The Rebel

Amina-5

I want to buy my ticket to Islamabad, but it turns out I can only purchase it to Lahore. There, I have to change to another train or bus. This shouldn’t be a problem, but it turns out I would have to wait for the next Pak Business Express – a luxury service by Pakistani standards – until tomorrow morning. Since I really don’t want to spend the night at the station, and I don’t want to waste my time either, I opt for the next train to Lahore, whatever category it may be. The fact that this train doesn’t have private sleep compartments, hurts a little, because the journey will be about twenty hours, and I really would have appreciated the privacy to have a good sleep on my own. I don’t think I would be able to relax if I had to share a compartment with strangers, so I end up buying a normal ticket for a seat. The cashier tells me with a cool tone that my train departs in ten minutes, I’m overcome with sheer panic and I start running towards the appointed platform at a crazy speed. My legs are still shaking when I finally find the section and my numbered seat in it. Panting, I collapse onto my seat and look around, but it looks like I’m the only one stressing over the departure, even though the official time has passed by about ten minutes. Coming to terms with the situation, I lay back, stick the rucksack under me, and try to close the world out by closing my eyes and pressing my forehead against the window pane. It’s not easy, because I am stuck between the wall and a heavy Pakistani woman who is rocking a baby who looks about six months old. She’s not alone, of course, half her family is there with her, or maybe all of them, who knows? Judging from the noise they make; the whole village is here. No problem! At least I don’t need to worry that I might fall asleep.

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It’s late in the morning, and I really haven’t had a wink of sleep. Maybe at about midnight I passed out a little, but I wouldn’t call that half-conscious, dizzy state sleep. On the other hand, I have become quite friendly with the Pakistani family. When the woman saw the sandwich that I had bought, she almost began to cry. It’s not an appetizing sight, but in my present situation I just can’t be bothered. No matter how hard I protested, she insisted on treating me with her homemade food. It was quite embarrassing, because normally I would be happy to try new flavours, currently though, I keep myself away from any unknown things. But she was so kind that I felt it would have been impolite to turn her down. I became a bit emotional, because Nasirah came to my mind. She always made sure Rafa and I had a healthy and well-balanced diet.

I’m digesting the delicious, albeit rather spicy rice balls, when the woman asks if I could watch the baby while she visits the loo, and before I could say no, she puts the baby in my hands. I love kids, I won’t say I don’t, but this is a bit too much. While I pray the kid wouldn’t start crying, I remember that I didn’t bring my camera. Dad bought it for me back in London when we went shopping. A Nikon Coolpix P1000, with an 83 times optical zoom. On the first week I even took it to bed with me, I couldn’t put it down, loved it so much. I really took a lot of photos in London; I even took part in a course besides my studies. And then, when they took me back to Emirates, my interest began to flag. I’m sorry about it, because it was my first camera, the one with which I learned to take photos, but while fleeing, you set up an order of priority, and my camera is not one of my necessities.

The Pakistani family got off the train a stop before Lahore, so now I feel quite lonely in the compartment. I give thanks in my heart when we arrive at the station at last and I can stretch my legs. I’m very tired, my eyes keep closing. I must get some sleep at a safe place, in a hotel where I don’t need to worry about being robbed. The passengers are hustling towards the doors. I don’t really get what this rush is about. If getting on the train wasn’t so urgent, then why panic so much here, at the destination? I try to let as many people past me as I can, I don’t want to nudge my way forward. I’m clutching my rucksack, holding my shemagh in place to prevent it from sliding off in the hassle. The consequence is that I don’t have a free hand for holding on, and as someone pushes me from behind, my foot slips on the steps of the train. Before I can grab the bar, from about a metre’s height, I land on my knees and elbows on the platform.

A sharp pain pierces through my legs and left arm, I even scream out, probably at a pitch too high. Quickly, I get up, but my knees are in a lot of pain as I put my weight on them and my elbow is also sore, still I must move on. I can move both, which means they are not broken, but every step is like a stab with a knife. There is a multitude of people on the platform, and I don’t stand a chance to sit on a bench and catch my breath, so I just stumble with the crowd towards the exit. If I was flirting with the thought to go straight to Sangla Hill in the Akban Express, I have to give up on that now. I’m almost dead, there is no strength left in me and my knees are sore. I don’t even feel strong enough to check when the trains are leaving tomorrow. Plus, I would die for a shower, so it’s been decided: I must find a hotel and I’m only moving on tomorrow.

