Marium El-Edroos writes about her mother whose life changed forever with the 1935 earthquake in Quetta
 I felt a chill through my bones as the second anniversary of the October 8 earthquake drew near, taking a trip down memory lane. My heartfelt sympathies go out to people whose lives were physically and emotionally devastated.
My mother was a survivor of the Quetta earthquake in 1935, which has been recorded in the Time Concise Atlas of the World as the deadliest earthquake of the last century, in which 30,000 people died.
My mother had a generous, vivacious and charismatic personality. However, there was an inner sadness in her bubbly nature, which was the result of a childhood trauma. Often we would sit by the log fire as it drizzled outside and I would ask her about her childhood. Watching the logs burning rekindled memories of yore and she would often wonder aloud how life would have been different had her parents survived the earthquake.
Her father, Sarbilund Khan Afridi, served with the 19 Lancers in France, in 1917, and was awarded the ‘Indian Order of Merit’ for his gallantry and distinguished service in Flanders.
While in the Indian civil service, he was stationed in Lasbella. At the time his family was living in Quetta and he was chosen to be part of the Foreign Service in France. His wife persuaded him to come and spend a few days with the family before embarking on his long journey.
There must have been great preparations in his honour. The day he arrived, that very night, May 31, the earthquake struck. As fate would have it, my mother and her two sisters survived. Their parents and the household staff, including a Scottish Nanny perished. Three days later she and her sisters were rescued from the rubble.
The three little orphan girls were sent to their ancestral home in the village. Their late father was affectionately called "Halwa Dada" which means sweet daddy, as he always helped the underprivileged people. His greatest joy was to educate the poor children of the tribe. They were put in the care of their stepbrother and mother remembered her stepmother as being very kind to them.
In accordance with the wishes of their late father, they were given a formal education, which was unheard of in those days for girls of their tribe. Once at the railway station in Rawalpindi, while they were on their way to their convent in Murree, a British officer came up to their brother, who was standing by the platform with his little sisters dressed in their school uniforms, and asked him what he was doing with the British school girls. However, much to the surprise of the other people there, he replied that they were his sisters. The officer was shocked as he was quite older than the girls and dressed in the traditional clothes with a beard.
 When Parents' Day was celebrated at school, my mother would stand by the railings looking down at the entrance of the school. Seeing girls receiving their parents, she would spend her time watching their mothers to see what style of shoes they were wearing, as she had a passion for shoes. Unfortunately for the sisters, they had no one to visit them.
When my mother was 16, a dashing young captain arrived on the scene. He was fascinated with the Pathans, after reading Kipling's stories about them in his school in Daradoun. He wanted to marry a Pathan girl because they were known for their beauty and fortitude.
The first thing he was told on arrival was that if he got any closer he would be shot as they didn’t allow their girls to marry outsiders. Yet, he took up the challenge, and soon, much to his surprise he was greeted with open arms because they discovered that he was a Syed and it was an honour for them. Thus, the marriage between my father and mother was solemnised which lasted 36 years.
Unfortunately in later years, my mother struggled bravely with cancer showing the courage her tribe was famous for. A day before her death, I kissed her hand lightly, and she gently told me not to touch her because her whole body ached with pain. She died on April 18, 1986. Thus ended the life of a person who was loved by all who knew her.
I believe that my father suffered the most. His mother died in childbirth, his younger brother died in a plane crash, he was separated from his father during the partition of India.
Following is a poem I wrote in memory of my parents and dedicated to all the young orphans of this world:
CobwebsI am brought to my senses
By the rustling of the leaves
Inside the trees outside the window
As I lay asleep I dreamt of days long gone by
Of people and places
Who have left behind faint traces
People who are screened by the veil of death
I long to reach out
To hold and be held
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