by Samia Altaf
Some months ago, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I went to my bank’s ATM in the main market close to where I live in the Defence Housing Authority, Lahore’s latest fancy suburb, which is organized and managed by the military.
The market, usually bustling, was quiet that day. There was barely anyone around, and no one at all where I was, at the end of the building. When I came out after withdrawing my cash, I saw a rickshaw parked between me and my car. The rickshaw driver was leaning out of his vehicle, his eyes red, hair dirty and uncombed, his clothes mismatched (a shirt of sorts, alternate buttons missing, and scruffy cloth trousers); he looked completely demented. He was looking intently at me.
Oh no, I thought. This is a holdup. There is no one around except the two of us, and this fellow knows I have just taken money out of the ATM and have to go past him to get to my car. I tried to be brave, and, clutching my purse tight, said in a gruff voice, “I do not need a rickshaw, I have my car right here.”
He stepped out in front of me, forcing me to stop, and said in Punjabi, “I am not offering you a ride, I need your help.”
“What kind of help?” I asked, stalling while contemplating a quick dash past his left side.
“My wife is sick and I need money for the doctor.” Read more »