May Day images that stuck to retina

By Afzal Hussain Bokhari

May 1, the International Labour Day has passed off but the memories of the event tend to persist in one way or the other. Public rallies and processions were disallowed for security reasons. However, small-time gatherings did take place here and there.

Pro-labour speakers showed up to read out tailored scripts in front of cameras. The full-throated slogans, sentimental speeches and the revolutionary zeal associated with the occasion were nonetheless missing. One vaguely recalled the figures of late Abdul Waheed (advocate) and Abdul Razzaq (advocate) who used to organise May Day meetings in Peshawar and other towns of NWFP with traditional fervour.

The maxi-skirt that the young schoolteacher wore was bought from a ragtag, second-hand garment shop in Chowk Shadi Pir off Hashtnagri. The American accent in her English had its origin in a language centre that she briefly attended in Peshawar Cantonment.

Students considered her the most hard-working member among the entire staff. At the end of the month, she signed her name on the salary slip. She swallowed the lump in her throat and cramped out of shape the currency notes worth Rs1,200 inside her clenched fist.

Passing by the garbage heap, women in glamorous summer prints covered their noses to evade the stench. With smelly polythene bags hanging down their shoulders, ill-clad street urchins fell over one another to collect the empty juice packs abandoned on the heap.

Holding the packs to their mouth, they squeezed the air caught up inside and waited futilely for the stray drops to ooze out. In the nearby department store, the country's finance guru Shaukat Tareen popped out of the television screen to say that foreign reserves had again risen and the economy was picking up.

Coal fire had not quite subsided in the hand-held utensil that looked like home-made sauce-pan. Wearing strings of beads around his neck, the carefree alms-seeker entered the store.

Sprinkling a few seeds and dried leaves of a wild shrub, with an odd-sounding botanical name, on the smoldering fire, he fanned the smoke on to the unwary customers. According to the hearsay, nobody could cast an evil eye after the ritual and the business prospered without any hard luck. Shutting the smoke off his eyes, the obese proprietor of the store accorded an approving nod to the familiar character and quietly handed down a coin to him.

Half rising out of their seats, the organisers of the social event greeted the chief guest. After the customary hand-shake with prominent figures, the chief guest peered into his brief-case. Brushing aside his bank statement and the printouts of his post-paid cell phone bills, he finally came across the script of his speech.

Without pretending to know the origin of the Labourers' Day, he paid tributes to the government policies which envisioned a prosperous future for the toiling masses. Later, munching on a roasted chicken, he sipped on a soft drink. Thanking the organisers, he gestured to his gunman and drove away.

With a tiny wooden box hanging down his tender shoulders, the shoe-shine boy stopped by every pedestrian with a dusty pair of shoes on his feet.

He knew people did not have time for him but still he paused by routine shoppers and asked if they wanted to have their shoes polished. One out of the crowd looked at the dust on his shoes and felt like having a bit of shine on them.

So he unbuckled the shoes, squatted on the shop front and watched the boy at work. He applied a coating of polish from the newly bought tin, then a bit of liquid from an accompanying bottle and finally a hard, quick brushing. Within seconds, the shoes started wearing a new look. The stranger offered the wages and walked away without bothering to think why the tender shoulders did not have a school bag on them.

The midnight strollers did not really feel hungry. Moreover, this was hardly time for extra calories. However, the man selling 'egg-parathas' had a crowd of food-lovers around him. The teenage waiter serving the guests had visibly sleepy, bloodshot eyes. If he had a home of his own in the town, he would most likely have been in the middle of a peaceful sleep.

For the sake of a tip and some bread crumbs, he got snubbed both by the food shop owner and the customers. Nobody called him by his actual name. Everyone ridiculed by telling him how funny he looked in a longish head, with irregular teeth and a squint in the eye.

The labouring child had become used to it. He listened to the taunts and smiled sheepishly. Instead of doing something to end the child labour, the food lovers rubbed salt into the wounds of the young waiter.

From General Bus Stand to the Karkhanoo Markets, the teenage conductor accompanies the crowded wagon. Like a caterpillar, he crawls in between the crowd of passengers but never gets a seat or the time to relax. At every stop, he shouts himself hoarse to attract the passengers.

He collects the fare from travellers, takes care of their comfort and tries to pick and drop them at the right place. All the same, the driver, the passengers and the policemen on duty mumble unprintable profanities for him. He grows up in the midst of all sorts of human rights violations.

We all witness the scenes like those narrated above almost every day. We never hold the hands of the wrong doer. May Day comes just once a year. We make speeches, hold a rally or two, get photographed by the media organs and that is almost the end of it all. With the passage of time, the corporate culture appears to be gradually devouring the working class culture. Notice the manner in which the mainstream parties have started to look so annoyingly similar in striking deals with the representatives of the corporate culture at the cost of our toiling masses.