I was off to a naat khawani (A devotional songs get-together - bit like going to church) and was appropriatly dressed demurely in white, no makeup and a dupatta over my head. The road through Saddar was snail-paced as usual, with buses and donkey-carts congesting the precarious pot-holed roads.
At the Anklesaria Hospital traffic signal, my car was right next to a huge menacing bus which worryingly balanced a multitude of passengers from every possible angle. People were dangling from the windows, doors, on the grill on the back, on the roof. Though it was very unsafe, the vantage point of the bus gave the passengers an opportunity for entertainment. Loath be for me to deny good clean entertainment to any deserving audience and this certainly seemed like one, but for once I changed my opinion when I discovered that I was the entertainment – there were and I take artistic licence in exaggerating, about two million inquiring eyes directly upon me.
Now any one of the fairer sex in Pakistan will tell you that they are accustomed to be stared at from the general Pakistani male population. It doesn’t matter how demurely one is dressed, the starers will not let excessive clothing deter them. A large number of my friends still turn purple and foam at the mouth while speaking on this topic. However most women will shrug their shoulders and tell you that they are quite used to it. Myself, I would be quite blasé about it and tell you that it doesn’t bother me because that’s just the way it is and I have accepted it.
But for all my blasé-ism (there is surely no such word!) I can not deny how intrusive it feels. Here I was squirming under my dupatta, resolutely staring straight ahead, waiting fervently for the traffic to move. It seemed that the entire bus found me endlessly fascinating. I heard a couple of whistles, catcalls, ahems and little boy-men calling out to each other ‘Deekh, deekh’.(look, look!)
Many a thoughts rushed through my mind – like taking my imaginary klashinikov and wreaking havoc on the offending populance. I reminded myself that I was fasting and so the klashinikov thought fast changed to a hail-storm of birds which came and did their business all over the bus.
Alas no such thing happened. What did happen that years of being exposed to similar situation helped me totally ignore the bus and stare straight ahead. I started the usual Denial Mantra which has been indoctrined into all Pakistani Women’s head. “This is a segregated society, Women are treated as objects, This is a feudal country blah blah blah’.
Just as I got my indignation under control, it seemed that my apparent indifference became unbearable to the heckling youth and the not-so-youth perched on top of the bus. As if the stares weren’t intrusive enough, a pointer-light was duly procured and aimed and shined inside my car. The little red dot of light danced inside the car at every which angle the holder could maneavoure. For a couple of moments, even the occupants of the bus were stunned into quiet. Not to last long this quiet was, followed soon by the ususal whistles and hisses.
Just then the traffic moved and it seemed that a large wave of taxi’s, rickshaws, animal carts, bicycles and mini-vans propelled my little car forward, creating a distance between me and the bus. I finally let vent to my feelings. I gave a murderous stare to the bus through my rear-view mirror, which nearly cracked the mirror.
As I inched forward I realized that it was a good thing that the traffic moved. There was sadly nothing I could do about any of it. I looked forward and there was another traffic signal coming up. To prevent my blood-pressure from rizing and the exploding through my ears like fountains, I started saying the Denial Mantra in advance.
Later at home, I began thinking about the thought of the large number women standing on roadsides everyday, waiting for buses to come take them home from their colleges or work. My heart said a little prayer for them to continue in their courage. And then it occurred to me that the last thing I should do is deny that fact that the ogling bothers me. Oppression loves a pacifist, said a smart person whose name escapes me in my fervour of writing this piece. So I am dropping the façade. Intrusive stares vex the hell out of me. They do, and like how. It is, very simply, not right. Sadly I am not the picketing kind, and anyway where would one picket against this in any case. But one still must do ones little bit. For me, it will be driving through Saddar on my own, with thoughts of imaginery klashinikovs and a storm of bird-droppings, till the whistles and catcalls run out.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Jill didnt go up the Hill!
I never studied abroad as a young woman because my parents were firstly conservative and secondly, couldnt afford to send me at age 18 (or 21 for that matter). I studied here in one of the best local colleges. One of my friends was a very nice girl, Jill, who came from a middle class family. They were catholics and her father had a very respectable job in a private firm. She was bright and very funny. Once after college we were sitting around the canteen and discussing what we were going to do and she said she wanted to be a private secretary in a firm to the CEO becasue the secretaries of CEO's are well paid and pampered and have an easy life. Her mom had been a private secretary to the CEO of a multinational and was picked and dropped home and got bonuses and a good pay and didnt have to work long hours. I said i wanted to be a journalist and do in-depth reporting on the grave injustices of society (i was 19!), others had various views which ranged from doctor to lawyer to fashion designer and TV show host.
