On Ordinary Affairs With Freedom

By Sadia Khatri

There wasn’t a rickshaw in sight. I’d thought 11 pm would be a reasonable time to flag one, but only a few cars and several motorbikes – liberated of their silencers – poured out onto the street before me. A moment of panic: there were no taxis in Lahore. Maybe I could hitch a ride? It was a seven-minute drive to my destination, at most, and strangers had been surprising me lately with their trustworthiness.

Behind me, the theatre was now nearly empty. Walking back didn’t seem impossible, but wasn’t the wisest option either. A few guards, noticing my restlessness, expressed concern, “Beta, where do you want to go?”

“Where do I get a rickshaw?” I asked. I calculated that I could walk some, if not all, of the way back. Worst-case scenario: I knew one of my friends would still be up, and a car rescue mission could be summoned. Though it would probably take him the same amount of time…

“Right, wait here!” the guard interrupted my planning. “Don’t worry. If it doesn’t show up, we’ll go get you one.” Right then, almost as if on cue, a rickshaw appeared before us, screeching to a halt before my feet. Without haggling for a better fare or thinking much at all, I hopped in.

“Please go straight.”

Something else came to mind: I had promised my friend I would pick up cigarettes. The rickshaw wala grinned when I asked him to look out for a roadside stall. “We will definitely buy cigarettes!” he said, enthusiastic about his mission. I double-checked to make sure we were on the right route – basic safety protocol for traveling late at night – and reluctantly, allowed my mother’s voice to permeate my thoughts. Going out without a plan, beta? Travelling alone at night? Still, this was Lahore, not Karachi. And I knew my way around by now.

The rickshaw coughed to a violent stop outside a row of half-shuttered roadside shops. In the quiet glow of two light bulbs, a makeshift stall was still open. I jumped out, while the driver triumphantly parked and darted off on foot to get more fuel.

A few men loitered around the footpath, their eyes slowly refocusing on the lone woman walking towards them – a necessary rite whatever the time of day. I wanted to say something, but had internalized another drill: the best course of action was to avoid them completely, ignoring the discomfort of eyes glued to you like clammy insects. I walked straight up to the seller.

“Marlboro lights.”

A pack was exchanged for a hundred rupees. The rickshaw wala wasn’t back yet. Male stall-keepers, more men smoking in the distance, teenage boys on their way somewhere, or perhaps back from somewhere – all stood with gazes firmly fastened upon the only woman around. I quickly decided it best to sit inside the rickshaw, rather than wait on the road.

I’d hardly settled when the door banged open again. I froze, finding a policeman’s face staring squarely into mine. “Yes?” I stammered. Guilt inexplicably made its way into my head. What else can a woman feel when caught travelling on her own against all caution?

“Is something wrong?” I asked again, unsure. But with one quick sweep of his eyes around, he shut the door and left, as abruptly as he had come. I sat, confused, the door bouncing faintly on its frame. “What was he looking for?” I asked the rickshaw wala later, once we were back en route, suspecting I had just passed an alcohol or drug check.

The night was buzzing with faint street-sounds, and the rickshaw wala took a while to reply. “Sister… it’s late, you know,” he answered, hesitatingly, “Sometimes, boys and girls go roaming around together.”

*

Freedom, I have realized, is a scam. It is sold to us in glittery travel packages, in promises of independent lives in new cities, in stories of friends who perpetually hop across borders with stamped passports, but none of it seems quite real.

Travelling and living alone in Pakistan does go to your head. It comes with its own wonder-drug supplements, the most prominent of which is the nearly nonexistent social responsibility that comes with knowing very few people in a new town. My days in Lahore were often wrapped up in work, but the nights and weekends were for adventures. One Saturday was a quick hike, by a hidden gem of a lake a few hours from the city. Before that, a weekend in Islamabad had offered a fantastic retreat. Another escapade involved a last-minute hop on a band of expats going strawberry picking. These aren’t the kind of unforgettable trips you come back from having made lifelong friends, but rather those you carve out of bustling city lives, either for a break or a change of scenery. To me, it was incomparable to Karachi’s sweaty, oppressive air with persistent parental checks and concerns.

Add all this to being able to rediscover “home” with a fresh perspective. I had never been as familiar with street smells as I became in Lahore, venturing out on foot more often than I had in Karachi. I was interacting with strangers effortlessly and exploring new parts of the city on a whim. As the temperature rose, so did my affection for the city. Notions of how “home” restricted me were pleasantly frittering away.

As a woman, especially, this is liberating to learn. You realize how futile many of your internalized fears are, and how scares are just that — scares. Rickshaw walas become your friends and you get hooked on their daily supplies of conversation. Soon enough, you run the risk of romanticizing everything, and if you’re lucky, this state of mind sticks around for a while.

If not, then you quickly recognize the delusion you nearly fell for. That you can go trekking in the heart of Punjab, but still can’t explain how you rarely walked around your own neighborhood in Karachi because it didn’t feel “safe”. That you can sit at a roadside tea shop in another city, sipping cup after cup, even though you’d never do it down your own road back home. That the intoxication of some semblance of freedom—the lack of accountability, the smugness of being a woman all on your own—means little when there are still exceptions to where this freedom can be exercised. That even in new, seemingly liberating spaces, there are nagging reminders: the number of women on the streets, the double-thinking while travelling alone, and most pronounced of them all, the constant comparison with home.

Soon, you grow unsettled again, unconvinced.

Our world is obsessed with measuring freedom by mobility, but mobility means nothing if not synced with the spaces in our minds. Going away somewhere may provide an easier breathing space, but it is too painless a test of autonomy.

My experience, I soon understood, could only be half-realized if I couldn’t merge my affair with freedom with my understanding of home. My thoughts rippled with the commentary of internalized, invisible gazes, as well as the occasional moment of relief for not having to attend to them. But it was a cop-out; I had picked up and relocated to a space where I wasn’t obligated to concern myself with these expectations and self-regulations. It wasn’t the same thing at all.

Travelling and living alone may lull us into a sense of autonomy, but they only tell half the story. In our brief interactions with escape, we can convince ourselves that what once stifled us no longer exists. But in reality, just because we suddenly have to make different, easier choices, and because we can afford to forget about the tougher ones, doesn’t mean they have disappeared. Home may seem distant from the vantage point of studying in a new country, or briefly living in a gloriously liberal town, or being on vacation, but it doesn’t really leave. Wherever on the planet we are, it follows us around, gripping our mind with all its suffocating reminders, upending our mirages incessantly.

 

Sadia Khatri is an undergrad in media studies, visual culture and astronomy. Her work has been published in various publications, and she is amongst the founding team of Open Letters, an upcoming non-profit literary society in Pakistan. She tweets @sadiakhatri.

Artwork: “The Half Empty Swing” by Ahsan Masood.