Scars of September 29

Azhar studied till Std IX — his Urdu medium private school shut down for lack of funds. “One day he just said that he wanted to start working. Books don’t appeal to me,” says mother Mehjabin. Of the many things she will always cherish is his passion for his work. “He was only 18 and within six months he had mastered the skills to repair and recreate an air compressor. He wanted to learn more and open his own shop,” says his brother, Sayyed Abrar (22).

And 13-year-old sister Sana hasn’t stopped crying. Her brother, who used to get her “one rupee sweet” and had promised new clothes for Id, is no more.

Shaikh Rafiq (45), Driver, neighbouhood’s favourite ‘abbu’

Every weekend when Shaikh Rafiq returned home, his truck’s honking would be followed by children happily yelling, “abbu aa gaye, abbu aa gaye”. The weekend Santa would bring gifts, toys and sweets for all the children from various cities that he would come back from. On September 30, when the body of Shaikh Rafiq arrived, no kid was around. “He had come home silent, without the truck honking,” says wife Noor Jahan. This week, his 18-year-old son who always accompanied him on long trips as a cleaner, has gone on a consignment trip without his father for the first time. For Noor Jahan, who is performing Iddat (105 days of staying at home after divorce or husband’s death), it’s a loss of a companion and the best travel guide she knew. Rafiq had taken up a truck driver’s job recently to earn more. “He used to drive a luxury liner before and used to take us to places. Most of the neighbourhood children have been taken around by him,” says Noor Jahan. A neighbour’s child, Javed (5), points to a picture of gardens in Pune where Rafiq had taken him last year.

This is the second time that the family has been affected by a communal attack. “In 2001 when the riots broke out, our house was completely ransacked and burnt,” says Shaikh Rafiq’s father-in-law, Ibrahim Shaikh. Rafiq wasn’t that lucky, his entire back was covered with splinters.

Haroon Md Shah (70) Worked in a colour-dye unit, a doting grandfather

After the 2006 Malegaon blasts, Haroon Shah Mohammed Shah had become a recluse. His daughter, Naushad (40), says, “He was shaken by the images of the blast scene and it took him a while to understand the enormity of the situation.” Seventy-year-old Haroon, the family says, stopped interacting with their neighbours and became suspicious everytime people assembled anywhere close or if there was even a scuffle in Malegaon. “He had lost trust in people. He would scold us if he saw any of us standing and watching street scuffles which are so common in Malegaon,” says son Nisar (27). On the day of the blast, he had gone to get water from the tea shop with another family friend. He never returned home. “He had gone for namaz when the blast occurred,” says his eldest son, Naushad (40).

The children recall him as a strict father who was also very compassionate when it came to their aspirations and dreams. So, he allowed his two sons to start their own entrepreneurship and veer from the family tradition of working in colour dying unit. To his grandchildren, he was the doting grandfather who ensured he spent time with them. His wife, Zugrabi (65), did not talk as she is observing iddat.

Shaikh Mushtaq (25) A labourer, he was waiting for his first child’s birth

Shaikh Mushtaq became a father on October 4. Only that he would never know. Mushtaq died on September 29 while on his way back from namaz. His father, Shaikh Yusuf (61), says he had aged earlier than time. His daughter-in-law, Shaikh Mushtaq’s wife, left with the newborn last week after the family received the compensation. Yusuf says the blast changed their lives. “First it took my son, now I am not allowed to meet my grandson, the family’s only heir.”

The family remembers Mushtaq for the way he struggled to make the ends meet. “He never had any reason to rejoice. We could not educate him. He worked 18 hours as a labourer,” says the father. He had told me a few months ago that he wanted to give his child a good life and had begun saving money. The day he told me he was going to be a father, there was

a smile on his face. He was happy after a very long time.”

Irfan Khan (22) Autorickshaw driver, loved travelling

On the night after the blast when Ziaullah Khan (52) spoke to his son on the phone, he had said only two lines. “I am fine. My back is burning a bit. But I will be back soon.” Irfan was transferred to a hospital in Mumbai where he breathed his last. The family was later told by the doctors that there were splinter marks all over his body. “Uske dil main lag gaya tha,” says his father sitting in his Malegaon house. The “most obedient son” in the family, he would often be teased by his sisters for never crossing the 11 pm deadline set by his father for returning home. Irfan had gone out that evening after offering namaz to buy a pair of jeans for himself. His youth, says his father, was spent doing odd jobs — like selling vegetables, ice-cubes — as both the father and Irfan’s brother Imran did not earn much at the power loom units where they worked as labourers. “It was only last year that he had learned to ride a autorickshaw, and he bought one with a loan,” says his father. It took him 11 months to repay the loan. “We sold his autorickshaw a few days ago as it reminds us of him,” said his brother.

Shagufta Farheen (10),Wanted to be a doctor, loved studying English

Some loose papers in Farheen’s notebook spells the greeting ‘hi’ as ‘high’. It is marked in bold, continuing with “have a good day”. Ironically, it was what was to be the last that she wrote after her sister sent her out to run an errand — the family had just broken the ramzan fast and the only dish missing were the tikkas that a neighbour chacha made. On the night of September 29, it was her badly bruised body strewn next to the fatal bike, which many feel angered a violent mob, triggering the riots.

Her father, Shaikh Liyaqat Moinuddin (48), has stopped going out, as every time he does so he meets eyewitnesses who first sympathise and then begin detailing him on how her face was bruised. “I just can’t hear it again and again. My Shago was the most beautiful girl and now she is no more. I still feel she will come home from school,” cries Moinuddin.

Farheen, who had just started her standard fifth in the ‘Kali Imarat Wali municipality corporation ki school’, was most excited about English language, says her mother, Farida. “She would utter words in English and ask us to repeat it. None of us understood what she meant. She would give us the Urdu meaning once all of us gave up. She would spent most of her time reading and writing. She even took great interest in learning Arabic at the madarsa. Her only dream was to become a doctor. “She often saw some women in the neighbourhood ride to work in two-wheelers. They all are doctors in the nearby hospital. I think it had more to do with her fascination for bikes,” says her father.

Her brother, Zahid (20), says, “She once told me that I should ensure that our parents let her study till she becomes capable of standing on her feet. ‘I don’t want to marry like other girls’.”