I’m so depress, so depress kay don’t even ask. My Christian sweepress Martha came to my room yesterday and throwing herself at my feet, she burst into tears. Thinking she must have broken some vase, I said to her, ‘Oho Martha, stop doing so much of drama. What’ve you done?’
‘Hai baji,’ she wailed, ‘I’m so sad.’
‘Martha I’m not about to throw you out for a broken vase, okay. So please get up now only and tell me what’s happened.’
Then she told me about that poor Christian couple who were killed last week. They were from Martha’s biradari. She told me how they were beaten to death, thrown in a kiln and burnt. By a mob. For desecrating the Quran. The mob was from their own village. Must have been their neighbours only. It happened just forty miles from here, from our house in Lahore.
They were both so young. He was about thirty; she was only in her twenties. I wonder how long they’d been married. I wonder if they had any children. And if they did, how many they had and how old they were. And who will look after them now. I wonder whether their burnt bodies were recovered. If they got buried? I wonder how the news was broken to their parents. I wonder if their children saw them being beaten to death?
I started thinking then of all the Christians who I’d known. My ayah, Chiragh Bibi, who used to buy me toffees from her pay when I was a child and who used to sit up with me all night, telling me stories when I was ill. My Christian teachers at the Convent of Jesus and Mary who taught me to read and write and say thank you. Mrs Braganza, Mrs Cross, Mrs Samuel, Sister Grace, Sister Marie Cecil and Sister Berchmans. My friends Gulerana and Diana. I wonder where they are now? I hope far away from here, somewhere safe. And now poor Martha who cleans my bathrooms, picks up my rubbish and never complains when the other servants make her drink out of a jam jar instead of a glass, when they make her eat out of a separate plate. What can I say to Martha?
‘Hai baji,’ she wailed, ‘I’m so sad.’
‘Martha I’m not about to throw you out for a broken vase, okay. So please get up now only and tell me what’s happened.’
Then she told me about that poor Christian couple who were killed last week. They were from Martha’s biradari. She told me how they were beaten to death, thrown in a kiln and burnt. By a mob. For desecrating the Quran. The mob was from their own village. Must have been their neighbours only. It happened just forty miles from here, from our house in Lahore.
They were both so young. He was about thirty; she was only in her twenties. I wonder how long they’d been married. I wonder if they had any children. And if they did, how many they had and how old they were. And who will look after them now. I wonder whether their burnt bodies were recovered. If they got buried? I wonder how the news was broken to their parents. I wonder if their children saw them being beaten to death?
I started thinking then of all the Christians who I’d known. My ayah, Chiragh Bibi, who used to buy me toffees from her pay when I was a child and who used to sit up with me all night, telling me stories when I was ill. My Christian teachers at the Convent of Jesus and Mary who taught me to read and write and say thank you. Mrs Braganza, Mrs Cross, Mrs Samuel, Sister Grace, Sister Marie Cecil and Sister Berchmans. My friends Gulerana and Diana. I wonder where they are now? I hope far away from here, somewhere safe. And now poor Martha who cleans my bathrooms, picks up my rubbish and never complains when the other servants make her drink out of a jam jar instead of a glass, when they make her eat out of a separate plate. What can I say to Martha?