The Karachi I Remember
I moved to Karachi in 1967 when my company transferred me from Multan. It was like moving from a small town in the American Midwest to New York City: Lots of people, cars, fancy shops, fancy hotels, cinema houses, and a vibrant nightlife. Above all, it was an orderly and peaceful city.
Before I could find a house, the company put me up at Jabees Hotel on Victoria Road (now Abdullah Haroon Road). Victoria Road was one of the two major streets and shopping centers of “downtown” Karachi; the other was Elphinstone Street (now Zaibunnisa Street).
Across from my hotel room, I could see a signboard saying Alvi Dental Clinic. It was run by President Alvi’s father. (President Alvi also practiced at the clinic until he became the president of Pakistan in 2018). Close by, on Shahrah-e-Iraq, a cinema house, Paradise Cinema, displayed large billboards with images of Nadeem and Shabana (or was it Shabnam?), the leading actors in a newly released film, Chakori, which turned out to be a blockbuster and launched Nadeem as one of the leading actors in Pakistani cinema.
Elphinstone Street, next to Victoria Road, was to Karachi, what Fifth Avenue is to New York City. Some famous shops in Karachi, like Bliss and Company, the chemist, Bata and Servis shoe shops, Sanaullah Silk House, and a popular bookshop (Liberty?), were located there. One of the signboards on a shopfront intrigued me, though. It read, in Urdu:
اقتدا خان ، مقتدا خان — تمباکو و عطر فروش
Iqtada Khan, Muqtada Khan — Tobacco and perfume sellers
Coming from north Pakistan, I couldn’t understand the connection between tobacco and perfume. I still don’t, but a former colleague and resident of Karachi tells me it has something to do with the ‘Lucknow culture’ dating back to the court of Awadh. He says a shop with the same name existed in Lukhnow and was known all over the United Provinces (UP) in India for making high-quality perfumes and fragrant chewing tobacco. Chewing tobacco with paan, betel leaf, was (probably still is) prevalent among the gentry of Lucknow and other major cities of UP.
A small street, curiously named ‘Inverity’ Road, connected Victoria and Elphinstone streets. I remember the name because I bought a book from a shop named Happy Book Stall located on this street. I still have the book with the name and address of the bookshop stamped on it. The book was the newly published Friends, Not Masters by the then president Ayub Khan, priced at Rs 12.50. I bought the book not just because it was written by the president of the country but also because Ayub Khan was my “girayeen” from the same district, Hazara. We Pakistanis tend to be parochial.
In the hotel, I would spend most of my Sundays going through newspaper columns advertising houses for rent and calling landlords — occasionally, a landlady. The description of the houses in the desirable localities invariably mentioned “concealed fitting” (referring to electric wiring) and “attached bathrooms.” The houses facing west specifically mentioned “west-open” because air conditioning in houses was rare in those days, and Karachites relied on the sea breeze that blew from the west. “West-open” houses enjoyed a rent premium. A landlady also mentioned the quality of locks on the doors of her house, “Union Locks, made in Japan.” Another mentioned a wash basin in the dining room (to wash hands before and after meals).
Finally, I found a house with ‘concealed fittings’ and ‘attached bathrooms’ in Al-Hilal Society on Country Club Road (now University Road) just behind Liaquat National Hospital. It didn’t have the Union Locks, though, nor a wash basin in the dining room, nor was it west-open. It was a nice three-bedroom house, newly built, with a monthly rent of Rs 350.
Clad in a white shirt and a tie (back then, tie was mandatory office wear) and carrying a handbag, I would ride a rickshaw to the office. The ride from Al-Hilal Society would take me past the P.I.B Colony, past the central jail, past Jinnah’s Mausoleum onto Bunder Road ( renamed M. A. Jinnah Road), before turning into Elphinstone Street, and finally to our office in the Central Hotel building. It was a 30-minute ride.
My rickshaw rides were like watching a documentary about the city. I learned new things every day. Karachiites referred to an intersection as chowrangi, while upcountry, we called it chowk. They often used a cinema house as a reference point when giving directions about a place.
Another unusual sight for me was of a carpet vendor at the Bunder Road end of Victoria Road who would spread his carpets upside down on the busy Bunder Road for cars to run over them to beat the dust out. It was his way of vacuum-cleaning the carpets.
I also remember a signboard on an optician’s storefront, which had this message written on it in Urdu:
اگر ملٹن عینک پہنتا تو کبھی اندھا نہ ہوتا
Had Milton worn glasses, he wouldn’t have gone blind.
I was impressed with the optician’s knowledge of Milton, the famous English poet of the 17th century, but I wondered if his customers had ever heard of him.
Television had come to Karachi just a year before, in 1966. We would wait for PTV to start beaming its programs in the evening. We were hooked on watching the popular serials Khuda Ki Basti and Alif Noon.
My rickshaw rides soon ended when the company gave me a car loan, and I rushed to Modern Motors’ showroom to buy my first car, a white Volkswagen, model 1968, for Rs 18,000. At the first available opportunity, I drove it to Mansehra, my hometown, nearly a thousand miles up north, to show it off to my family and friends. Having a car made life more comfortable and exploring Karachi more enjoyable.
My stint in Karachi lasted a little over two years—long enough to learn that Karachites love Nihari and Haleem, while we in the north had not even heard the names of these dishes.
Having acquired a new car and rented a reasonably good house — with ‘concealed fittings’ and ‘attached bathrooms’ — I had just begun to enjoy my stay in Karachi — even developed a little familiarity with Nihari and Haleem — when the company transferred me to Lahore. End
