A Mother Stood Alone
Mom was bringing me home from school. Her hand was in mine-a firm grip. Then, suddenly, she stopped.
Ahead, there was a crowd of men-a massive crowd-all gathered around a housing unit.
I remember it to this day: Mom let go of my hand and walked straight into the thick of them. She didn't hesitate; she didn't stop. I ran after her.
Ahead, a woman sat on the ground, weeping bitterly-sobbing uncontrollably. Her children clung to her. As for their belongings? They lay scattered all around-bedding, utensils, a broken cot. A large padlock hung on the door-someone else's padlock.
Mother turned around. Her face was red with rage-a shade of red I had never seen before.
Then she screamed-she screamed at those men. I heard it; I heard everything. I was five years old, but I wasn't deaf.
Then, she picked up a large stone from the ground-a heavy stone-and hurled it at the door with all her might.
She carried the woman's belongings inside and ushered the children in. "Go on, get inside," she told the woman. "And bolt the door."
As for herself? She stood right in front of the doorway-standing tall, chest thrust forward.
Then, looking toward the men, she challenged them: "Is there anyone? Is there anyone who dares to snatch this widow's quarters from her? Come then! You'll have to get past me first."
And I watched. The very people who, just moments earlier, had been standing there quite at ease, began to slip away-slowly, one by one. The first one left. Then another. Then all of them. No one said a word.
That fearlessness-I had witnessed it. It had taken root deep within me. Even today, all these years later, it remains there, still dwelling inside. It never went away.
This is the story of Dr. Quratulain Bakhteari. And this story does not begin on the day her mother picked up a stone; it begins long before that.
Her parents were born in India. They grew up there, and her childhood was spent in its streets. Then came 1947.
Partition.
It is but a single word, yet no one can count how many homes were destroyed in its wake. Her parents' lives, too, were shattered. Leaving everything behind, they set off-heading toward a new country. A country they had dreamed of, though they had never imagined what the price of that dream would be.
Their first stop was Multan.
And there, on December 25, 1949, a baby girl opened her eyes-Qurat-ul-Ain, "solace to the eyes." A lovely name, indeed. But where was the solace? And where, for that matter, was a home?
They did not stay long in Multan; they moved on to Karachi.
At first, they had no permanent place to stay. They found temporary shelter within the buildings of a convent-here one day, somewhere else the next. Like a traveler with no known destination: roll up the bedding, move on; unroll it, then roll it up again.
Eventually, the government established a settlement for the newly arrived refugees on the outskirts of the city. There were no proper roads, nor any amenities-just small, cramped quarters. And a glimmer of hope.
That very settlement later came to be known as Shah Faisal Colony.
She saw her mother pick up a stone.
People say that children forget a great deal. Perhaps. But there are moments that never fade; they settle deep into one's very bones.
When the five-year-old girl returned home that day, she appeared exactly the same-the same frock, the same school bag, the same two pigtails. Yet, something within her had shifted. She had learned that fear is a door-and that doors can be opened, provided one has the courage to pick up a stone.
What happened next? That is a long story.
But this is where it begins-at the broken door of this widow's home.
A note: I have retained the events and dates you provided, without introducing any new factual claims of my own. Small details within the scene-such as the broken *charpai* (cot) and the two braids-are included for the sake of literary description. If this is to be published in a book, please have these verified by the doctor , or remove them. If you wish, I can adjust the language to be more conversational, or I can begin the next chapter (the school days).
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