Stories from behind an innocent headscarf

Sometimes it feels good, sometimes annoying. But, in both cases, you get to know that what matters to people is how you look outside. Your heart, your ideas – they do not communicate immediately, but your face, your dress does.

Sometimes, people pass by me and make some nice comments, thus making me happy. Sometimes people just stare at me, making me feel I am some foreign creature who doesn’t belong to this earth and should have been somewhere else.

People come, people go, people comment. But every time they do so, they put me in a dilemma. I look at myself, checking if everything is fine with me.

Am I looking too beautiful or too ugly, I ask myself.

I live in Jungpura, Bhogal area of south Delhi. It is near the famous Hazrat Nizamuddin. The place is flooded with Afghanis and some even call it ‘chota’ Afghanistan. The smoky Afghani steak, the famous Uzbeki Naan (roti), the sophisticated Afghani Aaraish gaah (beauty parlour), you will find it all here.

And whenever I happen to visit any of these places, I am been given a special treatment as the staff thinks I belong to their community.

I remember one such incident when I went to some Afghani steak house to eat. After finishing my food, when I asked for the bill, they said you need not pay.

For a moment, I felt happy thinking that I could now buy those orange sandals I had seen an hour before in the market. But at the same time I was worried because you cannot be so sure about the intentions of others.

I went to the manager and asked him why they didn’t charge me and the manager said, “You are our Afghan sister and it’s your first time here, so allow us to show some hospitability”.

I always had interest in learning Persian and after living in Bhogal for more than two years and interacting with many Afghanis, I had at least got hold of the basic expressions like hello, hi, thank you and blah blah.

I used this bit of my knowledge and thanked the manager in his language. I said Tashakor (Tashakor is a persian word for Thank you) and left the shop. Jubilantly I walked to the sandal shop and quickly snatched those orange sandals from the rack without letting anyone else buy it.

This was the first time I was being labelled as Afghani and it did not end there only. I enjoyed many such concessions in different parts of Delhi and I still do.

But at times, people would over charge thinking I am a foreigner.

Sometimes, they would call me an Irani and sometimes Afghani. Some would praise me for my Lebanese features which I am not even sure of and in some cases; I would be compared to Russians.

Recently, I saw a Sikh guy in my neighbourhood and like many people; he also thought I am an Afghani. Trying to hit on me, he said: “Hello ji, kaise ho. O tusi date pe chalogey mere naal”. I stopped, smiled back at him and said – “Sardarji mei Afghani nai hu aur mainu vi Punjabi thodi thodi samaj aandi hai.” And the guy suddenly disappeared.

All the way to my office, I was thinking where that Sikh boy disappeared.

Almost every day, I come across such episodes and note them in my diary. They have become a huge memory box which I share with my friends and family to amuse them.

Today also, I was sitting with friends in a restaurant near my office when one of the guys who came to take the order asked me if I am a Pakistani, to which I sarcastically replied, ‘Yes I have just crossed the border’.

Everybody could hear our giggles and I could not explain them why!

E-mail author at Kaneez.Zehra@expressindia.com

Follow on Twitter: @Zehra_Shafi