ook, I’ll keep this short. My name is Akbar, Akbar Jaleel.

I’m 42, physically fit, emotionally mature and I drive a BMW X3. I like to hunt, play golf and follow the English Premier League – Arsenal FC, thank you. I own a beachfront property and a jet ski, which is parked at the Marina Club in Phase 8. I have a taste for BBQ dishes and mixed drinks. I’m well-travelled, even if not the most well-read. My favourite holiday destinations are Western Europe in the summer and the Far East in winter. If you want to know something unusual about me, it is that I’ve never been to Dubai, except, of course, on a connecting flight. Not that I’m averse to it; somehow it has just not happened. As for my pet peeves, there are basically only two: lack of punctuality, which feels disrespectful, and the slightest trace of cigarette smoke, which I absolutely loathe.

I was born in August, on a date that makes me a Leo, a fire sign. If you know anything about people born under fire signs, you know that we are tough customers – stubborn, boisterous, dominant, assertive and commanding. This helps us navigate the world with ease and success. From time to time, this also lands us in trouble, as happened on this one unfortunate occasion.

Let me just say at the outset that I am not in the habit of kissing strange men in public. Not that I’m homophobic – far from it. I live and let live, friends; the world has enough problems to deal with already. So, no that is not the issue. It is just the… unseemliness of it, you know?

Not to mention the guy’s body odour, which reeked of his socio-demographic ilk. I expected this, of course. Nevertheless, it’s quite another thing when expectations actually hit your nostrils. Emphasis on the verb hit. A bakery aroma or a floral perfume, now that’s something you expect to waltz into your senses. Not this, though. This olfactory onslaught rudely stormed up my brain and evoked a pile of garbage. And yet, I was determined to kiss this man. And I did.

His stubble surprised me. This was a sturdy young man, somewhere in his mid-30s, with a pair of confused eyes that garnered all my attention. The jet-black bristle on his cheek was barely visible against his night-dark skin. I just didn’t see it. Have you ever coddled a porcupine with your lips? Neither have I, but I suspect I came close. I did not let it dent my momentum. I pulled him close and planted one on his cheek, withdrawing at once with a loud, decisive smooch. That was the moment when applause broke out. My prayers had been answered. I was free.

You are wondering, of course, what the hell? Let me explain.

Everything starts at the traffic intersection, the crossing of Khayaban-i-Bahria and Commercial Avenue, where I found myself at the end of an extraordinarily bothersome workday. Even by Karachi standards, this is one twisted mess of a traffic light. A Shell petrol station, a masjid, a row of shops, an open plot that’s become a de facto garbage dump and a perpetually under-construction property with iron girders and wooden planks spilling onto the street – it’s a veritable obstacle course. And, in the middle of all this, run two major crisscrossing boulevards overflowing with manic drivers for whom obeying rules is a sign of weakness.

And who am I, really?

I’m just an ordinary citizen who works hard, lives an honest life and is trying to make his way home. Yes, I do have a comfortable life – I’m a banker, can’t complain – but I don’t apologise for it. I’ve earned it.

Most times, I have things under control. I am not a control freak but I do pride myself on keeping things organised. This particular morning, however, was one of those rare occasions when the law of entropy rudely asserted itself. Up early while it was still dark, I inadvertently stepped on one of my wife’s stilettos and the heel snapped. When I left for work, her name-calling was still ringing in my ears.

During my first task of the day, a team meeting to review financial projections, I spilt coffee on my tie and ruined it. It was a Turnbull and Asser, no ordinary necktie. Then came a series of increasingly irascible client meetings. At lunch, my burger arrived smothered in grilled onions, despite the fact that my secretary knows perfectly well that I regard onions, in any form, as poison. The afternoon was spent agonising over whether I should authorise a complicated loan – I didn’t, take that you snotty loser; counselling a subordinate on his flagging performance; and wondering if I’ll ever get promoted to executive vice president. By the time I was ready to head home, I had internalised a great deal of irritation.

The particular annoyance at the Bahria-Commercial intersection is that if you’re headed south, the petrol station sits on your left and there is often some idiot trying to muscle their way back into traffic after filling up their tank. For this reason, I make it a point to stick to the far right lane as I approach this traffic light. But that day I couldn’t. There was a donkey cart blocking my way and I decided to steer clear of it, not wishing to be next to an unpredictable beast.

