Rawalpindi may have changed, but there are things that are still the same even today
Every city in the world, has its own identity. From New York, that has its sky-scrapers, Paris its Eiffel Tower and sidewalk cafes to Lahore is known for its gardens and Karachi for being Karachi. And then, there is Rawalpindi.
Dwarfed by its neighbour, Islamabad, and held in contempt by the Isloo-elite, Rawalpindi has made a slow but steady progress over the years despite Big Brother calling all the shots. It is believed, based on scientific evidence that a distinct culture flourished on this plateau as far back as 3000 years.
Remains found at the site of the city suggest a Buddhist establishment, contemporary to Taxila but not enjoying the same degree of eminence — a predicament still faced by Rawalpindi. It is believed that the modern day Rawalpindi was first resurrected by a Gakkhar chief by the name of Kai Gohar. Gakkhars continued to rule Rawalpindi till the last of the Gakkhars, Muqarrab Khan, was defeated by the Sikhs in AD1765. It is believed that Jhanda Khan, a Gakkhar Chief named the city Rawalpindi after a village Rawal, in 1493. The city, however, never prospered during the Gakkhar rule mainly due to its geographical location — being on the invaders’ route.
The first sign of prosperity appeared in the city during the Sikh rule when traders and other craftsmen from Punjab settled in Rawalpindi.
After the British captured it in 1849, they established the General Headquarter in the south of the old city. During the consolidating years of British Raj, and as late as the early-70s, Rawalpindi remained a cozy and a sleepy cantonment.
Over the years, Rawalpindi has retained its traditional flavour and hardly anything has changed. A few modern buildings and residential areas have come up of late, but the general complexion of the city remains the same.
Rawalpindi has been the center of gravity throughout my adult life — not by design though. I have frequented Rawalpindi more than any other city in the country. During the regimented days of my adolescent years, Rawalpindi, despite all its peculiarities, was the most sought after place. It was in Rawalpindi that I bought my first Harold Robbins novel. It was also in Rawalpindi that my friends and I spent many-a-days scuttling between Plaza, Odeon, and Ceros cinemas to catch all three shows before heading to our respective hometowns.
Shezan in Saddar used to be our rendezvous at the end of our break, where we all got together to have tea break before catching the last Ford wagon to leave our destination in the hills. Rawalpindi never imposed itself on us; it took care of all our needs: basic and frivolous as they were back then. It was the final frontier between freedom and internment. However, none of us ever claimed to have liked the place.
The crude behaviour of the wagon-wallahs, the pushing and showing at Pir Wadahi bus stand, less than desirable service standard in the restaurants, and of course the taxi-wallahs who prowled its streets, deterred any emotional attachment to the place. We were always in transit and by virtue of our association were spared the usual humiliation reserved for non-privileged transitory visitors. But by nightfall, the usual time for our departure from Pindi, things would change.
However, as luck would have it, I found myself living in Rawalpindi, during the early-80s. And that was when I come to know Rawalpindi; everything was at a walking distance, almost everything. Bank Road was the only happening place in town. Murree Road was impossible to traverse and Peshawar Road was a death trap for the unsuspecting pedestrians and not too careful drivers. Everyone I met was either a Raja or a Malik. There were places with names such as Tench Bhatta and Lal Kurti which I found very amusing. But above all, I developed a love hate relationship with the taxi drivers of the city.
In those days, the demographic of the taxi population in Rawalpindi were quite unique. 99.9 per cent of the taxis that plied in Pindi were Morris Minors, with traditional black and orange colour scheme. You could not walk a meter on the streets of Pindi without being accosted by a taxi driver in his MM who would stick his neck out of the narrow opening in the door and solicit his services. Kithay jassoo? (Where would you like to go?) the driver would ask, waiting anxiously for a moment or two and then crawl away. Crawl is the right word to describe the way taxi moved in Pindi then and for that matter still move around in Pindi.
There were a few occasions that I had to accept the Kithay jassoo offer, to beat the clock or the weather or both. But it was a futile exercise. The taxi edged, instead of motor, along. And to top it off, the driver would switch the engine off at every stop light and every incline, presumably to save on fuel. Air-conditioned cars were an exception than a norm back then, and Morris Minors with their masculine design provided little room for air to flow through it.
In summers particularly, a taxi ride in Pindi was a challenge to say the least. The alternative mode of transportation, i.e. the Suzuki van, or a Ford van, was either life threatening or asphyxiating or both.
As our stay in Pindi drew to a close, things started to improve. Other brands of vehicles joined the taxi population of Pindi. Datsun Sunny and 120 Y were the first to enter the market. The new entrants were much better looking and agile then their compatriots from Great Britain. The owners of the newer version were totally different from the group of people who drove Morris’. This group was younger, more aggressive, seldom seen soliciting their services, and above all kept their vehicles in a tip-top condition. These taxis were in great demand back then. A discerning passenger would sacrifice several minutes of his precious time to wait for a Datsun to appear. Those were the early days of Japanese invasion of the Rawalpindi taxi market. A beginning of the end of European dominance of Pindi taxi scene!
Pindi is once again my home, transitory as it maybe, and as I mentioned earlier nothing much have changed except for the widening of Murree and Peshawar Roads; a few tall building that have surfaced, and a few fancy medical and general stores. There are a few more places to dine in Pindi than we had back then. That is the extent of the change.
However, one thing that has not changed is the ratio of taxis and private cars. If one is to calculate the per capita indices of taxis in Rawalpindi, I am confident that it would be in the top five cities of the world. Just like Faisalabad will easily win number one position with maximum number of donkey-carts! One thing that saddened me though was the complete disappearance of the Morris Minors. For a month and half that I have been in Rawalpindi I have yet to come across a single Morris taxi.
The Datsun is still visible and hats off to Japanese technology and Pakistani ingenuity, that these cars much older than their owners are still up and running. Interestingly, the latest edition in the sea of taxis that crowd Pindi streets is Suzuki FX. These small yet sturdy cars made its appearance in the 80s and were the hot favourite of the middle-income families who could not afford the more expensive Toyotas and Mazdas. It had all the comforts that a car in those days was supposed to provide — air-conditioning was one such feature.
Suzuki FX by far outnumber any other make in Rawalpindi and considering the fact that you can find every conceivable make and model ever imported or assembled by Pakistan, it is no mean feat. And that is not all, unlike their compatriots, in let us say Karachi or Lahore, the taxi drivers in Rawalpindi know how to take care of their cars. Seldom shall a traveller come across taxis that have more character, aesthetics and comfort all in one.
Another interesting feature of Pindi taxis is their homogeneity... the way they look and the manner in which the move. Without exception the taxis in Rawalpindi seldom cross the maximum speed limit proscribed by the city authorities, a trait acquired by them from Morris Minor! A careful examination of the license plates of randomly selected sample of taxis plying in Rawalpindi further revealed that the infamous “Yellow cab” scheme was a failure here.
The overwhelming majority of the taxis are ‘private’ cars turned taxis and few of them bear the dreaded prefix like ‘LPT’ or ‘RPT’ indicative of their Yellow cab scheme origins.
A word of advise for all the transitory passengers in Rawalpindi; make sure that you have half-an-hour lead time for your scheduled appointment.
Rawalpindi may have changed, but there are things that are still the same even today 
