A colleague’s rage over someone’s after-hours drinking was so extreme that the author still checks his car for explosives months later - this is what zero tolerance looks like in practice.

A witty, autobiographical essay tracing the author’s evolving understanding of tolerance through three generations’ reactions to nude paintings - from his father’s diplomatic “cloak of feathers” explanation to his own honest conversation with his son, juxtaposed against moral outrage from visitors.

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Throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, there was a nude painting, which was my favorite. It was an expert rendering of a naked Native American girl, and was hung on one of the walls of our humble, middle-class abode.

The choice of mysteriously dark colors accentuated her well-proportioned figure. The result was an aura of subtle eroticism. I loved it and was infatuated by the sheer seduction of the study.

One day, my father caught me looking adoringly at the painting. I hesitatingly asked him if she was naked.

‘Certainly not.’ He answered with an amused glint in his eyes and then asked me, ‘Who says so?’

‘I believe this is the opinion of everyone who has seen this painting.’ I sheepishly offered.

‘I don’t think so.’ My father smiled and answered. ‘She is not naked. Instead, she is wearing an almost invisible cloak of feathers.’

Those few words of his, which were actually aimed at quashing my sensual curiosity, incited my wild imagination even more. From that day onwards, the painting became the focus of my pre-adolescent fantasies, and I grew quite over-protective of the anonymous, nude girl.

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My protectiveness was duly challenged a few weeks later, when a young aunt of mine came visiting. She was considered to be a symbol of Pakistani modernity and liberalism, but her attitude that day shocked me.

Right after entering our living room, she found the painting and stood in front of it, completely dumbstruck.

‘Dear God in heaven!’ She exclaimed while reacting in her peculiar and irritatingly shrill voice, ‘This girl is not wearing anything.’

‘No.’ I stood beside her and considered it my duty to correct her observation. ‘She is not naked. She is wearing a cloak of feathers. You just can’t see it.’

She looked at me with obvious disdain and put an end to my valiant and protective efforts with an icy stare.

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Decades passed, and I became a young and married man myself, with a lovely wife and two kids - a daughter aged 9, and a son aged 6.

History repeated itself one day, when I was almost finished hanging a newly painted nude. My son approached me with a shy grin, and I could feel the onset of déjà vu even before he started.

‘So, is she really…?’ My son’s shyness did not let him complete his question.

‘Yeah, buddy, she is really naked.’ I anticipated his question and answered while ruffling his hair. ‘But this is a piece of art. So we don’t call her naked. We call her a nude.’

‘What is a nude?’ He asked me, growing confident because of my amused smile.

‘Nude means she isn’t wearing any clothes.’ I explained. ‘And anyone who believes that she is wearing a cloak of invisible feathers is drastically wrong,’ I added for good measure.

‘Huh?’ My son looked confused, thought of commenting on something, but then dropped the idea and ran away.

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Incidentally, the very next day, a friend of my wife came over. I never liked her company as she had the most annoying habit of poking her poisonous and thorny nose into everyone else’s business.

‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’ She strutted like an overly inquisitive hen to my painting, which was displayed in full glory in our living room.

From where I was standing, I could exactly witness her transformation. Her moral anguish manifested into a shudder, which started at the tip of her impossibly high bun, vibrated down her spine, and ended in a decisive shake of her ample behind.

‘Goddammit, what are you people doing?’ She proclaimed loudly, ‘You must not hang such pictures (pictures?) in your house. Your kids are so young, and pictures like this can easily corrupt their young minds.’

‘Please don’t worry. This is only a nude.’ Suddenly, my son answered, while bouncing up and down excitedly, and his shocking words rendered that awful woman speechless. ‘And this is not a picture. It is a painting.’

‘Bravo!’ I silently admired his courage and tried to laugh off the incident. On a side note, thankfully, that honest and timely revelation by my son made it the last day of our not-so-beautiful acquaintance with that terrible woman.

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All these incidents from the past make me think. Nudes aside, we, as a society of educated and globally aware Pakistanis, have zero tolerance. We cannot tolerate anything that is not consistent with our ideas on morality and appropriate social attitudes.

We walk around with rigid minds and stereotypes, and try to filter our world through these frameworks. This attitude is not restricted to any particular social group or religious sect. Each one of us is too self-important to see and respect a different perspective. Probably, our ability to accept others’ points of view has been successfully suppressed by decades of living within our own carapaces.

A veiled woman shies away from an uncovered woman and sees the devil in her. The modern woman, on the other hand, sees medieval tyranny and subjugation lurking within the dark folds of an abaya.

