A Roadside Dinner

Restaurants in Islamabad tend to come and go, but Munchies has stood the test of time. 20 odd years ago, it started out as a greasy kitchen — you had to walk up to the counter to place an order. But their 20 rupeee ‘shami-egg’ burgers became a hit with students, and the rest is history. The place now has Pakistani street food down to a science.  They realized the secret to expansion — most customers were too lazy to exit their cars, so best to serve them inside their vehicles. More than a dozen waiters now ensure that that happens. 

Here if one arrives in a large car, one can demand, and receive VIP service. The place runs all day, and into the wee hours of the morning. One might arrive to eat alone there, but in any event, will not end up doing so. Everyone eats here — beggars, transvestites, prostitutes, the city gentry, politicians and tycoons. Inevitably, someone will pass by and strike a conversation. 

I stopped by one evening, a few days ago. Upon parking, I saw a transvestite sitting on the curb. She looked like she had had a long day, and was engrossed in her burger without a care in the world. Tomorrow she might be asking for money. Then, a young boy came by begging for alms. It felt terrible to refuse, but then one reminded oneself that the money would only go to the mafia that puts such kids into the streets. They control the streets and the markets. Next, a waiter comes up. I place an order and he rushes off eagerly. After him, an old man arrives, cloth in hand, offering to dust off the car. What did I say about eating alone? I want to say yes, but the car doesn’t require cleaning, so I decline politely. He slinks off. 

The food arrives quickly - VIP service indeed. As I settle down, a second old man walks up, with a rag in his hand. His face is withered, and his frown lines deep set. “Do you want me to clean the car sir?” I say no, it doesn’t require cleaning. He persists, “Please sir, there is no work today, and I am trying to buy rations for my family.” I really wish he would stop calling me sir. I look back at him again.  He looks like a man who can’t get a break. I feel a sense of frustration, at all the circumstances which have brought an otherwise able man like him here. I give in and ask him to go ahead. 

“How much will you want for it?” “Whatever you like sir, whatever you like.” With some relief, he launches into his work. And I, having purchased a temporary suspension of guilt, into my meal. This is how it is out on the streets - you have to negotiate every moment of your existence, spurred perhaps simply by the will to live. It is a Constantly precarious world. It can make you wonder — what if you were born on the other side? 

I look around at the others plying their trade. The local security guard shows up next. He glances at me, notices that I am sitting in a large car, and exhorts the car-duster, “Make sure you do a good job with this car, treat it like your own.” Clearly, he will want a tip, and later, out of sight, will exact his cut. Everyone has a cut. Always. 

Next on the scene is a garbage picker.  You wonder how garbage is collected in a large city as this. The answer is simple — everything has a price, including garbage. As he approaches a pile of singe-use plastic plates, he argues with one of the waiters, “You get your work easily. I have to make my own work.” There is certain frustration, and a melancholic helplessness in his voice. 

Here the show goes on daily. Cut, thrust, repeat. Sitting at the top of the greasy food chain is this country’s self-aggrandizing, self-serving elite. Perpetual beneficiaries, oneself included, of a system which denies the basics to the vast majority of the population. Basic rights, basic services, and as a result, basic dignities. In fact, scorn is poured upon these social classes, and they are treated with a particular form of contempt cloaked in pity. 

There is so much that should change here, and yet so little that has. The word itself, has in fact, come to be used in jest. I beckon the car-cleaner, compensate and thank him for his service. I learn that he used to be a driver, but lost his work. The will to live makes him go on - “may God improve the lot of everyone in this country,” he prays. It is worth asking whether those running the country wish for the same. It is time to go. I wonder whether I have consumed a meal, or my own conscience.