I learned many new things after moving house. The most important, and perhaps inevitable thing was my introduction to the public transport system of Islamabad and Rawalpindi. I learned, through trial and error, how to get home from college, not to be cheated out of transport fare, and not to fall asleep in the van.

Location wise, I was spoilt. Because I lived in F-8, the best place to live; ten minutes from F-10 and F-11, seven minutes from F-7 and ten minutes from F-6. Where else could one possibly want to go? Public transport? I’ve heard the poor people use it. Now I live in Bani Gala, where the grass is by no means greener. In a private vehicle, it takes twenty five minutes to reach F-8 - if one drives fast, the traffic density is on the low side and the traffic signals are in one’s favour. Using public transport, I can get to my doorstep in about an hour and fifteen minutes - if I’m lucky. That too, after taking three different vehicles, and hoofing it the last seven minutes.

The first time I tried my luck, I didn’t get very far. I walked to F-8 Markaz, where, after asking numerous people seemingly fatuous questions and being frowned at, stepped onto the famous, and most commonly used eik saw gyara (One-Eleven for the un-tutored). Five rupees later, I dismounted at PIMS, better known as the ‘Cumplaix’ in public transport circles.

Now I was at a complete and utter loss. What followed could only constitute mindless details, and narration would only prove this. In a nutshell, I felt like ‘Sheep in The Big City’, and somewhat akin to a fool. Half an hour later, an agitated family member picked me up and drove us home.

I may not have learned much about public transport routes, but much else was new. For the first time in my life, I shared seats with the REAL people of Pakistan. The ones who constitute the majority vote in every election, the ones who inhabit 90% of the country, the ones who have absolutely NO idea what deodorant is. Here we were, all in the same boat, so to speak, watching and envying the Civics and Corollas effortlessly overtake us, and glance at us in disgust in their typical classist ways. Knowing what a nine-lakh rupee car looks like from the inside, I examined my own surroundings.

The music that blared through the cheap speakers was even cheesier than what some of my half-wit friends listened to. The seats were covered in cheap plastic literally glowing a grotesque maroon. The side panels were covered in scrawls of ballpoint ink complete with email addresses and invitations to young girls to ‘plees contect’. The local air smelt like someone had died of utter disgust on route to undisclosed destination. The door had to be held in place lest someone fall out. The ceiling was plastered with a blue butterfly print, probably the cleanest part of the van. After all, no one spits UP.

The end of every journey presented a nasty problem – making one’s way to the door through the seven seas of corpulent and sweaty men that separated me from fresh air and the will to live. One has to be careful in such a situation. If you don’t watch where you place your hooves, you may well end up kicking one of those stout specimens in the face – a thoroughly disturbing thought. One that makes one want to keep one’s feet firmly planted on the ground where they belong.

One thing that struck me was the regard and courtesy the young conductors always displayed for the benefit of any female who ventured onto the van for want of a reasonably priced ride home. Women always get the front seat next to the driver. If a male happens to be occupying that position, he is swiftly demoted to the rear with the rest of the pack. If the front seat already houses two females and more want to get on, the beady-eyed male occupants near the rear door are shoved further back to make room for ‘khala-jee’ and her charming young daughter. The only time you will ever find a male seated next to a lady is if they are related by way of blood, marriage or both. I regard this whole take-care-of-the-ladies business as a glimmer of hope for the male species of Pakistan as something other than champion perverts.

My grand programme to become independent of the elusive residential vehicles was not going well. Finally, I enlisted the help of a middle-aged gentleman who had been sweeping the floors of our home for the last ten years. He laughed at my dilemma telling me it took him only a few days to figure out not only the route, but the quickest one. I listened patiently as he smugly explained how he got there everyday. Unfortunately, he speaks Punjabi in an accent reminiscent of a bygone foreign language so fast that even my parents, both fluent in the dialect, have trouble understanding anything he ever has to say – which can be a problem because he tends to talk rather a lot. However, to his credit, he realised just how stupid I was, and offered to wait for me to get off from college and show me the way personally.

The next day, after changing several vehicles, we reached what he called the ‘daily farm’, which is actually the National Agricultural Research Council, better known as the dairy farm, although bovine quadrupeds are the last thing one can expect to find there. Finally, the last leg of the journey involved a taxi shuttle service into Bani Gala. We got off at the local market, then walked home, with him rattling on about something I wasn’t really listening to, partly because his words were impossible to decipher, but mainly because he can be a very, very big bore.

In the weeks that followed, I, without fail, had a new story for my family every day. One of the more amusing ones (in retrospect I insist) was when I decided to take a nap during the long ride to Faizabad. I paid my fare, wrapped my arms around my book bag, buried my face in it, and then woke up somewhere near Rawat. The conductor, who had only just noticed that my slumber had carried me way past my destination and fare limit, awakened me rather rudely and demanded I get off his wagon. Sheepishly, I did exactly that, and then caught another wagon traveling in the opposite direction.

The most embarrassing incident of my life has already occurred, allowing me to look to the future without fear of anything worse happening. On one of the taxi rides into Bani Gala, I was sharing the front passenger seat with an elderly gentleman who looked like he would gape and marvel at a light bulb, and probably have a heart attack to boot. I had set my cell phone to ‘silent’ the previous day and forgotten to switch it back. Naturally, I had to receive a phone call. The damn thing began vibrating in my hip pocket like an energizer bunny and the old man who obviously felt the subtle jolt looked at me bug-eyed, traumatised, like he was about to drop dead. About ten seconds later, well after I had switched my phone off and my travel mate had gathered his wits, he asked the driver to stop and hastily jumped out of the seat.

Another droll anecdote I enjoy narrating is when I was getting late on my way to college one morning. The order of the day during one particular leg of the journey was a Suzuki wagon. Ignoring the weight limit warning, the conductor always forces as many passengers as possible into the back. Once the seats are full, all that remains is the grill to hang onto. I had always managed to avoid this, but today, I was late. After a split second decision, I decided to try my luck and grip. Plus, I thought it might be ‘fun’. The first few minutes were actually enjoyable, what with the wind blowing in my face and the general feeling of well being that went hand-in-hand with doing something idiotic.

All that flew out the window when I became aware of a searing pain in my arms and left foot. My right foot hung loosely, because there were three people apart from me clinging to the grill, which left very little foot space. As I was coming to terms with the pain and trying to convince my arms to look at the bright side, I realised the driver was frantically waving at me through his window. I soon discovered this was because I was blocking his side view mirror, and that being his only mirror, was vital. The upshot was that I was swinging back and forth on the grill like a deranged pendulum for the next 12 minutes so as to allow him a brief view every few seconds. By the time I got off at my stop, my arms had effectively died.

A dozen other accounts spring to mind, but they all require a first hand view of the matter at hand. Might I suggest the yellow vans? They tend to have more legroom…