LAST week, I was engaged by the WWF (Women’s Welfare Foundation), a NGO, to cover the function they had arranged on Women’s Universal Day. I am a free-lance photographer. The well-attended function was held at a five-star hotel, in Karachi. The atmosphere around was overtly fragrant and glamorous. While waiting for the chief guest, Rani Sahiba, to arrive, the seductively attired vivacious women conversed with each other on varying issues ranging from the fashion world to Senate elections. They cut jokes, giggled and moved about freely. The organizers of the function assigned me to an attractive and witty woman, Ujala. Her job was to pinpoint important guests among the glamorous gathering for exclusive snaps. I photographed well-placed, well-connected, famous and highly influential women on the indication of Ujala.
Ujala came close to me and whispered, “Do you see that lady leaning against the back of the sofas in the first row?” I turned around, and looked at the first row of the sofas. Some of the guests were half-sprawled, and some of them were leaning against the sofas.
I said, “I see no less than half-a-dozen women leaning against the sofas in the fist row.” Ujala tilted her head, winked and said, “One who is casually draped in a green sari over a sleeveless, shocking-pink blouse.”
“She looks gorgeous.” I asked, “Who is she?”
“She is Masooma Fanai.” Ujala said, “She is wife of the Federal Minister for Indigenous Industries.”
I approached her and took a few snaps from different angles. While looking at her through the viewfinder of my camera, I realized having seen her before, but couldn’t place her. I returned to Ujala and said, “I think she is not the wife of the Minister for Indigenous Industries.”
Ujala curtly said, “Your job is to take snaps. You are not here to guess who is who among the distinguished guests.”
I felt ill at ease from within and said, “If I recall correctly, she is either the wife of industrial tycoon Fatehbhai Qurban Ali, or former Federal Secretary Indigenous Industries, Tabrez Changezi.”
“You are an incorrigible photographer, Prem.”
“Then why don’t you correct me?”
“OK,” Ujala said. “Once she was the wife of industrialist Fatehbhai Qurban Ali. Later on, she sought divorce from him and married Indigenous Industries Federal Secretary, Tabrez Changezi. Now, she is married to the Minister for Indigenous Industries.”
“I stand corrected,” I looked at Ujala, and asked, “May I now take some snaps on my own?”
“Of course, go ahead,” she said. “But don’t get lost.” I moved among the gathering and composed close-ups of some of the most vivacious women. They were highly responsive. Like trained models, they turned around gracefully and posed for the pictures.
Suddenly, I caught sight of a not-so-attractive woman sitting alone in the last row of the folding seats. She was an ordinary-looking person, down to earth and in humble attire. Obviously, she surprised me with her presence among the elite women activists, and most charming women of the city. Her chin resting on her palm, she sat entranced in her thoughts. She took no notice of me as I approached her. I took her picture. She was distracted by the flash from my camera. She looked at me and said nothing. Her calmness pierced my heart.
“Who are you?” I asked. “And what brings you here?”
“I have to submit my problem to the organizing committee of this function.” She asked, “Can you help me?”
“Keep sitting,” I said. “Just wait for me.”
I hastened to Ujala and said, “A lonely woman has a genuine problem. Please listen to her.”
Ujala reluctantly came along with me to the lone woman. She plainly asked, “What kind of a problem are you beset with?”
“I am mother of four grown-up children, two sons and two daughters.” The lone woman fumbled and said, “They go to school.”
“Where does the problem lie?” Ujala asked.
“I wipe floors, clean utensils and wash other people’s dirty linen in at least four houses to feed my children and bear their expenses on education.” The lone woman hung her head down.
“Are you looking for financial assistance?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I want to present my problem before this distinguished gathering.”
“It is Women’s Day. We are not celebrating Mothers’ Day,” Ujala said. “We can’t discuss a mother’s problems on Women’s Day.”
The lone woman looked at Ujala and asked, “Don’t you think a mother too happens to be a woman?”
Taken aback, Ujala asked, “What is your problem?”
“An educated, good-looking woman, knowing that my husband was a father of four children, seduced and then married him.” The lonely woman said, “For her sake, my husband has abandoned me along with our four children.”
Ujala said, “Tell me your specific problem.”
“I am being consumed from within.” She said, “Day by day things are becoming more and more difficult for me while looking after my four children.”
“Yours is purely a mother’s problem,” Ujala said. “You better approach elderly women after four months to discuss your problem on Mothers’ Day. It can’t be discussed today on Women’s Day.”
I saw the lonely woman move away from the auditorium.
