Towards a Ramzaan Sunset

‘She feels that the New Year has provided her with another chance for a new beginning, an inspired beginning where the shortcomings of the past are no longer consequential.’


I stop to look at the boys listening and trying to write what was just said. I ask each of them their opinions on the poem and help them to state it in the language they are so eager to learn.


After giving them sentence formation assignments, the literature class I teach is over. I start to walk toward the wagon stop to attend a class I enrolled in to help me learn some technical skills. It begins in just over an hour. A tonga happens to be going there as well and I manage to catch a ride. Swaying back and forth, jolting on street potholes, the passengers talk about the new political candidates. I wonder how long the wheels on the tonga have been in use.


The wagon is overloaded as usual. I hesitate to squeeze in, but I may be late for class. No one is happy about my decision to join them in the over populated vehicle instead of waiting for the next wagon.


After a series of stops, I need to hop on to another wagon. This one is completely empty and I take my favorite wagon seat- the one in the corner right from which I can watch the canal as we drive along it. However, the wagon won’t proceed until its seats have been filled. I see my conductor fighting with another wagon’s representative over a company of three who could be possible passengers.


My conductor passionately explains, ‘You can have any seat you want in this wagon!’

The other conductor retorts, ‘That’s because his wagon is totally empty- it’ll take forever to fill up! Come with me and we’ll take you to your destination right now!’


A tug of war erupts and the company of three embarrassed passengers decides not to go with any of the two conductors. The conductors now begin to argue amongst each other with highly selective expletives accusing the other of intentionally depriving him of passengers.


While this heated exchange is going on, the seats of both the wagons have been filled with passengers who calmly filtered in. The drivers are ready to roll.


The class is about to begin. All the guys and the one girl are pretending to be eager to learn how the different background processes work in data base administration. Waheed came from Faisalabad solely to take this class and has no idea what is going on. Zahid is dreaming of Canada and this class is supposed to take him there. Nosheen is afraid she will not learn anything though she is learning the most. Nosheen and ‘nervous’ go together. I fear she may have a tumor as she nervously presses her fingers on the side of her forehead trying to understand the lessons. Rehman and Irfan are from Arifwala and study computer science at Punjab University taking this class as an aside. They are serious about this course. They are also hardcore ‘Jamatiyay’ unsuccessfully trying to hide their view that women should not concern themselves with professions outside the home.


Last week before class Rehman nodded toward the empty seat next to mine where Nosheen sits and explained the importance of the four-walls for women.


‘You are a man, I am a man. Having her in our class is bound to raise sinful thoughts in our head. That is why purdah is important!’


‘You don’t think we need more professionals?’ I inquire.


Raising his voice and forefinger, Rehman commanded, ‘If a woman can focus on becoming a good wife, a good sister, a good mother, then society will produce plenty of professionals.’


Class begins.


‘What the fu-k am I doing here? Hold off on the anger Rozaiba. It’s ok. You may end up with an insight even from such dreary fields of study. You never know.’


I open my notebook to end of the last lecture and write the date.


‘What role does the SMON play?’, is the question the teacher begins the lecture with.


I know the answer but my mind has already left the room, gone down the stairs and exited the building. I have over an hour to kill. One and a half hour of intense monotony.


More importantly, one and a half hour before Iftari.


So I begin to scribble in my database administration notebook what has always been my companion in classes I took by mistake. Urdu poetry.


‘Doasto, qafala-e-dard ka kya ho ga…’


Nosheen nervously glances at my Urdu scribbling unrelated to class and becomes even more nervous. I’ve filled up three pages and the lecture is over.


And before the next one begins, I need to break my fast. I walk outside going over the possibilities for food. Everyone else is going home to their families nearby. McDonalds. Yes, that’s what I feel like eating. Quarter-pounder with cheese, large fries and diet coke.


I stop a rickshaw and ask the driver ‘how much till the Second Fountain stop and back?’


After the typical haggling, we settle at 30 rupees. I’ve been ripped off. But this is the first time on this route for me. Next time, I’ll sharpen the negotiating skills. There’s always a next time. Though I always say that and continue to feel ripped off.


The rickshaw driver twirls around Main Boulevard and heads toward the direction of the big M. I motion for him to take me to the fast food chain and he tries to park outside. I put my hand on his shoulder and ask him to take it inside. He pauses and looks around. Obviously, this is something new for him. As it is for me. But why would anyone have a problem with a rickshaw entering McDonalds? He takes it toward the entrance and attempts to head toward the parking lot. I put my hand on his shoulder again and point toward the drive thru.


He hesitatingly pulls behind a black Mercedes in the drive thru. As the car ahead of us is taking time, he turns off the rickshaw. The car pulls forward. The rickshaw driver has to yank the lever a few times before the three wheeler’s motor is running. I ask him to halt at the first window. I have to open the door flap to be visible to the cashier. The rickshaw driver once again turns off the rickshaw. The cashier looks at us and is about to burst out laughing. I bravely request:


“Quarter-pounder with cheese, large fries and a diet coke please.”


The rickshaw driver seems bewildered. The cashier punches in the order trying not to increase his smile. I look behind and see a dark green civic waiting for us. As the cashier gives me the receipt, I tap the rickshaw driver and ask,


‘yaar, aghlee bari thay ja kay rukeen’.


The driver yanks the lever a few times to get the motor running, and stops at the next window. I open the flap and hand the receipt to a girl named Saima with frowning eyes, a beautiful sanvli skin and a gap between her front two teeth. Some African tribes consider the gap proof of a person’s strong sexual capacity. I wonder if she’ll go out with me. She hands me my meal bag.


With a million dollar smile, I inquire if I can get another date for iftari. She hands me one more while retaining the frown.


She doesn’t seem too impressed. Maybe I should have worn a different shirt.


After getting the order, I tap the rickshaw driver who has been wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and starts to yank the lever again until the motor starts. I ask to be dropped off at the internet café, pay the driver, shake his hand and offer him the fries.


The world is getting ready to open the fast. If one listens closely, the last sigh of the day can be heard revealing a sense of achievement. And the evening prayer call will be a voice welcoming a new and spirited beginning.


I slump into a chair, log onto the computer to read emails, chat with friends around the world and eat the meal that I know will once again be the tastiest one I’ve ever had and ever will have…until tomorrow’s iftari.