A few years ago, my old Nissan was at the workshop again and I needed to use public transportation but was dreading opting for a rickshaw or a taxi. After returning to Pakistan several years back, I had relied on them to get around for a year or so until I could afford my own vehicle, and it had been a distinctly unpleasant experience. Many of drivers I had ridden with were rude, dishonest, broke traffic rules and carried the sort of body odour you’d expect from someone driving in the sweltering heat for half a day. Save for one, none of the taxis I had used had working air-conditioning or an operational meter so that a client could pay an honest fare without haggling. The vehicles were kept in such disgusting condition that I can distinctly remember coming home after each cab ride and having to change my clothing because of the gunk I had absorbed from the seats, which were carrying a concoction of sweat and cigarette smoke from having not been cleaned for years. I say “save for one” because a sole taxi driver, a college graduate trying to make ends meet who drove me one day after being hailed off the street, had a remarkably clean car. What’s more, the air-conditioner in his cab was working perfectly, a pleasant surprise on a hot Karachi day. Furthermore, he charged fairly by the kilometre. I quickly took his mobile number and would call him whenever I needed to travel in the city via public transportation. Adeeb was a smart young man with some interesting ideas on business and life. His family had fallen on hard times but he was ambitious and wanted to travel to Malaysia to study further. With his remaining savings, he fixed up a taxi that the family owned with the philosophy that if he offered a better service, the customers would flock to him, even if he charged a little extra. And while his rate on the meter was higher than the official rate, I found it still more affordable than any random taxi driver who would unreasonably demand 250 rupees to travel merely a block away. Keep in mind that this was well before the invention of Uber or Careem. In the mid-2000s, this man was simply before his time. Regardless, it was worth it, traveling in the heat of the port city in the only yellow cab with comfortable soft new seats and an air-conditioner so good, you almost didn’t want the ride to end. A few months after I became his regular client, I began to notice that he was getting more difficult to find. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one responding to his business philosophy, and he had generated a number of clients. One day, I was surprised when he said he was increasing his rates. He explained that because his cab was in such demand, he was going to charge more and cater to a select clientele. Meanwhile, he had upgraded his taxi a little more. In the end, I contently agreed. After purchasing my own vehicle, I lost touch with Adeeb, when one day I got a phone call from him out of the blue. He sounded happy:

“Hello Sir, this is Adeeb.” “Hi Adeeb! It’s nice to hear from you. I’ve told you to not call me sir though!” “Sorry Sir, I am just used to it.”

We both laughed!

“Anyway, I wanted to thank you. You were one of my best clients. Through you and other clients, I raised enough money to follow my dreams.”

