'Try and find my family, give this letter to them'
Four years ago, a friend of mine told me he had been visiting orphanages and old homes around Karachi.
"Take me along the next time you go?"
At the time, I didn't quite realise what I had signed up for. My first visit left me shocked. I had to leave, instantly. I was overwhelmed.
Imagine walking into a room full of the loneliest people in the city.
In Karachi, a city that is so alive and restless, it was difficult to adjust to how still everything felt in the old people's home. The silence struck me.
The residents have gaunt, hollow faces, etched with memories of the past; some fond, others clearly not.
Traces of who they once used to be are now only faint glimmers; in a quick smile or a silent nod.
In these homes, they are smothered by an isolation so thick, it is heartbreaking. every photograph left me emotionally drained; when I left the home, I felt exhausted from being a small part of their loneliness.
Would I ever have the heart to leave a loved one here? Would I ever be left here by someone I loved? If you and I wouldn't want to live here, then who are these people and why are they here?
Their suffering and endurance inspired me to develop a photo series, which led to numerous visits to several different old people's homes in Karachi over a span of four years.
A letter and an unsaid goodbye
I feel privileged to have befriended many of the elderly people in these homes, some of whom shared fascinating stories of their times in this bustling city.
All my Eids, Christmases and New Years Eves over the four years were spent with these abandoned parents who wished for only one thing, every year — that their children return to celebrate special occasions. But not many did.
It was on such a day, on Eid two years ago, when I first saw Morris distributing the Eidi he had received from the administration at the old home, to the kids running around in the street. This simple gesture stayed with me. Two weeks later, Morris approached me, inquiring about my camera.
It turned out Morris had been a professional photographer back in his time.
'We used reels then, know about them?' he smirked.
I was thrilled to learn that Morris had mostly worked with a view camera (where the photographer shoots from under a dark cloth) and often saved on reel by snipping it off.
By my sixth visit, Morris had opened up to me about his family. He told me he had worked hard all his life to be able to buy an apartment for each of his two children.
But today, there was no room for him in those houses.
He would often show me his measly belongings, which included a T-shirt that, ironically, read: 'As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall have no fear.'
As I stood up to leave that day, he handed me a letter. "Try and find my family, give this letter to them," he pleaded.
"But there's no postal address on this, Morris. Where should I send it?" I asked.
"Just try," he said quietly.
I also made the company of the polite and eloquent Agha Saheb in one of the homes. Our conversations were so cheerful, I would often forget we were sitting in a dingy old room, lined with beds. So many beds.
Agha Saheb suffered from dementia and was not allowed to step outside the old home because he had managed to get lost once before. Confined within peeling walls for the rest of his life, I would often be surprised at how free his thoughts were.
"Whatever you do, don't say Khuda Hafiz (goodbye) to me, those who do never return," Agha Saheb said to me during one of my visits.
These trips would often leave me bitter. Perhaps we ought to shut these places down, I would say to my friend heatedly, referring to their dilapidated enclosures.
"Where would they go?" he'd always ask. I had no answer.
"If you want to help these people at all, just keep visiting," my friend said to me.
My photo series has long ended but I keep going back. I won't say Khuda Hafiz.
He is currently working as a photographer for White Star Photo Pvt, with Herald magazine's editorial photography as one of his main projects.