A religious zealot, and there are so many of them, cries to high heaven each time he comes across teens, dancing to popular tunes. And on the other end of the spectrum, our young generation sees a terrorist hiding behind each beard.

We are all self-appointed sheriffs, playing in a make-believe land of cowboys and Native Americans. But the land does not need so many sheriffs and a far more liberal sprinkling of cowboys.

This bizarre attitude has greatly disturbed our mental peace. It has also snatched away our ability to have guilt-free fun and enjoy the simple pleasures of life.

You might be window shopping with your better half and want to hold her hand in a rarely occurring tidal rush of romance. But you really don’t want to do that. Chances are that every Tom, Dick, and Harry will eye you suspiciously with wild dreams of skinning you alive. Not only men, but even women will look at you aghast. And if you are really unlucky, a policeman may approach and demand documentary proof of marriage. So at best, the romantic advances just have to be limited to occasional and secret brushing of fingers.

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The other day, a ‘pious’ colleague dramatically entered my office, in an aura of scandalous excitement. Grabbing a seat and placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward.

‘Here comes another conspiracy theory,’ I thought and sighed, desperately trying to avoid the overpowering gusts of his perfume and praying, ‘Please don’t make it another 9/11 conspiracy.’

‘Know what Mr. X is up to these days?’ He asked. Mr. X is a bachelor colleague of ours and is popularly believed to be a delinquent of sorts.

‘No. Has he joined Al Qaeda?’ I asked him, but my barely concealed attempt at sarcasm smoothly slipped past his one-track mind.

‘Nope. He has started drinking.’ He whispered.

‘So?’ I was already losing interest.

‘So?’ He repeated my question in barely suppressed rage.

‘I mean, I have never seen him drunk.’ I said, trying my best not to aggravate him.

‘Nah, he drinks after office hours.’ He revealed in another whisper.

‘So why does this concern us?’ I retaliated. ‘You are a member of an extremist, religious outfit, but I have never brought it up. Only once, when you made a miserable attempt at recruiting me.’

‘Are you equating drinking alcohol with my religious affiliations?’ He asked while chewing his words deliberately.

‘Yes.’ I offered innocently.

Thereafter, all hell broke loose, and only my solid oak table saved me from the blind rage and murderous fury of that maniac. By the way, even after the passage of a few months, I still check under my car before leaving the office for hidden explosives.

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Pakistan, this wonderful land of ours, was created by our forefathers so that we could all live in peace and harmony irrespective of our religion and faith. Unfortunately, the mullahs digress, and the result of this digression has been a vicious circle.

An overdose of religion makes us judgmental and miserable. Therefore, we find so many faults with others around us. We cannot rectify those faults, and the circle completes when the frustration of failure fills our hearts with even more hateful misery. We are not living in a wonderful land. We are living in the ‘9th Circle of Hell’ and it is of our own making.

Each day, I observe hatred seeping into our society and poisoning our minds and those of our youngsters. In my humble opinion, we are not happy with what we are. Therefore, we are not happy with what others are. We are not comfortable with our tortured and twisted inner selves and thus we are not comfortable with our fellow beings.

Moreover, our peculiar brand of religion, coupled with the frustrations of a society rapidly going materialistic, has transformed us into being judgmental. Unfortunately, like a searchlight, our judgment illuminates only those around us, while leaving our own selves concealed in darkness. But luckily, it is not difficult to be happy.

We only have to replace critique with admiration. Learn to be comfortable with the naughty radical residing in our heart and appreciate his suggestions instead of stifling them. There is absolutely no need to notice what others are up to unless they are violating the boundaries of our personal freedom.

What is happening in Afghanistan under the Taliban is not only due to the constantly warring tribal factions and the absence of firm governmental control. Afghanistan is up in flames primarily because of the intolerance towards the centuries-old culture and a radical and forcibly imposed social change. The destruction of the Buddha statues in Bamyan and the killing of a large number of innocent women are not harbingers of an Islamic system of government, but are heralds of a dark age of intolerance.

Just like Afghanistan, Pakistan too is going through the most difficult time of its short history. We are badly confused about our national ideology. We cannot decide if we want to be religious or not. Our political system is inefficient. Our institutions are failing badly. We are in dire need of good governance, social justice, and improved literacy rates. And most importantly, our society definitely requires a revolution and a complete overhaul.

But before changing those around us, we need to change ourselves. We must transform our thinking and also our attitudes. Only tolerance can bring about this revolution, and nobody has explained tolerance better than Frederick Peris, who once said, ‘I do my thing and you do yours. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, and you are not in this world to live up to mine.’