She
by Bilal Farrukh
With the suddenness of an unexpected visitor, the hand snakes its way onto her body, brushing her waist gently, yet with a firmness that signifies belonging. The shock of it makes her deaf to the sentence that follows, and she can only catch the last few words: ‘Maybe if you try copy pasting it here through Excel…’
They are spoken almost casually, those words, with a nonchalance that is devoid of the authority with which the hand has laid claim to her body. It is as if they are two separate entities, belonging to different people.
The shock subsides and is replaced by a clouded feeling that begins to expand inside her head until she feels light and disconnected. She tries to move, to raise her hands or shift in her seat, but finds that she cannot. The glow from the monitor has her transfixed in a hypnotic trance. Faint clicks resound in her ears as he expertly maneuvers the mouse, the screen in front of her changing from window to window. He is bent over her, with his head next to hers, his chest looming over her shoulders. And that hand, an alien entity of unknown origin, still rests lazily on her lower waist, like an amnesiac owner returned to reclaim forgotten property.
“There you go, now if you try it again it should work...” He rises to leave, and just like that, the hand is gone, escaping unnoticed from the folds of her flesh as he saunters past her.
She looks around. The sea of cubicles surrounding her are quiet, undisturbed. Frowning faces tap away at their keyboards with grim, unwavering focus. She looks down at herself. At the salmon-colored nail polish on her hands. At her dress, which is of the same shade, smoothly ironed in all places but one.
The wrinkles on her waist stand out like tiny mountains: a valley of obstacles in an otherwise smooth journey. The clock shows ten minutes to two. She waits in her seat, her hands resting composedly on her lap, being careful not to move too fast for fear of erasing the wrinkles, and inviting the hand back to create them again.
Ten minutes later, she’s walking down the hallway, with her ID badge off her neck and stuffed in her purse. Her dress flows modestly down to her shins; the wrinkles have gone, leaving no trace behind. As she steps outside the door, the sun’s blistering wrath coils around her in a suffocating embrace, undoing the effects of 6 hours in an air conditioned office in a matter of seconds. The lulling click of keyboards is now replaced with a thousand different horns, intermingling, converging, and dispersing like a mad orchestra as cars and buses speed past her on the triple-forked road.
To her left there is a parked rickshaw. She hurries towards it, keeping her head low to be shielded from the sweltering gaze of the sun, and from the penetrating gaze of the men ambling on the sidewalk next to her. The rickshaw driver is an old, potbellied man with an ashen beard fluffed up like cotton candy.
“Tariq Road jaana hai, kitnay lengey?”
“200 rupay,” he replies unblinkingly.
She gets inside and the rickshaw coughs and sputters to a start. They turn around and meld seamlessly into the flowing river of traffic, the rickshaw’s shrill horn soon drowned out by a chorus of similar cries.
The road is dotted with cracks and ditches, and each jarring shock she feels is a welcome distraction from the intrusive thoughts that are starting to creep into her mind. Looking down at her waist, she finds that the wrinkles have appeared again, three small creases neatly marking the conjunction of her torso and hip. She tries to smooth them out, but the rickshaw’s space is compact, and she is sitting with her dress bunched up around her like a blooming azalea. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot make them disappear—they have infested her dress in every spot.
As the rickshaw tumbles over an unexpectedly large pothole and causes her to jolt sideways painfully in her seat, her gaze strays reflexively up and onto the rearview mirror in front, where she finds a pair of eyes looking at her.
They stare directly at her, unflinching, like a pair of dull, frozen marbles, almost salivating with hunger. Her skin pimples with revulsion, and for a nauseating moment she can feel their touch crawling all over her. An infuriating feeling of being probed overcomes her then, and she stares back defiantly at them in the mirror, maintaining contact for a few seconds, before they avert their gaze back to the front. Instinctively, she folds her arms across her chest and shrinks into a tiny corner in the empty seats, gathering her wrinkled dress around her like a protective shield.
It takes them twenty minutes to reach the bazaar. Handing the money to the driver, she is careful not to look at him, though her skin prickles as she senses his gaze on her.
From where she stands, the clothes bazaar is not too far away, she can make out the rows of wooden tables decorated with colored cloths that extend into the distance. Navigating the traffic, the potholes on the street, and the incoming tide of pedestrians, she walks her way slowly to the shops. Once more as she passes by, she can feel the watchful eyes of men on motorcycles, men loitering on the sidewalks, and men handling stalls fall upon her. The intrusiveness of their stare forces her to lower her eyes and keep her gaze focused in front of her, as if she is searching intently for a lost treasure.
A couple of meters to her right she spots the stall she is looking for; its owner sits cross-legged on top, fiddling with his phone, partly obstructed by a heap of clothes. She reaches the stall and calls for his attention.
“Bhaijaan?’
