Perfect round face, a face like a Chinese doll chiseled from hardwood; pointed stub of a chin, flat, broad nose, tiny low-set ears, slanting, narrow eyes like bamboo leaves and thin lips. Nothing distinct. I was born sharing the same features in my race and the area I was living in.
Leaving the house, ma whispered some prayers and bid
us farewell. I grasped Ali’s hand. My ten years old brother and we started
walking to his school. It was at the other end of the main road. The broiling sun stringed up spreading rays over balmy Quetta . Everyone engaged in their daily chores. Jubilant and hyperactive kids clad in uniform scampering shop to shop for their desired candies where debilitated fathers were yelling behind and hoping after them helping with their bags and lunch boxes. We crossed the road
and met with Raza, next-door neighbor and only son of a middle-aged couple, who
was holding his college bag and straightening his tie, skillfully set on his
creased white shirt waiting for the bus at the bus stop. We moved further, herd of office goers gathering around the roadside hotel and ordering for a cup of hot doodh-pati where some of them instructing for an extra layered paratha and a half-fried egg, a teenage boy dressed in a tee and shalwar noting the orders and forwarding them to the head chef. Ali wants to buy a box of color pencils for his drawing assignment, I stopped at Rahim’s shop. I meet
with him till Ali picked on his favorite box. I mocked about his sky blue shirt
perfectly set in his black pants. He giggled. We walked more. A green grocer wearing white shalwar kameez, gray hair and white beard, eyes encircled with wrinkles and a thin body, sitting on his chair with the road, reading the newspaper with spectacles resting on his nose, anyone can judge the genre of the news by the expressions he give. Every twenty minutes, he stood up, put his newspaper aside and water the vegetables and fruits on his barrow. It was his habit. We moved further. Ladies covered in shawl and veils striding to the nearby bus stop for their colleges. Some good-for-nothing aged men strolling by the shops to poke their nose or to talk about anything. Further we saw Abid uncle, who was swiftly
walking to the same school we’re heading for, holding her five years old
daughter Zaineb’s hand. I shouted, he stopped and asked me to drop Zaineb to
the school and pick her up by the off time as he’s getting late for his office
and Abida aunt, his wife is unwell. I agreed and seized Zaineb’s hand; she greeted
us and begins narrating stories of her math class. We enjoyed all the way and later I handed Ali and Zaineb to the gate-keeper of the school.
On my way back I met with Khailda aunt, who was returning
from grocery, but stopping every inch of minute because of the over-weighed basket. I offered her my services and collected some prayers, but maybe today
was not my day. I returned from her house to the main market.
I put my key in the lock and released the shutter with a shrilling
noise. Turned on the lights and sat inside waiting for today’s fortune. Hours
passed and it appeared to be a good day with a healthy business selling general
household stuff. Rahim came and asked to look over his shop as he’s getting
late for an interview. I assured him and diminished his stress. There’s a rush
in the market like all other days and I thanked God for restoring peace in my
area after a panicking period of horror and dreadfulness. Mic sat, and Muezzin started
reciting Azaan. Rahim would have come by now, but he didn't show up. I
lowered the shutters and went to offer prayers. Almost 02:30 noon and I was
preparing to pick Zaineb and Ali from the school. Herd of laborers, employees
and students returning from school and colleges started gathering around the
roadside hotel for lunch, where the usual day-to-day dealings were still in
progress. I moved for Ali’s school. I saw Khalida aunt again moving to another
shop for some shopping. I smiled. She is a widow and a mother of four, usually
found in market shopping for bare necessities. The gatekeeper handed me Ali and
Zaineb and we started moving to our way home. At the bus stop I saw Rahim and
Raza unloading, I stopped to hand over his keys. He catches my glimpse and
started walking towards me. Within seconds I heard a deafening noise, felt sizzled
metal balls getting within my body, ripping my skin. I felt some liquid in my
hands and all of a sudden everything blackened.
It was an enormous bomb blast that shudder the city and its
residents. It was blood and dead bodies everywhere. Ali was resting on my chest
with his eyes closed bleeding red liquid from his head. His color box was lying
few inches away. A strap of Zaineb’s bag jammed between my right hand and her
feet that were lying on the other side of the road. She was sleeping in the
middle of the road. An aged man was resting near a barrow with his spectacles
crushed under his body and white dress turned red. Rahim flew away and ripped
apart and his sky blue shirt seems nowhere. Raza’s body was resting by the bus’
tyre, but a leg near Khalida aunt’s body and his other leg hanged in the
electric wires. The teenage waiter of the roadside hotel was resting with his
manager on the footpath near the hotel and the head chef torn apart and
lying at various spots. In half an hour, ambulances, media, police; everyone
gathered and put our dead bodies in the ambulance and shifted the injured to
the nearby hospitals.
I was distinct. Even we all were. We were Hazaras. Our features
distinct us from others and made a way easier for our antagonists to notice and
split us apart. Honor our wives as widows. Wrench our parents’ hearts. Reward
our children being orphans. We were the most rewarded and notable Pakistanis by
these blood drinking contenders. Even our PM and President always notices our presence
and condemn the gifted brutal act. For a moment think of the family members who
are going to suffer this grief now.
