Builders of the Nation

DHA has become a veritable hot spot for the Rawalpindi dwellers. I know so many people who are shifting from Saddar, Gulistan, Chaklala, Westridge and they are all headed the same place-DHA. My own sister is shifting there. Her family is getting a new house built, and the construction has been underway for almost a year and a half now. At least once a week she goes there to oversee the work and discuss the details with the contractors. On a free weekend, not so long ago, I decided to accompany her and my young nephew on their regular site-visit.

It had been quite some time since I had last seen the house so I set about inspecting. I looked around the first floor and then went up to where my sister’s and my nephew’s bedrooms were. I happened to peek into the ante-room of the smaller kitchen upstairs and was surprised at the mess there. It was a house under construction of course, so the rods and logs splayed across the floor or the hammers and spanners thrown about and even the cement sacks, paint buckets and screw piles adorning the floor were understandable-it was the domestic mess that made me step back. Pots and pans and dirty cups heaped in a corner; a bundle of clothes on the broken charpaaii; a shopper full of vegetables lying nearby. I came downstairs, and upon my sister’s wish, went down to see their basement. It was a warm morning and I had been comfortable up till now even without a sweater. I could not help going brrrrr as I went down the stairs though.

There was just one long room there and it was empty, except for the mazdoor’s bedding spread on the floor. For a moment I just stood there, aghast at what I was seeing. At the far end of the room, a dusty plastic sheet was spread on the floor, with the most threadbare out taraaiis (bed-mats) I had ever laid eyes on, spread out in an untidy row. The pillows were so worn out, that one of them was completely black at the place where the head rests. There were no blankets that I could see, and in the last place, there was not even a cotton-stuffed taraaii-just a woven mat with a roll of clothes serving as the pillow. At the entrance was a makeshift kitchen and dining area, comprising a cardboard strip, unwashed pots and plates and a slew of packets, bottles and other unidentifiable commodities. Despite the warmth, it was so cold and damp there. Work was still underway so the room was not even properly ventilated and there was minimal lighting.

This is where the poor men who worked all day long on my sister’s house got to spend their nights. Not just them, all there other toiling brothers had the same fate. Winter nights in Pindi are deathly cold, and the idea of these poor souls tossing around on their hard, narrow beds at night and getting up in the mornings to do the labor they do each day, day in and day out: It’s just wrong!

Just imagine, having to do all those tasks, and getting that sort of rest at night. I don’t think any of us could endure it. And it is just so ironic, that those very men whose toil affords us the luxury and comfort we revel in, are rewarded such diminutive compensation. Crossing the threshold of irony and entering the grounds of injustice is that it is a universal system and you cannot fight it. I mean, is my brother-in-law a bad person for employing those men to construct his house? Are our fathers bad people? They are hired and paid their dues, and for the requisite time period, the construction site becomes their home. They make do with whatever they can, and to them it is not as bad as it may seem to you or me. In their mind’s eye, it’s just work they are getting paid for. It is not the owner’s business to provide them with food and bedding. They improvise and create a place for themselves.

It is a paradoxical situation. It is wrong, while at the same time it is not wrong. Being a mazdoor, at least in our part of the world, you cannot have a living standard much above this. This is how you eat and sleep. Just the fact that there is a roof and a stove is much to thank for. Even I, who felt so remorseful when I saw how they lived, would I be willing to give them better bread and board? Where would I find the place? Where would I find the money? And how many mazdoors would I rescue? There are gazillions of them out there. To them their lives are not so deplorable, things aren’t so bad. That is only because they don’t know any better, haven’t seen or lived any better. But we do. So even if we cannot do much, there is something that we could do. We may not offer them our own beds, but we could at least make the effort to look in at their abode and drop a few blankets? Perhaps take some food occasionally?

To so many people this will sound so silly. I get that. Maybe if I ever came across something like this in reading, I would be incredulous too. But it is not a very difficult scenario to grasp. It is not something that I ever thought about before. I mean construction is going on around us left, right and centre and it has been going on since forever. To those hardworking men who build your home, office, school, hospital and mosque, and other menial workers we come across, small gestures like giving them your old jacket or a carton of milk is worth a lot. More so, because it is not expected of you. You aren’t expected to go above and beyond their regular wages, but we all know that what they do deserves more. Without them, none of us would have our sanctuaries.