Little did I know that an even more unpredictable beast was about to invade my life.

There is a saying in Urdu relevant to these circumstances. Loosely translated, it observes that a wolf, when confronted with a confusing conundrum, ends up doing the opposite of what’s good for it. Although I’m not a wolf, or maybe I am, I do identify with inappropriately responding to a sudden, almost deathly stress. Shit happens, as you’ll see.

The traffic light turned green, prodding me to nudge forward. As I engaged my car, another vehicle scraped past on my left. It was a silver Honda Civic, and I had heard and felt enough to know it had scratched my pristine pearl-white BMW X3. To be honest, it wasn’t a particularly big deal – probably the sort of blemish that could just be wiped off, or easily touched up with some modest paint job. Yet I was livid. Hot lava sloshed inside my head. I was ready to detonate. I pulled up alongside the Civic and yelled my lungs out at the unevolved Neanderthal sitting stupidly behind the wheel.

I have no memory of what I said. On such occasions, the mind goes foggy and the world feels warped and contorted. I am sure, however, that I sounded perfectly menacing. Did I swear at that wretched piece of human detritus? Probably. Did I spit in his direction? Quite likely. Did I offend him beyond all conceivable limits? Evidently, yes.

I know I sound deranged, but I’m not. I have simply long struggled with my temper. It has cost me a marriage and a major career jump and ruined a series of friendships and family relationships. My anger is explosive, which is bad, but in a way also good, as it comes in a flash and then disappears just as quickly. Once the storm has passed and my senses have recovered, my whole being is smothered in a heavy blanket of regret and guilt. I recognise the affliction. And believe me, nobody is more motivated than me to have it sorted out. There has been no shortage of attempts – hypnotherapy, hydrotherapy, yoga, meditation, medication, hours and hours of counselling; even sheer force of will.

The only thing that has ever worked is exiting the scene.

Which brings me back to the situation at hand. As I pull forward in my Beamer, I catch the look on the other driver’s face. His eyes are wide, jaw slack, mouth half-open in a comically skewed O. He is simply stunned. Well, he will be more careful next time. Meanwhile, there’s some honking from behind, and I realise that I am blocking traffic. Time to move on. The road ahead is clear all the way to the next signal, by Sultan Masjid. Off I go.

I know I sound deranged, but I’m not. I have simply long struggled with my temper.

In the rearview mirror, I see the Civic tailgating me. I can make out the bastard’s face. He appears murderous. The Civic starts lurching from side to side as he searches for a gap in traffic to pull ahead. He almost succeeds, but I make a hard left, then a hard right and just manage to zigzag past. He is clearly younger and sturdier than I am, and itching to thrash me good and proper. It has hardly been a minute, yet my anger outburst is already a vague memory. Even the inevitable guilt and regret have receded. All I feel now is fear and panic, although naturally I am far too masculine to show it.

There are side lanes I could disappear into. I could easily have taken any one of those. I cannot really explain why I didn’t. It was one of those moments when you are straddling the line between bravery and stupidity and cannot tell which side is which.

This was, in fact, a delicate point that came up repeatedly in counselling. Each of the four therapists I have seen – two women, two men – wanted to get to the bottom of my ‘triggers.’ Each eventually concluded that, at core, I am unable to meaningfully distinguish between bravery and stupidity. In every case, that conclusion itself triggered me and I fired them one by one. Now I think, perhaps they were on to something. I do keep getting into these scrapes in which I try to appear confident and authoritative when, in retrospect, I would have been far better off doing the opposite, even if it made me look foolish or cowardly. Why is it so important that I always project an air of command and control? I really should have listened to my therapists and faced that question honestly. I didn’t and, well, here I am again.

So at the next traffic signal, a row of cars is already stopped ahead of me. I cannot run the red light. The Civic from hell is still attached to my ass. Worse, Mr Satan has disembarked and is trying to open my door, which mercifully is locked. He starts kicking the car, yelling at me to get out. I have a perfectly good view of him now. He’s built like a tank. Any kind of personal interaction with this behemoth would be insane. There are gentler methods of suicide. I’m not much of a believer, yet I find myself praying for the light to turn green. It’s taking forever. Meanwhile, Satan keeps kicking at the side of my car. I’m sure the surface is now horribly dented, but the sleek contours of my automobile are not quite a priority any longer. Not with this beast gone berserk, bashing my door, screaming death threats and slamming the window with his thick, meaty palm.