Currently, Adeeb is in Kuala Lampur and seems to be doing well, and is a testament to what hard work and an enterprising nature can lead to. I was thinking of him a few years ago when my Nissan was in the workshop for an undetermined amount of time and I was stuck once again in the toxic cycle of rickshaws and taxis. Nothing had changed. The drivers still tried to get away with whatever they could charge, the vehicles were still dangerously out of order, and the driving was still as haphazard as Fast and the Furious. On the other hand, the white cabs had their own set of problems. Their rates were high, yet the service was a real mixed bag, with every driver complaining about the employers and asking clients to lie about the distance travelled so they could rip off the company. Here, I was introduced by a friend to a driver named Wasim, who was hailed through his mobile phone like Adeeb. While it wasn’t an official taxi, his Suzuki Cultus was well-maintained and his service was excellent. Traveling with him the next day, I was surprised to see him drive up in a different car and then yet another the day after, with not even him driving this time. Finally, when I rode with him again, I asked him his story, which was similar to Adeeb’s. He too had been a cab driver until he realised that he could attract more business by offering a better service. To cut a long story short, he now owned several cars in excellent condition and was making at least Rs60,000 a month through them. This, according to him, was after deducting his monthly costs, which included salaries paid out to his nephews who drove for him. From my experience and the experience of so many I know, public transportation in Pakistan is a real hassle. And as bad as the terribly uncomfortable rickshaws and taxis are, the buses are even worse. What complicates matters is that in huge teeming cities like Karachi with regular traffic jams where people have to go from one end of town to the other, commuters have to spend five to six hours a day in traffic. For such folks, services like the Metrobus in Punjab and app-based cab services such as Uber and Careem are a blessing. If nothing else, the popularity of these services and the stories of drivers like Adeeb and Wasim suggest that Pakistanis are sick of the old alternatives. Unfortunately, the reaction from the transport mafia, which often manipulates every day drivers into doing their dirty work, has been disappointing. A few years ago, a Green Bus initiative was launched in Karachi, offering excellent service to the public. These were shut down after the harassment of drivers and arson by unknown miscreants. I myself was caught in the middle of a strike near the KPT Bridge in protest against the launch of the online ride-hailing services where rickshaws lined up to block all traffic. Recently, rickshaws in Lahore staged a demonstration on Ferozepur Road for nearly three hours, creating a disastrous traffic jam to protest against services like Uber and Careem, who they claim are stealing their clients. I feel for some of these drivers, I do. This is their livelihood, and some of them spend 18 hours a day on the road to feed their families. I also know that some of them don’t even own their vehicles and instead drive for others, many of them policemen who run side businesses. When it comes to improving their services, they are caught in a vicious circle and are powerless. But this doesn’t take away from the fact that for decades, rickshaws and taxis services have been growing drastically worse. When I was a kid, I remember hopping in a taxi with my mother on the way to Tariq Road in a vehicle that was clean, air-conditioned, and had an operating meter. This is as rare as gold dust today in a random rickshaw or a taxi. Why? Because those exact same cars that ran in good condition in my childhood are still running today, with little to no maintenance in decades, except for what allows the engine to keep running. From burning buses in Karachi to the protests, the reaction to this improved means of transport has exposed two issues in the mentality of the average Pakistani. Firstly, we are complacent and feel entitled. There was a massive void left because of the state of the public transport, and it was left up to outsider companies such as Uber and Careem to fill it. Instead of raising a tantrum on the streets, Awami Rickshaw Union Chairman Majeed Ghauri should explain why no one took up the chance to offer the people of Pakistan the service they deserved. No one would be opting for the new options if what they had was up to standards. Secondly, we tend to offer a lot of blind empathy on wholesale. While one can feel for people whose livelihood has been affected, one must also feel for the paying customers who had been mistreated at their hands. Let’s also accept that the new services have created new jobs. Rather than creating roadblocks, those drivers left behind now need to find a way to shift up a gear. For too long they’ve driven in a one-man race, where they were all too comfortable finishing last.

