The Karachi I Remember
I moved to Karachi in 1967 when the company I worked for transferred me from Multan. Moving to Karachi was like moving from a small town in the American Midwest to New York City: Lots of people, lots of traffic, fancy shops and hotels, cinema houses, and a vibrant nightlife. Above all, it was a peaceful and orderly 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).
From my hotel room window, I could see a signboard across the street, which read Alvi Dental Clinic. It was run by the current 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 a large billboard with images of Nadeem and Shabana, 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 films.
Elphinstone Street, next to Victoria Road, was to Karachi what Fifth Avenue is to New York City. Some of the famous shops of Karachi, like Bliss and Company the chemist, Bata and Servis shoe shops, Sanaullah Silk House, and a popular bookshop (Liberty?) were located on it. 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 upcountry, I couldn’t understand the connection between tobacco and perfume. I still don’t, but a former colleague and friend, tells me that this store in Karachi had its roots in the famous shop of the same name in Lucknow, India, and it has something to do with the ‘Lucknow culture’ dating back to the court of Awadh. He tells me that the shop in Lucknow was known all over the United Provinces (UP) in India for making high-quality perfumes, and fragrant chewing tobacco to be used with paan (betel leaf), popular 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 it not just because it was written by the president of the country but because I kind of liked Ayub Khan then, a handsome man who cut a dashing figure in his sharkskin suits and a karakul cap. Above all, he was my “girayeen”, from the same district, Hazara. We Pakistanis tend to be parochial. Don’t we?
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 premium on rent. One landlady also mentioned the quality of locks on the doors of her house, “Union Locks, made in Japan”. Another mentioned an additional feature: A wash basin in the dining room (to wash hands before and after meals).
Finally, I managed to find 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, but it did look like 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 the 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 would learn new things every day, like, Karachiites referred to an intersection as chowrangi, while upcountry we called it chowk; when giving directions about a place they would often use a cinema house as a reference point. (There were numerous cinema houses in the city.)
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 about Milton, the famous English poet of the 17th century, but 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 came to an end when the company gave me a car loan, and I rushed to Modern Motors’ showroom to buy a white Volkswagen, model 1968, for Rs 18,000, my first car. 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 know 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
