I opened the cab door and stated my desired destination even before I had settled in the back seat. No rush, just habit. Fast. Do everything fast. Short, quick movements. Open door, step in, toss backpack on seat, sit, shut door. Quick, but fluid movements. Once in, relax and take a deep breath. That’s what life has become. I glanced at the watch. Six fifteen. Rush hour. Everyone wants to get home. As the cabbie drives by, I see hopeful passengers waving their arms for the taxi to stop, but darned it. Their eyes meet mine in a sad, understanding way, a gentle nod from them that says “You won”.
“Do you mind Indian music?” the cabbie asks, looking at me through his RVM.
“No,” I respond without much thought, “just don’t keep it too loud.”
“Indian, you?”
“Pakistani.”
“O-ho, where in Pakistan?” He’s somewhat delighted.
“Karachi.”
After initial acknowledgment and a brief pause, he says “I went there in 1991. I loved Karachi.”
I don’t know why he told me that, or anything that followed. The story goes that he used to work for a transport company back in Multan. By that, I mean he was a pick up driver, delivering loads from one city to the next. But his work was limited to the Punjab province. So he would do trips to Lahore, Rawalpindi, Bahawalpur, Fasalabad, etc. He was in his twenties back then, and one time, his dad’s cousin’s son’s brother-in-law (honest, he told me) called Mukhtar Yar Khan was moving to Karachi and hired this guy to take his pick up and bring his stuff over. He was offered handsome compensation for the long haul, so he agreed. By the way, my cabbie’s name was Jalal Ahmed. So, Jalal and his mate go to the guy’s house in Multan and load up the truck with all his possessions (I don’t know how he fitted everything in a pick up, and I didn’t ask because I was just listening) and set off on the road trip.
He told me about pit stops in Bahawalpur, Rahim Yar Khan, Sukkur and Hyderabad, and what he ate there at every place. He seemed big on chane ki daal and kababs while his friend had an appetite for chicken dishes. He mentioned everything in detail, and it took him a good 18 hours to reach Karachi. Of course, by now it was starting to seem that I had been in his cab for longer than that, and yet, courtesy of traffic, we had moved only about half a kilometer from where I had got in. More people well filling up the sidewalks, everyone trying to hail a cab. I noticed a very young and attractive Southeast Asian woman wearing something oddly provocative for 6pm, with a heavy-set, 40-plus European man – a common sight these days. Middle-aged white men come here as tourists and take up an obedient Southeast Asian girl as an escort. They get to enjoy the services of these exotic ladies in return for cash, gifts, gourmet meals, hotel stay – the works.
“Nusrat Bhutto Colony.” I had let my mind wander off, and Jalal brought me back.
“What?”
“Nusrat Bhutto Colony. In Nazimabad. Lots of Pathans there. That’s where Mukhtar bhai’s house was.”
“I don’t know that place.”
“It isn’t that great, but Mukhtar bhai had a big house. By the time we were done off-loading, it was pretty late and Mukhtar bhai offered us dinner. We ate and left.”
“So late in the night after driving all day?” This was the first real question I had asked him. I was curious not only about the fact that he would’ve been quite exhausted to drive back to Multan, but also about how he was cheating me by passing this off as his Karachi story! This was no Karachi story.
“No,” he continued, “Rasheed had a cousin in Karachi and we planned to spend 2 days with him.” So, Rasheed, the friend, was not brought in just to help load and off-load the truck. He was arranging free lodging in this overpriced city. Resourceful guy this, Rasheed.
Anyway, Rasheed’s cousin gave them the grand tour of Karachi, with notable mentions being Paradise Point, Tariq Road, Hyderi Market, Saddar, Boat Basin, Clifton and Sea View. He kept a wide grin as he threw these names out, and in my head, I got images of each of these places as I longed to go there too. He bought his father a coatee, which is a waistcoat worn over the traditional shalwar kameez on formal occasions. For his two brothers he bought books. And for his mother, he spent the longest time looking for the perfect “suit piece” (which is just unstitched shalwar kameez material) at Bohri Bazaar, and this is where his story took a dark turn.
For some reason, Jalal decided that it was okay to tell me, a complete stranger, that while he was in Karachi buying an expensive gift for his mother, she died. And she didn’t just die in her sleep. No, that would not be story-worthy enough. She died because she slipped on the wet floor in their house, hit her head on a porcelain sink, and went into a coma because of internal hemorrhage! She was only in a coma for about 12 hours before her body gave up. His family tried to contact him through friends (this is 1991, so no cellphones were around) but couldn’t reach him as no one had Rasheed’s cousin’s number. By the time he got back to Multan (picture this: gifts of clothes for his parents, books for his siblings and plenty of mithai all in hand!) 3 days later, his mother had been buried. I would’ve have sworn he was making this up, but who’d kill his mother in a story.
I wanted to sympathize, but the shock from the sudden turn the story had taken left me speechless. I had no idea what to say except a clichéd “I’m sorry to hear that”. I just kept quiet for a bit, as he described the funeral processions. By now I was done with his story and was thanking the stars that we were on the highway, moving fast. Should be home in a few minutes. We turned a few corners, and there right in front of me was another traffic jam. Apparently, the powers that be felt I should listen to the end of his story, but by now, I wasn’t listening to him anymore and was just waiting for him to shut up.
He finished sooner than I expected and something in his voice told me that I was supposed to say something. Now, I’m not very good at thinking on the spot, so after a “hmm” of acknowledgment, I said what was probably the worst thing to say at that time.
“What did you do with the suit piece?”
And, to my surprise, without missing a beat, he said “My Abba married again. I gave it to my new mother.”
End note: The taxi drivers on our streets are poor people that work very hard to send money back to their families. They are lonely, and spend all day driving about this traffic-filled town following orders. Most of us get irritated when they talk more than necessary, but do understand that they spend most of their day in silence doing the same thing over and over again, and a conversation with a passenger every once in a while is a small release for them. If you don’t want to tell him your story, at least listen to his. Who knows, it may be quite interesting.
