Blood will tell
I took a number, and lectured my son on possible impact of insentient control mechanisms on a tribal society.
Shandana Minhas is a writer shandana.minhas@tribune.com.pk
I had to take my son for a blood test recently. A creature of habit, I didn’t take him to the many labs close to where I live now and instead, took him to the one we have been taking him to since he was born. I don’t mind a longer journey if it results in the pleasure of confirming that the more things change, the more they remain the same. All things must end, though, and the lab has changed. I don’t mean the name, or the staff, or the tired security guard, or the posters on the walls. I mean they have installed a token machine. Instead of entering and elbowing your way to the counter like a normal Pakistani, you now have to take a token from the machine, sit down in the waiting area and wait for your number to flash on the screen.
I walked in to see one person at the counter and everyone else sitting in the waiting area. Assuming they had already paid and were waiting to be called for their tests, I went to the counter. “Take a token please,” the data entry official said. Her hijab was new too. “A token? There is a token machine now?” She waved her hand towards it. Lab tests, Collect reports, said the options. I took a number, went and sat in the waiting area with the others and gave my son a lecture on the possible impact of insentient control mechanisms on a tribal society.
As usual, he ignored me and read the book he had brought with him instead. But the elderly woman sitting across from us and eavesdropping appreciated it. “I don’t know why they did this,” she said. “I’ve been sitting here forever and it still isn’t my turn.” I nodded but didn’t smile or reply. Little old Pakistani ladies are dangerous things. The slightest encouragement or confidence, and they’ll take a scalpel to your personal life.
A man in shalwar kameez entered and distracted us. He looked visibly ill and more than a little irritated. “What token machine?” he barked when the woman at the counter told him off for interrupting her leisurely exchange with a colleague. “Where is this token machine?” Clearly suspicious, he calmed down only when a well-dressed mother accompanying a young woman told him gently that it was behind him. He stood in front of it for a minute or two, so that we would understand he was mulling the philosophical implications of each option, before selecting one and seating himself, in proprietary fashion, right next to it. The token machine hadn’t existed before he discovered it, his body language said.
Then ensued a power struggle between the mother and daughter and the irritable man as they vied for the right to name and claim. Summoned to the counter, as their number was up, the ladies divided their attention between the data entry and the door. One would answer a question while the other watched for fresh blood. As soon as someone walked in, “take a token!” would fly from soft, coloured lips and pallid compressed ones simultaneously. Confused, each new entrant would stand paralysed in the foyer till the data entry official nodded to indicate her assent. It had to come from authority, you see.
As the minutes ticked by, the waiting area grew crowded. My son, without raising his head, elbowed me to move over and make room for a long-haired budget burger with grease marks on his arms and the smell of motor oil. “Thank you,” said the mechanic. “Ummhmm.” The head remained in the book, the kid unaware that his politeness had pushed me into the female half of the waiting area. Not only did the move spoil my perfect record of resisting voluntary segregation in public spaces, it also brought me within striking distance of the little old lady, who pounced immediately by asking me where the boy’s father was.
A driver and a begum walked in one after another and stirred things up. The driver made it to the token machine first, but its guardian pointed out there was a “ladies” behind him. The driver obediently moved aside. The begum examined the options on the touch screen before pushing the slot at the bottom where the token would have emerged. A flush crept up her white neck as nothing happened. It deepened when the driver reached past her and indicated she should tap the screen instead. Everyone gave him dirty looks. He had made the moneyed look ignorant. It was asking for anarchy. He took his own token and retreated into a corner to hide behind a banner announcing computerised results.
“This is not fair, that man at the counter got here after me!” the little old lady said when her attempts to elicit my life story proved fruitless. “I’ve been here forever! I’m going to complain!” She got up, muttering suitable gratitude to the lord for allowing poor old her to retain some semblance of motor function and waddled over to the counter. Talk to the display, the data entry official said with a raised finger. If your number isn’t up there, you shouldn’t be up here.
She retreated to stand before the token machine, hurt. “But I’ve been here forever,” she said to its guardian. “Let me see,” he took her token. “Oh I know what the problem is, you are here to collect reports and you took a token for a test instead. That’s why it’s taking so long.”
