And by walking out, I don’t mean the ultimate daring act of female emancipation-walking out on whatever or whoever has been holding you back. For me, a single 26-year-old woman living alone in Pakistan, walking out in order to buy groceries from a local market is an equally supreme act of adventurous audacity. The adjectives describing my current status may deter me from doing so, but as they say, a girl’s got to eat; I embark on my weekly missions of ‘hide and seek’ that command far more ingenuity, rigor, patience and sacrifice than the game of our childhood inculcated us with.
It’s Tuesday, the early February sun is blaring as if it’s a usually hot spring day in late March; but not enough to put me off from donning my all-encompassing jersey black abaya, coupled with an equally thick dark chador over the head-the ensemble helps in ‘fading of the self’ and is my biggest aid on these solo missions. Its (super) power shall shield me from prying, lecherous eyes of the other sex. Now, I don’t say that all eyes out there go all Mad-eye Moody on me, but it should be taken for granted that the male gaze is as fickle as a woman’s body. As I fling my long robe before me, I marvel at how the seamless marriage of a religious commandment of the hijab and cultural necessity, has made the situation a win-win for me.
I step out and immediately modify my stature to get into a fighting position. I hunch my shoulders and pull down my chador way down to my belly button- not even a Moody eyeball can detect the slightest hint of supple curvatures I have been cursed with. I turn left onto a sidewalk with thundering afternoon traffic rustling past me. My bleak surroundings reek of exhaust fumes and testosterone. I complement my hunched gait with small brisk steps, almost a light sprint. This tactic is used to send out a subtle message that I am out here for a purpose and not to loiter around for sightseeing-for that activity is reserved for the other sex, and ‘loose girls’ of course. Women should always walk like they can’t wait to be back where they actually fit-inside a house that is. As for the expressions, I keep them demure but purposeful. The former because I am wallowing in self-pity for being forced to venture out here in the open without a husband or a girl gang, and later, so that I can vicariously tell the other sex that I can’t be taken advantage of; A resolute appearance is needed so women aren’t messed around with.
As I walk further, alternating between keeping my gaze lowered and looking up for any life-threatening hurdles on my path, I see a man squatting while holding something in his hand. Honestly, it’s not as much the sight of a limp penis but the puddle of yellow water forming in front of him which ferociously turns my stomach. Here I am hiding my ‘piety’ in a two-fold tent, and there is the other sex, unabashedly flaunting the very cause of that tent. Anyways, I cannot linger to give mental feminist sermons to myself, for I am here to stock my pantry, not destroy the edifice of toxic masculinity. Inadvertently, I change my course to visit the most hygienic shop nearby-the Bakery.
I wait at the end of a long queue of (mostly) men, which seems to have formed in the busy lunchtime hour, clutching a loaf of bread and basking in the clean, semi-cool air of the shop. Alas, the misplaced chivalry of men in front won’t allow for that. I am ushered forward as the chivalry is transferred from man to man in tandem with my steps. Now anyone on a time crunch would appreciate the gesture but I know better of the seedy reasoning and ruinous consequences of such ‘privileges’ granted to me. It allows the men to hide their anguish and discomfort upon finding a woman in their midst; their intrinsic desire for familiarity can only be granted by an all-male public space; by letting me jump the line or giving me the ‘seat on the bus’, the other sex can hide their insecurity under the guise of good manners. Consequently, the other sex gets gentleman’s nod of approval and I get the ‘woman card’ I never asked for. On and on it goes, this reinforcement of patriarchal dogma that crudely reiterates my genuine misfit-ness to stand on a footing with men; and if some dire circumstances have forced me to be here, then the gracious residents of public spaces need to make ‘adjustments’ to ‘accommodate’ me.
After causing this unintended inconvenience, I make my way across the bazaar where my survivalist maneuvers are further tested. I peak my regular pharmacy window but decide against entering-for the guy in charge had asked how my mother was doing the last time I visited the shop. A quick tip: if given a choice, always opt for shops with elderly shopkeepers, who may or may not fulfill your stereotype of a jovial old uncle. Actually: the ruder the better. The concept of a friendly shopkeeper is lost on me, as I would prefer bitter disinterest of octogenarians than the unsolicited niceness of a guy that might border on ‘creepy’. Politeness can mean a whole lot of things here and so I don’t take my chances.
I snake my way back, now laden with plastic bags of various proportions, along with scores of men trudging past, and count three different nudges in a span of a 4-minute walk; two elbow and one shoulder rub-I deduce. I take solace in my conclusion that only one of these brushings had been intentional-and that it wasn’t my bum this time.
Once back to my room, I crash the bags on the bed and take a sigh: my body finally belonging to me- how wild.
The writer is a graduate from the University of London, and a single woman in her 20s with a room of her own to write- just as Virginia Wolf recommended. She can be reached at maleehadurani28@gmail.com