I love girls, and I love that I love girls.
So far all that I have told you about Pakistani girls is that they have huge feet. This is true; I do not know why the women in these parts would need big feet- for balance maybe? These appendages look pretty scary to me; I always find disproportionately big hands/ big feet or both on women fearsome.
People have even written books about it
But feet aside, I love the women here. I don’t hit on them, haven’t fallen for any, but I still love to indulge when the social situation allows.
A lot of girls here cover their hair, a lot of them wear traditional outfits, shalwar khameez – colorful clothes that hang loosely though gracefully, others cover their hair, and others both cover their hair and wear shalwar khameez. Some wear jeans and shirts – regular clothes – though seldom tight. But covered or not, in tight clothes or not, these girls tantalize.
Sometimes those that do cover up innocently expose their hair briefly when their abayas (scarves tied around the hair) come loose. Other times, they adjust their abayas to fix their hair, allowing you to see it for the first time. Sometimes they bend down low to pick something, and you only sight as much cleavage as their conservative dress allows, but even this slight exposure is so captivating that you shyly look away – thrilled but afraid that you may have seen too much.
These girls hurry for nobody. They walk slowly, taking all the time in the world, forcing you to wait…and stare. You stare as they drag their scarves behind them – like some kind of queen’s gown. Walking around with your duppatta (scarf usually draped around neck and shoulders) hanging off your shoulder and sweeping the path behind you, is hardly practical, but the impracticality is what probably renders it charming; so you continue to stare as she goes about in her slow graceful ways. If you are lucky, the strong Karachi wind might whip her long hair around her. If you are next to her, enjoy the Bollywood like experience as it is blown in your face, along with her silky dupatta, which you will try to avoid though you will be tempted as sin to enjoy the sensation. She will have no idea that you are watching, or of her effect on you as she calmly brushes the miscreant hairs away from her face…and that makes the whole fiasco and flowery scent of her perfume even more…something.
I am a sucker for eyes, and the women here have eyes in all shapes and sizes, but that doesn’t matter to me, what matters is that they come in different colors – and am not talking about contacts that gay/ too metro sexual men in Nairobi wear to Blankets and Wine, I am talking God’s own gift.
You constantly see girls with electric steel-grey eyes, girls with green eyes, and my personal favorite – girls with those brown eyes that burn.
When you are done fascinating with the colour, you notice the fleeting confident look behind those eyes, but she throws you off again with her innocent almost naive smile, like she has been waiting all night to see you…she calls your name and says Hello.
So many times I swear that these girls, be they mere acquaintances, girls I have just met or young married women (below 27) purposely challenge me with that look, belying something not so innocent. Sometimes the dead-on look they give seems like a challenge to the bold…those bold enough to make a move against typical social norms, daring you to flirt, offer a complement, challenge you to make more than casual conversation, challenge you to speak to her through a smile that you allow to linger more than usual. That look, bizarre in its heady cocktail of sudden brazenness and innocence challenges you to break the rules and run down the wide path that climaxes in anarchy. These Pakistani girls have innocent beautiful eyes, but behind those eyes seems to dance tantalizing madness bound deep within…bound by society or maybe my own fantastical imagination is playing with me. Whatever the case, unlike Barney, I do not accept the challenge.
She will serve me with a plate (this is definitely NOT Kenya, none of these queens tell you ‘Go serve yourself’). Her eyes dance and glow, her dupatta playing along, she bends to hand me my plate (for she has refused me to get up) and our hands, conniving against us and against the rules, touch under the plate – brief stillness bordering on awkwardness, because I am a man and she is a woman and our hands should NEVER touch. Her hair will cascade down the side of her face, as the tiny stud in her nose glints in the light.
And to crown it all, their voices…especially when they speak in Urdu. The femininity in their voices, the graceful high pitch and soft rolling words…my friend, the girlish laugh and the incredible intelligence they will display when engaged in conversation about anything….the intimate way they will hand you the naan with their bare hands – taking the time to break it for you, … again engaging you in meaningful conversation for hours…you do not understand them as creatures, and neither do you understand their language when they speak it, but you do not forget The Queens.