl had slipped while carrying a heavy tray and was in a critical condition. He knew that the law of “Duty to Report” must be invoked. He shouted to wake up Seema and asked her to call 911.  By now Seema had realised the gravity of the situation. She was the one who had asked Zarina a day earlier, to wake her up and serve breakfast in her bedroom next morning. Seema began to take charge.  She shouted instructions on the intercom for the driver to immediately bring the white Fortuner up to the porch. Ramez lifted the bleeding and sobbing Zarina, who was in great pain, and placed her gently on the car seat. Seema asked the driver to drive straight to the city’s leading private hospital without delaying a single second.

 

Zarina was rushed into the emergency, and after a swift triage directed towards the Burn Ward of the hospital.   Ramez and Seema stayed with Zarina, all along, as she was moved from one ward to another for cleaning of wounds, bandages, stiches and other medical procedures. After about three hours of intense care and treatment, Zarina was allowed to go home, rest, and come back after two weeks for a follow up. Seema and Ramez heaved a sigh of relief that Zarina would soon be able to recover from the catastrophic life-threatening episode.

 

On reaching home, Seema made Zarina lie down and not get up for any work. She had already briefed Ramez about Zarina’s background, how her father had essentially sold her to the Shaikh family for Rs 7000 per month, the tasks she performed and the maltreatment that she was subjected to. Ramez was deeply hurt and decided to get to the root of this injustice.  Abid and Parveen who woke up late had no idea of what all had transpired in the past few hours.  It was close to lunch time, and they all sat around the large dining table.  Abid Shaikh who never went to office before 12 noon, was awaiting his cheese omelette, multigrain toasts, and a cup of freshly brewed coffee.  Suddenly he shouted at the top of his voice, “What the hell is wrong with Zarina. Why is she not here to serve the breakfast?”.  Unthinkingly Parveen too joined the chorus, “Oh, why do we expect these children from low families to work without the constant use of stick.”

 

Ramez sat stunned, shattered and dumbfounded.  He had not fully recovered from the trauma of the morning’s accident. He found it impossible to digest the fresh barrage of derogatory and classist remarks about the only person who did any work in this house.  Seema intervened to calm down her parents by explaining as gently as possible, the details of Zarina’s accident, injuries and medical condition.  The lawyer in Ramez could not be held back any longer. In a loud, clear and blunt tone he asked a direct question from his dad, “How old is Zarina and what do Pakistani laws say about child labour?”.  Abid Shaikh froze on his seat.  The question had caught him off guard, draining the colour from his face.  The chief inspector and protector of children for the rest of the country was a criminal in his own house.  He tried to utter something but was let down by his own vocal cords. Angry and ashen he unceremoniously left the room.

 

Years of legal training and handling of clients had strengthened the nerves and responses of Ramez. His anger and disgust were rapidly being replaced by flashes of ideas, UN conventions, case laws and ILO182 on ‘Worst Forms of Child Labour’. Taking his cup of tea with him, he politely excused himself and left the room.  He went to his freshly refurbished suite, closed the door, sat down and shut his eyes. His mind was working overtime to put together pieces and images of unspeakable cruelty, enslavement, exploitation, and looting of state resources.  With growing horror, he was beginning to grasp the full scale and savagery of the crimes committed under the very roof he called home.

 

Ramez took a shower and felt fresh, cleaner and clearer headed.  He picked up his phone and began writing a WhatsApp message to his colleagues at Watkins & Cromwell, “Dear friends, I want to sincerely thank you for the years of professional collaboration and genuine camaraderie. Your guidance shaped me into the kind of lawyer who chooses integrity and ethics over lucrative deals with corrupt corporate giants. You’ll be glad to hear – I’ve finally found my calling.  Barely past my first breakfast in Pakistan, I find myself plunged into a grave case of brutal human rights abuse.  It feels like the beginning of something truly meaningful. Will keep you posted.  Best wishes.  Ramez.”

 

Ramez sat down earnestly to prepare a plan of action. He got in touch with some of his old schoolmates who had risen to become distinguished lawyers and human rights activists in Pakistan. He collected all the relevant local laws, case laws and law books relating to Factories Act, Minimum Wage Laws, Social Security, EOBI Act, Overtime laws, Private Security Companies Act, Criminal Laws, Child Rights Laws, Prohibition of Employment of Children Laws, Prohibition of Child Labour Laws, Industrial Relations Acts, Health & Safety Laws and other relevant legislation.  He immediately plunged into serious legal consultations, assembling facts, conducting interviews, collecting evidence and identifying witnesses, petitioners and respondents. Starting from Zarina and ending up with Murad Ali, he began a series of interviews of every staff member. He wanted to know the absolute truth about each and every staff member – the salary that was paid to them, their duty hours, the holidays they received, their employment period, their EOBI registration and their working conditions.

