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LAST Thursday, as I waited for the traffic light to turn green so I could turn left onto Karachi’s Seaview road, two boys, I’m guessing aged between 10 to 13, wearing skates, grabbed the back of my car, hoping for a ride. I refused; it was dangerous and irresponsible. First they appeared to get off, but as I began driving, there they were, skating as I drove. I slowed down and argued with them using my rear view mirror but they kept insisting they needed a ride. So I caved and drove slow, super slow.
My near seven-minute ride turned out to be maybe 11 minutes or so as I glanced at the rear view mirror, refusing to give in to their bangs on my trunk asking me to go faster. “Auntie race lagao na [rev it up],” one boy said.
We go at this speed or we don’t go at all, I replied, the rearview mirror our way of communication.
The other boy slapped his forehead, ostensibly upset that they were stuck with me.
As I drove my two passengers, I could hear their laughter; they were talking to one another in a language I didn’t understand. They waved to the performers along the Seaview road — the Spidermans, the robots, the stuffed animal I didn’t quite recognise, the women thelawallahs. Some waved back, perplexed, probably by my slow speed. I like to think the boys were saying something like ‘check us out’ or ‘how cool do we look?’
They were seemingly carefree, but were they skipping school or a day job?
Meanwhile, the cars whizzing past would slow as they passed me, as if to check if I knew I had two hangers-on at the end of my car.
The boys banged on my trunk for my attention and I saw they had made a heart shape with their hands. My heart melted. It was the sweetest moment. And an unforgettable one. These boys and I, each on our own joyride.
It had to come to an end as I had to return home — to errands, work, bill payments, complaints about no gas, life etc.
“Auntie, we came from [I forget the neighbourhood they said] because we wanted to go see Do Darya,” one boy told me, as I began to slow the car down further to let them disembark at the traffic light. “We paid Rs600 to get these skates so we could come here. Can’t you drop us there?” They were seemingly carefree, but were they skipping school or a day job when they rented their skates for Rs600 with the intent to make it to Do Darya? How often did they do this — hitch rides with strangers? Was someone out there looking for them?
I couldn’t drop them there but offered to drive them past the security check post.
But as I pulled up to it, the officers took one look at me and my ride and shut us down. Not only did they shoo the boys, threatening them with the police stan-ding a few feet away but the guard also scolded me for bringing them along. “You don’t know who they are, who is behind them, they could cause you serious harm,” he said.
They’re just kids, I replied as I turned to see they’d disappeared somewhere between the scolding I was receiving. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. But my brain was now filled with all the doubts the guards had planted in my head, starting with, of course, who are they, where are their parents, what were they doing out of school?
Pakistan has the world’s second-highest number of out-of-school children, with an estimated 22.8 million of them, aged five to 16 years, not attending school, according to Unicef. This figure represents 44pc of the total population in this age group. In Sindh, 52pc of the poorest children (58pc girls) are out of school. Despite an increase in its spending on education, Pakistan has not achieved the target of 4pc spending on education in the budget.
This and other depressing statistics out of Pakistan rarely make it to prime time talk shows. Imagine spending the same energy on the positive impacts of quality early education on children’s survival that is devoted to whatever new thing Imran Khan said, did, or wrote. Children are especially susceptible to violence, exploitation, and abuse, but the media only covers these issues after a gruesome incident occurs. The usual suspects are brought on our screens — police, government and not-for-profit representatives, for example — who say more or less the same thing. All stakeholders in society are desensitised by the media.
On the day I was due to submit this piece, I was on Seaview road headed towards the mall when I saw a convoy of SUVs and trucks, filled with teens, their bodies sticking out of windows and sunroofs; their drivers speeding down. No one appeared to intervene to disturb their route, reminding me, once again, of who this country is for.
The writer is a journalism instructor.
Published in Dawn, February 9th, 2025
