On Morality

Originally published in Dawn, May 2008

According to research in the USA that I read some months ago, when the nation is going through a period of uncertainty, the hemlines of the nation’s skirts reflect this. The greater the uncertainty, the higher the hemlines. If there is a similar correlation between national uncertainty and the length of ladies’ shalwaars in our fair nation, then it would appear that we are in the brink of a national crisis.

I was recently present at a recruitment fair at a major national business school and can honestly say, hand on heart, that I have never seen so many ankles in one place in my life. Or calves either, come to think of it. As I stood contemplating this fetlock fetishists’ dream, I could not help but wonder: since when have Capri pants become acceptable attire for a job interview? Admittedly it was many moons ago that I was preparing for a graduate interview, but the guidelines at the time were to dress well but conservatively. It seems that the definition of conservative dress has changed considerably in the past few years.

And it appears that I am not the only one not wholly in touch with the sentiments of Generation insert-whatever-letter-is-fashionable-at-the-moment. A prominent local financial institution has recently issued a circular specifying in excruciating detail what modes of dress are appropriate for a workplace as lofty as theirs. And I will not go into the inherent contradiction between ankle-baring being perfectly acceptable for men and not for women in their workplace.

It appears then, that propriety and morality are not only interlinked but also not always congruent. Sometimes, what may be perfectly proper, such as a television actress dressing in beachwear when on a beach holiday, is considered immoral by certain sections of society, while at other times behaviour that may be morally acceptable could be considered improper in a given position, such as correcting the factual errors in Auntiji’s descriptions of the achievements of her children during a family dinner party.

One example of this dichotomy that I experienced was at a friend’s wedding in the capital city of our fair nation. There were 4 of us friends from university, who had planted themselves in a corner of the tent after dinner, waiting for the festivities of the mehndi to continue. There we sat, minding our own business, when one of the ladies seated to our right asked us to move away and find alternative seating. Apparently their menfolk considered it morally repugnant to have strange men sitting within striking distance of their women.

As these same women later got up to perform their prepared choreographed dance routines, I could not help but wonder that having strange men sit a few feet away was morally unacceptable to them, and yet dance moves that reminded one of Janet Jackson at her wardrobe-malfunctioning best for all to see was not.

And that, when it boils down to it, is the case with all questions of morality. Not only do measures of morality differ widely from person to person, but they also have umpteen shades of grey for each individual. Or perhaps it is a case of there being one set of rules for oneself, and another for everyone else. After all, if I choose to wear beachwear when going for a swim, everyone knows it is because it is the only sensible thing to do. But if a latter-day starlet were to do the same, it is obviously because she is no better than she is.

I do firmly believe though, that morality not only begins at home but also should stay there. My moral code is inevitably going to be different from pretty much everyone else, so really the only person who it can apply on is myself. So while I may think that ankle-baring trousers are not appropriate business attire and keep that in mind when evaluating a potential hiree, I am not about to take a big stick and start ankle-crackery whenever I see any.

However some things we can all agree on are just plain wrong. And I witnessed one such thing just last evening. On my way back home, I was caught in the inevitable gridlock that occurs when a traffic signal switches off due to a power cut, resulting in all vehicles choosing to move forward simultaneously and end up in a great coming together at the crossroads, and the accompanying wailing (of horns) and gnashing of bumpers. Into this breach strode, like an angel sent by Providence, a traffic policeman, miraculously still on duty at that late hour.

As he untangled the traffic, I turned to get a better look at this angel of mercy. And what I saw has scarred me perhaps for ever. The traffic policeman was devoid off all facial hair whatsoever! I have never before seen a moustachio-less traffic copper, and pray to God that I never do again. It was a near-obscene sight; it was as if the traffic was being directed by the emperor in his new clothes.

So for the sake of public decency I implore all traffic policemen, on the off chance that any are reading this due to their morning paratha being wrapped in it, to please desist from allowing a razor anywhere near their whiskers. For is traffic policemen’s moustaches start to shrink and disappear, surely the moral fabric of society is not far behind.

Bus Lane Blues

I have recently met someone who spent a few years in the USA and moved back to Pakistan a couple of months before 9/11. This gentleman is very fond of pointing out how we less developed nations are different from the North American or Western European nations, normally in a bad way. I often find myself disagreeing with his pronouncements, as I feel that the comparison is not a fair one, especially as the ‘decadent westerners’ are as bad in some respects as we are in other. However, he has set me thinking into the different ways in which we Pakistanis approach certain things as compared to the aforesaid westerners.

