I was shocked when Subhan, my servant, told me that he would take his little son, who had broken his arm in two places, to a kumhar (potter) to have the bones set. An image of the boy growing up with a deformed hand, and holding it out at a stoplight to arouse the pity of passing motorists flashed through my mind. “I seem to be under a curse,” he declared sadly as he asked for leave and another advance on his pay.
The old saying that troubles never come singly seemed true in his case. Only a fortnight earlier, he had taken a couple of weeks’ leave to visit his ancestral village in the interior of Sindh. On the way, his bus met an accident and he suffered a fractured rib. So, instead of enjoying his leave with friends and relatives, he spent it in bed. And most of his pay went on medical treatment.
Now, only a day or two after he rejoined duty, his seven-year-old boy, Shahid, had broken his arm. “I took him to Jinnah Hospital this morning,” he added almost tearfully. “The child kept screaming in agony at every bump and turn of the rickshaw. The doctor said there were three broken bones, one in the upper arm and two in the forearm. He could only set one broken bone today. Tomorrow or the day after, if there were no complications, the other bones would be set. The boy kept crying pitifully all the time, so I begged him to sedate him and came back. Now, the only recourse is to take him to a kumhar who, some neighbours tell me, treats such cases quickly.”
Karachi is crawling with quacks. They claim to have sure-fire, almost miraculous remedies for almost every ailment — from chronic constipation to cancer.
‘‘How could an illiterate potter bring the ends of the broken bones together without cutting through the skin and flesh,” I questioned. Even if he set the single bone in the upper arm correctly, did he know that there were two others, in the forearm? Would the boy be able to bend his elbow and use his fingers if the nerves are damaged? Or if the blood vessels were ruptured, the arm could turn gangrenous and might have to be amputated. ‘‘Go to another hospital. I will advance you more money, but give the child proper medical treatment,” I advised.
Subhan remained silent. But I could see that he was still thinking of some quick-fix treatment for the boy. His real problem was that both he and his wife worked the whole day — she as a part-time cleaning woman. And there were six other children all under 10 to be fed and sent off to school. How could they look after this continuously screaming, suffering child?
Four days later, Subhan returned. Surprisingly, he looked more relaxed.
“What did you do about the boy?” I asked.
“I took him to the kumhar,” he replied and continued, “The first day he set the bones in the forearm and fixed it in splints and bandages. The next day he set the bone in the upper arm. My son is alright now. He does not cry anymore and seems to be free from pain.”
I could not believe my ears. “When can you bring him here. I’d like to see this minor miracle for myself.”
“Tomorrow, if you wish.”
The child was brought the next day. I examined his arm. It looked straight and normal. There was no deformity or swelling. I pressed it gently. There was no pain. I asked him to bend his elbow, then grip a rubber ball. He did so easily.
“And what of the kumhar? How much did he charge you?”
“I offered him Rs200. But he declined it.”
“What? Did he say it wasn’t enough?”
“No. He simply said he does not charge anything for such service. He considers his ability of healing a gift from Allah and it was given to him to serve the people. Not to profit from it.”
I was astounded. This was a real surprise. In this great metropolis, where on opening the morning paper one is confronted by depressing stories of people killing each other for a few rupees, it is heartwarming to learn that here is this poor potter refusing money even for honest work. I decided to go and see him.
He was an elderly man and in his tired old face I saw compassion for the poor. He was reluctant to give me an interview and would not allow me to publish his photo, name or address.
“I don’t want any publicity,” he said. “I only set bones for poor people not the general public. It is not my profession.”
“How did you learn this skill?”
“From my father who was also a kumhar. For generations, we have reset dislocated joints and broken bones. The knowledge is passed on from father to son. He taught me how to feel for the broken ends of the bones, and gently bring them together, then fix them with splints and bandages. We have sensitive fingers, for we mould clay and shape it gently and skillfully into delicate vessels, as you can see.”
Have you ever made any mistakes and set the bones incorrectly?”
“Not once. I have set the bones of many hard-working labourers. They are still working normally.”
What a waste of natural talent, I thought to myself. Had there been more like him, what a different country Pakistan would have been.
I was shocked when Subhan, my servant, told me that he would take his little son, who had broken his arm in two places, to a kumhar (potter) to have the bones set. An image of the boy growing up with a deformed hand, and holding it out at a stoplight to arouse the pity of passing motorists flashed through my mind. “I seem to be under a curse,” he declared sadly as he asked for leave and another advance on his pay.