 

 

 

Chapter 8.  Calculating the loot

 

In about 3 weeks, Ramez had completed his task of evidence and data collection. His conclusions were startling and mind-boggling – a truth stranger than fiction. The Cook and the Waiter were employed in a government department as ‘Naib Qasids”, while they had been physically working at the Shaikh Villa for the past six years and drew a salary of Rs 70,000 and Rs 60,000 per month respectively. Collectively their illegal deployment had cost the state a loss of Rs 9.2 million.  Bushra the Supervisor lady worked on a fake identity card of a younger lady and had received a total amount of Rs 5.76 million in the last 8 years. The two gardeners, employed as ghost peons in a government department had received Rs 5.4 million in the last 9 years.  The unlawfully commandeered three extra cars and their drivers had caused a dent of Rs18 million to the state exchequer in the past 4 years. Just to serve the lavish whims of a single bureaucrat, the illegal and ghost deployment of staff had drained Rs 38.36 million from the state exchequer.

 

Zarina had healed completely and was fully back on her feet. Despite all the skills of a great lawyer, Ramez broke down with emotions as Zarina unfolded her painful story.   Her endless work routine often exceeded 12 hours a day.  She had not had a single day off since she first stepped into the Shaikh Villa. Ramez was at a complete loss to understand the intensity of lawlessness and the extent of complicity between the state organisations and the rich greedy elite.  He was surprised that even the educated people of Pakistan who could count every penny of their own, refused to calculate the correct wages of their workers.  He decided to sit down with the finest experts of the country to resolve this issue once for all.

 

The minimum wage law specified the legal minimum wage of an unskilled worker as Rs37,000 per month, based on 8 Hours work per day and 26 days of work in a month.  Considering that overtime was paid at twice the normal rate, 4 hours of overtime every day, doubled the Salary of Zarina to Rs74,000 per month.  Sunday being a holiday, the 12 hours work on a Sunday was considered overtime and paid at twice the rate. Ramez made a quick note of his calculations – (12 hours x Rs178 per hour x 2 overtime rate = Rs4,272 per Sunday or Rs17,088 for 4 Sundays every month).  As a lawyer, he preferred hard facts over vague opinions.   Ramez calculated that every month, Zarina ought to have been paid Rs 74,000 for 12 hours work for 26 days and Rs17,088 for the four Sundays. This amounted to Rs 91,088 per month.  The fact that she was actually paid an insignificant amount of Rs 7,000, meant that Abid Shaikh had been stealing Rs 84,088 from the salary of an 11-year-old girl every month. Spread over 30 months, Abid Shaikh had deprived Zarina of Rs 2.52 million.  Cruelty and exploitation could not have descended any deeper.

 

The story of Murad Ali was just as laden with indescribable hardship, torture and deprivation.  As a security Guard, Murad Ali was classified as semi-skilled worker whose minimum salary for 8 hours duty for 26 days in a month was notified as Rs38280. Considering double payment for over time, a guard performing 12 hours duty every day was entitled to Rs76560 per month.  Murad Ali, like most other guards, was also compelled to work for 12 hours on every Sunday. He therefore deserved to be paid an additional overtime of Rs17664 for the four Sundays that he put in every month. Ramez, added the two and concluded that Murad’s correct legal wage amounted to Rs 94,224 per month.  Sadly, he was actually paid a pittance of Rs24,000, Thus, Abid Shaikh stole Rs 70224 every month from the salary od Murad Ali, depriving him of Rs 10.1 million over the last 12 years. Ramez had never known another country where a vile minority could force millions to silently endure cruelty and exploitation – as if sanctioned by Divine will.

 

Ramez was beginning to understand the damage that poverty does to the human spirit. The sullenness of poverty produces a kind of fatalism which makes it difficult for the impoverished person to explain their situation. Numbers alone do not explain to the impoverished the reality of their circumstances, which they already know very well.  Ramez was getting the feel of a decadent society focused only on its rich, with no concern, compassion or empathy for the impoverished.

 

 

 

Chapter 9.  Prayer

 

Represented by Pakistan’s distinguished lawyer Faisal Mallik, renowned for his legal skills and ethical disposition, a case of corruption, misuse of state resources, child labour, wage theft and human rights violations was filed against Abid Shaikh. Ramez opted to be the lead petitioner, while many citizen activists became co-signatories in a historic ‘son vs. father’ constitutional petition. The case came up for hearing before Mr. Justice Salahuddin Azhar, a distinguished judge of the high court.  On his part, Abid Shaikh hired the most expensive lawyers of the town and was certain that the judgement would be in his favour.

 

The case was brilliantly argued by both parties with outstanding arguments, reasoning, references and evidence.  For Ramez, the ‘Prayer’ described in the petition held a significance that went far beyond the realm of law.  The prayer stemmed from his deep-rooted burning desire to see an end to the suffering and enslavement of Zarina, Murad Ali and millions of other exploited and enslaved citizens. Being himself the son of a Director General, he fully understood that the government departments were themselves the biggest culprits, the biggest law violators and the biggest hurdle to any kind of progress.