I witnessed an excellent example of these divergent approaches this morning. On my way to work, I, for the first time in over a year, noticed that a bus lane had been drawn on the street. I am positive that this lane had not been drawn overnight; it is just that it came to my attention only today, for reasons which follow.

Rush hour traffic had started but the intensity of the traffic was not at its peak yet. That, however, did not stop the average Karachi commuter from judiciously using their horn to clear a path for themselves down the main thoroughfare. A traffic policeman (wearing a helmet even though he was on foot, for some reason) was doing his limited best to cajole, coerce and censure the motorists into come semblance of order. Then, suddenly, he dropped all else and bolted across to the left of the road and began a bizarre combination of semaphore and Sheema Kirmani at her foot-stomping best.

Sleep deprived though I was, his frantic actions did manage to penetrate the fog surrounding my brain to the point where I was impelled to turn my head in the direction where his attentions were focused in order to find out what the fuss was all about. The object of the officer’s attentions was a city Green Bus. At least, it had been green once. Now the colour on the outside was a mere shadow of its former self, much like the air conditioning and level of comfort inside. However, instead of asking the driver of the said bus to pull over so that he could extract his morning pound of flesh, the policeman was frantically waving at the bus driver to divert from his present course, and to use the bus lane instead of the main thoroughfare which he had thusfar been driving unconcernedly along.

His actions immediately reminded me of the returned native of my own recent acquaintance, and the differences between our nations and the nations of the West that is, depending on your point or view, either enlightened or decadent. Bus lanes in the West are designed to help bus commuters avoid the worst of the morning rush caused by motorists, whereas here their raison d’etre appears mostly to keep the pesky buses sequestered to a part of the road where they can be of least inconvenience to the motorist. Then again, maybe I am being gratuitously cynical. Maybe bus lanes are a pill that must be forced down the throats of commuters who use public transport, for their own good. You’ll thank me in the end, you know.

Before I could spend any more time ruminating on how the same situation can be grasped from both ends of the stick, however, my attention was further distracted by another example of the Great Pakistani Business Establishment (Creative Naming Division). The premises in question was that of the Abraham Lincoln Ayurvedic Hospital. Philistine though I am, I am pretty certain that the 16th President was never one for curing diseases though the use of secret herbs and spices, although he is said to have held a séance at the White House, if the History Channel is to be believed. Incidentally the herbmeister-in-chief at this establishment was called Ibrahim – probably the happy coincidence that prompted the unusual moniker.

I have to say that Mr. Abraham, in choosing Ayurvedic medicine as his profession, missed his true calling. Had someone spotted where his true talents lay at the appropriate age, he would surely today have been a Creative head a major advertising agency. Of course, he is advantaged by the accident of location in that the peepul tree outside his establishment not only provides shade (and countless ingredients, presumably) but also a perfect position on which the hoarding boards professing his wares can be arranged for maximum effect with the minimum of fuss.

Regardless of the positioning, though, it is the design of the boards that always bring a smile to my face. For instance, their miraculous weight loss product is advertised through a billboard which shows a thin woman, of the type that is said to reside in every fat one, stepping out of the skin of their erstwhile host by unzipping her much like a ‘fat suit’ from a bawdy Hollywood situational comedy. This is just one of many similar adverts for products as wide ranging as a bracing tonic to unleash your inner muscleman (graphically represented by a person skinnier even than I effortlessly lifting an enormous barbell) to a hair growth product (with a satisfied customer driving along in a convertible, wind sweeping his enviable locks), which are placed in pride of position on the tree and then on other parts of the sidewalk on a strict rotation basis. Of course, a perennial favourite is Ayurvedic Viagra, a bargain at Rs.10 per capsule. They (the ads, not the capsules) never fail to perk me up(!) in the morning, in preparation for the day ahead.

That morning, though, what really made my day was the sight of a couple driving to work in their Suzuki Alto. What makes it so special, I hear you ask. Well, the lady of the house was at the wheel, while the gentlemen rolled gently about in the passenger seat, snatching a few extra precious moments of sleep. I can only hope that the roles get reversed on a strict rotation basis, with both husband and wife getting equal opportunities to doze and drive.

And people still say that we are a backward, regressive nation! 

Originally published in The Friday Times, circa 2006