If the 90s era of Pakistan cricket was known for something, it was talent… wasted talent. For a side that carried match-winners like Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis, Shoaib Akhtar, Mushtaq Ahmed, Saeed Anwar, and Inzamamul Haq, to name a few, there was woeful underachievement. Sure, Pakistan won the 1992 World Cup, but with the retirement of Imran Khan soon after, the team went in a downward spiral. Thanks to constant in-fighting to allegations of match-fixing to backstabbing politics within the squad, Pakistan didn’t win nearly as many Test series and limited-over tournaments as they should have. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="533"] Pakistan celebrate in triumph after winning the 1992 World Cup despite not being favourites. Photo: ESPNcricinfo[/caption] Nothing exemplified this more than Pakistan’s tour to South Africa in the mid-90s, where during an ODI tri-series that Pakistan dominated in the first half, all hell broke loose after some cricketers blew the whistle on match-fixers, after which Pakistan crashed in the tournament. One of the cricketers respected for his stance on match-fixing was Aamir Sohail, a gutsy left-handed batsman who could on his day be more explosive than the more naturally gifted Saeed Anwar. After Sohail won the hearts of the public for his brave attitude on and off the field, some rumors began to spread in the media about his hot-headedness in the dressing room. Many didn’t give credence to these reports until Pakistan played India in the 1996 World Cup quarter-final in Bangalore, where Sohail was suddenly made captain after Akram pulled out of the match due to an injury. Here, India hammered Pakistan when they batted, setting Pakistan a target of 288 in 49 overs, which in 1996 might as well have been 350. Apparently, Pakistan faced a lot of abuse from the Bangalore crowd, including threats of violence, and when their turn came to chase, the atmosphere was so tense that you could feel it through your television sets. At the time, Pakistan was regarded to have the best ODI opening batsmen in the world, and the duo of Sohail and Anwar began to show why they had that reputation. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XF6hK4M4JuE The two made mincemeat of the Indian attack, and by the time Anwar fell at 84, Pakistan had an incredible run rate and it looked like easy sailing for the visitors. Unfortunately, cooler heads did not prevail. At a point when singles, doubles and the occasional boundary would have taken the team home, Sohail did the unthinkable. After smacking Venkatesh Prasad for a boundary on the offside, he taunted the seamer by pointing a finger at the direction he wanted to hit him next. Now, Sohail was in a bind. Seeing red, he tried to force himself into an unnatural position to play the shot, missed the ball, and was clean bowled in a humiliating fashion. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhs6FP7L8H8 Sohail’s antics put the rest of the team under pressure, though to be fair, at 113-2 they should have still coasted. Ijaz Ahmed and Inzamam needlessly holed out to aggressive shots when all was under control, and by the time Javed Miandad and Saleem Malik came to the crease, the duo were far over their prime to lift the run rate after rebuilding cautiously. Interestingly, Sohail had been criticised for not handing over the captaincy to Miandad when Akram abruptly pulled out, though more on that later. When Sohail was made captain, reports in various papers claimed that he was growing paranoid. When the team lost under his captaincy, he accused the star talent of undermining his leadership by deliberately under performing. Some fans sympathised with Sohail, while others felt he was turning into the boy who had cried wolf and now saw wolves everywhere. I suppose that if Sohail was paranoid, one can empathise in the sense that except for a few, most of the star players accused by cricketers like Rashid Latif, Basit Ali, Sohail, and Ataur Rehman were still playing. But a picture of Sohail indeed being temperamental, impulsive, and paranoid had begun to take shape. After the disastrous World Cup in South Africa in 2003, Sohail was appointed