Anyhow we graduated from college. I tried my hand at being on the staff of a local eveninger. That experiment lasted five days. Told my dad that i hated it. He, poor man, pulled a few strings and landed me an internship at a mulitnational bank. I wasnt sure i wanted to do that either, but didnt want to appear to be flighty and indecive to the parents. Also it was bothering me that i didnt know what i wanted to do or be and that i was 20 and had no idea where to go. Wasnt going for further studies and at the time when i finished by BA in the last years of the 80's, there was really very few options in Pakistan, which were acceptable to both parents and myself. So decided to jump in with both feet at the opportunity the internship provided me. Worked my tail off for the next two months. Stayed late, did extra projects, acted like the goffer girl. And then came my break - at the end of the internship i was offered a job which paid whole two thousand five hundred rupees (about USD 80 at the time). My God! I thought i was well on my way to becoming a power-wheeling investment banker. Little did i know how far (far, far, far) that was away from the truth :)
A couple of years down the line, i had earned a masters degree while working and changed jobs. One day i was visiting my fathers Travel Agency, which had offices all over the country. I had talked to his new secretary on the phone and she was going to let me wait in his office while he was in a meeting. I reached Dad's office and the secretary buzzed me in. On reaching his office, the person holding the door open was Jill. We looked at each other and broke into laughter and sat down and had a good talk.
Coming back home that day i was pensive. Jill was way smarter and brighter than me but she became a private secretary. Everytime since then when i think of that incident i go quiet. What part does our own drive play in where we end up and how much is destiny? I am not saying that anything is possible (because that is really and truly not true!), but do we limit ourselves with pre-conceived notions???? Dont know about others, but i know Jill did that to herself.
Anyhow we graduated from college. I tried my hand at being on the staff of a local eveninger. That experiment lasted five days. Told my dad that i hated it. He, poor man, pulled a few strings and landed me an internship at a mulitnational bank. I wasnt sure i wanted to do that either, but didnt want to appear to be flighty and indecive to the parents. Also it was bothering me that i didnt know what i wanted to do or be and that i was 20 and had no idea where to go. Wasnt going for further studies and at the time when i finished by BA in the last years of the 80's, there was really very few options in Pakistan, which were acceptable to both parents and myself. So decided to jump in with both feet at the opportunity the internship provided me. Worked my tail off for the next two months. Stayed late, did extra projects, acted like the goffer girl. And then came my break - at the end of the internship i was offered a job which paid whole two thousand five hundred rupees (about USD 80 at the time). My God! I thought i was well on my way to becoming a power-wheeling investment banker. Little did i know how far (far, far, far) that was away from the truth :)
A couple of years down the line, i had earned a masters degree while working and changed jobs. One day i was visiting my fathers Travel Agency, which had offices all over the country. I had talked to his new secretary on the phone and she was going to let me wait in his office while he was in a meeting. I reached Dad's office and the secretary buzzed me in. On reaching his office, the person holding the door open was Jill. We looked at each other and broke into laughter and sat down and had a good talk.
Coming back home that day i was pensive. Jill was way smarter and brighter than me but she became a private secretary. Everytime since then when i think of that incident i go quiet. What part does our own drive play in where we end up and how much is destiny? I am not saying that anything is possible (because that is really and truly not true!), but do we limit ourselves with pre-conceived notions???? Dont know about others, but i know Jill did that to herself.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Jive Talkin' Pakistani Style
I had heard from my mother that they were holding Salsa classes as a local institute and roped my buddy to join with me. So off we went and duly enrolled. There were just two other students in the class and our instructor, a rather sweet young man, who had learnt dancing in his student years somewhere in the civilized world.
The first surprise was that we were not going to learn the Salsa (which i always thought was a dip, rather than a dance....ignorant me!) but rather the Jive. Now Jive, as i understand it, is more rock n roll with a partner, so i didnt mind. My friend didnt know the difference and didnt care. He, bless his heart, is a lovely guy and about his dancing skills, lets just say that the mind is very willing and hopefully the rest of him will follow soon :)
Anyhow, back to dancing - the one hour class was the most fun i had had in a long time. The other two students had been there for nearly a month. There was a pretty woman and the other, a rather shy young man with a trendy goatee, who kept smiling when he had to partner me.
So we started to dance. Now i dont know if i can accurately decribe the little room we dance in - its a longish room with tiles from the 1950's. The air conditioner is also from the 50's and for it's age it is doing a great job - by which i mean that it occassionally spits out gushes of somewhat cool-ish air, then it makes a noise as if it is going to get air-borne but then suddenly it goes completely and rather surprizingly silent. This cycle goes on and on. The effect is intermittant cool air and a lot of noise.
