The sun rises-birds chirp from their nests in unison like an ochestra of chaos and disorder. The sillouettes of the Badshahi Mosque and the Minaar-e-Pakistan stand high in the midst of the twilight of the sun, the stars vanish as they are consumed by its great orange haze. The streets are deserted-only stray animals and the homeless can be seen, living their blighted existence, along with the carcasses of cars burnt the night before. The bright red bricks of the mosque are cracked and chipped, and the minarets- which used to give off a mystical radiance, are stained and dull. The ochestra ceases and the stage is set.
Good morning, Pakistan.
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‘Aurangzeb! Mujhe Dara ka sar chahiye!
Aurangzeb! I want Dara’s head on this spear!’
Roshan Ara Begum tried to squeak in an attempt to sound feminine. I have addressed a gathering of around 1500 people, studied for 15 GCE O’Level subjects in 3 months, scored 2230 on my SATs, worked at a charity drive stall outdoors through a 16 hour long fast in 90 degrees Fahrenheit, but I have never found anything more difficult than performing a female role in a play in an all-boys school.
I had been selected for the role of Roshan Ara Begum, Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb’s younger sister and confidant, in the Annual Urdu Play 2012 ‘Dara Shikoh’. The play was a depiction of the struggle for power between Emperor Shah Jehan’s sons: Dara and Aurangzeb, one of the most tragic stories of sub-continental history.
The curtains drew apart. The first scene in the play showed me, Roshan Ara Begum, clad in the nobility of one of the richest princesses of the 17th century world, wearing a seemingly original diamond studded crown, sitting on an intricately carved pedestal, carefully chewing one of the most popular delicacies of the Indian subcontinent, Paan (betel). With the curtains drawing apart began the camera flashes, and the hooting. I knew I was in for one hell of a ride.
It had been a difficult, yet intriguing experience to say the very least. While memorizing and delivering dialogues articulately in a feminine manner was indeed arduous, dressing up for the character was an entirely once-in-a-lifetime experience in itself. Not only was I required to shave every single lock of hair off my face and arms, but I was made to wear a bra stuffed with cotton to make up suitable breasts. I had to tie a long, braided, pitch black wig to my head, adorn myself with sonorous attractive anklets and bracelets, and keep myself from tripping due to a dress with more folds than I could count. And it goes without saying, that I had to deal with the psychological pressure of being mocked by peers, juniors, and seniors alike, for the rest of my days in school. I was certain that I would never do anything of this sort again.
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New life finds itself onto the streets; passer-byers, motorists, people heading out to work for daily wages. However, there is uncertainty. The eyes of the pedestrians shift anxiously, the motorists grip their steering wheels and grit their teeth. The working man is at a loss- no matter how hard he will work, the parasites will take what rightfully belongs to him and his family will have to go a few days without food or electricity. A beggar lies on the sidewalk, using a book as a pillow. A couple of blocks away, a woman is shot in cold blood for following the faith of the cross, for not covering her head, for being a nuisance in society. No one notices and no one cares.
Good afternoon, Pakistan.
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The play was a huge success, drawing praise from students, teachers, and guests the same. I had managed to put up a respectable performance, and I knew that the rest of my school days would not be as horrifying as I had conjectured. After the play however, while I was thankfully changing back into my denim jeans and polo shirt, not having my friends aiming for the cotton-filled breasts any longer; I had an epiphany: a woman, at least in this part of the world, leads a very difficult life. She is required to conform to gender role stereotypes, dress appropriately yet beautifully, maintain her upper body in a modest way by covering even her clothes with a scarf and keeping it from sliding off, carry herself with poise and grace, and yet fulfill all domestic and social responsibilities required from her
The code and conduct of a woman is different from that of a man. I understood the hierarchy the world has created. It indeed is patriarchy, being reinforced in every street of Pakistan. Women are being taught to play a part, as men are pushed to explore new possibilities.
But now I was back to being Ahmed, the boy, my identity intact with the simple act of wiping away what felt like a few hundred layers of foundation and mascara to fit the proper definition of being a woman and looking like one.
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A young man rides through the suburbs with a megaphone, preaching the words of people who had more power than he did-the words of resurgence and revolution, words which neither of them truly understood. The higher class citizens lock themselves away in posh houses, and continuously fall into their own realms to re-assure themselves that that are right. Their children are optimistic but naive; and in the end they are the future, the torch bearers expected to fix the problems their predeccessors left. A well-fed politician speaks to a crowd which goes wild with energy. A woman is shoved aside quite deliberately from the chest by a horde of men in order to get closer to the stage. She falls. Yet, everything is still and the flag on top of the Minaar-e-Pakistan lies dead on the top of its pole.
Good evening, Pakistan.
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Even if a woman manages to do all that just fine, she has to deal with the malice of society, more so than men. She is stared at, whistled at, and even discriminated at work sometimes. Yet, she strives in the face of all odds. A woman continues to assume the sanctified roles of mother, sister, daughter, and wife, day in day out. Nevertheless, when she falters once in a while, society treats her relentlessly and in an unforgiving manner.
Appallingly, she is even physically abused at times. Yet, society somehow chooses to believe that it is her fault. And then begins a never-ending cycle of emotional and physical stress. Every once in a while, a woman snaps. When she does not have the strength to pick and brush herself up, seldom is she helped up by her surroundings. I might sound like a feminist, but this is how reality has carved itself out.
I smiled at how my mind had changed. Given the opportunity, I would live through such a fascinating experience again.
As I sat in the car, waiting at the traffic intersection on my way to meet friends for a celebratory dinner, I was reminded of those for whom walking between those two identities was not so easy when there was a loud tap at the window.
Mouthing to me and begging for change, her face and hands pressed against the glass, was a hijra. The term Hijra or eunuch is an all-encompassing – and therefore not nuanced – term in Pakistan used for a person who is transgender or transsexual. Most often, it refers to persons born biologically male but who are castrated or choose to identify as female.
Hijra’s walked around this particular intersection every day. Usually they were invisible to the people humming along, bored in their cars myself included. Today, I could not look away like I often did when they came knocking, clapping their hands, and singing for spare change and I thought about the degraded lives they are forced to live. Isolated and abandoned by their own families, there are only three professions available to hijras in Pakistan: begging, prostitution or performing at weddings or functions like a minstrel show. Most do all three to make ends meet and therefore live their lives as spectacles for public consumption in a society that derides them so openly. To get by, ironically, they must rely on the sneering and the bullying because it’s the only hand that feeds.
Ever since I can remember, I had found laughing at Hijra’s a crude and cruel practice. I couldn’t bring myself to throw my head back, and guffaw when they were dancing. I hated it when people shooed them away from their cars and houses as though they were unwanted scavengers. It really is a cruel practice.
I discussed this over at the celebration dinner, but these thoughts had really killed my appetite. I soon left, with my stomach half empty. It was truly a life changing day.
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The sun sets. The night is young, and so are the boys and girls who go out to extravagant dinners and smoke sheesha in seedy red light district brothels. The men are slobs-treating women like trophies with their pot-bellies and expensive Rolex watches, courtesy of their fathers’ wallet. A prostitute dies a little more in the inside-her children will have to sleep with stomachs half full. A few blocks away, the beggar throws his pillow to feed a fire and the believer of the cross is unceremoniously buried. Another day passes and nothing changes. No one notices the flag that lay dead on the top of its pole as the sun falls into the horizon through the clouds, like a torn curtain.
Good night, Pakistan
