Life as in Islamabad (2007)

Published June 5, 2007

Background: This is an old piece published in 2007 when I was working and living (it up) in Islamabad. I had just returned home after a work-related conference in Orlando, Florida. Through this article I was trying to capture my average weekend in Islamabad. Things were quite exciting in the city in those days: Chicks with Sticks refers to the Jamia Hafsa gals trying to stir things up —no one took them seriously —and the city was expanding its road system to handle the thousands of cars thanks to easy car leasing. Islamabad was growing and expanding. I do feel slightly envious as I compare my weekends in 2007 in Islamabad to the ones in 2012 in Calgary but hey no complaints!

If you are wondering why I am posting old stuff: Magic of the Printed Word

Life as in Islamabad

As I returned to the Land of the Pure and Islamabad the Beautiful, things were pretty much the same as I had left them: roads were all dug up, the traffic police was smiling even in the heat —making you wonder what they were high on — and the chicks with sticks continued to stir things up. 

I had decided to wear a kamiz shalwar (traditional Pakistani dress) on the flight back from the US in a curiosity to observe how I would be treated traveling from half way around the world. While there wasn’t much difference in how I was looked at, talked to or the food I was served —except for the one time I was called to explain to an elephant-sized sari-clad woman from Agra why her protruding elbows were an aisle traffic hazard —I realized the benefits of traveling in your shalloos. The duppata(a shawl with the dress) can double as an extra pillow, blanket and towel. You can amuse the children of fellow passengers by pretending to be super girl while waiting at the terminal and in case the plane crashes and you land on a deserted island you can use it to call attention to yourself, and while you wait for help to arrive, have a picnic on your duppata spread. It also comes in handy to hide your face from people you don’t want to bump into at Dubai Airport and lastly you are definitely safe, incase there are any Jamia Hafsa Hotline enthusiasts at the airport. 



As I dealt with my jet lag with a daily dose of Panadol Night every Night, the week days passed with catching up on work and all the news I had missed: the rallies, the raids, the power outages and the lesbian marriages. 

On Saturday morning as I pondered over my predictable Saturday morning ritual of self indulgence: the ATM stops, shampoo, shoe etc shopping and the DVD stock-up, my guilt over the vicious circle of consumerism was brought to a sudden interruption as I faced the closed sign in front of my favorite salon for renovations.

Saturday mornings without an appointment is a situation you don't want to be in and the only places which will accept you are the Chinese parlors. As I made my way in through the jingling door, 12 pairs of eyes followed my every movement as I searched for who was in charge there. Yes, low cost measures ensure that there is no welcome desk. A wait time of half an hour easily translates into an hour and a half here, so I tried to make myself comfortable between two heavy pairs of aunty hips and analyzed the situation around me. 



There is a secret code of ethics governing the Beauty Parlor space: if you stare at anyone too long through the mirror you might be put on the spot and asked how the new hair color or cut looks. The skin is holy ground, you never tell someone they are too dark, too pale, too patchy or too fake. Ugliness does not exist. No mistake happens unless someone acknowledges it and the only reply to all questions is “fabulous”, that is unless it’s your own turn on the hot seat. So the clients comforted each other and worked as a big support group, while the Chinese attendants continued to work on them indifferently and chatting with each other in mandarin. Their collective laughter after five minutes sounded suspiciously like a joke on one of us.

When you live in a town as small and homely as Islamabad, small news have big consequences, I realized this as I found myself at McHorror trying to win a Shrek 3 character for my nephew from the Happy Meal Loot. Apparently my nephew was not the only five-year old who had heard the news. We had tough competition. There were only a few decent mini dragons to be had, since no self-respecting five year old wanted the ginger bread man with his squeaky voice. And that’s it! Those were the only two characters available! Even I felt emotionally enraged and joined in the loud protests of Inequality, Injustice and Tyranny before I realized that it was all the McHorror food in my system speaking up. So while we are debating why our McHorror is not as well stocked or why our kids do not get the same representation and distribution to the Shrek 3 characters say as a kid in say Montreal, how about adding salads to the McHorror menu for the adults who have to chaperone the kids for the weekly/daily visit to the playpen shrine. 