chief selector and began to settle scores. Many of the former greats were forced to retire, and not given the send-offs the public expected. Again, this could have stemmed from the fact that Sohail had never seen justice delivered against the alleged match-fixers in his day, but some fans found his behaviour to be vindictive. It wasn’t until Sohail began to share his views as an expert on television that fans got a true taste of his personality. In the commentary box with other former cricketers, national and international, Sohail came across as rude, abrasive, and frankly, quite obnoxious. Sometimes, when the team under-performed, Sohail would make thinly veiled hints at match-fixing, though without an iota of evidence. Again, as a former whistle-blower who had to bear the indignity of playing with the cricketers he had spoken out against, it is possible to explain some of the paranoia, but Sohail was taking things too far. This is why I am not at all surprised by Sohail’s attack on new captain Sarfraz Ahmed after Pakistan beat Sri Lanka in their crucial group match. Here, responding to Ahmed’s decision not to dedicate the team’s victory to Miandad, which he was well within his rights to do, Sohail indirectly accused the side of their games through foul play at the hands of “facilitators”. Rightly, a storm was raised on social media for Sohail’s ridiculous comments. The statement reeked of pettiness and jealousy. Even former Indian cricketers came to Pakistan’s defence, with Sourav Ganguly terming Sohail’s words “stupid, ridiculous.” Sohail then appeared on a video with someone called Muhammad Shuayb to clarify, except his clarification came across as non-sensical damage control. Sohail claimed that when he said “facilitators” he actually meant the administrators of the game, who had deliberately played the semi-final on a slow used track so that Pakistan would have an advantage and potentially meet in a final with India, perhaps to generate more revenue. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dat-GJw19fk Of course, this was just more “stupid, ridiculous” stuff from Sohail. If he is claiming that the hosts England did this, then it doesn’t make sense since the side was ravenously hungry to finally win a big ODI tournament. If Sohail says that it was ICC’s plan to sell tickets for a Pakistan-India final, then why doesn’t the organisation do this every time? Why not give Pakistan home advantage everywhere? Perhaps what Sohail doesn’t realise is that the decision for this semi-final to take place on the used track was taken a year ago, so the ICC couldn’t have possibly known. No, it seems more like Sohail shot from the hip once again about match-fixing, and later tried desperately to save face. Strangely, Sohail was triggered by the situation with Miandad, yet in the fateful 1996 match, he paid no heed to the batsman’s appeal to be given a greater leadership role or to be sent at number three in the pivotal game. While Ahmed’s comments about former cricketers being harsh could be a bit naïve, criticism after failure is to be expected, there is truth to the fact that most Pakistani cricketers come on TV with axes to grind. With no other employment to speak of, it seems that former cricketers can’t see the difference between criticism and constructive criticism, especially since being angry pundits plays into their brand. It is a pity how cricketers can transform into angry vomit spewing ‘experts’ within a short period after their retirement. From Mohammad Yousuf to Shoaib Akhtar, former players who themselves often cost their sides because of their own poor performances now take to TV with whatever vitriol resides in their hearts. The lack of empathy for their comrades only points to petty jealousy, or an attempt at gaining popularity on TV post-retirement. In times like these, it is bittersweet to see Indian stars be more supportive of the Pakistan team than former Pakistan cricketers themselves. In spite of the political friction between Pakistan and India, both Ganguly and Harbhajan Singh came to Pakistan’s defence. What’s more, Virat Kohli gave a wonderfully gracious speech after losing the final. Here is the quote taken from Cricinfo,

