Hounding Hunger

The last member of my family starved to death yesterday. There has been a horrible famine in the village for six months now. Ammu, Baba, my elder sister Saira and now little Ruhi have joined the countless dead in their graves.  The Minister for Food and Health, Karam Nawaz, is a native of our village, but I have never seen him bring food to us. I saw him at the wedding yesterday, folds of laughter convulsing his huge tummy, arm in arm with the industrialist Mr. Rashid, who has a factory in the Big City. One plant of the factory operates in the village too. Karam Nawaz had assured us last year that each vote mattered, even the poor’s. But his party nailed the opposition, he shifted to the Big City. Forgetful of us. I wonder if God, too, is forgetful of us. All my family has gone to Him to seek an answer to this question.

The factory owner Mr. Rashid is also the minister’s party member. At the famine’s breakout both promised us food packages, but last night when I went to his sister’s wedding, the guard wouldn’t let me in. So, I tip-toed to the back kitchens and nicked pieces of nan that were thrown out to the stray cats. While I was hiding in the shadows gathering tidbits, stuffing lumps into my mouth, munching down so forcefully that my jaws hurt and also saving larger, softer pieces of nan for Ruhi, I saw some servants carrying leftover food items in packets to Karam Nawaz’s and Mr. Rashid’s sleek black cars. I wish they could have spared me one. I had been hungry for a week and so was Ruhi. For the last three days, she had even stopped crying and lay limp in her cradle all day long.