The Capital Vulture: The hills have eyes
Sociology majors ought to consider doing their dissertations on behavioural patterns indigenous to Pakistanis. One of these genetic predispositions is a constant irritation to those on the receiving end. In fact, this applies to the entire Indian subcontinent really.
As a collective, we suffer from an acute staring problem; it can make life awkward to the point when you start developing social disorders (me) or bloated egos (so many girls in the city).
Uff, it’s because some of us are fair, hardy, har, har.
I’ve grown up in Islamabad and the unabashed staring is something I’ll never get used to. I think many of my readers will relate.
The habit is ubiquitous. The obnoxious stare in many variations of gaping eyes, crooked side-glances, and once-overs belongs to all classes.
Case in point: recently we decided to haemorrhage some hard earned cash at a local cafe. One walked in and the air felt thick with lawn, which could only mean one thing: the aunties had returned to their weekend watering hole. We barely made it through the door when those basilisk stares started turning our souls into stone.
As we walked to our table mustering all the swagger we had to look cool and collected under the intense scrutiny, I took the liberty of checking out the looks coming our way.
Some were downright invasive: these infrared beams that stripped you down to your underwear; made you feel like you were walking around in your birthday suit. Others were dull and bovine, originating from personages busy gnashing bits of Caesar Salad.
I had to exercise so much self-control to keep myself from glaring back, puffing out my chest and yelling:
“Kya, kya? Phada karna hai, auntie pepsi?”
“Yar, what is this?” asked my friend Khadija as we escaped for a smoke.
“They’re full on eating us with their eyes.”
Any other country and the staring would’ve been considered unseemly (the rest of the world has mastered the art of subtle voyeurism through the use of peripherals) — people will come up to you and ask if there’s a problem.
So what had we done that warranted so much ogling?
Were my jeans too tight?
Is the way I walk a little too behooda for the masses?
Although the answer may be yes to all the above, it still doesn’t make the staring any less rude when it comes from people who are well-off enough to know better.
It’s not like we were glaring in muted shock and horror at the family sitting near us that brought along their fat infant and maid or the patina of foundation that made some of the aunties glow neon.
There’s another hotspot for aggressive leering: ‘the walk of shame,’ as a friend calls it, ‘at Gloria Jeans.’
You’ll find yourself flanked on either side by a veritable sausage-fest – these usually all-male tribes of hormonal teenagers or dubious looking older dudes will eye-molest you with a mixture of murder, spite, and suppressed eroticism.
If the general populace were better looking, at least this would’ve been less troubling.
Not the case.
Then there’s the routine staring from people on the street. This I find less intrusive, more endearing because these are looks of genuine curiosity- the bachas plastered on the windows of oncoming traffic and Daewoos are only trying to make sense of pasty Burgher hipsters in outlandish garb. This I don’t hold against them.
I’d like to move that citizens who’ve afforded the rare luxury of an education, solid upbringing and manners should either face criminal charges or have to go through a mandatory course in social etiquette to keep their nasty glaring in check.
Something like what they’ve got going in Saudi Arabia: a tap from a stout danda to avert those menacing eyes.
Published in The Express Tribune.
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