Shots of a street beating administered by an angry group of what looked like Indian women—the older chap on the receiving end appeared almost Chinese. As well as collecting the blows, the man had his shirt and part of his trousers shredded. The danger of being literally stripped naked in a public place saw him clutching at the torn remnants, even at the cost of dropping his guard and leaving himself more vulnerable.
From all sides the slaps rained down, onto his cheeks, his forehead, neck and back, when a hand missed its mark. There was very little the fellow could do to protect himself or avoid the barrage. Blinking and clutching at his rags, he stumbled along.
One woman seemed to have taken pity on him, trying to steer him away from the melee. In-between strikes the assailants were berating him. The camera had only caught the incident once the physical assault was in full swing. Prior to that there had been accusations and condemnation no doubt.
There came no protest or argument of any kind from the man. Guilty as charged, he seemed to concede; whatever the charge may have been.
Highly unlikely this particular man could have been one of the gang rapists in the current case where the victim died a short while ago in a Singapore hospital, after being transferred from Delhi. This chap on screen had tipped sixty. A case of outrage of a woman's modesty, perhaps—to use the current statute in this region dating from colonial times. Something of that kind, rather than picking of a pocket.
After dinner TV feature, following the daily bulletin. Familiar kind of program. Only the content in this Pakistani version of the format was rather different.
The outdoor screen at Restoran Mehran that carried the segment raised not the slightest interest from the men at the tables. Their concentration was directed entirely at the flat-screen indoors. There may have been some technical hitch getting the sports channel on the other screen. On the news channel there were switches to the cricket match—wickets, runs and near misses; but mixed with political and social stories, and then tooth-paste, hair-care and refrigerators.
Hardly satisfactory for a Championship match, especially one against the traditional foe. Fifty, or seventy, pairs of eyes here were turned and raised indoors, the portion from the pavement having to endure the passersby interrupting the vision.
A few nights earlier in the week there had been an even larger crowd and all screens showing the game. Tall presenter in elegant dress and shawl walked along a studio platform in front of screens that carried the features. The public assault of the old man that did a number of cycles behind her had perhaps been dug from the archives as a local example that showed the Indian case in a poor light. Certainly in the towns and villages where these men at Mehran hailed from such rough and ready justice was nothing remarkable. Not worth a single look. The English tag described the footage as Breaking News; wonderfully delicate Urdu along the bottom.
Stonings and beheadings might have even failed to draw interest on Jalan Ipoh here.
On this night the sports' lovers were almost totally silent. Rather against expectation, it turned out the Pakistanis were clearly in the ascendant. This however needed to be consolidated and further proved; therefore patience in the audience. A fine four hit. A two and three. Not a twitch; complete blank across the entire sea of faces.
It went on in the same way, more than uncanny. Little spurts of runs from nice glances and drives; a fine glide through backward square-leg. Nothing whatever. Describing the scene as funereal would have given the matter that wrong kind of sharpness.
The men seemed to be watching, but without seeing. No kind of known Western group could compare, certainly not of the sporting kind. A cowed audience in its seats at a staff meeting enduring a harangue might approach the case.
All eyes were fixed on the screen; directed very precisely. One hundred eyes. Without the merest flicker.
If this was not mass psychosis, it was close.
Silence, with the governing emotion apprehension; perhaps dread. Perhaps masked contempt.
It went on in the same way, until the men finally got what they were after.
It was only a wicket, an appeal for a wicket, a near chance, that could rouse this crowd suddenly from their astonishing fixity. All else was sufferance.
It was India that was batting.
Chow Kit, Kuala Lumpur
