The public transport system in Pakistanis hardly anything that can prove convenient for the public
I LEARNED many new things after shifting to a new house. The most important, and perhaps inevitable thing, was my introduction to the public transport system of Islamabad and Rawalpindi. I learned, through trial and error, how to get home from college, not to be cheated out of transport fare and not to fall asleep on the bus.
Location-wise, I was spoilt, because I lived in F-8, the best place in the capital city, which is a 10-minute drive away from F-6, F-10 and F-11 and a little less from F-7. Where else could one possibly want to go?
Now I live in Bani Gala, where the grass is by no means greener. In a private vehicle, it takes 25 minutes to reach F-8. If one drives fast, the density of traffic is on the low side and the signals are in one’s favour. Using the public transport, I can get to my doorstep in about an hour and 15 minutes — if I’m lucky, that is. That too, after taking three different vehicles, and hoofing it the last minute.
The first time I tried my luck, I didn’t get very far. I walked to F-8 Markaz, where, after asking numerous people seemingly frivolous questions and being frowned at, stepped onto the famous and most commonly used Aik saw gyara (One eleven for the untutored). A little later, I got off at the PIMS, better known as Cumplaix in public transport circles.
Now I was at a complete and utter loss. What followed could only constitute mindless details. In a nutshell, I felt like a sheep in a big city, and somewhat akin to a fool. Half an hour later, an agitated family member picked me up and drove us home.
I may not have learned much about public transport routes, but many other things were new. For the first time in my life, I shared seats with the real people of Pakistan. The ones who constitute the majority vote in every election; the ones who inhabit 90 per cent of the country; the ones who have absolutely no idea what deodorant is. Here we were, all in the same boat, so to speak, watching and envying hi-tech cars effortlessly overtake us, and glance at us in disgust in their typical classist ways.
Knowing what a nine-lac rupee car looks like from the inside, I examined my own surroundings. The music that blared through the cheap speakers was even cheesier than what some of my half-wit friends listened to. The seats were covered in cheap plastic, literally glowing a grotesque maroon. The side panels were covered in scrawls of ball point ink complete with email addresses and invitations to young girls to plees contect. The local air smelt like someone had died of utter disgust en route to undisclosed destination. The door had to be held in place lest someone fall out. The ceiling was plastered with a blue butterfly print, probably the cleanest part of the van. After all, no one spits up.
The end of every journey presented a nasty problem — making one’s way to the door through the seven seas of corpulent and sweaty men that separated me from fresh air and the will to live. One has to be careful in such a situation. If you don’t watch where you place your hooves, you may well end up kicking one of those stout specimens in the face — a thoroughly disturbing thought. One that makes one want to keep one’s feet firmly planted on the ground where they belong.
One thing that struck me was the regard and courtesy the young conductors always displayed for the benefit of any female who ventured onto the van for want of a reasonably-priced ride home. Here I must mention that women always get the front seat next to the driver. If a male happens to be occupying that position, he is swiftly demoted to the rear with the rest of the pack. If the front seat already houses two females and more want to get on, the beady-eyed male occupants near the rear door are shoved further back to make room for khalaji and her charming young daughter. The only time you will ever find a male seated next to a lady is if they are related by way of blood, marriage or both. I regard this whole take-care-of-the-ladies business as a glimmer of hope for the male species of Pakistan as something other than champion perverts.
My grand programme to become independent of the elusive residential vehicles was not going well. Finally, I sought the help of a middle-aged gentleman who had been sweeping the floors of our home for the last ten years. He laughed at my dilemma telling me it took him only a few days to figure out not only the right route, but also the quickest one. I listened patiently as he smugly explained how he got there everyday. Unfortunately, he speaks Punjabi in an accent reminiscent of a bygone foreign language so fast that even my parents, both fluent in the dialect, have trouble understanding anything he ever has to say — which can be a problem because he tends to talk rather a lot. However, to his credit, he realized just how stupid I was and offered to wait for me to get off from college and show me the way personally.
The next day, after changing several vehicles, we reached what he called the ‘daily farm’, which is actually the National Agricultural Research Council, better known as the dairy farm, although bovine quadrupeds are the last thing one can expect to find there. Finally, the last leg of the journey involved a taxi shuttle service into Bani Gala. We got off at the local market, then walked home, with him rattling on about something I wasn’t really listening to, partly because his words were impossible to decipher, but mainly because he can be a very, very big bore.
In the following weeks, I, without fail, had a new story for my family every day. One of the more amusing ones (in retrospect I insist) was when I decided to take a nap during the long ride to Faizabad. I paid my fare, wrapped my arms around my book bag, buried my face in it, and then woke up somewhere near Rawat. The conductor, who had only just noticed that my slumber had carried me way past my destination and fare limit, awakened me rather rudely and demanded I get off his wagon. Sheepishly, I did exactly that and caught another wagon travelling in the opposite direction.
The most embarrassing incident of my life has already occurred, allowing me to look to the future without fear of anything worse happening. On one of the taxi rides into Bani Gala, I was sharing the front passenger seat with an elderly gentleman who looked like he would gape and marvel at a light bulb, and probably have a heart attack to boot. I had set my cell phone to ‘silent’ the previous day and forgotten to switch it back. Naturally, I had to receive a phone call. The damn thing began vibrating in my hip pocket like an energizer bunny and the old man who obviously felt the subtle jolt looked at me bug-eyed, traumatized, like he was about to drop dead. About 10 seconds later, well after I had switched my phone off and my travel mate had gathered his wits, he asked the driver to stop, and hastily jumped out of the seat.
A dozen other accounts spring to mind, but they all require a first hand view of the matter at hand. May I suggest the yellow vans? They tend to have more legroom ...
The public transport system in Pakistanis hardly anything that can prove convenient for the public 