Even though we are used to the national dress, one can not dance with a dupatta (scarf), because the dupatta, as any pakistani woman knows, is a wily thing with a mind of its own. Sometimes it stays behind when you go ahead, sometimes it stands when you sit, sometimes it just doesnt want to be there and slips away. Couldnt deal with all that when dancing so off with the dupatta. When i was learning Khattak, the classical Mughal dance, one was supposed to tie the dupatta in a very specific way, around one shoulder and then encircle the waist. But no room for dupatta's in this class..... I wonder if Ginger Rogers would have been as fabulous if she had a dupatta to contend with with.
By the end of the class we had learnt two basic steps and danced a couple of numbers doing the steps again and again. In that one hour I had stepped on toes, got bumped into, hurt my ankle, used foul language and sweat like a horse. But i had a royal blast. Cant wait till the next time.
The first surprise was that we were not going to learn the Salsa (which i always thought was a dip, rather than a dance....ignorant me!) but rather the Jive. Now Jive, as i understand it, is more rock n roll with a partner, so i didnt mind. My friend didnt know the difference and didnt care. He, bless his heart, is a lovely guy and about his dancing skills, lets just say that the mind is very willing and hopefully the rest of him will follow soon :)
Anyhow, back to dancing - the one hour class was the most fun i had had in a long time. The other two students had been there for nearly a month. There was a pretty woman and the other, a rather shy young man with a trendy goatee, who kept smiling when he had to partner me.
So we started to dance. Now i dont know if i can accurately decribe the little room we dance in - its a longish room with tiles from the 1950's. The air conditioner is also from the 50's and for it's age it is doing a great job - by which i mean that it occassionally spits out gushes of somewhat cool-ish air, then it makes a noise as if it is going to get air-borne but then suddenly it goes completely and rather surprizingly silent. This cycle goes on and on. The effect is intermittant cool air and a lot of noise.
Even though we are used to the national dress, one can not dance with a dupatta (scarf), because the dupatta, as any pakistani woman knows, is a wily thing with a mind of its own. Sometimes it stays behind when you go ahead, sometimes it stands when you sit, sometimes it just doesnt want to be there and slips away. Couldnt deal with all that when dancing so off with the dupatta. When i was learning Khattak, the classical Mughal dance, one was supposed to tie the dupatta in a very specific way, around one shoulder and then encircle the waist. But no room for dupatta's in this class..... I wonder if Ginger Rogers would have been as fabulous if she had a dupatta to contend with with.
By the end of the class we had learnt two basic steps and danced a couple of numbers doing the steps again and again. In that one hour I had stepped on toes, got bumped into, hurt my ankle, used foul language and sweat like a horse. But i had a royal blast. Cant wait till the next time.
Monday, May 21, 2007
What do Pakistani Women Wear to Work
So i got up in the morning, later than usual and over chai started contemplating what to wear to work. Although i have a significant western clothes wardrobe (yes, we do get western clothes here), it is not acceptable for a Pakistani woman to be dressed in pants and shirts and go to work - or go anywhere for that matter. I do wear pants and a shirt when i go out but not to work. I wear the national dress, which is called Kameez (long shirt) shalwar (baggy pants) and top it off with a dupatta (scarf) around my shoulders. It sounds a bit frumpy and to the western eye it may be, but the Kameez shalwar is ideally suited to the warm weather we have in this part of the world and the dupatta is very useful to protect from the harsh rays of the sun. The material is very light weight and in pretty colours. Methinks geography plays a big role in deciding the nature of clothing. My theory is countries closer to the equator/tropics, where the sun is bright inspires bright and colourful clothing and those away from the equator inspires more sedate clothing. That would fit right in with why African, Meditteranean and South Asian countries wear more loud colours than the Europeans, North Americans and Canadians. Just a theory.......
Coming back to working women clothes in Pakistan, there are some young women who do wear western clothes but too many - especially not the ones who use the public transport system. It is very obvious that the western clothes trend acceptability is only in the large cities of Karachi followed by Islamabad and then Lahore. Amongst other issues like being perceived too western (translation, too forward)coverage is an issue. Pakistani's tend to be conscious of bare arms and even slightly drooping necklines are not .... er.... proper. Even though i myself wear sleeveless tops and sometimes a lower than usual neckline, i know very well that if i wear it to work, everyone will be thinking about my neckline and not what i am saying or doing - which is a shame. So i reserve my western gear only for when i go to places, like a friends house or an exclusive restuarant or private club (yes we also have those).
