WHEN I first arrive at Gills Shelter Old Age Home, a non-descript white house with matching white oval windows, most of its residents are either resting in their rooms or lounging in the living room watching television.

Saleem Gill, the shelter’s founder and a physiotherapist, was inspired to start such a project after he witnessed the lack of care among some of his patients during home visits. “Sometimes there are people with no children or who are now alone, and I saw that they weren’t being cared for properly. That’s when I realised that there should be a shelter,” he points out.

When he initially opened the old-age home, people were confused by what it was: “I just put up a board outside the house and no one knew what a ‘shelter’ meant or had heard about this [concept] before.” Nevertheless, people came and now seven women and 12 men call it their second home.

And these 19 occupants are not the only ones to do so. While Gills is one of the few smaller shelters in Karachi, the Edhi Foundation houses an estimated 500 elderly people. Other places in the metropolis also cater to the elderly: a few privately-run facilities; Dar-ul-Sukun, a charity which houses people with disabilities and the elderly, and the Catholic Church also runs three homes for old people.

Dr Shershah Syed, chief of Kohie Goth Hospital, points out that as such “there is no particular concept” of such homes and the facilities that are provided in the country are a far cry from “the five-star” ones likely to be found in Western countries.

Nevertheless, the need for such facilities shall increase in the face of certain social trends in the country: the extended family system is in decline and the generation of Pakistanis that would have taken care of their parents as they age are more likely to live on their own or settle abroad in pursuit of professional opportunities. With the population above the age of 60 expected to be 12 per cent by 2025 — according to the WHO — it’s time the national conversation steered towards the care for the elderly.

The Gills shelter’s residents may represent a small proportion of such a population but they each have a unique story to tell and a reminder of how some kind of social net is needed in the absence of adequate family support structures.

I’m given a tour by Alvina, who oversees the day-to-day management of the shelter, and describes herself as an “all rounder”. I initially end up chatting with Tahira Bano, who, despite the injuries to her leg, seems to be in good spirits. Wafer-thin with a shock of white hair, Tahira is all smiles.

She claims she has a niece and nephew who are physicians in North America and that she lived with her brother till two years ago. “I fell in Itwar Bazaar while I was shopping and now there’s a gap in my joints,” she tells me. Her brother, who is also quite old, was unable to take care of her and that’s why they opted for the shelter.

Her roommate, Tasneem Begum, dressed in a bright blue shalwar kameez, is equally excited to have a new visitor. Pointing to her eyes, she says she needs spectacles. Shehnaz, a fellow resident, offers to get her a pair. “I’ll get it for you the next time I go home but I need to know what your number is,” she offers.

Alvina tells me that Tasneem is a keen poet and singer but she seems shy about reciting anything initially. She then recites a couplet and hums a song. “Who are your favourite poets?” I ask her. “Ghalib and Zafar,” she replies with a smile.

Shehnaz also dabbles in creative pursuits in her free time. With a background in the arts, she says she paints whenever she can. “I don’t have much practice but I can copy something really well. I struggle to make something from scratch though,” she confesses. Although she has a Bachelor in Arts and studied home economics, Shehnaz says she ended up working in a research lab as an assistant.

For now, she says, she is content with life. “I relax here, I watch TV, and if my sister or my son visits, I spend time with them.”

Alvina, then, takes me to the male section where many of the residents are either lounging on their beds or talking with each other. She introduces me to Irfan who is sporting a Sindhi cap with multicoloured stones. “I do all the work,” he says. When I ask him what chores he does in the kitchen, his roommate Michael pipes in. “He eats the parathas and drinks the chai,” he says jokingly.

Michael, thin and gaunt, claims he’s a government employee. “I still get my salary,” he boasts. “You sign in a register, you eat paan and you leave,” he says, adding that it is one of the best jobs to have and that if you befriend a peon, you can get any work done.

Soon it’s time for me to leave. I can hear the azan and spot many of the residents getting ready to pray their namaz. As I exchange goodbyes with them, Tasneem approaches me and tells me very proudly that she’s a “paanch waqt ki namazi [a person who prays five times a day]”.

As I head for the gate, I spot a thin, old lady with greying hair sitting on a charpoy, staring off into the distance. “We call her ‘Memon aunty’,” says Alvina. I ask her where her children are. “They’re not here, they’re abroad,” she says poignantly.

The names of the shelter residents have been changed to protect their privacy.

Published in Dawn, March 15th, 2016