Since I don’t know the place, I leave it to the taxi driver to take me somewhere. My only condition is that the hotel shouldn’t be too far from the train station, and it should be a simple place. The driver must think I want a cheaper place because of the money, and it’s not like that at all. Even if I could easily pay for a Hilton, just I’m not willing to fill in the registration form there. At the B&B’s reception I give a fake name, I add a nice banknote, and the key to the room is already in my hands. I wish everything went so smoothly! I don’t long for luxury, I simply want a clean bed and a shower, which is exactly what the Motel Rose-Inn provides. Hardly have I closed the door behind me. I collapse onto the edge of the bed, and almost want to cut the clothes off me with scissors. Instead, I carefully get out of the thobe and the trousers, take off my sweater, and in the meantime, seeing stars with the pain. My elbow is bleeding, and my knee, although not bloody, is swollen. I feel like crying, but it’s more like from anger that I am injured now that when I need every bit of my strength. I drag myself into the bathroom and begin to roll the silk off my chest. A gigantic sigh breaks from me as I fill my lungs with air. The print of the fabric is red on my skin, it’s itchy and sore at the same time. It feels horrible, so I make a decision right away that once this is over, I will never wear figure-hugging clothes. I get out of my slip, run soapy water into the washbasin, and drop the silk next to the slip to give them both a good wash. I stand under the shower, run the water and turn my face into the stream. I want to think over my situation, make plans for tomorrow, but I’m so knackered that I don’t feel up to any of that. I simply stand under the shower with an empty brain, sore limbs, and find it hard even to get myself to lift my hands and rinse my body.

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I wake up stretched in the middle of the bed, wrapped in a towel. I look at my watch: it’s after nine. Wow! I can’t even remember when I slept so long. Considering the circumstances, of course, it’s no wonder. I pull myself on my elbows but fall back onto the mattress at once. My elbow and my lower arm hurt terribly, what’s more, as I begin to climb towards the edge of the bed, it soon turns out my knee is in no better condition. Worried, I prod around the blue swelling, it looks pretty bad. An ugly bruise, and I can’t even put ice on it, because there isn’t even a damn mini bar in the room. I gather my strength and stand up, clenching my teeth. I can stand on my feet, but my leg is very sore. I have no choice. I must move on.

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The Akbar Express runs into Sangla Hill in one and a half hours. This, after the previous, almost a full day’s bouncing and jostling, is nothing at all. While looking for the bus station, all I think of is that I should have brought pain killers with me. I’m such a fool, for not thinking about it, since they take up no room at all, and now I would make great use of it. I find out from a street seller that the bus station is about a kilometre from here. Not a big distance, I could easily walk it if my knee wasn’t splitting with pain, so I wave down a rickshaw. With the crowd, we’re not making much more progress than on foot, but at least I’m sitting, and can watch the buzz of the market from my seat.

At the station I take a good look at the bus from the inside as well, and feel shaken for a second. It looks decent from the outside, but inside there is so much dirt and reek that I begin to doubt whether I can follow through. As I hear the road to Islamabad will take about eight hours – in theory, but who knows what might come up – I break out in sweat. While I pay for my ticket, I grumble at the thought of why I didn’t just board the first plane in Karachi. I would have been in Europe already. Of course, I know why I didn’t do that, and I’m aware of the fact that I have made a good decision, yet, anger is simmering inside me for a while. I was planning to board in the last second, so that I could spend as little time in the bus as possible, but my plan comes to nothing at the beginning. The problem is, there are no place tickets, which means, everybody sits where they want to, and I definitely want to be in the first row, as close to the door as possible, in case I need to puke. I must board the bus, a while before departure! I sit the seat and pull the edge of the shemagh over my nose. The silk scarf is pressing against my chest like an anaconda, the sweater is warm against my body, and the trousers are stuck onto my legs. It’s a nightmare. I have no idea how I will survive this journey...

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“To the airport,” I say powerlessly. The driver turns around in his seat and eyes me with distrust.