The Point

It is 8:15 on Saturday night. I’m hunched on the sofa with my right hand in a bag of chilli chips and my left holding Dune. I’m at the bit where Jessica and Paul find the Duke’s signet ring and realize he must be dead, when the phone rings. Good book, chilli chips, trip up north in two days, what more could a woman want? A is on the other end of the line, telling me the salon is closed tomorrow and if Arif wants that new haircut before we go on vacation he should be there by 8:30. We head out.

8:35 and we’re stuck in traffic around the point.

8:40 and we’re walking around the point towards the back entrance. As we walk around the circular building, we are alone except for two janitors reclining along a wall, up ahead, a soft glow begins to creep around the corner, or rather we creep towards it. We step into the light and all of a sudden there are people everywhere, families, staff, and teenagers everywhere. Big ones, little ones, shy ones, and bold ones that eye you appraisingly out of the corner of the eye and look ahead. I wonder again at the subtleties of our secret languages, eye meeting eye has so many possible meanings. Once I think I see one of my ex-students and almost call out to him. He comes closer and it isn’t him. But my heart does a little jig at the thought of them, somewhere in the metropolis. Eating, laughing, flirting, hitting the end of adolescent street and turning onto the adulthood freeway. They are never far from me. Even here, surrounded by strangers, I think of them. These are the stairs they climb, the stores they frequent.

I miss them.

The point consists of three floors around a central lobby, lined with very ‘up market’ stores, and a big McDonald’s. I generally avoid it like the plague. ‘Elitist doesn’t even begin to define it. ‘Expensive’ wouldn’t contain the true nature of the exhibit, a study in the art of pretension.

But there is gaiety in the air tonight, a carnival atmosphere, and I find myself being carried along with it. The people here are mostly well dressed and flawlessly turned out. A is wearing an ankle length maroon velvet skirt and a white knit shirt, she looks ‘chic’. I look ‘shabby’ next to her, and I’m glad. I’m wearing khaki slacks and a mannish button down shirt. I see only one man in a shalwar kameez. There is a myriad of odors scenting the air, but no sweat. Lots of people, crowded environ, and not once a whiff of sweat. I suppose some would call this ‘a burger joint’.

8:45 and Arif is whisked inside to have his hair washed. A introduces me to her friends and we sit and chat. We drink coke. Laugh at Arif's face in the mirror as his hair falls around him. I realize I’m actually glad to be here. There is nothing in these shops that interests me, except maybe that huge toy truck in a store window further down the hall. But I’m too old for that I think. I decide to check the price tag just in case. If I am impervious to the unspoken laws of age, perhaps economics will be a more effective way to bind me within the limits of my generation.

9:00 and Arif is still in the chair, grimacing like a pregnant cat wanting to yowl. A and I decide to go look at a boutique downstairs that a mutual acquaintance recently opened. It has steel curved doors opening onto a futuristic glass walkway, lined on either side by clothes racks that glitter with color and sequins. Or is it rhinestones. Glittery stuff. The salesgirl excitedly tells us that BoneyM was here last night and bought outfits from them. I meet N and Z, people I haven’t seen in nearly two years. N asks after my brother and I tell her the news, there will be a new Minhas soon, greeting the world with the standard Minhas war cry of ‘waaaaaa’, somewhere in the city of San Francisco. I’m going to be there for the birth I tell her, I’m going to go see my college friends too. Z is also a writer, he promises to give me a thick book with the names of publishers in it ‘so you can see which genre you fit in and submit accordingly.’ He tells me he’s read one of my pieces on chowk.. “Morbid” he says, and smiles. “You think so?” I ask and smile back. As I leave I take his email addy, perhaps it’s time to reestablish contact with the world. “Morbid” is the last thing on my mind. I feel alive.

9:15 and Arif is ready. Or as ready as he’s going to be. He looks ut

terly and completely horrified at the sight of his new head. But he looks good, and maybe in two days he’ll be used to it. A’s fiancé comes to get her and we leave together. We walk down the corridor, shops on one side and banister on the other. They walk in a row, with A in the center. I walk slightly ahead. The corridor isn’t wide enough to take us all. We pass the toyshop and I jokingly ask if I can have the truck.. We all laugh at me. The stairs are at the end, as I turn someone comes up and turns the corner and we lightly brush shoulders. As my momentum carries me forward his arm, which he had been holding slightly behind his right shoulder, straightens and his hand moves between my legs and then drags up the inside of my right thigh. I stop, the others keep going. They stop at the top of the stairs when they realize I’m turning back. I turn around and see the man walking away. He is about 4 inches shorter than me, which makes him about 5 ft 1”. He is wearing a white kurta and a shalwar pulled up to expose his ankles. Under a skullcap he has bob cut hair that falls below his ears. I don’t know how I get his attention; did I say ‘oye’? But he turns and I see he is wearing glasses, just like me, and he has a little goatee.

“Tum nay mujhay haath lagaya hai, dekh kay chalo karo”

“Mainay tumhay kuch nahin kiya, tum khud dekh kar chala karo”. He is angry. I am drawing attention to him.

“Tum nay mujhay haath lagaya hai”, I have so much to say but I cannot seem to find the words to say it. There is something building up inside me that I recognize only too well, perhaps Arif sees it too because he steps in between, rebukes the man and I move away. As I turn to go the man shout “Abbay shakal dekhi hai apni, kyoon tujhay haath lagaoon ga?” He is practically screaming now. He thinks he has won. Anyone watching will only see a flustered woman turning away from a small, skinny maulvi sahib.

As my foot hits the first of the steps down (we are on the second floor) I look down into the lobby and see men in white uniforms. Mall security. There are so many people around, but they’re wearing caps and are visible through the throng. “Should I complain to mall security?” I ask? “If you want to,” says Arif. A and her fiancé keep silent. Two more steps and I start to think, “maybe it was just an accident. I mean we were turning the corner, maybe it was an accident.” One floor down and I think I will let it go.

