Where Strangers Become Family

For a long time, I had wanted to spend a few hours with some of our senior friends who now live at Dar-ul-Sukun. The Dar-ul-Sukun Welfare Trust runs several care institutions in Karachi and other places, with its head office on Kashmir Road. The centre we visited is a home for elderly residents, located near Purani Numaish on M.A. Jinnah Road, opposite the Quaid’s Mausoleum.

At first, we had thought of visiting on Eid, but our friend Syed Sajid Raza told me that many residents are taken home by their families during the holidays. Then came Muharram, when the area around Dar-ul-Sukun is often blocked because of security arrangements. Finally, our visit was fixed for 4 July.

Sajid was waiting for me near the Quaid’s Mausoleum and together we walked inside. At the reception, Shahneela was there to welcome us with warmth and kindness. We learned that every morning at 10 a.m., the residents gather in the dining hall for tea.
Before joining them, Sajid suggested that we first meet the administrator, John Dominic Fernandes. He came across as a highly organised, courteous and attentive person. Despite his many responsibilities, he personally made sure that tea and coffee were arranged for us.

As we made our way to the dining hall, we passed the activity hall on one side and the physiotherapy hall on the other. Almost all the tables in the dining hall were occupied. Residents who needed assistance were being escorted in carefully by the staff. Everywhere, staff members were serving tea and biscuits, helping residents settle into their seats, offering assistance and speaking gently with them.

It was here that we began meeting the people of Dar-ul-Sukun. Each face carried a reflection of memories and struggle.
Farhat, a lively woman in a wheelchair, greeted us by singing a line from an old song. When we praised her warmth and spirit, her eyes sparkled, and her face lit up. She is around seventy. She lost one of her legs in an accident in the United States. When her children decided to send her back to Pakistan, her husband insisted on coming with her. He is now critically ill and under treatment at Dar-ul-Sukun’s clinic. Farhat loves poetry and music, remembers many old and new songs, and despite the hardship of life, still speaks with cheerfulness.

Jafar Bhai, about eighty-six, is a refined and well-read gentleman with a deep interest in literature and poetry. He spent thirty-five years in Dubai, working in human resources and administration for a shipping company. He has a son and two daughters, all educated and settled. Yet family circumstances brought him here. Food sometimes comes from home, and his son visits, but the fact remains that he is away from his own house.

Sagheer Bhai is only fifty-six, but he lost his eyesight at the age of twenty-two. His siblings looked after him at first, but over time the responsibility was passed from one person to another until he was brought to Dar-ul-Sukun. Now, no one visits and no relatives remain in touch. Sometimes the deepest wound is not the loss itself but being forgotten by one’s own people.

Apa Ruqayya, sixty-five, has spent almost her entire life at Dar-ul-Sukun. Her parents realised when she was very young that she was blind and brought her here in the early years of the institution. She has a beautiful voice and plays the piano very well. In her music, there is both sadness and light.

Lateef Bhai, eighty-two, belongs to the Memon community and still has a strong understanding of business. At one time, he was one of the well-known brokers of the Karachi Stock Exchange. After business losses, his circumstances changed, and eventually his children brought him here.

Julius, at ninety-two, is the oldest resident. He can still speak and understand English, but his memory has almost disappeared. Very little is known about him now. Perhaps one of the loneliest parts of old age is slowly becoming distant from one’s own story.

Then there was Riaz Amman. The moment I saw her, I was reminded of my Ammi. She is about eighty-six. Her husband passed away nearly twenty years ago, and her only son also died some time ago. Following disputes over the family home and property, her daughter-in-law brought her here. Small in stature and always dressed in a sari, she carries herself with the quiet elegance of old Lucknow. There is a deep sadness in her demeanour. She often prays that her earthly journey may soon come to an end. As she spoke, the depth of her loneliness became painfully clear.

Dar-ul-Sukun shows that when homes fail, institutions like this become a final refuge

After tea, we went to the activity hall, where some volunteers from IBA had arranged a programme on “Happiness.” One of them, Ayesha, was celebrating her birthday that day. Apa Ruqayya sang “Happy Birthday,” and everyone joined in. It was a simple but deeply touching moment.

Several residents shared what happiness meant to them and remembered the happiest moments of their lives. Neelam Parvez, who oversees the activity hall, introduced us warmly. At Dar-ul-Sukun, the day begins with yoga and mental exercises, followed by different activities that keep residents engaged and active. These small routines create moments of joy in lives that have already seen much sorrow.

We then visited the physiotherapy hall, where Dr. Sahar was working with residents, assisted by Dr. Sarwanti, Dr. Simon and several dedicated volunteers. Each person was receiving care tailored to their physical needs. The atmosphere was professional, yet radiated warmth and compassion. A few friendly exchanges between Sajid and Dr. Sahar brought smiles to the room.

Later, we met Sister Venus, the head of the institution, and visited the medical care areas. We learned that around 120 residents live at Dar-ul-Sukun, supported by more than 100 staff members working in shifts, as well as volunteers from different universities and institutions.

What stayed with us most was the bond among the residents. They are not related by blood. No one is another’s brother, sister, father or mother. Yet they care about each other, look out for one another, and share each other’s small joys. Despite coming from different families, religions, languages and backgrounds, they have become one large family.

As we were leaving, we met Sister Fazeelat near the entrance. Outside, a Sabeel had been set up, where passers-by and motorcyclists were stopping for drinks.

We left Dar-ul-Sukun with tears in our eyes. Those tears were not only for broken relationships and scattered families, but also for the kindness that still survives among strangers. Dar-ul-Sukun shows that when homes fail, institutions like this become a final refuge. But it also leaves society with a difficult question: Can we really consider ourselves free of responsibility after leaving our elders in the care of others?

That morning reminded us that service does not come only from resources. It comes from the heart. And sometimes, strangers honour relationships better than one’s own family.