Vex and the City

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.