The monsoon had arrived in Karachi, not as a refreshing change, but as a relentless force of nature. In the rugged terrains where Tahir lived, the rain was a harbinger of fear. His house, a fragile structure perched precariously on a hillside, felt more like a trap than a sanctuary. The steep, narrow steps carved into the mountain clay turned into slick, muddy slides with every downpour.
For Tahir's young daughters, every trip outside was a gamble. One slip on those treacherous stairs could mean a broken limb—or worse. Tahir lived with a constant knot of anxiety in his chest, yet he was a man bound by circumstance. In that neighborhood, houses were owned, not rented; finding this place had been an arduous task. More importantly, he couldn't leave. His mother-in-law lived nearby, and she was his only support in looking after his son, Zubair. Moving away meant losing the fragile balance of his life.
But nature has no mercy for the helpless.
The Current of Terror
The house itself was a modest 240-yard plot, but it lacked the basic comforts of modern living. The courtyard was a sprawling, roofless expanse of 140 yards, dotted with three or four ancient Neem trees. There was no proper kitchen; everything from cooking to storage happened within the cramped confines of the two rooms.
One afternoon, as a torrential downpour lashed against the earth, little Mehreen stepped out into the open courtyard to use the washroom. Tahir was inside with his other three daughters. To keep the rainwater from flooding the rooms and dousing their humble kerosene stove—their only means of cooking—Tahir had bolted the metal door shut.
Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream pierced through the sound of the rain.
Through the window, Tahir saw a nightmare unfolding. The courtyard, soaked and exposed, had become electrified. As Mehreen reached out to touch the metal door to come back inside, a massive surge of electricity—leaked from the damp walls—hurled her tiny body backward.
"Don't touch the walls! Don't touch the gate!" Tahir screamed through the window, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Mehreen, barely five years old, lay sobbing in the mud, terrified and confused. "Go to Grandma's house! Run!" Tahir yelled, knowing the main gate was still open. The little girl scrambled up and ran through the rain to her grandmother's house.
The ordeal wasn't over. Tahir was trapped inside his own home, surrounded by "live" walls. It was only when his brother Nasir, an engineer at the electric company, arrived with his son Humayon that the danger was neutralized.
Nasir looked at Tahir, his eyes filled with a mix of pity and frustration. "Tahir, you have to leave this place. If this happens while you're at work, these girls won't stand a chance. They are too small to understand the dangers."
Tahir looked away, the weight of his helplessness crushing him. He knew Nasir was right, but where could a man with no resources go?
The Tragedy Next Door
A few days later, the mountain claimed its first victims.
The rains had loosened the very foundation of the hills. In the dead of night, a massive boulder dislodged from the peak and came crashing down on a neighboring house. The thin tin roof offered no resistance. Inside, a couple lay sleeping with their six-month-old daughter. In her final heroic act, the mother sensed the collapse and threw her baby across the room, away from the bed.
The parents were crushed instantly. The infant survived.
The aftermath was even more heart-wrenching. As the families gathered, a cold war of apathy began. The maternal grandparents wanted only the mother's body; the paternal side only cared for the father. No one wanted the "burden" of an orphaned girl.
It was only when the government announced a monthly stipend for the child that a paternal aunt—driven by greed rather than grace—stepped forward. "I have children of my own, but I will adopt her," she claimed, eyes fixed on the check. Tahir watched in silence, wondering if the poor girl was merely trading one tragedy for a life of domestic servitude.
A Heartbreak on Eid
The final blow came just days before the festival of Eid.
Tahir was at work when his daughters went up the hillside to play with the neighborhood children. A sudden, violent windstorm erupted. The mountain began to "shed" its stones. As the children scrambled down the slippery slope, Mehreen—the smallest and slowest—tripped.
A heavy stone, dislodged by the wind, rolled down and pinned her tiny frame against the earth.
The screams of the children brought neighbors running. They pulled her out, but the damage was done. Her back and legs were severely injured.
The morning of Eid arrived, a day meant for celebration. While other children donned new clothes and ran through the streets in high spirits, Mehreen could not walk. The doctors found a gap in her spine.
Tahir, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces, dressed his little girl in her festive clothes and carried her to the doorway of her grandmother's house. He sat her there so she could at least watch the world go by.
As Mehreen sat by the gate, watching her friends play and hearing their laughter, she began to cry—quiet, fat tears of pain and longing. Tahir stood in the shadows, watching his daughter's spirit break, feeling the sharp, jagged edge of a father's helplessness piercing his soul.