I take the second corner. The urge to cry comes unbidden. Chasing upon the heels is the thought that I have given someone the power to make me cry, someone wholly undeserving of that privilege. I replay the feel of contact in my head. The shoulder brush was innocent, but can I really mistake the intent of hand between thigh and quick move on? Is this the sum of my worth? Groped in public and helpless in response? My hands are beginning to shake; it creeps down to my legs, heat climbs unhindered. Teary Shandana slaps herself in the head. Remember you telling your students if anyone ever touched them in a way that made them uncomfortable they should tell someone? Empowering others and quivering yourself are you?

My foot touches the stone floor of the lobby and I am thinking again. Some part of me is just reacting, wanting the satisfaction of kicking him and beating him and making him sorry. I make myself think, and head over to the security guards.

“aap mall security hain?”

“Ji”

“ Aik admi nay mujhay haath lagaya hai” (I cannot seem to get beyond this phrase, this simple statement of fact, but why should I have to?)

“Kahan?”

“Second floor pay hai wo”

“Describe kar saktey hain?”

I describe him. They cannot miss him. He is the only one dressed like that. “chota sa maulvi” I think I say. Arif helps. They ask if we can wait, I tell them we can. They move towards the stairs. Behind me A says “ghussa,” with a smacking of the lips to emphasize the sibilant ghusssss, and smiles. She does not seem surprised, but then her standard line when introducing me to people is “yeh wo pagal larki hai jo bohat ajeeb si harkatain karti hai.” Her fiancé has yet to say a word. I tell them they should leave if they’re getting late and they go.

The point mall is a small place. It is crowded, but it is small. If something is happening, people will feel the ripple of it’s passing. We stand out in the center where we can see the upper galleries; another guard appears and asks what happened then moves into the center with us and starts scanning the upper floors. I don’t remember if it is Arif or the guard who see him first. He is still doing his circuits of the upper floor. A small, skinny man dressed like a maulvi, doing circuits for God knows how long. Does he take it a floor at a time, his rounds in the sanctuary of infidels who wear jeans and smile at each other? Does he come here every weekend to stroke his pound of flesh? Does he wear that outfit to disguise himself? Is it his magic carpet to a higher level of being from which he can mark, and judge, and feel, our passing?

The guard alerts the ones searching above and point out the man. They move to either side of him and escort him down with an arm under each elbow. He is very small. They bring him to the ground floor and take him into a shadowy corridor with a door to the outside at the end. His feet are skidding a little, and people are looking. People passing stage whisper “whats going on?” to each other. “Something must have happened”. One man comes up and says, “what happened?” “Some guy” I tell him.



A man in a green shirt, also some sort of official, beckons us into the corridor. Three men have him at the end of it.

“Yeh admi hai?”

“Ji.” I look him straight in the eye, this small skinny man, smaller then me yet obviously thinking himself more powerful. Again the pressure starts building in my stomach and somewhere I seem to hear a kettle steaming, about to sing. “Yehi hai”. I fold my arms across my chest, not a defensive gesture this time, but a wise one. What else will I do with them? I don’t need my hands right now. I need my control. I need my dignity. Most of all, I need this man to know he cannot do that to anyone. Not to me, not to my friends, not to strangers, and certainly not to the memory lapping at the corners of my mind, of children whispering furtive stories in PSD classes about how someone fondled them and they didn’t do anything but they felt so ‘dirty’.

The guards say something to the man, angrily and he protests “mein nay to inko kabhi dekha hi nahin.’

More accusations. More protests. I am not a part of them yet. Is this ‘preliminary interrogation?”

“Kabhi haath lag jata hai, galti say, bohat saray log hain idhar” he says

“Pakistani aurton ko bohat achi tarhan say pata hai kay haath laganay mein aur galti say choonay mein kya fark hota hai,” flies out of my mouth. I seem to be speaking very fast. I find myself stepping towards him again, my hand comes up and my finger splay outwards. The green shirt nods and says “yeh to such hai”, as if I’ve delivered the appropriate dialogue.

He whips off his skullcap and says “main Mussalman hoon”, presents his appearance in his defense. Can a man dressed like this do something like that he points out?

I move forward again at that. Once again, allowed in the name of Allah. Allah the beneficent and merciful.

“Tum jaisay log kitni dair is kay peechay chuphay raho gay!”, my voice is rising. Arif says “Shan” and keeps me back gently with one hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry karo gay ya nahin. Warna police ko bola lain gay” they tell him.

“sorry kar laita hoon, laikin..”

He is no longer small and skinny. He is small and skinny and pathetic. The idea was to scare him, give him incentive to not do this again. Arif tells them we just want them to warn him. Scare him and let him go. They keep their hands on him, make him feel trapped, helpless, backed into a dark corner like an animal. As we turn to go they throw him out the door.

“I’m sorry sir” the green shirt tells Arif, “aap log ab aram say ghoomain.”

Arif and I head for the elevators. We’ll have to wait, and suddenly the thought of staying inside this box of lights and colour seems abhorrent to me. “Lets go” I say, and take the stairs one at a time, carefully, so the sponge in my legs will have time to be saturated with strength.

We find our car and head home. Arif sings along the way, something he doesn’t often do but knows that I love. Not that he’s a good singer, but his songs have a certain otherworldly charm. Tonight it’s “I look at the moon, oh wait it’s my head.”

At home I change my clothes immediately. I pace up and down, waiting for the pressure in my head to lessen and my legs to loose the springs beneath them. Someday I might just jump off a building to see if I bounce. I make tea with lots of sugar. And write.