But today at work i am in my regular Kameez Shalwar. This one is in pastel shades of pale pink and pistachio green, topped off by a rather pretty pasley print dupatta of pink and green. Looking like a giant ice-cream cone :) but getting many compliments, mostly from my female colleagues.... So all's good.
Coming back to working women clothes in Pakistan, there are some young women who do wear western clothes but too many - especially not the ones who use the public transport system. It is very obvious that the western clothes trend acceptability is only in the large cities of Karachi followed by Islamabad and then Lahore. Amongst other issues like being perceived too western (translation, too forward)coverage is an issue. Pakistani's tend to be conscious of bare arms and even slightly drooping necklines are not .... er.... proper. Even though i myself wear sleeveless tops and sometimes a lower than usual neckline, i know very well that if i wear it to work, everyone will be thinking about my neckline and not what i am saying or doing - which is a shame. So i reserve my western gear only for when i go to places, like a friends house or an exclusive restuarant or private club (yes we also have those).
But today at work i am in my regular Kameez Shalwar. This one is in pastel shades of pale pink and pistachio green, topped off by a rather pretty pasley print dupatta of pink and green. Looking like a giant ice-cream cone :) but getting many compliments, mostly from my female colleagues.... So all's good.
Monday Blues, Short Fuse and Feminist Hues
This monday was as bad as the publicity monday's get - it was bad. I had a problem on my desk before i had the time to get my caffeine fix or read the paper on my desk. God I am such a mem sahib .... not that i am going to change but still feel a pang of embarrassmen over it - which i would like to continue to feel because that pang is kind of like paying my dues for being a spoilt mem sahib..... warped? sure!
Then the day did not get better with Audit stepping on my tail. Fools. Felt like slugging their leader, which would, i am sure, have been extremely satisfying, but interest of self did not do so. Cant get a repute of having a short fuse - well lets rephrase that - cant give the people further proof of having a short fuse.
Went out for lunch with a few colleagues - all decent guys. After all these years in a male dominated industry, i now have a good feeling of camaraderie with my male colleagues. Helps that i am older and chubbier and not a 26 year old with a figure like a coca cola ki bottle (only those in asia will understand this). And yes i had that figure and now its comfortably covered in a layer of cozy fat. Being older and heavier does have it's advantagess. Hmmm...so does that mean that my male colleagues would have treated me different had i been lighter?? Yes, i think so. Damn all that feminine liberation - male psyche is still standing still as it has been forever.
Then the day did not get better with Audit stepping on my tail. Fools. Felt like slugging their leader, which would, i am sure, have been extremely satisfying, but interest of self did not do so. Cant get a repute of having a short fuse - well lets rephrase that - cant give the people further proof of having a short fuse.
Went out for lunch with a few colleagues - all decent guys. After all these years in a male dominated industry, i now have a good feeling of camaraderie with my male colleagues. Helps that i am older and chubbier and not a 26 year old with a figure like a coca cola ki bottle (only those in asia will understand this). And yes i had that figure and now its comfortably covered in a layer of cozy fat. Being older and heavier does have it's advantagess. Hmmm...so does that mean that my male colleagues would have treated me different had i been lighter?? Yes, i think so. Damn all that feminine liberation - male psyche is still standing still as it has been forever.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Going Home Time on Friday Evening
Work day is almost over and i have to go the gym to exercise. Have been struggling to begin a weight loss programme. Depression coupled with laziness, lack of discipline and hypo-thryroidism have been the respective causes of a gain of nearly 35 kgs in the past four years.
The new gym that i have started just yesterday is a quiet place. Just a couple of men and women, age group late thirties, early forties. Nice, sedate and quite boring. It's going to be an uphill struggle and i am not sure how successful i will be. Anyhow, must start it because if i dont i will become very sick. Also there is the cuteness factor. I think i am vain enough that if i concentrate on getting cute again, rather than being healthy, then it will be a stronger incentive. Flaky? unfortunately yes - but that's the reality for me.
The new gym that i have started just yesterday is a quiet place. Just a couple of men and women, age group late thirties, early forties. Nice, sedate and quite boring. It's going to be an uphill struggle and i am not sure how successful i will be. Anyhow, must start it because if i dont i will become very sick. Also there is the cuteness factor. I think i am vain enough that if i concentrate on getting cute again, rather than being healthy, then it will be a stronger incentive. Flaky? unfortunately yes - but that's the reality for me.
Me Blog??? Why???
Finally i started the blog after quite a few months contemplating the need for one. Is putting my voice out there really such a need. Who would hear it? and why? and why would it matter? Or does it just matter to me? Dont know. Just was driven by need to put my perspective out there and not be typecaste.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)