Glimpse

Sitting inside my car I casually trace my hands through my hair, parting them sideways. For a minute looking into the rear mirror, fantasized by the highlighter on my cheek bones and the smell of the lavender perfume encompassing me, my beautiful subtle delusion, I turn the AC button from low to high. Impatiently tapping my hands on the steering wheel, I tried killing time, waiting for mama who’d gone to run last minute errands.

Firdaus Market, in its entirety was going to be my view for the next thirty minutes. The electrician shop in front of my car was something. Hah! Or maybe I’d never stared at an electricity shop for this long. Wires, old and new, broken parts, switches lay in the wooden shelves. The usual me was judging my surroundings, blinking my eyes every now and then so I wasn’t caught.

“Yes, Lareb, this tan man sitting on the steel stand seems educated”—or maybe not I wonder. A split of second later he spits on the cemented pavement and turns towards his colleagues, initiating an ephemeral conversation. Funny I had gawked at the shop for so long, the men sitting outside the shop door, relishing the midsummer evening hour with a pedestal fan had begun to give me awkward stares by now. Casting my eyes away, I scattered my sight all around, trying to find something interesting and flamboyant to look at. All I caught sight of was loose wires hanging down from the transformer electricity poles and the busy road in front of the market. Cars stood with their clamorous horns trying to escape the havoc of urban traffic, forming irregular lanes not taking note of how it would’ve been easier if they’d give way to each other. But whom am I even kidding. This is Pakistan my dear child, I casually silence my shrinking heart.

Brief glances were not my cup of tea. I quickly shifted my stare and in the blur of the moment, came across a sight that was far away from my bittersweet reality. Or was I avoiding it all this time? Cloaked in a stained, dark blue sweater on the road lay a man. Glued to the sweater what seemed to me were minute straw-wood pieces or was it just dirt? The man’s torso was all covered but those beige colored sweatpants weren’t long enough to cover his pelvis and waist. Oh God please forgive me for penning this down, what I see is what I wasn’t supposed to look at. He’s placed a cloth spread over his bare skin. Seeming to be above forties, the homeless destitute man slept on the rough road. Lying next to his head was a box of Marlboro, half open. His face looked so calm I almost began to question myself what peace meant?

He suddenly turns to my side and for good or worse we both happen to exchange eye contact. I’m still uncertain if I’m guilty. How am I feeling right now? Ashamed? Miserable? Pity? Dirty? Helpless? His cold eyes eat me in those few seconds of glance. His smoldering, blackened, bare feet, stretch a bit. With feeble hands he scratches his beard perhaps not washed in days and takes hold of the cigarette box to place it under his sweater. He’s still looking at me, with a kindling glow in his eyes. I almost see a change of facial expression, something warm. I had a fair share of his attention in those few seconds. Peering at him painstakingly, at once I look down towards the car brakes. But I feel he wanted more. Maybe one close glimpse? Somebody who could just look at him and value his existence.

He fell asleep and all I can think of was a miracle.

My guilty heart drives me to look at him once again. At this point in time I felt guiltier than before because I didn’t know how to help him. He had turned to the other side by then and the black cloth covering him got folded due to his movement. His loins exposed, he laid there half naked on the road. At once I feel the hair over my skin raising. One by one. I felt something escape out of me, I lost all respect for myself. With eyes closed, throat dry I pushed my head against the car seat. I felt so shallow for not being able to get up and help the poor man.  

A man passes by, looks at him, and chuckles a bit. His laugh eats me up like a chilly wind, as he continues with his stroll. Two ladies holding grocery bags pace by, almost stepping on his bare black feet, engaged in their chit chat, indifferent to the despair. The fruit vendor adjacent to this scene who had already looked at the man twice gets occupied as he caters to the customers crowding around him. Passing by men laugh at him. But not even a single person comes to the poor man’s aid. It was such a herculean task, wasn’t it? My dear, just two steps. Get down on your knees, close your eyes if you’re ashamed but just cover him, please? Two minutes? Maybe three?

An angel makes his move. He had a body of a seven year old boy. Silky hair, army cut, eyes wide open, those curled lashes and a light on his face none would’ve acknowledged. Briskly walking by, he halts for a second. Takes two steps back and looks at the man in distress. Why was I so surprised? Can’t I expect an emotion from a child? As the time elapsed, the boy stood there, probably his little mind feeling stranded yet ready to take its stance. He finally raised his eyebrows. Stooping down, with fragile hands took hold of the folded cloth sheet and spread it over the man. Before I could think further he at once got up and rushed to the other end of the road. None had paid attention but this warm, vivid memory was etched on my heart. I felt haunted but at least my prayer was heard.

I tried to hide myself. But I had no place. Where could I go? A surge. I could feel it in me emerging. But not knowing what and whom to vent it out in front of? Maybe we all wanted to look at him. Maybe we all were guilty for it. Why was he an amusement for everyone? Why are we afraid of taking responsibility? Why am I afraid of taking responsibility?

Emotionally charged, I felt like cutting my hair. This subtle lavender smell in my car, I didn’t deserve it. These rings on my hand, my comfortable ambiance, I didn’t deserve it. How do I make this chaos count?

Alas, as long as that poor man is having a peaceful sleep at least someone’s content at the end of the day. Maybe he was dead. Or was he long dead?