The light is finally green, but I can’t move. Unable to drag me out, the devil is now standing right in front of my car, blocking my path. I’m trapped. Of course, I’d love to run him over. I can see he wants to kill me; one might as well try to return the favour. I decide to inch forward to see if that will scare him off. It has the opposite effect. The beast lunges forward to grab my windshield wipers in each hand. He is now comfortably splayed across my bonnet, his face mere inches from mine, separated only by the windshield glass. His eyes are bloodshot, his face coarse and knotted, his lips gnarled. Flecks of spit scatter from his gaping maw as he yells.

By now, onlookers have gathered. Which is quite understandable because, I mean, you can just imagine the spectacle, with the beast perched on my BMW’s bonnet. The crowd is thick, all male, and has encircled my car completely. Their presence is oddly reassuring. I feel gratitude towards them, mixed in with a certain amount of empathy. Even in advanced Western societies, where folks have little time to spare, traffic slows for unusual scenes. The average Pakistani has more time on their hands, and is also perhaps more in need of excitement – or at least the kind of excitement that doesn’t involve muggings or suicide bombs. Who am I to begrudge them this little bit of fun?

The throng has persuaded the beast to see some sense and alight from my vehicle, and now I’m being urged to get out of the car. I know my options are limited, though this gathering of bystanders does provide a certain measure of safety. But there’s no telling with this rabid animal, which looks capable of anything, even murder. I have neither the mental energy nor emotional stamina to try to reason my way out. What I really need is a drastic gesture that will transform the moment and let me break free.

So I jump out of my car, hold my assailant close in a tight bear hug and plant a long, wet kiss on his cheek. The crowd claps in approval. The beast looks stunned. Men pat me on the back and tell him to forgive me and move on. This, finally, is the breakthrough. I get back in my car and restart the engine. People stand apart to make way and I drive off. My pulse is pounding like a jackhammer. I don’t look back.

The first thing I do, after a series of turns into random lanes and by-lanes, enough to feel securely removed from the scene, is wipe my lips. Initially, it’s just a few energetic swipes with the back of my hand. Then I reach for the bottle of hand sanitiser beside the gearshift. As I disinfect my face, neck and hands, I feel my pulse starting to settle. Boy; that was a close call! I came within an inch of getting maimed, left handicapped or worse. And for what? Certainly no fault of mine. It was all because of that wild cretin, who should never have been allowed on the road in the first place. Such behaviour can simply not be permitted. The sheer unfairness of it gives me a headache.

If you think about it, traffic on the roads is actually a pretty accurate reflection of a community’s sociocultural and moral standards. It’s a psychosocial window into respect for law and the prevalence of basic courtesy and kindness. Sometimes when I’m abroad, I like to rent a car and drive around. It’s convenient as well as oddly empowering. I’ve driven in Amsterdam, London, Brussels, Paris and done some highway motoring in the United States. Coming from Pakistan, it always strikes you how everyone there follows the law. Over here, it’s just anarchy. Nobody has any hesitation turning abruptly, stopping suddenly in the middle of a busy road, coming the wrong way, honking mindlessly, or crossing lanes as if you’re taking a stroll in the park on a Sunday afternoon. And if you point out the transgression, the transgressor glares at you like you’re the one at fault. Every now and then, as in my case, they’ll even try to kill you.

Is this what our society has descended into, that pointing out a traffic infraction means risking limb and life?

I admit I could have done the pointing out part more gently, but I do believe that my manner was in keeping with someone of my means and station. After all, I’ve played by the rules to earn my success. I’m from a good family, and I’m fluent in English. I’m one of a handful of Pakistanis who pay any income tax. My basic nature is to abide by the law and believe in the innate goodness of humanity. Let’s be honest: this place would be far more livable if it had more people with a background, bearing and outlook similar to mine.

I deserve better; far better. My society deserves far better.

Saad Shafqat, a professor of neurology at Aga Khan University in Karachi, is also a cricket writer and a novelist. His first novel, Breath of Death, a medical thriller, appeared in 2013. His second novel, Rivals, a hospital drama, was published in 2021.