The Rebel

Amina-6

I also look into the rearview mirror and see that my face is snow white, my eyes have circles under them, and they are sunken.

“You’re not going to throw up all over my car, right?” he asks grumpily, and I shake my head.

Already done my share of vomiting. Did it twice when I got off the horror bus and occupied the first toilet. True, the bus was rather disgusting inside, but that wouldn’t explain my nausea. I’m afraid I may have still eaten something I shouldn’t have, and that’s what has made me sick. I also have a headache, and my knee is in a dreadful condition. I guess, all that sitting did nothing good to it. It’s swollen out of proportion, much more than yesterday at the hostel. I’m clueless and desperate. I don’t know what to do. Should I go to a hotel again and try to rest? But I’m really dying to leave this continent. God, if only Selina was with me! She always has such good ideas in emergencies – despair takes the better of me, and I’m dangerously close to bursting into tears. All my body parts are in pain, I’m feeling sick and in desperate need for a friend.

The city is lit with a multitude of colours, as the yellow and red lights of millions of cars make the Islamabad night into day. While I watch the slowly dragging traffic, I realize this is not going to work. I must take a painkiller; the time will not make any difference. There should be a chemist at the airport, but who knows how long it will take us to get there in this traffic jam, and I’m seeing stars every time my knee hits against the seat. What’s more, my headache is getting worse, which automatically increases my nausea.

“Take me to the next chemists.”

The taxi driver looks into the mirror with a frown, as if not sure how serious the instruction was.

“The chemists?”

“Yes. Do you know one or not?”

“What about the airport—”

“Afterwards. First a chemist, but make it quick,” I add firmly, because his niggling annoys me.

He shrugs his shoulders, pushes the wheel to the side and tries to get out of the inner lane. It’s no mean feat in heavy traffic, and it does take a few minutes until we can turn into a side street and traffic begins to get thinner around us. I have no idea where we might be, but the neighbourhood doesn’t look too safe. The car comes to a halt, then the driver turns around. I look at him with a shrug from behind my shemagh. What now?

“The chemists is over there,” he nods towards the end of the street.

“Where?” I make big eyes, but can’t see what I’m looking for.

“The end of the street. I can’t park any closer, but it’s not far from here.”

I stick my head out of the taxi’s window, studying the deserted street with distrust together with the few homeless people who are sitting on cardboard sheets, smoking.

“Couldn’t we still, perhaps…” I try again, but the taxi driver waves me off, obviously having no trust in me. I’m not too surprised about it, I look crap, as it is. My clothes are dirty, I have a limp, the shemagh is hanging over my face, and I’m desperate for a chemist.

“I told you I can’t park any closer,” he snorts at me, in a much less friendly tone. He must be worried for the fee.

“But you’ll wait for me, right?” I ask, and he murmurs something under his nose. “I’ll make short work of it, and then we can move on to the—"

“I will,” he interrupts me impatiently, “but pay for the previous journey now.”

He will wait for me, my foot. I’m in deep jam. I reach under my thobe, to my belt, and take out a few banknotes.

“I’ve got dollars, will it work?”

His eyes brighten up and he grabs the money like a drowning man grabs the life belt. I get out and look around with hesitation. I don’t know if it’s only my imagination, but I have the feeling that invisible eyes are watching me from every direction. Hardly have I slammed the car door shut, the taxi drives off with grinding wheels into the night. So much about waiting for me…

I can’t spend the night standing at the edge of the threshold, so I start in the direction the driver showed me just before. There aren’t too many passengers, and the ones coming from the opposite direction are people wearing poor clothes, their faces are tired. I’m out of my mind, doing something like this. I’m challenging fate, and it will be a wonder if I can get away with this. Every step is torture, and panic is just about to come over me when I catch sight of the writing chemist at the corner, flashing white against green. Thank heavens! – I pray inside, and take the last few metres almost at running pace. I hear from behind my back that someone might be calling, but I don’t intend to stop. I open the chemists door with a great push and enter. I aim for the counter, searching the shelves on my own is out of the question. I can’t be an inviting sight as I limp over to the assistant, because he begins to size me with distrust, with one hand rummaging under the counter. For sure, they are prepared for everything.

“Good evening,” I attempt a polite smile, unsure if it works. Nausea plus my knee and forearm pain are not exactly helping me. “I need a painkiller,” I start. “What do you recommend?”

“What exactly is your problem?” the woman asks, wrinkling her forehead in the meantime in a way that I’m positive she takes me for a druggie.

I tell her the truth that I have fallen off the steps from the train and hit myself. To justify this, I pull the thobe up my arm, so that she can see the scratches and the purple bruise on my forearm, which is large by now. The sight of my knee would probably be more convincing, but seeing my leg, she would spot immediately that something is wrong with my fake identity, so I leave that.

“And I also feel nauseous. Something is very wrong with my stomach,” I groan without exaggerating.