“What do I do now?”
But nobody offered her their own token. She settled, after a while, into the vacant spot by the guardian and devoted herself to asking why rage threatened to consume him.
“I don’t like this new system,” the driver behind the banner called to the mechanic. “Everything is out of place. The old system was better.”
Published in The Express Tribune, April 1st, 2014.
I walked in to see one person at the counter and everyone else sitting in the waiting area. Assuming they had already paid and were waiting to be called for their tests, I went to the counter. “Take a token please,” the data entry official said. Her hijab was new too. “A token? There is a token machine now?” She waved her hand towards it. Lab tests, Collect reports, said the options. I took a number, went and sat in the waiting area with the others and gave my son a lecture on the possible impact of insentient control mechanisms on a tribal society.
As usual, he ignored me and read the book he had brought with him instead. But the elderly woman sitting across from us and eavesdropping appreciated it. “I don’t know why they did this,” she said. “I’ve been sitting here forever and it still isn’t my turn.” I nodded but didn’t smile or reply. Little old Pakistani ladies are dangerous things. The slightest encouragement or confidence, and they’ll take a scalpel to your personal life.
A man in shalwar kameez entered and distracted us. He looked visibly ill and more than a little irritated. “What token machine?” he barked when the woman at the counter told him off for interrupting her leisurely exchange with a colleague. “Where is this token machine?” Clearly suspicious, he calmed down only when a well-dressed mother accompanying a young woman told him gently that it was behind him. He stood in front of it for a minute or two, so that we would understand he was mulling the philosophical implications of each option, before selecting one and seating himself, in proprietary fashion, right next to it. The token machine hadn’t existed before he discovered it, his body language said.
Then ensued a power struggle between the mother and daughter and the irritable man as they vied for the right to name and claim. Summoned to the counter, as their number was up, the ladies divided their attention between the data entry and the door. One would answer a question while the other watched for fresh blood. As soon as someone walked in, “take a token!” would fly from soft, coloured lips and pallid compressed ones simultaneously. Confused, each new entrant would stand paralysed in the foyer till the data entry official nodded to indicate her assent. It had to come from authority, you see.
As the minutes ticked by, the waiting area grew crowded. My son, without raising his head, elbowed me to move over and make room for a long-haired budget burger with grease marks on his arms and the smell of motor oil. “Thank you,” said the mechanic. “Ummhmm.” The head remained in the book, the kid unaware that his politeness had pushed me into the female half of the waiting area. Not only did the move spoil my perfect record of resisting voluntary segregation in public spaces, it also brought me within striking distance of the little old lady, who pounced immediately by asking me where the boy’s father was.
A driver and a begum walked in one after another and stirred things up. The driver made it to the token machine first, but its guardian pointed out there was a “ladies” behind him. The driver obediently moved aside. The begum examined the options on the touch screen before pushing the slot at the bottom where the token would have emerged. A flush crept up her white neck as nothing happened. It deepened when the driver reached past her and indicated she should tap the screen instead. Everyone gave him dirty looks. He had made the moneyed look ignorant. It was asking for anarchy. He took his own token and retreated into a corner to hide behind a banner announcing computerised results.
“This is not fair, that man at the counter got here after me!” the little old lady said when her attempts to elicit my life story proved fruitless. “I’ve been here forever! I’m going to complain!” She got up, muttering suitable gratitude to the lord for allowing poor old her to retain some semblance of motor function and waddled over to the counter. Talk to the display, the data entry official said with a raised finger. If your number isn’t up there, you shouldn’t be up here.
She retreated to stand before the token machine, hurt. “But I’ve been here forever,” she said to its guardian. “Let me see,” he took her token. “Oh I know what the problem is, you are here to collect reports and you took a token for a test instead. That’s why it’s taking so long.”
“What do I do now?”
But nobody offered her their own token. She settled, after a while, into the vacant spot by the guardian and devoted herself to asking why rage threatened to consume him.
“I don’t like this new system,” the driver behind the banner called to the mechanic. “Everything is out of place. The old system was better.”
Published in The Express Tribune, April 1st, 2014.