IT is the little things in life that can cumulatively provide a window of insight into a society’s illnesses. This little aphorism came to mind recently when I stopped at a roadside tyre shop to have a puncture fixed.

At the shop, in the tight space, a car was already being worked upon. I parked further ahead where space was available and got out to discuss with the senior mechanic what I needed done. As we talked, a third car pulled up, driven by a gentleman in his early sixties, with his family as passengers. He jammed his Cultus into the insufficient space behind the car being worked upon, in such a manner that the tail of his vehicle stuck out into the road. Immediately, there was a chorus of blaring horns.

He got back into his car, presumably to move it to a more suitable location. The first car pulled away, and the attendant asked me to reverse my vehicle into the spot just vacated. Returning to my car and twisting in my seat to reverse, I found that the gentleman with the Cultus had already smartly manoeuvred his vehicle into the tiny space, thus edging me out of line. There being nothing that I could do, I got out again and stood by the shop to watch as the junior mechanic started work on the usurper.

The spectrum of ill manners ranges from routine callousness to the abuse of others.

After a few minutes, I couldn’t help but turn and politely ask the gentleman, wasn’t there any worth to waiting for one’s turn anymore? Surely he had noticed that I had already been waiting when he had pulled up (especially given that women at tyre shops are still uncommon enough for passersby to notice)?

He looked first irritated, and then looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s only one tyre,” he said defensively. “It’ll only take a minute.” He did not, however, feel the need to move his vehicle, and, instead, roughly instructed the mechanic to get on with it. When the mechanic finished with the one tyre, he told the lad to just check out the remaining three, too.

Job done, he waved a Rs10 note at the mechanic. As he pulled away, I noticed the three children in the backseat, somewhere between the ages of six and 10 years. Their wide, clear eyes regarded me intently as I walked back to my car to move it into place. As the lad started work on my car and I took a seat on the bench to wait (a seat that the senior mechanic courteously vacated for me), he mumbled a half-apology about there being no grace in the world any longer. The job was quickly and attentively done within ten to 12 minutes, and I was charged the princely sum of Rs100.

It is generally believed by the drawing room classes — whether they be from the rapidly rising middle class of the country or higher up the economic hierarchy — that one of Pakistan’s significant problems is the very large number of the poor, their lack of literacy, skills, and their inability to improve their own lot. ‘They’, point out these drawing rooms, are a burden on the country, unfit to contribute meaningfully the way the rest of ‘us’ do.

To the contrary, however, I have found again and again that it is quite often the educated (or at least, literate), the fairly well-off, and the over-entitled — in short, the ones who have every reason to know and do better — that display the most egregious forms of discourtesy and denial of every person’s right to dignity.

The spectrum of ill manners ranges all the way from everyday callousness (the door left to swing shut on your face; the breaking of queues; parking incorrectly because the task will ‘take only one minute’), to the gross abuse of others (the domestic help that, even when not tortured to the point of death, is routinely mistreated; hit-and-run cases where the victim is ‘only a beggar’; the shameless display of wealth and ostentation in the face of this country’s glaring realities).

It certainly feels odd to be preaching courtesy to a nation beset with the worst forms of violence and injustice, where lawyers lock judges up in their chambers and parliamentarians call each other names. Yet, one could argue that it is precisely such hypocrisy on the part of a large section of the citizenry — one that often wears its piety on its forehead — that undermines the basic respect for others’ rights.

The well-fed sahib counting beads on a rosary will also overcharge where he can, encroach on the footpath where he is able, pay off Customs if it increases his profits. The admirably religiously inclined lady looking for headscarves will fail to notice that her maid’s daughter goes shoeless.

And all the while, the conversation will revolve around the need for a new Pakistan, where the laws of the land and ethics are applied equally.

The writer is a member of staff.
hajrahmumtaz@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, April 9th, 2018