She nods and begins to search the drawer behind her back, then puts four different kinds of boxes on the counter for me. None looks familiar, so I ask which is the strongest painkiller, and then opt for that.

“Two boxes, please,” I add when she types the price into the till. “And I’ll take that other one for nausea.”

After I have paid, I don’t hesitate but open the box still in the shop and take two tablets out. I hope they will work! I throw the boxes of medicine into the plastic bag and step outside.

The street is strangely deserted, an unpleasant chill runs down my back as I start walking in the dark towards the spot where I saw the taxi drive off. I walk looking down when someone calls out to me. I lift my head and see a figure in the dim light beside the wall. he’s talking to me, but I don’t understand what he is saying.

“What?” I ask incredulously. Then, the first man is joined by another one, and he’s speaking in English.

“Give money. Money. Got it?” he steps up to me, the streetlamp lights into his face.

He looks young, I estimate him to be about twenty. His face is dirty, his hair is stuck into locks, and as he leans closer to me, a stench of sweat hits my nose. I begin to gag, and I don’t even know if that is because of the smell or my recognition that I should never have got out of that taxi. That’s it, the end – the thought crosses my mind, and I wait for – as written in books – the movie of my life to roll before my eyes. I will die here, in an abandoned backstreet of Pakistan, and my body will never be identified. The big adventure is over, there will be no Europe, no London, I will never taste free life.

“Can’t you hear me?” he yells into my face, and grabs the strap of my rucksack.

This brings me back from my trance and I try to jump to the side. He keeps on tossing me, but I’m holding onto the strap fast. He shouts at me with anger, and begins to push me. I fall onto my back. Sharp pain pierces through my knee, I shout out and look around with despair, in case someone will come to rescue me. The other man takes the opportunity, and while I’m lying on my back, he snatches the plastic bag with the medicine from me. I see him reaching into it with shaky hands, beginning to study its contents. I try to back away, crawling on the ground, but the one with the dirty face reaches for me and begins to yank at my bag again. The agal on my head slides to the side, it hardly holds the shemagh, but that’s my least concern. If they realize they’re confronting a woman, they might go even wilder. Now they only want my money, but once they see my long hair, I’m sure robbing me will not suffice. I don’t know what strength has come over me, what genie is taking control of me, but suddenly I become wildly determined, and jump up from the ground. I can’t give up so easily, I must fight. I know if these arseholes rob me, take my jewellery and the money I’m hiding, then it’s all finished. I must fight – my inner being shouts, and I almost sense a flood of adrenaline.

I hit, scratch and kick wherever I can get the guy, and now I don’t even feel pain. I get a big slap in the face, my shemagh flies off, but I don’t care, instead I drive a gigantic kick between the man’s legs. I must have hit him at the right place, because he collapses and doubles over, cursing. At this, his mate comes to his rescue, and now he’s also grabbing my rucksack, which is halfway off my shoulder by now. I’m clinging onto it like mad, I sting and bite, shouting for help in my despair. The man grabs the other end of the strap and begins to spin it around him, and me too with it, as I’m still holding onto it. I feel and I know, this is a crucial moment. If he yanks it out of my hand, it’s all over. We’re spinning round and round, while the guy is calling his friend names – the one still trying to gather himself on the ground. Then, I suddenly hear a shout from the chemist’s direction. I recognize the word police, the rest they probably say in Urdu, because I don’t understand any of it. People are coming towards us, yelling, when my attacker gives my rucksack another yank, making the seam rip. He spins me around again strongly, my fingers are going weak, the leather is slipping out of my grip, but it looks like he gives up at last, and suddenly lets go. I slam against the wall of the house at a crazy speed, landing on the ground with a moan, right on my injured arm. I’m seeing stars with the pain, the breath is caught in me, and it takes a few seconds until I can move.

I see the blurred image of a man approaching me from the chemists direction, holding a cell phone. I look around, my shemagh is not far from me, on the ground. I touch my head; the net is more or less still in place. I climb over and put the shemagh on my head clumsily, then slowly get up. I can hardly believe it, but my rucksack is still hanging off my hand. The man slows down as he gets close and asks in English if I am all right. I say nothing, I seem unable to utter a decent word. I glance around, but hardly see anything, sweat, or possible blood is stinging my eyes. Without a word, I start running in the opposite direction from where my attackers disappeared. The man shouts something after me, but I don’t intend to turn around, I’m just running towards the lights of traffic. I need a taxi. A taxi! – I say the mantra, but my strength is leaving me, I’m slowing down, until finally, panting, I change to walking speed. I guess, this is how long the adrenaline push lasted. Now that immediate danger is gone, my body gives up. I’m hardly standing on my feet, now I’m beginning to feel how much my arm hurts, the one I have fallen onto. Tears are rolling down my cheeks, but I don’t stop. I practically jump down onto the road, in front of a taxi. I open the back door and climb into the seat.