Pyaari ammi!
She washes dishes, sets dinner tables, cleans houses to take care of the most precious person of her life- her mother.
“Thank you, Baji!” Grabbing the two red bills, an excited Shumaila scurries out of the kitchen to her small room in the backyard.
The small box of steel that she keeps by her mattress is filled with bills.
“This is all the money I get when someone of Baji’s friends or relatives really likes my work and pays me extra.”
Dressed in a loose-fitting frock, hair tied back in an untidy ponytail, Shumaila is barely ten. But her age belies her harsh experiences in life. Working in a house in Defence, Shumaila has a story very different from other children her age.
“My father left my mother for another woman,” she says casually, while doing the dishes. Betrayed by an unfaithful husband even while she carried his child, Shumaila’s mother, Kausar Bibi, succumbed to her tragedy. “My mother went crazy after that, so I have to take care of her. I am her mother now,” Shumaila remarks as she giggles at the site of a bubble floating out of the detergent froth. She may have grown up beyond her age, but the ten-year-old in her can’t help peeking out at times.
Kausar Bibi now lives a life of seclusion and ridicule in a small village up north in Punjab. Shumaila recalls how she grew up looking after a mother suffering from postpartum psychosis. She takes out a tattered old prescription that has the frightening diagnosis flashing on top. Oblivious to how the big books of medicine choose to name her mother’s condition, all Shumaila knows is that her mother was never around to put her to sleep with a lullaby. She wasn’t around to see if Shumaila had eaten, nor was she there to look after her when she fell ill.
While Shumaila’s voice rarely resonated in her mother’s ears, this little girl decided she’d raise her mother instead. “I came to the city with my nani (grandmother). We heard it paid well to work here. Besides, I always wanted to see what the big city looks like.”
Shumaila had seen pictures of high rises in one of her school books.
“There was a school in our village but the teacher never came. We would go there, play all day and get dirty. But then I made friends with the teacher’s daughter….”
Shumaila can now count to 100 and write letters of the alphabet in both English and Urdu thanks to this friendship. She starts a monotonous recitation: “A for apple, B for ball, F for fish, J for joker, K for…K for…” she fumbles but with an immediate sense of achievement recalls “…K for patang!”
Shumaila has worked in several households since she first came to the city. Moving from house to house with her nani, she’s not so much in search of work as she is for the warmth of a family. She thrives on the secondhand affection that comes in the form of used clothes and last night’s meal; this is as close as she can get to having a family. This child may have set out to fight the odds for her mother, yet she is a child like many her age. In order to make her own way and restore her mother’s health she continues to do dishes, babysit and set dinner tables for a sum close to Rs3000.
Every month Shumaila sends a small envelope with money and medicines to her village. She has saved enough to buy a used cell phone so she can talk to her mother. Shumaila has kept up this monthly ritual of sending the money in the hope that one day her mother might notice. For now she keeps abreast of Kausar Bibi’s condition through her uncle who watches over her mother in the village.
This month Shumaila is excited because the envelope will be extra large — she finally gets to send her three months’ worth of savings to her mother. The small box of steel will finally be empty today but Shumaila is not disappointed. Running the last lap of glue stick on the envelope flap she prepares to write something that she may have said a lot but has learnt only recently to write — ‘Pyaari Ammi’!
By the time Shumaila’s post gets to her mother’s doorstep in the village, the world would already have been celebrating ‘Mother’s Day’. Unaware of this annual commemoration, Shumaila lives every moment for her mother.
For the rest of us: Happy Mother’s Day!
Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, May 8th, 2011.
The small box of steel that she keeps by her mattress is filled with bills.
“This is all the money I get when someone of Baji’s friends or relatives really likes my work and pays me extra.”
Dressed in a loose-fitting frock, hair tied back in an untidy ponytail, Shumaila is barely ten. But her age belies her harsh experiences in life. Working in a house in Defence, Shumaila has a story very different from other children her age.
“My father left my mother for another woman,” she says casually, while doing the dishes. Betrayed by an unfaithful husband even while she carried his child, Shumaila’s mother, Kausar Bibi, succumbed to her tragedy. “My mother went crazy after that, so I have to take care of her. I am her mother now,” Shumaila remarks as she giggles at the site of a bubble floating out of the detergent froth. She may have grown up beyond her age, but the ten-year-old in her can’t help peeking out at times.
Kausar Bibi now lives a life of seclusion and ridicule in a small village up north in Punjab. Shumaila recalls how she grew up looking after a mother suffering from postpartum psychosis. She takes out a tattered old prescription that has the frightening diagnosis flashing on top. Oblivious to how the big books of medicine choose to name her mother’s condition, all Shumaila knows is that her mother was never around to put her to sleep with a lullaby. She wasn’t around to see if Shumaila had eaten, nor was she there to look after her when she fell ill.
While Shumaila’s voice rarely resonated in her mother’s ears, this little girl decided she’d raise her mother instead. “I came to the city with my nani (grandmother). We heard it paid well to work here. Besides, I always wanted to see what the big city looks like.”
Shumaila had seen pictures of high rises in one of her school books.
“There was a school in our village but the teacher never came. We would go there, play all day and get dirty. But then I made friends with the teacher’s daughter….”
Shumaila can now count to 100 and write letters of the alphabet in both English and Urdu thanks to this friendship. She starts a monotonous recitation: “A for apple, B for ball, F for fish, J for joker, K for…K for…” she fumbles but with an immediate sense of achievement recalls “…K for patang!”
Shumaila has worked in several households since she first came to the city. Moving from house to house with her nani, she’s not so much in search of work as she is for the warmth of a family. She thrives on the secondhand affection that comes in the form of used clothes and last night’s meal; this is as close as she can get to having a family. This child may have set out to fight the odds for her mother, yet she is a child like many her age. In order to make her own way and restore her mother’s health she continues to do dishes, babysit and set dinner tables for a sum close to Rs3000.
Every month Shumaila sends a small envelope with money and medicines to her village. She has saved enough to buy a used cell phone so she can talk to her mother. Shumaila has kept up this monthly ritual of sending the money in the hope that one day her mother might notice. For now she keeps abreast of Kausar Bibi’s condition through her uncle who watches over her mother in the village.
This month Shumaila is excited because the envelope will be extra large — she finally gets to send her three months’ worth of savings to her mother. The small box of steel will finally be empty today but Shumaila is not disappointed. Running the last lap of glue stick on the envelope flap she prepares to write something that she may have said a lot but has learnt only recently to write — ‘Pyaari Ammi’!
By the time Shumaila’s post gets to her mother’s doorstep in the village, the world would already have been celebrating ‘Mother’s Day’. Unaware of this annual commemoration, Shumaila lives every moment for her mother.
For the rest of us: Happy Mother’s Day!
Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, May 8th, 2011.