As we made our way back home, the streets were busy with anti-smoking campaign banners. The most interesting one being “are you dying for a smoke today”, which was being fixed in place by a 17 year old looking volunteer juggling a cigarette in his free hand.

Yes Islamabad was still the same: familiar, predictable, with its interesting twists and turns (mostly dug now for expanding the roads) but I was so glad to be home.

Be Smart Act Dumb

Published in The Friday Times, March 2007

(This is an old article i wrote five years back, when I was a high-flying corporate slave. My views might not have changed! If you need background on why I am posting old published stuff please read the earlier post: Magic of the Printed Word).

While the smart girls were busy fighting for their rights, and proving their worth, the smarter ones decided to act dumb. Yes, Smart is Over Smart and Dumb is the new Smart.

All their lives qualified, intelligent, sweet-looking young girls have had one adversary standing in their path to glory: the Damsel in Distress. While they have the best ideas: she gets all the credit, while they toil away at work till 10 at night: she arrives the next morning and gets all her work done by fluttering her eyelashes, while they scare away men by out-witting them: she has the best of the lot fighting for a chance to help her out.

So who is smart here and who is dumb? Is the Dumb Blonde species far more evolved than we had considered them? Is all that makeup camouflage for the smartest female on the block?

Armed with degrees from universities with intimidating names, career paths that are the envy of their male peers, and a ridiculously high IQ level, the smart female is a scary lunch partner. She already knows that there was a bomb blast in Timbaktoo two hrs ago, has an opinion on the documentary you saw last weekend, will give you honest professional insights on what was wrong with your presentation yesterday and already knows the punch line of your joke. Compare this with lunch conversation with a Dumb Blonde. She is attentive to every story you tell her, will ohhh and ahh at all the right moments, says “really, is that so?” in the cutest fashion and makes you feel like the smartest guy on the planet. Intoxicated with this confidence you are willing to take down the wall of Berlin at her beck and call, while she lazily files her already manicured nails.


So while the smart ones convene and laugh at the Dumb Blondes jokes, are the dumb ones actually having the last laugh? Do they have the intelligence to recreate the software architecture itself while they pretend and struggle attaching a file in their emails? Do they laugh silently as they watch the smart ones fall in their traps: demonstrate how to do things the right way and eventually end up volunteering to work on the weekend, while the Dumb Blondes enjoy their weekend at the spa?

With the effortless way their schemes work, I have reason to believe that the Dumb Blondes must have a secret society somewhere. It is secret because by the rules of the Dumb Blonde Game, they are not allowed to get along with each other in front of others. This makes people believe that one Dumb Blonde is the enemy of the other, whereas they share all the insights gathered with each other at their monthly meetings. How else is each Damsel in Distress so oblivious to her surroundings but completely equipped to forward her own self interest.

Once you decide to play the Dumb Blonde Damsel in Distress Game, life becomes an easy ride. It is best to start early. So in play school, the boy sitting next to you, will give you his own fries, while he munches on your dry sandwich. Your grade two friend will let you cheat on her assignment and get a lower grade because the teacher thinks the idea is not original. Your teacher will let you get off the hook because he seriously believes that your dog ate the fish which ate the homework. You will be the first one picked for all group projects and spend the rest of the semester sitting in the canteen and take the occasional coke to the ones actually working. The privileges do not end here: you will be the first one in your group of girl friends to get married (best of luck with that though!) and have the largest rock on your finger. While your “smarter” friends complain about the lack of decent men, you will enjoy coffee mornings while your kids are taken care of by the nanny, because your husband understands your fear that you will drop the baby. Your children will pamper you when they grow up because they want Mom to relax and take a cruise on the Mediterranean after a “stressful” life and you will happily play golf while your retired rich husband is lying in bed unable to move after his stroke.

So please line up and join the Dumb Blonde parade, being smart is not as smart as it used to be.