The Hijab clad Heroine

It was definitely a surprise for me as I booked an Uber that mellow Egyptian morning.My eye-brows hitched  as the driver’s profile popped up. She was most certainly a woman, wasn’t she? Indeed. A fair face framed with a neat hijab and a tight smile. Not going to be one of the rides that find me drooling in the back seat!

                   

I ride shotgun. Maneuvering deftly through the chaotic streets, she draws down the little shade overhead. I hadn’t noticed that I was unconsciously squinting through the sunlight. She adjusts the window to just the right level, so as to hold my hair intact. I smiled at the empathy. Women have their way of doing things. Not an empty phrase.

“So...How long have you been driving?”, I ask.

“25 years”, words tumble out with a hint of pride. “My own car”, she pats her baby with pride. “My gift to my-”

A horns blares loud. She makes one sharp swerve.  A shiny car raced by in demonic speed, narrowly missing our vehicle.

“-self.”, she continues shaking her head. “Driving in this road is like playing on playstation.”, she sighs. “Only madder”, she adds grinning.

She nods at my brown curls. “My daughter is just like you” she smiles. That smile is the brightest I have ever seen. It brought with it a light- a  light that filled the mild hallows underneath her eyes and added a sheen to her tired skin.

“You love her very much, don’t you?”, I look at her.

“Yes- very much”, she nods. Then gesturing vaguely around “All of this is for my kids”, she explains.

“Kids?”

“Yes. Four. My little one is a month old. Just out. She likes nodding to her sister’s songs. ”

“How old is her sister?”

As if I wasn’t amazed enough already.

“Three”

I switched shoes with her for a moment. I could see her choosing the juiciest piece of meat for her daughter’s lunch box. I could feel the baby’s downy curve brushing against the hijab as she bend down to kiss her every morning.

“-But I have my boys”, I snapped back to reality. “They are thirteen and nineteen. One will soon find a job. I could start the taxi an hour later then. ”, she sighs.

Very understandable owing to the fact that her day begins by 7 am and ends around 6 pm. She says she is free on Fridays and Sundays. That tight-lipped smile again. I notice that it’s a Sunday too. But don’t point it out.

The car reels through clustered food stalls. Cakes awash with chocolate beacon from stands. She squints at me as if counting the stars that sprang in my eyes. “They don't do you any good. Not one.” Seeing my  expression she went on, “My daughter used to have a lot of those earlier. But mind you it didn’t do her good. Not one”

“Oh”

“That’s why Friday evenings are for baking. I learnt from Youtube”, she jiggles her phone, grinning. “ Tell me one word, I will pack you some this weekend.” We grin at each other. Some strangely pleasant bond was blossoming there. Queerly delightful to be named.

We speed past a dozen other cars. I notice her fingers that rest lightly against the steering. A day old burn frowns from her index finger that sports a glittery polish done with a child’s proficiency. She looked as powerful as one could with their nails painted multi-colour. A day old burn frowned from her palm. She cuts into the silent monotonicity that characterise roads.

“ U have siblings?”

“ No”

“ A bit of shame really. Every girl needs a brother. He will be things a father or mother cannot even fathom to be”

“ Really. So seem to have quite a bit of respect for yours”

She throws back her head and laughs, “Non- sense!”, she says. “ I quarrelled with him even this morning. And this morning was like every other morning. Ha!”

Nodding at my smile, she continues, “ But you need a brother who sneaks along  to teach you hold the steering wheel for a bunch of toffees”

The feminist in me smiles. This is what feminism is about. Man and woman complimenting each other. Not the other million petty demands that gets staged everyday.

When I get down at the airport, my heart wishes to stay behind in strapped snug in the seat belts. Her hug is strong and reassuring as a mother’s. She still races through my mind. In her red hijab, perked up shades and missing cape. Heroines after all are not rare- they are unsung.