“I want to congratulate Pakistan, they had an amazing tournament, the way they turned things around, speak volumes for the talent they have. They proved it again, they can upset anyone on their day, disappointing for us but I have a smile on my face because we played well to reach the final. Credit to them, they outplayed us today in all departments. This is what happens in sport. We can’t take anyone lightly but they were more intense and passionate on the day. With the ball we could have had a few more wicket-taking opportunities. We tried to do our best, but even with the ball, they were aggressive, we didn’t show any resistance apart from Hardik, whose knock was outstanding. (Bumrah no-ball?) Small margins can be massive but we’ve only lost a game of cricket, we need to move forwards and learn from our mistakes. The pitch was consistent throughout, we backed out strengths but weren’t good enough.”

Certainly, Sohail could absorb some of Kohli’s class. In fact, so could a lot of other so-called experts. Judging by the barely hidden knives they’ve carried over the years, including an especially sharp set for Misbahul Haq, it’s no wonder Pakistan has been underperforming. Players who don’t put Pakistan first, no matter how talented, can never take their side to the top.

There is no place in the world where women can feel as safe or have the same privileges as men. But it is especially hard in Pakistan where discrimination is an endemic, thanks to the entitled mind-set of the typical Pakistani male. Abuse ranges from violence to sexual harassment, or worse, and no classes, locations or environments are completely safe from this. Some time ago, after someone close to me faced repeated harassment at the workplace through texts and emails, which included hundreds of threats of sexual violence, I was inspired to write an article investigating how deep the problem is in Pakistani work culture. The results were shocking. You’d think that sexual harassment is more of an issue faced by women from low-income groups, and as statistics reveal, the problem is certainly woefully rampant for women of these classes. However, as I soon discovered, women from higher income backgrounds aren’t completely safe either. When I reached out online for stories of harassment on Facebook groups and through friends and friends of friends, I received hundreds of stories out of which I could only feature a handful in my article. Women working at more upscale places like banks, media companies and multinational businesses shared stories of sexual harassment from co-workers. Furthermore, sexual harassment by people in positions of power came up as well. With the ever-growing influence of religious extremism, our society teaches us that ‘good’ women should dress modestly, wear hijabs or even niqabs, behave self-effacingly, and get married as early as possible – and that’s the problem. The onus is always on the woman to protect herself from lecherous behaviour, and not on the man to behave decently. Men should be taught to behave with women not as women, but as people, so that women can have the same freedom as men without feeling fear. Some of the women who shared their stories wore hijabs, others were married, and one was actually pregnant, yet none of these factors stopped the men who made their lives a living hell. So clearly, if the fail-safes Pakistani society teaches women to employ to protect themselves from harassment aren’t working, perhaps it’s not about the fail-safes at all. Something is clearly wrong in our society, and the men have to speak up and take action to trigger a modification in male behaviour. One of the gravest issues with this mind-set is something as simple as transportation. As Pakistani men, we take it for granted that we can get from point A to point B when we’d like, either through private or public transportation. It’s not nearly as easy for women, and can in fact be a point of frustration. Traveling alone as a woman is not a crime, but Pakistan can certainly make it feel like one. Going by taxi means there is a chance a driver will hit on you or cross further boundaries, while female drivers driving alone in the country know that some sexually frustrated Pakistani man is going to test their limits on the road. This is probably why the introduction of services like Uber and Careem felt like a godsend. Every other woman I know, car owner or not, has been using these services extensively, and many profess that they feel liberated because such services allow them a feeling independence in an increasingly patriarchal society. Even at IGN, the technology section reviewed the Careem app over a year ago and gave it a positive score. Unfortunately, some stories about Careem began to surface where women reported facing harassment from drivers, not only during the ride but even after the ride ended, through cell phone messages. While the majority of Careem captains appear to be decent, it is clear that some drivers weren’t absorbing their training in etiquettes. If these incidents weren’t enough, Careem gave in to an ill-advised idea by launching rishta (matrimonial) services, that too on the ride, in a concept reeking of macho corporate thinking. Careem, considered by many tired of a patriarchal society to be something of a bastion against cultural ills, was now drawing from one of those very social ills and breaking the same fourth wall that had helped make it so successful. The single women I know who use Careem dislike the rishta culture. When they use Careem, they feel shielded from the patriarchal Pakistani mind-set that a single woman can’t function. Clearly, some dudes at Careem realised that single women were a massive part of their market and high-fived each after coming up with this rishta idea, because all single Pakistani women want to get married, right? One woman I know tried the rishta service and complained that as she told the matrimonial aunty about her preferences, the Careem captain made an inappropriate joke or two. And after an English daily’s blog desk criticised Careem’s new concept, the Lifestyle section wrote a doting review of the service.

 “When we were talking to Razia aunty about how we want a tall guy because duh who doesn't, the captain laughed, cut in and said, “Aisay toh market mein kum aatay hai.” (Such men are very rare in the market.)

Hmm… Each time either of us spoke, he’d look back from his rear view mirror. It was definitely awkward and it made us uncomfortable; we didn’t want him to see us as anything but customers.” Express Tribune criticised Careem’s new concept as well after availing this service. What surprised me was how inappropriately the rishta aunty behaved,

“At this point, she took out her phone to photograph us — we told her we’d rather send her better pictures of us through Whatsapp, but she continued persistently.”

I even heard of instances where the Careem drivers made inappropriate comments. A reader named Uzma had similar issues with the driver and minced no words: [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Photo: Screenshot[/caption] Instead of trying to earn cheap gains, Careem should be focusing on what powered their core business – safety. At the very least, if Careem simply had to proceed with the rishta service, it should have instructed its drivers to remain thoroughly professional. The fact that they were passing inappropriate comments and couldn’t keep their eyes off of the women talking to the matrimonial aunties is evidence that this rishta service is at odds with Careem’s core business. For the drivers, suddenly the single women riding with Careem drivers weren’t just faceless and sexless clients, but women who needed men. Careem itself recreated a piece of the atmosphere its clients were using its services to escape. A few days ago, a young woman shared a story of harassment at the hands of a Careem driver that was quite upsetting. Perhaps the saddest part of the story is that the woman felt the need to tell everyone that she was dressed modestly, because our culture has conditioned Pakistanis into believing that women who face sexual harassment “bring it upon themselves”. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Photo: Screenshot[/caption] The woman was ultimately justified in sharing this information because many of the pathetic comments ridiculed her. Careem certainly deserves credit for its services. Countless single female clients swear by it. But the growing complaints about Careem drivers coupled with the uncalled for rishta service is evidence that the company has a long way to go. Careem should make its clients feel more protected than before, not less.