His eyes flicker upwards. They settle on her for a second, and then travel down her body with deliberate slowness. She stands there in the sun, waiting with a patient helplessness while he lazily looks her over from head to toe, as if guessing her measurements to surprise her with a suit tailored especially for her. The entire ordeal takes less than two seconds, but she has become so used to it that those subtle eye movements are now as obvious as a turn of the head. For a brief second she considers calling him out, but this thought too has entered her mind many times before, and she knows she will not act on it.
“Jee Baaji?” the shopkeeper inquires.
“Aapko kapra diya tha parson alteration key liye.”
He stops to think for a moment, and then turns to go through a neatly folded pile of clothes laid out next to him. After a few seconds, he takes out a maroon cloth, and puts it into a blue shopper, which he places in front of her.
“250 rupay hogaye.”
She sifts through her purse for the money, and hands him the notes. Taking the cash from her, he nods slightly and gives her an amiable smile, as if entirely unaware of the events that transpired a few seconds ago.
Shopper in-hand, she starts walking back in the direction from where she came. To her left is the double-road, with the scattering of cars and rickshaws slowly inching forward in the clogged space, with bikers deftly maneuvering through the tiny openings like water trickling through cracks. To her right lie various buildings with open fronts; she can see the rows of shops furnished with clothes and jewelry.
As she passes by the shops, the sidewalk she is on becomes narrow and broken with edges of broken pipes and bricks strewn across it. She carefully places her feet in the open spaces, being careful not to graze her skin or get the threads of her dress caught on any sharp edges.
She is so focused on doing this that it is too late before she notices the gaggle of people heading towards her; six bearded men dressed in kurtas approaching from the front.
She pauses immediately mid-stride, like a deer caught in headlights. Looking around, she finds that the sidewalk is too narrow to move to the side, meaning she will have to walk right through them. A wave of tension roils in her stomach as she shuffles forward, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. The group approaching is busy in conversation, and she has not been noticed.
As she comes face-to-face with the men, their eyes fall upon her and they part, allowing her space to walk through. This is the moment that she has been dreading. Her breath hitches in her throat as she takes a step forward briskly. With her eyes downcast, she takes another step, until there comes a point when she’s right in the middle of the group, with the men surrounding her as they pass through. At this point her anxiety crests, and her flesh clenches in anticipation of the touch it is surely going to receive. Her fingernails dig into her palm with painful intensity as she waits for a stray arm to graze her waist, or brush against her thigh. The entire moment is a split-second long, but for her time has turned into treacle, and she painfully tries to navigate the viscous moment, waiting for that dreaded touch to arrive, which it surely will.
And suddenly, just like it came, the moment passes, and she is left standing on the sidewalk alone, untouched. For a few seconds she remains where she is, unable to move. Then slowly, she looks down at her dress. With a dim puzzlement she realizes that she is shaking; her arms and legs quiver slightly like gently plucked guitar strings. A thin film of sweat encases her body, and she can feel her breath coming out in irregular rasps.
An overwhelming feeling of vulnerability overtakes her then, dizzying in its intensity. With trembling legs, she manages to drag herself forward, crossing the sidewalk and going towards a long line of rickshaws parked at the far end. Giving the driver the address of her home, she stumbles into the backseat, and with a feeling of relief senses some of her apprehension subsiding.
The journey home is long and rocky, and she keeps her eyes closed, deliberately trying not to look in the mirror in front of her. The rickshaw slows to a stop as they arrive, and she manages to haul herself out, handing the driver the fare and watching him speed away into the distance.
There is a silver corolla parked outside her house, her Mamu’s; he often comes over for lunch. Using her key, she opens the gate and heads toward the front door, where the clamor of plates and utensils reaches her, along with a chorus of cheery voices. She finds her Mamu and his wife seated at the table along with her mother and younger brother. They all turn to welcome her as she enters, and she smiles weakly in response.
“Salam – Alaikum,” she says to everyone, as she joins them at the table, taking a seat next to her brother.
Her Mamu asks her a few questions about how her day was and how her job is going, and she answers politely that everything is fine.
Then the conversation resumes its natural course, and she busies herself with the food on her plate.
Almost immediately her attention drifts away, and the voices around her become muffled noises in the background, interrupted by bursts of laughter and by the clinking of cutlery against plates.
She is absorbed in her thoughts, picking at her food listlessly, when her Mamu says something and it pricks her attention. She raises her head slightly to listen.
“—so that is why I was saying that all this Aurat march ka chakkar is complete nonsense. I mean, how can you ask for equality when you are built entirely different from men? It is, like I say, cooking two different types of halwa in the same way. You can’t do that, because then they lose their individual uniqueness!”
With a satisfied grunt he leans backwards, pausing to let them chew on the profound wisdom of his words. Then his gaze falls on her. “What do you say beta, am I not talking sense?”
She pauses for a second, her fork hanging midair above her plate of rice, then replies: “Yes Mamu, you are right.”
The conversation at the table resumes, and she returns to picking at her food.
visual by Taimur Ali Khan.