OMAR Kureishi's book, 'Once Upon a Time', was published last month. The dust cover does it no justice. It depicts an ill-proportioned Gateway of India and a young boy wearing Taliban-style knee-concealing shorts which no self-respecting lad would have worn in those far off days.

The publisher's blurb tells the prospective reader : "It can truly be said of Omar Kureishi that he needs no introduction. His is a household name and he is a living legend. He is a man of many parts and sets the highest standards in all of them. Best known as a cricket commentator, his voice became his signature; as a writer, he has a distinctive style and his canvas ranges from cricket to politics which he examines with a sharp, analytical mind that shows him as a bit of an iconoclast.

"He is a man of honest opinions with not a trace of malice or bitterness in him and is in control of the rage within him. Born in Murree of a Punjabi father and a Kashmiri mother, he was one of nine brothers and two sisters. His schooling was in Poona and Bombay and he is a graduate of the University of Southern California. He has been editor of 'The Times of Karachi', an English language daily newspaper, now defunct, and was director of public affairs in Pakistan International Airlines before he returned to freelance journalism as one of the leading columnists of the country.

"He has written for some of the most prestigious newspapers and magazines of the world. He is the author of 'Black Moods', 'Out to Lunch', 'The System', and 'The Other Side of Daylight', none of them about cricket. 'Cricket is something I enjoy, not so the subjects I have written about in these books,' he says. Omar Kureishi lives his life on his own terms."

Very cleverly, it ends there. It does not go on to say how 'life' lives with him on its terms.

Omar suggested that I write a preface of some 500 words. Difficult, I told him. What do I write? 'This is a well-written book by my friend Omar Kureishi. It is about his life as he lived it up to the birth of Pakistan. It is a good read for those interested in either remembering or realizing what life was like in those far off days. Omar tells a good story. Read his book.' That would be my preface. A tenth of what is needed.

Omar has presented me with a copy of his book in which he has inscribed, 'Our friendship has survived almost half a century and is getting stronger. This defies logic. Are we both mad?'His question is not difficult to answer. We are both as sane as the people and circumstances surrounding us allow us to be. Our views are divergent and each suffers the opinions of the other without rancour or ill-feeling. We are tolerant and we have the ability to laugh not only at each other but at ourselves.

A paragraph from an early chapter took me back to my school and college days : "It is hard to describe exactly what an Irani restaurant was. It was obviously an eating house but with a distinct culture of its own. Its clientele was a mixed bag of office workers, shopkeepers, students, itinerant salesmen, the unemployed, the dead-beats, the great unwashed, those not likely to appear on the pages of 'Onlooker' the glossy society magazine of beautiful people.

"Yet it was not downbeat and to go to an Irani restaurant was not considered slumming. The dicor was simplicity itself. Armless, bentwood chairs, and tables sometimes with a cheap marble top. There was no tablecloth, nor any napkins. You wiped your hands as best as you could or used a stained washbasin near the kitchen. There was no printed menu. The waiter, if one could describe him as such, rattled off what was available as if he was reciting a mantra and it all came out as one word, 'keemabahajiacutlasskorma'.

"You needed all your wits to decipher it. All business transacted was oral. Your order was taken and it was bellowed to the kitchen and thus the entire restaurant knew that one had asked for 'aek adha keema, aek paon roti'. Or it could simply be 'aek adhi cha, aek slice sadha (no butter)'. When it came time to pay, the amount owing too was bellowed out and each customer would be identified, viz. 'Khaki pant wallah, lal kamiz wallah, topi wallah sabib, ainak wallah.'

"The cashier was the Irani himself seated on a high chair behind a counter (gulla) near the exit like a sinister godfather or a king cobra guarding a treasure. Nothing that happened in the restaurant escaped him. He was constantly on the lookout for those who might sneak out without paying or members of his own staff who may try and short change him. My brothers, Humayun (Toto), Rafiushan (Shanoo), and I once ordered a plate of chips to be shared by the three of us. In our joyous feasting we consumed more than our entitlement of tomato (pronounced tamatar) sauce.

"This profligacy did not escape the Irani. 'Char anna' , he said and added it to the bill. We protested and said that the tomato sauce came with the chips. 'Adhi batli nahin' ruled the jury, judge and executioner. Then he mumbled something rude under his breath. It was the Irani himself who was the ambience of the restaurant. His credit policy was no credit. Yet some regulars were able to establish a line of credit, the ceiling being five rupees and when it came time to pay, you paid. The Irani did not have to employ mawalis (hoodlums) to twist your arm. His threatening to do so was chilling enough. We spent many hours in the Irani restaurants and looking back they enrich the memories."

Close to the school to which I went, Karachi's BVS, which stood where it still stands, was the Irani restaurant, Cafi George, named after King George V of Great Britain whose photograph (he in the uniform of an admiral of the fleet) graced the entrance, hung atop the door. The gulla was mounted by Faredoon, nephew of owner Bejan Irani, a giant of a man, who tolerated us schoolboys, was kind, and even gave us credit, being appreciative of the fact that the average pocket money received by each of us was four annas per week. He often forgot to remember the sum owed.

Jovial Faredoon anglicized his name when he opened his own restaurant down the road which he called 'Frederick's'. Near the gulla in Frederick's stood a weighing machine on which one could weigh oneself by inserting an anna. When we were flush, we would collect one anna amongst ourselves and ask Frederick to stand upon it and weigh himself because he would tip the scale at 300 lbs, the end of the scale, at which a bell would ring and the entire clientele of the restaurant break out in applause.

When we graduated to the Dayaram Jethmal Sind College (which still stands where it stood) we used to frequent the 'jaam and narial wallah' who had his establishment under a tree in the nearby Burn's Garden. Kassim was no Irani, he would extend no credit. So, from the second week of the month onwards, we would frequent the 'Avalon', Khodadad Mahabokhtar's Irani restaurant around the corner. Khodadad was another kind and jovial man who never complained when at times we could only order iced water for which there was no charge, and was never angry when the waiter bellowed 'Kuch nahine khaya, kuch nahin peeya, do gilass tora, bara anna.'

Any time, any day - give me 'Cafi George', 'Frederick's', and the Avalon rather than MacDonald's, Kentucky Fried, or Pizza Hut!

Frederick and his restaurant were still going in 1958 when martial law was declared and Ayub Khan took over the country. Martial law headquarters were situated in the Baloch Regiment's mess on Bonus Road. Frederick was awarded the contract to run the canteen in the mess. One fine day, a truck carrying a platoon of armed men drew up before 'Frederick's'. Frederick himself was up in his flat on the third floor of the adjacent building. His sidekick in the restaurant, Ahmad, rushed out on to the pavement, and shouted 'Faredoon, Faredoon, inja biya, inja biya.'

Frederick appeared on his balcony, Ahmad pointed to the truck. Frederick, thinking the day of reckoning had come and he was to be picked up for having done fifty things which he should not have done, promptly fainted. He only came to when Ahmad rushed up with the news that all was well and that General Haq Nawaz, martial law administrator in Karachi, had merely sent round for his breakfast as the stoves in the mess had not yet been hotted up.