A plea of Karachi's terrorised
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On May 22, in Karachi, my cousin was returning from his hotel at midnight, accompanied by three of his colleagues and his 10-year-old son. He had reluctantly taken his son with him on that day. All was as per routine that night, except that they had to come home in a rickshaw because his family had taken the car to attend a milaad.
As soon as they reached the front gate, four men on a motorbike asked them to step out of the rickshaw, threatening to shoot anyone who moved. One of those men pointed his gun at my cousin. The other asked him to hand over whatever he had.
He willingly handed over his money and valuables. The man holding the pistol asked the other man, “What now?” The heartless coward replied “kill him”, and in a second my cousin was on the ground. His 10-year-old boy stood beside him, watching.
The family members inside the house heard the gunshot, but assumed it was either distant firing or someone blowing firecrackers in the marriage halls nearby. After the attackers left and the family found out, panic ensued. “Billo bhai has been shot!” was the cry echoing through the house.
Meanwhile, his wife and children reached the house to the horror of my cousin lying on the ground. His wife and the others rushed to put him inside the car. She did not know that this was the last time she would hear him breathe. She was sure her husband would undergo treatment and be fine.
On the way to the hospital, my cousin was transferred to an ambulance. The ambulance driver rushed through the city as fast as he could, but unfortunately, there was no first aid inside the ambulance that could have helped. Billo bhai breathed his last in the ambulance. His father was by his side and as soon as he felt his pulse fade, he knew all hope was lost.
The ambulance reached the hospital at 12:45am. My cousin was rushed into emergency. The doctors confirmed the terrible news at 12:50am, news that crumpled my old uncle beneath it. His only son and the sole breadwinner of his family was gone.
The murderers had ended a life and crushed an entire family within seconds.
But such is the harshness of this world that there is no time to stop and grieve, even in times like these. The family was at once hustled into the chaos of postmortem, death certificates and police reports.
My uncle had a son to bury.
What he needed at this moment was peace. He was finding it extremely difficult to bear with the formalities of making his son's death official. It was the hospital’s rule, though, that the death certificate would not be issued unless the postmortem was completed. With the heaviest heart, he consented to a postmortem.
Next to the emergency ward of the hospital was a medico-legal cell. Since the medico-legal officer (MLO) and his assistant were available, it seemed that things would proceed smoothly and we would be able to complete the last rituals by morning.
But at this horrendous time, the casual indifference of the MLO tore us apart. Everyone needed to perform the postmortem was present. The MLO’s job was to supervise the postmortem procedure and prepare his report. As soon as the MLO completed the formalities due on his side, the death certificate would be issued.
My uncle and other family members now stood waiting in a corridor next to my cousin’s profusely bleeding body, the floor covered in his blood.
The body was shifted to the mortuary. The wailing family members and friends were asked to wait outside. The only place to sit was the footpath of the hospital. As the minutes passed, there was no sign of the MLO. My cousin’s body lay inside the mortuary of the hospital, unattended. We can all well imagine the condition of the mortuary, with no means to keep the body from deteriorating and bleeding out.
My uncle approached the MLO, requesting him to carry out the formalities. He nodded and said he would. Pressed by grief and urgency, each male family member and friend present went to request the MLO sitting comfortably inside his office, to come and perform the procedures.
Billo bhai’s friends even tried to approach his assistant to request the MLO to hurry, but he was in no mood to do his job. His only response was: “I know what I have to do. I handle such cases every day. If you keep pestering me, I will not fill the report at all. I am busy right now.”
It was clear how busy he actually was; recklessly indifferent to our cries, heartless towards the requests of the old, grief-stricken father. There were no other emergency cases to be looked into. The MLO just sat there without bothering to even feign being 'busy'.
My aunt said she will go and talk to him, the rationale being he won’t be able to refuse a lady. But the family members knew this too would be in vain. Afraid that the MLO might misbehave and refuse to the postmortem at all, she was asked to wait with the rest. This long, helpless wait on the hospital footpath on that humid Karachi night became our worst nightmare.
It breaks my heart now to even think back to how that excruciatingly long night passed, with my cousin’s mother, wife and children back home, praying for his safe return. No one possessed enough strength to break the dreadful news to them. It was at daybreak when my father finally gathered the courage and told them that this was what Allah willed; Billo bhai was dead ... murdered ... gone.
In the hospital, everyone still sat waiting. Finally, at 5:30am a female MLO came to relieve the brute from his night shift. That was when he decided to finally step out of his office and fill the report. He asked the family not to interfere and proceeded to carry out the postmortem. After the procedure, he came out of the mortuary and informed the family that no bullet had been found and that they may take the body home.
My cousin was carried to his final resting place that evening, leaving behind his parents, his wife and four children in mourning.
We now stand alongside the hundreds of households in Karachi who have been senselessly robbed of their peace; we now are a part of those statistics. We all have suffered the same fate, by the hands of the muggers, murderers and then by callous, incompetent authorities.
This article is a plea to all authorities and law enforcement agencies to fulfill their duties and at least pretend to care, at least pretend to be concerned towards the torn families of murder victims.
I pray to God for patience, for us all.
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Furat Murtaza has done her MSc. in Microbiology from the University of Karachi.
Currently a science teacher, Furat spent two years teaching Afghan refugee children at a welfare school in Pakistan.