 

The first prayer in the petition requested that Zarina be reunited with her parents, and that Abid Shaikh be ordered to return Rs. 2.52 million – the amount that was held back from her wages. Abid Shaikh may also be directed to further compensate Zarina with Rs. 5 million for the abuse, child labour, and enslavement inflicted upon her.  The petition’s second prayer sought an order requiring Abid Shaikh to repay Rs 10.1 million unlawfully extracted from Murad Ali’s earnings, along with additional compensation of Rs 5 million for the prolonged hardship, suffering and deprivation he was subjected to during the past 12 years.

 

The third relief sought an order directing Abid Shaikh to reimburse Rs. 38.36 million—the amount lost by the government in salaries paid to official staff illegally assigned at his personal residence.  The fourth prayer requested the court to order reorganisation and digitisation of the Labour Department for its active connivance and failure to check wage violations.  The fifth prayer requested the court to order reorganisation and digitisation of the Child Protection Department for its complete failure to check child labour and child abuse.  The sixth prayer sought adoption of a digital system linked with NADRA[6] for HR[7] and Payroll management in every government department in order to eliminate the rampant curse of ghost employees.

 

The seventh prayer appealed for withdrawal of all official cars as their allocation represented bias, discrimination and misuse and was a violation of Article 25 of the Constitution that required all citizens to be equal before the law. The eighth and the last prayer pleaded for dissolution of EOBI for failing to register 94% workers of Pakistan and creation of an alternate digital organisation that provided universal pension to all citizens.

 

 

Chapter 10.  The judgement.

 

Faisal Malik’s brilliance and legal acumen were unmatched.   He concluded by quoting the famous case of Fauji Fertilizer Co. Ltd. v. NIRC & Others[8] , where the Supreme Court held that workers hired through contractors, who are engaged in the core functions of a company and are under its direct supervision, should be considered employees of the principal employer. Consequently, they are entitled to the same wages and benefits as regular employees. He further strengthened his argument by citing Constitutional Petition No. D-852 of 2019, Naeem Sadiq and others vs. the Federation, which held that the failure to ensure payment of minimum wages is illegal, mala fide, and a violation of citizens’ fundamental rights.

 

Closely followed by millions, the judgment on a case that touched the soul of the country, was handed down exactly six months after the initial hearing.  The Honourable Judge read out the brief order, “The court orders that Zarina be reunited with her family and directs Abid Shaikh to pay Rs 7.52 million to Zarina, as compensation for low wages paid to her for 30 months.  Abid Shaikh is also ordered to pay a compensation of Rs15.1 million to the security guard Murad Ali for depriving him of his legal salary for 12 years. The court directs Abid Shaikh to reimburse Rs. 38.36 million in the state exchequer for the loss caused to the government. The court sentences Abid Shaikh to three years of imprisonment and a fine of Rs. 30 million, for misuse of state resources, creation of hundreds of ghost employees and engaging in child labour. The court declares allocation of free vehicles, drivers and fuel to government officials as a violation of the Constitution and orders withdrawal of all government cars. Finally, the Court orders closure of the dysfunctional Labour department, Child Protection Department and the EOBI Department and directs the government to replace them with modern digital institutions. “

 

The news of the judgement spread like wildfire.  A breaking news on TV channels, newspapers and social media, it was widely hailed by all sections of society.  Millions of workers came out on the streets and danced with jubilation. In just 15 minutes, the Honourable Judge’s short order had swept away eight decades of unending despondence, discrimination, and repression.

 

Ramez and Seema drove Zarina and Murad back to their village, where joy burst through tears as families were reunited after years of suffering, hardship, heartache and hunger. Ramez and Seema were deeply touched by the warmth and welcome they received.  For them it was a surreal and unbelievable experience.  There was jubilation and euphoria in the entire village.  Zarina and Murad Ali received a hero’s welcome. The endless night of poverty and suffering had finally made way for the long-awaited dawn.

 

Ramez handed the compensation cheques to the two families, who stood in stunned, tearful silence. Then Zarina stepped forward, braver than ever, and declared that she would donate half of her entire compensation amount to building a girls’ school in the village that would provide free education up to class 10 and offer free uniforms, books, and meals. “No Khadim Hussain,” she said, “must ever again surrender his daughter to servitude.”  Murad Ali, eyes glistening, embraced Zarina and pledged to donate half of his compensation amount of Rs15.1 million towards building the village school.  The world of Haji Wala had changed for ever.

 

 

Epilogue

Ramez and Seema helped build the Haji Wala village school. Seema turned down her admission in a prestigious American University and graduated as a qualified professional teacher from Durbeen, Graduate School of Education. Currently she works as the principal of Zarina High School Haji Wala.  Ramez formally took up the legal profession in Pakistan and decided to dedicate his life for bringing justice to the downtrodden and the voiceless. He felt they had suffered too much for too long and it was time to change the story.

 

 

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, event, organization, or place is purely coincidental.

 

 

 Naeem Sadiq

 

 

[1] EOBI : Employees’ Oldage Benefit Institution

[2] Mahmood of Ghazni

[3] Ayaz, the slave of Mahmood

[4] Speak, for there ought to a reason for the day of judgement.

[5] A local equivalent of Mr. DG

[6] National Database and Registration Authority

[7] Human Resource

[8] (2014 PLC 10)