I turned my head away for merely a second and that was enough for a woman to sneak in front of me at the Immigration Counter at the Islamabad Airport. "Welcome to Pakistan," I whispered.
Her brazen disregard for discipline and order was surprising. Only a few hours ago, she had diligently lined up at the security desk at the Pearson Airport in Toronto.
She generously exchanged smiles and pleasantries with the gora security staff. She sipped Tim Horton's coffee and munched on donuts as she kept swiping her face with napkins ensuring crumbs were not stuck to the corners of her mouth.
But, that was Toronto, this is Pindi. All bets and fake veils of courtesy are off.
At 46, I am wise enough to know not to remind a woman of her civic responsibilities in public, especially after she had deliberately jumped the queue. But the British-born young man of Pakistani heritage standing right behind me was less forgiving.
"WTF!", he exclaimed loudly.
The woman ignored the protesting young man. Her teenager daughter, who had also appeared from nowhere, turned around and gave us a dirty look. For a second, I felt it was our fault, and being a middle-aged married man, I was ready to apologise. But the young British behind me was relentless. He preempted me from apologising and officiating the transgressions by the mother-and-daughter team.
The woman official, sitting across the counter, witnessed the commotion, but still chose to entertain the mother and daughter, who produced their green passports for inspection. That mistake, my young British friend was not willing to ignore.
"This counter is for those travelling on foreign passports, you can't take their green passports," he screamed at the immigration official, who only then – and very reluctantly I must add – asked the mother and daughter to relocate to the next counter.
I moved ahead triumphantly. I had, thanks to the Bradford-born and Mirpur-bred young man, prevailed in the war of nerves and preserved the dignity of a queue in Pakistan.
Pakistanis of all creeds, castes, and political persuasions are unified in their disdain for queues. Airports, banks, bus stops, hospitals, Nadra outposts...Pakistanis do not hesitate to jump queues at any of these places.
Also read: In line, out of line?
But this grassroots movement manifests itself even in the highest echelons of power, when parliamentarians start agitating against the incumbents within months of a fresh election. Waiting for their turn in opposition has been too onerous.
How is it possible that children in Pakistan are able to clear the primary grades without learning to form a queue? It is not something you learn at a university. In fact, if you have not learnt the art of waiting for your turn and sharing in the kindergarten, you have probably missed the opportunity to learn a life skill.
While Pakistanis burden their children with ideology-laced curriculum from a very young age, they ignore teaching them how to be good citizens.
In Mississauga, a suburb of Toronto, my children learn the basic lessons in civility at school. Their teachers are not consumed by a two, or three, or a four-nation theory trying to explain how Canadians are different from Americans. Instead, the children are taught to walk in a line as the four-year olds trek around the school.
When they visit a farm or a library, they are taught to be quiet, observant and patient, as they take turns reading a favourite book or observing a favourite animal. By the time the children in North America and Europe graduate from high schools, they have already mastered the very art of waiting for their turn.
No wonder, even on the congestion-ridden arterials in the developed world, we witness long lines, but not chaos.
It might look simple, but it will require a concerted effort by the ordinary folks at the ticket counters, and the politicians in the Parliament, to get in line with civility and wait for their turns.