Public Braying

And in through the glass doors they went, the man pushing the trolley, the boy that was leaving, the dog that sensed something big was about to happen, and was whining again, low, sad. The two guards, one old, one young looked curiously at the cage, as it passed them, the people waiting for their passports to get checked waiting impatiently.

As they walked through, a blast of hot air hit them from above, the air conditioner blowing down air positioned right above the automatic glass doors. It was hot, dry, felt comforting somehow, a thick blanket embracing them. For just a few brief seconds. The doors opened again and let in a gust of cold wind from the chilly Lahori winter as another passenger made her way through, then turned and waited for the rest of her family. The dog sighed and settled down loudly, plopping onto the plastic crate.

They passed through security and a man was waiting for them. His father had arranged this, because everything in this country needed to be done through connections. He was freshly shaved, dressed in a suit and tie, a gleaming, too bright, brown belt. He smelled of cheap aftershave, but at least he was trying. The others just pranced around in old, shabby shalwaar kameez, granted it was the national dress, but it was not like they had a sense of personal hygiene that made up for it. Bedraggled bears, fuzzy ears, long nostril hairs. This man greeted the boy, enthused, and took him to the customs officer, a bored looking man, greying white hair, wearing spectacles that were dusty and ancient, as old as him, it seemed.

The inside of the airport was dry, and hot, and dusty. He could see the too many counters for check in, and the too few passengers, straggling inside, the ones in western attire yawning, the ones in shalwaar kameez wide eyed and staring at the grand hall, the waste of space. It smelled of bad chai, and oily samosas. The ground was rough, and he could see the dust where his feet had stepped. He could feel the dust collecting on his curling fingers as he handed the man who had come to collect them, the papers he had brought.

The man handed them to the elderly officer. The boy smiled at the man, as if it would help. The man just stared at him with a blank stare through his dust coated glasses. He ruffled through the papers, bored. It didn’t matter if they were real or not, as long as he went through the motions. Same as with prayers in this country. The boy thought, doesn’t matter if you’re a good person or have genuine prayer, as long as you can show everyone around you that you are prostrating and saying some words. The louder the better. Donkeys! He thought with disgust as he barely caught himself from shaking his head with the same feeling. Fucking donkeys.