She felt very exhausted and couldn’t resist from being drown into semiconscious state. In the background, blurred pictures started to get clearer and started to disturb her again.
Four years ago, the Morning was drizzly at Anarkali Bazaar which appeared less crowded. It seemed the silence prevailed in that old street was about to be broken as a funeral procession was approaching. As the procession neared by, chanting heard louder that awakened the street from the sleepy state.
The dead body, completely wrapped in white cloth, could be glanced through the holes of the coffin being carried on. Large number of people in the procession, generally, shows the deceased was met with the fate perhaps too early.
Light wind blew across that congested street carried perfume arisen from the coffin, being carried slowly towards the graveyard.
“Who died?” an onlooker couldn’t suppress curiosity.
“Iqbal saab who ran a shop in this street, he died of prolonged illness”. Someone said in a soft voice.
“How old he was?” an old man asked, while looking away from the moving procession.
“May be 35 or 40 only”, someone instantly replied.
“Poor guy, in a way he was fortunate to escape the miserable life he lived since his marriage. His wife was mentally unstable also and he suffered from renal diseases.” Another bystander added.
“Don’t know why God spared people like me, no more to suffer….” Old man didn’t wait for anyone to respond and moved towards the procession to join.
It seemed the nature had no plans to stop drizzling and the wet city was already shivering from intensive cold. It was only the procession that held people from seeking shelter at shops along the street.
As the procession appeared in the Juma Masjid compound, the chanting was stopped and some people moved ahead so as to prepare and receive the coffin from inside the mosque. They helped the coffin to be lowered down gently. Some people, apparently kith and kins of the diseased, removed the green cloth imprinted with verses from Holy Quran. Then, they slowly opened the casket and prepared to take the body, wrapped in pure white cloth and scented with perfumes, out. Little by little, they put hands beneath the dead body and lifted it up from the casket and then carried towards inner side of the mosque, for Janazah Prayer.
The motionless body was now waiting on the floor, inside that poorly lit mosque, awaiting people for a congregational Janazah prayer. This is the final prayer conducted for any deceased in the Islamic Religion.
Iqbal khan belonged to a wealthy merchant family who had migrated from India much before the partition.
Few years ago, a woman was seen struggling to walk on the slum streets of Lahore, a day after she was brutally beaten up and dragged by own in-laws. To the spineless onlookers, she appeared to be a disoriented one and so chose to turn a blind eye. But, to her, no matter what label is put on her – it was comparatively better now. Enough is enough. She has gone through the peak of agony.
As with many historic events, railway stations always witnessed most of the decisive happenings in the lives of many people. And she was no exception. The filthy platform, at the very Lahore Railway station, hosted her with magnificent level of agony and distress when she was abandoned by her own people for the reason she had yet to realize. Being labeled as mentally retarded, no onlookers did bother to pay attention regardless of her torn clothes and bleeding bruises gave a pathetic picture. She was half conscious and coiled herself in the chillingly cold wind.
