When I-Day turns into D-Day

Boys will be boys on most days but on August 14, most Pakistani men will also turn into pubescent teenagers. Out on the roads on their silencer-less motorcycles and sun-roofed civics, these “men-children” raise havoc on the traffic and the opposite sex.

Stuck in a traffic jam on Walton Road, I tried to think of ways to entertain myself. Just when I am about to “tune into” City FM89 - desperate situations call for desperate measures - there was a knock on my car window. A teenage boy in a red golf cap, probably Armani, stuck his arm outside the window of his brand new Toyota and waved a piece of paper at me. Without my glasses on, all I could make out was a name written in inverted Urdu and a few crooked digits.

This is Independence Day for me: exhausted after a hard day’s work and unable to get home because a couple of adolescent hooligans were using August 14 as an excuse to throw a city-wide bachelor party. On Independence Day, most people around the world remember the names of their national heroes and honour their courage and vision. They are grateful that that they pledged their lives, fortunes, and sometimes even their sacred honor to create independent states for “We the people”. While most nations do think these thoughts, the Pakistani youth - treating Independence Day as the perfect distraction from “idle” pursuits like studying - obviously has other things on its mind.

Talking about my red-golf-hat-boy, I wondered if his government officer of a father knew what he is up to this late on August 14. Did he know that his son was wasting his “hard” earned bribe money on fuel that would allow him to take his shenanigans to any corner of the city? Did he know that his “staunch Muslim” son would be throwing post-it-notes at girls all night? Did he think for even a second that his son could be one out of the hundreds who die in road accidents on August 14 every year? When he opens the newspaper tomorrow, will he stop to wonder that maybe it was his son’s reckless driving that killed three women and countless children in hit-and-run accidents?

I bet he won’t be thinking these things. But I do wonder about them all the time. I wonder what kind of socially deprived crackpots these boys are to drive aimlessly all over town in such sweltering weather. I wonder if these rich boys think that the ill-tasting music that emanates out of the rolled down windows of their exorbitantly expensive cars makes them look “cool”. Does juggling the steering wheel with one hand and a glistening, feature-loaded mobile phone with the other make them more socially acceptable? Do they get a brownie point for each girl they shamelessly fling their (mobile) phone number at? If only money could buy grace.

About thirty yards in front of my car, a Suzuki Dabba is parked in the middle of the road. Meticulously gift-wrapped in streamers, it has been dusted and powdered like an out-of-work-courtesan and presented before a queue of potential spectators. About a dozen boys (read: men) ranging from age 13 to 30 hang from its railings in place of streams of mini-flags. Shouting “Pakistan Zindabad” and doing what seems to be a frenzied African dance in the back of the van, these enthusiastic patriots obviously belong to a generation that religiously supports the “don’t waste your time, cut across the line” hypothesis. I don’t disagree with their fervour; I don’t even deny that it is fervour. But I won’t pretend for even a minute that I agree with this shameless display of irresponsibility as citizens of a state. I can’t say that I understand and accept the meaning of driving in the wrong direction on a one-way road. What baffles me even more is how, breaking the law in such a blatant manner, and putting your own life and the life of others in danger, qualifies as a show of loyalty to one’s country and its people.

Mr Red-golf-cap is relentless in his efforts to get my attention. I don’t think he realizes exactly how stupid he looks pretending to be Neo of Matrix fame, clumsily flapping open his mobile phone and pointing at the white flickering screen. I can’t help but notice that it is the latest Nokia that I have wanted to buy for weeks. Yes. We people are terribly conscious of who we are and what we wear: the brand of our cell phone defines us. Our body language (and paraphernalia that we embellish it with) speaks of our passion for appearances. Even in our own country, on the earth we called our own on this day 57 years ago, we are posing; performing before a live audience, a part that defies the historical backdrop of the country.

Maybe it is just that I am too critical. Or maybe, there really is a problem. Maybe a lack of trust in the social arrangement has made us unsure of what exactly it is that we should place our hopes and pride in; in perfunctory, mechanical gadgets that come with a one-year-warranty and no more, or political leaders whose commitment no service contract can guarantee? The choice is ours to make. Which do we choose: personal gain and aggrandizement at the expense of those around us or equality of opportunity for all; celebrating independence in our own lonely corners or coming together as a nation on a glorious day, and allowing for an organised system that grants each citizen the freedom to celebrate his freedom in a civilized manner without fearing police action?

In a society where hope is a precious commodity, let us not be parasites. Let us heed the call of independence. Let us not allow freedom to be lost in the din of silencer-less automobiles. Let us unblock those roads and allow freedom to pass through without fear or favour.