Thirty-Eight

The heat should have warned me of the things to come. Of unpleasant, chilling things that make you want to cringe and throw up breakfast, lunch and dinner all in one go, complete with stomach juices. It has served its purpose. And while I haven’t thrown up, I certainly feel like a shriveled prune, unwanted and disgusted by its own futility. I was once glorious...but the rage continues unabated….

Voting is an out-of-the-blue decision for me. A cynic and a prude, I am just too darn good for this country and its polls. I will watch with indifference and conveniently bend over when asked to do so, then lament that the hooligans have been elected once again, but vote I will not because I must live up to my South-Asian apathy. That was until a lil birdie logged on to MSN and gave me just what I needed. Bitter words leading to bitter truths. “Disappointment doesn’t mean that you should become indifferent,” said the birdie, furious. “Easier said than done.” I angrily typed out in CAPS. “U DON’T LIVE HERE!” Cheap shot. The birdie left, leaving me baffled, blocked and sadly aware of what I was doing. So sixty minutes and two fruit yogurts later, I venture out in that god-awful sun. Blasts of hot air kiss my face. “What the crap…?” I mutter covering my freshly washed hair with a dupatta. Bloody furnace. Why doesn’t Mother Nature take her vengeance and lose herself on the way to Venus?…The pious virgin image is magnified when I lower my head to avoid eye contact with the heat that is frying my skin to a crisp. I see chappals on my feet. Shit, not good especially when you have a foot fetish the size of Karachi. I am just about to rush back inside and don something more appropriate when mum says: “Now isn’t this exciting? Your very first vote!” Mummy dearest does the trick. Suddenly I am giddy at the prospect of being counted. I mean, OH MY GOD!!! I am for the very first time going to make a difference. Screw the feet, heck I’m going to vote. Grinning stupidly, I head off to the polling station with my family, letting others deal with the cloud of dust that lingers behind us. The heat dissolves when I’m safe in the knowledge that I am important. Or have the potential to be. I wonder what my school principal would say right about now if I told her just how essential I was for my country? Always thought I wouldn’t amount to much, didn’t you? Well take that you old hag! The grin turns into a giggle and mum throws me an odd look…

Into the courtyard of the polling station, a run-down school that I wouldn’t be caught dead setting my foot in; we scurry towards a shady sanctuary, eager to let the sun scorch other backs. A policeman standing nearby beckons us. He dabs his moist, glistening forehead with the back of his sleeve and tells us exactly what to do. “Go upstairs. Third right. That’s where your polling booth is.” Impressed we mumble a word of thanks and do what he tells us. “You will vote for MQM won’t you Aapa?” Kashif, my brother beams at me expectantly. His question causes me great distress. I am as solemn as a loaf of brown bread now. Typically eighteen, that’s what he is. Capricious and gullible. “No!” I say shortly. He glares at me but says nothing. I glare back. Someday he will thank me…

“Line banaiye please!” a bespectacled lady bellows and we arrange ourselves, one behind the other, like rolls of toilet paper waiting to be used. She looks for the lady’s name in front of me in an ominous list and recites a bunch of numbers that four other very bored women pen down quickly. One of them scratches her head. Dandruff from all the stress. A veiled woman walks out from a corner of the room that is separated by a soiled, floral bed sheet. She hobbles towards me. “Kiss ko vote do gi beta?” She asks. It’s Razia Auntie, our parosi, a bonafide Jamaati. Actions speak louder than words. I point to a poster that screams, “Apnay vote ko raaz rakhiye” in bold letters. Her eyes narrow down to slits and I can sense her frown, the abusive things that she is dying to hurl at me. “Well you must always start in the name of God.” She turns to leave but not before giving my hand a painful, knowing squeeze. I give her my most plastic smile and Razia Auntie knows that I’m a lost cause. She wanted me to vote for the Muttahida Majlis-e-Amal (MMA). Fat chance! The day I do that is the day Pizza Hut turns into a poor man’s paradise…I chuckle as I cast my vote. Go Imran Khan!!! May the wickets you took in cricket pale in comparison to the arses you will whoop in the Parliament….

Eating in at my naani’s place usually has a motive behind it. My maternal family fiercely believes in celebrating everything. A good grade, a new kitchen, a recent arrival, strong bonds, when they inherited their millions, Election Day. These are reasons for them to rejoice. Small victories that leave them breathless with happiness. Years of conditioning to a contagious bliss of sorts have left me optimistic, quite like them. And so on this grand October afternoon, I’m sitting with my maamoos and maamis, cousins and naani munching a localized version of a Burmese delight. N maami brings in a curry refill while A mamoo generously sprinkles onions on his food. “Inshallah sub acha ho ga iss dafa,” he comments swallowing the grinded pieces of meat. I nod in agreement but more so because somewhere in those rusty green and white ballot boxes lie two votes that have been neatly stamped in the empty spaces provided next to the bat. I am grinning again…later in the afternoon Yumna and Rubyah, my baby cousins make me draw apples as we sit, satiated, in front of the TV. Anticipation grows. Life is indeed beautiful…

The power that brought me triumph and invincibility has taken a backseat. It’s exhausted and is slowly dissipating. Underlying suspicions are emerging. Doubts muddle clarity. Self-assurance has lost its ground to fear and sorrow. I am terrified as I realize that the scales have grotesquely tipped in favor of MMA. The figures are inflating from two to four to thirteen to thirty-eight. I break out into a cold sweat. The young Afghan vagrant whose threat to ‘make us pay’ a few weeks ago, when I refused to give him money, echoes a bit too loudly: “Dekhna hum log tum log ko kaisaa seedha karay ga!” Goodbye Karachi University? Sound thought is predictably elusive…
………

The Jamaati parosi has sent us mithai this morning. “MMA ki aamad mobarak ho,” her son drones pushing the plate of laddoos in my hand. I fumble and almost drop the six, yellow balls of sweetmeat on the floor…I think of the Afghan boy as I put them on the table. Will he eat them or will he give me more laddoos? What about doughnuts? Does he like doughnuts? Or will he spit on my face if I give him the goodies with chocolate sprinkles, accusing me of feeding him poison? Understandably pissed at myself I go back to reading the business pages. The laddoos remain untouched, wanting to be devoured. Six, yellow balls laughing behind my back. Hysterical mirth thriving in my living room…Three hours after their presence I edge close to the table and pick one up. It smells sweet and nutty. I gulp as I begin to take a bite out of its corrosion….Rubyah walks in on my acceptance, wearing her PJs. The brat needs a bath, I muse making a mental note. “Look Samina Aapi!” she gives me a toothless smile and the bite doesn’t materialize. “I can make bubbles!” She squeals with laughter, twirling and blowing detergent bubbles out of a paper cone. Huge bubbles that produce tiny rainbows when the light is just right. She twirls and twirls, making the bubbles spin around her, almost like a spellbinding ritual. I let go of laddoo. It lands amidst a pile of banana peels and used tea leaves as I begin to dance with Rubyah’s bubbles.