Kites flying in the February air always fascinated him. They added colours to the 10-year-old’s mundane routine, and his dream to fly high like them took him to immortal times. Hamza belongs to the slums of Shahdara wherein his parents indulge in draining domestic labour from dawn to dusk. He is a part of a family of eight, which is barely able to manage to put food for one time on its table and going to school is far distant dream for them. He used to work with his brothers at a factory since he touched his seventh birthday. Sundays, was the only time his friends could meet up and enjoy the cheap yet exultant liberties within the slums of the outskirts of Lahore.
In the last Basant season, kite flying excursions brought sorrows of loneliness and caging along, as someone on the road got tangled within the string of his kite and slit his wrist open and died on the spot. He was much scared and true to the fear, caught up in the District Jail Lahore with other under trial minors. His parents, over the course of the next couple of weeks, tried to seek justice from the local police and prison authorities but were unable to access any relief.
He has been in the jail cell for more than two years now, awaiting a gust of justice to flow within the air. The people in his vicinity failed to protest his detention; the man who illegally sold the “DOR” of the kite remains in the market alongside the rest of mafia. The unequipped criminal justice system has turned deaf ears towards Hamza. He has only been given two chances to defend himself and his case is in trial over the course of the last two years. The pain and loneliness of the cell and courtyard full of hardened criminals has suffocated him and the senses are full of disappointment flowing outside. He feels as though life inside is also being extinguished with each passing moment.
When he finally goes to bed in the juvenile cell he recollects and dreams about his childhood stories. While sleeping his mind wanders and he wishes that had he stopped that day by some unseen force and went for cricket or ‘gilli danda’ instead, he would have been able to enjoy the comforts of home. He could have saved up money to buy expensive medicines for his sick and frail mother. The process of salvation has blurred his vision and obscured his mind. In dark chilly nights, cell walls shrink as close that it seems, they would break his ribs and the next moment, he feels himself roaming in rusty streets and playing in small courtyard with his siblings.
When he looks out the windows of the small jail cell, he still imagines colourful kites flying out the window; he wishes he could flow freely in the sky like them. He imagines himself flying in the dark grey sky with the shining, peaceful clouds. He dreams of flying alongside Aero planes and hears reveries of his dream of himself becoming a pilot and being able to take care of his beloved mother. And then suddenly, he recalls the last time she came to visit him, with news of his trial being extended, and how he cried for hours into her lap and rest of night witnessed screams and shreds.
One very innocent kite flying session had ended up in him being thrown into a ruthless time. He has lost two formative years, hundreds of days and thousands of hours, confined, for a crime he didn’t even know he was committing. He twists his wrists in agony while thinking about how his parents are suffering. As he remembers his life back in the slums, fresher tears fill his eyes with the testimony of the cruelty of the country’s criminal justice system. The unfulfilled, tender aged dreams are screaming for conscious attitude over the placid behaviour of the community towards the most vulnerable and dependent segment of the society.
His mother always comes as a ray of hope, as the sole saviour in the wasteland of small cells and motivates him to never give up his dream of flying high and high. He thinks of the times he’ll be able to fly his aero plane above the colourful and innocent kites. This is the only hope that soothes him and tells him that the horizon he dreamt of, isn’t too far off.
Each new day comes up with new impetus to prepare for the court hearing and to prove his innocence but the wave of unheard days freezes his bones and he gets scared that he might be unable to and despises being shifted into the elder’s jail, if his trial travels at the same pace. Thousands of hours spent in the prison quadrangle rattle the doors of freedom loving society and mindfulness of the state. He wishes to blow the trumpet of justice and prejudice so loudly that its frequency deafens the rest of the world. The criminal justice system and the unwarranted authorities have never seen with so much clarity an innocent’s tears and forgotten dreams, both soaked into his mother’s lap. But still, as he peeps over the horizon from the juvenile cell, he sees vibrant kites flying and along with them his pure, intense yet unattainable dreams. He feels himself flying aloft the prejudicial conscientiousness of all human beings.
“As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.” – Nelson Mandela.
The writer is a public policy practitioner and she has keen interest in the socio-political arena of Pakistan
