A Karachi Memory

SEPTEMBER 1999 - It is just as well I don’t quite recognise what is now Karachi. Sometimes it is better to remember cities and people as you once knew them. Driving past half-familiar buildings I could catch flashing glimpses of the Karachi I knew almost twenty five years back but just as quickly as it came, the vision disappeared, leaving me in considerable doubt whether I had indeed seen a place I really knew or whether the mind was up to its old tricks. I was never quite able to tell and perhaps that was just as well.

The exit out of the airport was confusing; the drive even more. There were any amount of new structures that had sprung up almost like wild plants making the landscape very unfamiliar, but there were traces of the old Karachi. The strong evening sea breeze was still there as was the damp and humid atmosphere. Getting closer to the sea, there was still that unmistakable smell of slightly rotting fish that brought back many scenes. But while the Metropole still stood, rooted to its memories, almost everything around it had gone. The cinema round the corner replaced with something I can’t even recall and as we swept past what used to be Ampis, I couldn’t swear if it was still there or had it been utterly swallowed by the proliferating travel agents with their little shops and posters of Holland.

The drive over the old Clifton bridge is now a detour with traffic lights blinking and vinyl signs casting a glow over the entire area. This is new territory as it extends past Ferozwala police station and most of it makes little sense. With a gifted sense of direction – I can get lost without any effort in any city, the sights are alien and disorienting. I no longer know which way exactly is Defence and where in the world does one get off to reach Sunset Boulevard. Glass towers and department stores jostle for space and everywhere in between and all around, shops, shops and shops dominate. Karachi was a commercial city always but was it so crazily committed to the lure of making money selling goods ? I am no longer certain. Elsewhere, the old haunts are long gone and replaced with more plazas, more shops and more glitzy sights. There seem to be masses of people everywhere and the traffic is never-ending. It is no longer possible to get from Clifton Bridge to Clifton and it seems there are thousands of square yards of concrete between the people and the sea, which once was very near. The stronger wind in this area is perhaps the only lingering link between Clifton and the coast, but I can’t see the coast and give up without really trying hard.

So it is best to retreat to the Karachi one knew. It was a delightful city and one knew any amount of people – I suppose that may very well be true even now. It was a city of intense activity and motion but it was a kind of controlled pace. It was fast even then and those of us who travelled to it, largely from the backwaters of the Punjab were swept off our feet for many months till we were able to gingerly adjust to its blistering and cosmopolitan pace. But it was a nice pace and it was amazing how quickly one became a part of it.

There were any amount of eating houses, from the sublime to the ridiculous, but they all served good edible stuff at varying prices of course. It was absolutely no problem to adjust to where you were eating your next meal. In the early days of the month – not more than three or four I would add, most of us well established in the neo-poverty zone would eat at Agha’s Tavern. What they have there and in the North Western Hotel I do not know and don’t wish to either, because it will be something horrid. The Tavern was a sight for sore eyes and a haven for those in search of good drink and even better cuisine. Above all it had an elegance and an air of spoilt royalty about it, although we were very much the plebs who, perched at elegant tables, supped with the best of Karachi. There were other spots, some not so grand as the Tavern, but nevertheless inviting and delightful in their own special way. ABC that tiny Chinese on Elphi was fast and cheap and the food was super. There were better Chinese outfits but ABC was simple and economical and gave good value for money. Up the street sat Farooqs where the best Pakistani cuisine was at hand particularly for us Punjab retards. Round the corner, the grand and imposing Intercontinental where once in six months after near starvation, we could find ourselves in the very front rows of the dining tables that edged the dancing room at Nasreen’s. An Italian band ‘I 5 De Roma’ was the rage in those days and we were the first to arrive and the last to leave, usually when they would start switching off the lights and stacking the chairs. One was slow to take a hint in those days and getting your money’s worth was an axiom that found strong support in our world view of things. Roma Shabana where all the European discards arrived to bump and grind nightly was the ultimate in mass debauchery and the strip show was not a turn on but rather funny, particularly if the faded blonde mechanically disrobing to the torchy sounds of ‘Blues in the night’ had an appendicitis scar that was more than four inches long and travelling north to south across difficult fleshy terrain. But it was all in good fun and the drunks were funny. There were no guns. No one seemed to have heard of the dreaded things. All disputes were settled by logical and heated discussions and some with fisticuffs, but never guns. Those were civilised times and General Zia ul Haq was still some years away.

All this and more flashed across my mind as the cab sped to the airport. Karachi of those years lives in some small part of me as it does with so many others who were fortunate enough to have experienced its magical charm. Cities never die I guess. One moves on as one must but there are always memories to revere and the laughter of old friends still rings across the years.