Recently, a video has gone viral across Pakistani social media. It shows what appears to be a good-natured young man standing on the edge of a few rocks while staring naively at a stream. Here, his ‘friends’ egg him on to take a plunge and swim across the river to the other side. The problem with the challenge can be clearly seen in the boy’s eyes – the current is moving quite rapidly, with hidden dangers lying under the water, and unless he’s Superman, he’ll be in trouble. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUfz0nkqSwQ But peer pressure is a funny thing. It can initiate anyone into an ill-advised decision in just a split second, especially in a country where young people are short on confidence and generate a lot of self-esteem from their peers.

After some more cajoling, the boy takes the dive. Initially, he appears to be under control but mother nature quickly proves to be powerful for him as he appears to be carried away.

As reality dawns on his friends, they panic. Screams can be heard on the video as those watching realise that his life is in real danger. In a panic, the person recording, and probably the same person whose voice we heard, runs ahead in hopes to save him. But it is too late.

From reports, we now know that the teenager who took on this deadly challenge is 19-year-old Ali Abrar. Those who convinced him to jump in the Jhelum River were his five friends, and the group had come from Gujarat for holiday. Earlier, they had promised him Rs15,000 as well as a cellphone as a prize for taking on the dangerous task. If he lost, he would lose his phone. 

As I watched the video, I could only feel dismay. A young life needlessly lost thanks to the recklessness of youth and the selfishness of people who pretended to be Abrar’s friends. As the old adage goes, with friends like these, who needs enemies?

One can only wonder what was going through their minds when they asked him to pursue this task. Clearly, they realised it was dangerous otherwise they would have dived in themselves, if not to have a swim then to save their friend’s life. Just looking at the speed of the current, what did they expect to happen?

But this isn’t the first incident of drowning and it won’t be the last. The responsibility also lies with the government. Although this is a remote area, the authorities should still have placed warning signs to prevent foolhardy behaviour like this at a tourist destination. But let’s put Jhelum aside for a bit.

In Karachi, there are far too many lives lost each year at beaches in the Hawksebay area. It is too often that we learn about tragic incidents in which several people from the same family drown together.

Like anyone from Karachi, I’ve been to Hawksebay on multiple occasions. Although I’ve found the beaches to be filled with many visitors every time, I’ve never seen any warning signs or lifeguards on duty. The waters can be quite treacherous, and I’ve heard plenty of anecdotes of people who’ve nearly lost their lives, yet nothing is being done to make these locations more secure.

As for Abrar, I’m glad that his friends have been taken into custody by the police. For urging him into a suicidal dive for their own amusement, it’s the least they deserve. 

Was Abrar responsible for his own actions? Yes, but this doesn’t absolve his friends of guilt. Clearly they had been working him over long before the video was recorded. In the end, he gave in to a moment of madness that was created by peer pressure. This wasn’t his fault alone.

Although most reactions have been sympathetic towards Abrar, I’ve been disappointed to see that a few people on Facebook have failed to show any empathy. Let’s be clear, this was a mistake, and we’ve all made our fair share of mistakes.

[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Photo: Screenshot[/caption]

At a young age, it is easy to lose common sense when one is under pressure from his or her friends. Abrar too suffered a lapse in judgment, and has now paid the ultimate price.

Hopefully, this tale will serve as a cautionary one for young Pakistani men ready to take risks for their friends. It is evident from the fact that no one jumped in to save Abrar that ultimately, those daring their friends into taking needless risks do not have backbones. People like them ask you to put everything on the line, but are rarely there when you need them.