Picture it all. Good and proper, okay?
Sometimes I think we're born on the wrong side of this century. Or maybe I'm losing my mind.
No. Not the century. I'm definitely losing my mind.
This instance was not only the first but one of the most flabbergasting passer-by moments of my life.
Shadi shopping is tough, it can take a lotta zing outta you. After struggling for the thousandth time to tell your darzi that a kurta is a kurta is a kurta, you pretty much begin to lose it tenth time around.
My mom is a slick driver. She thinks she's on a race track when she's on Shahrah e Faisal and when the car hits a speed breaker, it's just something to fidget about. I had always been used to Dad's not-more-than-20-km/h driving, so for the initial couple of shopping trips I don't know how many times I recited the final kalima. Especially when Mom's bp was already high enough for her to hit and run. Really.
So Mom's hungry and irritated because we've already spent two useless hours at Jabeen's, not finding a single worth-it dress, and because I'd made her hurry out of house for the trip, she didn't take lunch either. We stop at Khadda Market's One Potato Two Potato and Mom yelps at the sight of "Fish and Chips - Limited Winter Edition".
I walk out of the car, as Mom parks in front of Ami's. The road is narrow, there's plenty of rush and I decide to bring the fish to Mom and take a can of Sprite Zero for her from Ami's. Comfortable little dinner eh?
Life was good until ...
I was standing placing my order at OPTP when a Vitz parks behind me. The driver is a older gentleman and the passenger seat is occupied by a young boy wearing a painter's cap. He's not more than twenty I suppose. He looks slightly familiar. I squint. Then I turn back round. The OPTP window guy has told me to wait for a moment.
Standing around waiting for the fish and chips to arrive, I turn around on my right this time and there's the young boy again talking to the OPTP waiter. Where have I seen this guy, I wonder, and am almost about to turn. Maybe he's a student, I think.
He smiles. Oh. So he's definitely a student. Before I even think of asking him if he'd gone to Iqra or Bahria or if I knew him from somewhere else, Little Gul Jee grins.
"Assalam o Alaikum." He shows slightly big pan-chewn teeth. He's thin and lanky and kinda makes me want to tell him to order a bigger dose of fries.
"Walaikum assalam. Do I- "
"Can I have your number?"
Same grin. I am shocked. No. Too precise an emotion. I wasn't even articulate let alone. Otherwise I would have given him a nice dose of masala to go with those fries. Shell-shocked? No. I didn't register shock of any kind. Flabbergasted? No. I didn't feel anything. Windfallen? No. I knew exactly what I'd run into. A stupid moron who thinks confused signals are a battle cry. Outraged? No. I was too miffed at my own loss of composure.
I turn around, my face burning, I sputter an indignant, "NO!" and feel like banging my head against the glass OPTP window. If the guy was an idiot, or a schizophrenic or a moron, or simply blind to see the dopatta on the head and the back-the-hell-up look frozen on my face, something like this had NEVER ever happened in my entire life. I have never been approached by random strangers like this and asked the number for. And believe me, I was completely haggard, looking like, yes, the hag after shopping for six hours straight. So the guy either had to be on a dare, a patient of hysterical blindness, temporary dementia or some sort of other psychological illness which my limited knowledge has not been privy to so far. Because I see no reason why a young, Himesh-listening guy would approach a random 25 year old woman with a dopatta on her head to ask for her freaking number.
I've stepped into a new world, I have.
And thus I need to ask you all. Have you men grown extra pair of ... pituitary glands to secrete excess testosterone? Or are you people completely devoid of keeping it in ... Okay. I'm displacing my anger, but honestly. Seriously. Give me something here, I cannot understand the weirder sex anymore, I am out.
What does a girl have to do to tell you that I am the FUCK NOT INTERESTED?