April 1, 2006

When we are young, we all dream of being famous, illustrious figures who have achieved new limits that will benefit humanity for ages to come. People who will be remembered in the sands of time are those who have made a difference, those who will be talked about for centuries for achieving things formerly thought of as impossible.

Sadly, most of us are destined to remain out of the spotlight. We are insignificant creatures scurrying through our dull day-to-day lives. In our lives we affect no one and in death we are just as inconsequential. We are buried and promptly forgotten by the world. Ashes to ashes dust to dust. The cycle continues, unbroken, never stopping to grieve for the departed. I want so much more from my life. When I die I want the world to stop and mourn for me. I want them to remember the difference I made to those helpless souls who needed my assistance.

From an early age I was sympathetic to those who needed my help. I would sit for hours listening to my sister cry over her non-existent love life. I would listen to my grandmother rant over how our generation’s morals had decayed beyond reason. I would sort out the various trivial problems of my friends. Yet I felt as if my life had no meaning. I slaved through law school, cherishing the romantic notion that I would be a saviour to the downtrodden masses.

I was soon disillusioned. I worked ten hours a day getting criminals off the hook that deserved to rot in jail for their ghastly deeds. The day came when I could no longer look at myself in the mirror. I was nobody. A woman who had no idea in which direction her life was going. I looked at myself with distaste. Thankfully my life was about to change. One day as I was drinking my early morning tea and browsing the newspaper I came across an advertisement by an NGO. They were looking for part time social workers to help out in special cases.

I struggled to recall what little I knew of the group. Apparently they helped women in rural areas who were the victims of domestic violence. I brightened imperceptibly. Here was my chance to show the world I was more than just a pretty face! Here I was a single, thirty-year-old lawyer who had no idea what she was doing. Might as well give it a try. I dialled the given number and made an appointment. I was so tense at the interview that I nearly ruined my chances of getting in, but by the grace of God I got in and in no time at all I was being whisked across the country to Joharabad, Punjab.

We were going on a mission to rescue battered, abused women from the horror of domestic violence. These women are so traumatized by the abuse that most of them have no desire to go on living. Each day their suffering increases until the pain is too much to bear. We set up headquarters near a village, the glamour of my new job faded quickly. I was up to my ears in paper work. I was up at dawn and by the end of the day I was exhausted.

‘Still’ I reasoned with myself, ‘it is for a good cause’. And this was about to be proven to me very soon. I was struggling over a letter to the governor about the deplorable treatment of women when there was a commotion outside in the hall. The door was thrust open and a young woman carrying a baby sprinted in and flung herself at my feet.

“Please,” she sobbed desperately, “save us. Oh please save us!”

I calmed her down and helped her to a chair. She could not have been much older than seventeen. Tears ravaged her pale face. Her clothes were tattered and torn. There were bloody scratches on her arms and face. She also sported a black eye. Her long black hair was in disarray and her brown eyes were filled with despair. Once I cleaned up her wounds and calmed her down she told me her story.

“My name is Zehra,” she said. “I was born into a family that believes women are no better than animals. They married me off as soon as they could to our neighbour’s son.” She stopped to compose herself. “He is the devil himself,” she whispered. “He used to beat me for the most trivial things. Once he broke my arm for not washing the dishes soon enough. Another time he repeatedly banged my head against the floor till I lost consciousness.” Zehra drew a deep breath. “Today he went too far. He tried to throw my precious baby down the stairs because he believed I was having an affair. I do not care if he kills me but my poor baby!” She clutched the baby to her chest as if to protect her from harsh reality. Finally her grief overtook her and sobs wracked her thin frame.

Tears filled my eyes. This poor girl had suffered so much. She was so young and already she felt she had nothing to live for. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered, “You are not alone. I will help you.”

She smiled at me gratefully and I noted two of her teeth were missing.

Over the next few days Zehra and baby Safia stayed close to me. Zehra helped out with the domestic work. Not only was she a brilliant cook she could also read and write fairly well. When I questioned her about this she said, “I taught myself from an old textbook. I was forced to drop out of school in the fourth grade.” I was amazed by how resilient she was. I resolved to help her find a job in Karachi away from this hellhole.

One idyllic evening, while I was going through my files and Zehra was playing with Safia, there was a commotion in the hall similar to the one Zehra had caused. A man came charging into the room. I knew at first glance he was Zehra’s husband, Omar. He may not have had horns and a tail but he radiated an aura of pure devilishness. His eyes were cold and calculating. Physically he was not unattractive but the wickedness of his soul sent a shudder of revulsion through me. “I have come for my family,” he said coldly, his eyes full of malice. Zehra’s pale features etched with fear; baby Safia, unaware of the tension around her gurgled happily.

Trembling, Zehra got up and pulled Safia close to her. “You cannot make me go with you.” She said clearly. I felt like clapping for her and her newfound inner strength. I noted with amusement the flabbergasted expression on Omar’s face. Zehra looked at me hesitantly and said, “The law says I have as much right as you do; I don’t want to live with you; I am filing for divorce.” Omar regained his composure and said, “You forget I will get custody of Safia.” I intervened and said, “Not if you are in jail! My secretary has called the police. They will be here shortly.”

Rage distorted his features until he was almost unrecognizable. With an animal roar he threw himself at me. At that moment I truly believed I was going to die. He wrapped his hands around my throat and proceeded to choke the life out of me. The world was fading away and I was surrounded by darkness. There was a dull throbbing noise in my ears. Suddenly, I felt Omar being wrenched off me. The police had arrived. When they saw my state they called an ambulance. As I was being loaded on to the stretcher I felt a small hand grasp mine. I looked up and saw Zehra smiling at me, gratitude flowing down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered softly.

It has been ten years since that day. Zehra and I took Omar to court. He remained in jail for five years during which Zehra divorced him and married another man who treats her like a queen.

I still meet her occasionally. Safia has also grown into a bright, mischievous little girl. If anyone asks me what difference I made, I can answer with a clear conscience. I may not have stopped domestic violence but at least I managed to save one woman from abuse. The look on Zehra’s face the day we won the case is enough to help me forget the sins of our society. The world will not stop in its tracks the day I die. Neither will the circle of life stop. The world will inevitably forget me. Yet I will live on in the hearts of those whom I helped escape from abuse. That is the ultimate difference I could ever make to the world.

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