Buyers, like birds of a feather, engage each other in talking. They speak on any subject that comes to their mind
The venue was Empress Market, one of the two 18th century grocery, meat, fish, fruits and vegetable markets in Karachi. The other market by the name of Boulton Market has lost its face and identity. Cheap plastic items and clothes are sold there.
For over a century, the Karachi Tramway Junction was situated in front of Boulton Market. It facilitated the buyers to get off the Tram, buy kitchen items of daily use from the well-stuffed adjacent Boulton Market, and then catch the next Tram back home. The Tramway system doesn’t exist in Karachi today. It has been done away with. Karachi sustains less population than Kolkata. It is a mega city of 20 million people, still the administrators have not banished Tram from the roads of Kolkata. But, the administrators of Karachi thought it prudent to terminate the 100-year-old Tramway system from the city. However, the historic importance of the disfigured Boulton Market remains intact, for the zero point of Karachi initiates from in front of it.
I was buying carrots for my freak parrot and green chillies for my freak rabbit from the overcrowded Empress Market. I wonder why the administrators of Karachi have not changed the name of Empress Market! I suggest Empress Market should be named after the roving First Ladies of Pakistan. For example, if Allah Rakhi happens to be the First Lady of Pakistan, then let Empress Market bear the name of Allah Rakhi Market. After all, First Ladies happen to be no less important than an empress.
I have a detestable habit of listening to other people’s conversations. The buyers, like birds of a feather, engage each other in talking. They speak on any subject that comes to their mind.
“Isn’t it commendable that they have apprehended the terrorists contemplating the assassination of General President?”
“Of course, and they were dealt with promptly.”
“Justice was not delayed, therefore it was not denied.”
“Don’t you think the well-publicised revelation of a plot to assassinate General President has added to his popularity?”
“It has, tremendously.” A cook who always spoils the broth said, “After all, he maintains a team of marketing experts.”
“Why haven’t they dealt with the assassins of Mir Murtaza Bhutto and Hakim Mohammed Said?”
“Haven’t you heard, justice hurried is justice buried?”
“Do you think that the over one million cases pending in the courts throughout the country will now be dispensed with promptly and judiciously?”
“Do you remember street-singer Talat Mahmood Naqli?”
“Does he still sing?”
“I don’t know. He is in prison.”
“How come he is in prison?” “He has been in prison for the last 20 years.”
“Did he try to abrogate the constitution?”
“No.”
“Then why have they incarcerated him?”
“Once there was a minister known by his nickname, Matwalla.”
“Wasn’t he very close to General Ziaul Haq?”
“Exactly.” A retired Deputy Secretary-type of an old man said, “After Eid prayers, a crafty pickpocket deprived Minister Matwalla of a hefty amount. The IG summoned his SSPs, and asked them to apprehend the culprit in 10 minutes. They nabbed the first available person they came across. He turned out to be Talat Mahmood Naqli.”
“Did they recover the amount from him?”
“During the 14-day remand, Talat Mahmood Naqli endured terrible torture, and refused to admit he was a pickpocket. He kept saying he was a street-singer.”
“What happened then?”
“The case has been pending in court for the last 20 years.”
I picked up a carrot, and handed it to the vendor for weighing. He looked at the carrot, and exclaimed, “Just a single carrot?”
The pet parrot perched on my shoulder talked to the vendor, and said, “Haven’t you heard a carrot a day keeps the doctor away?”
I then bought a handful of fresh green chillies for my rabbit sitting relaxed in the pouch dangling from my other shoulder. An old Parsi couple looked at me in disbelief, and spoke to each other in Gujrati, without realizing I knew the language. The tall, wrinkled man said, “Either he is crazy, or his pets are crazy.”
“At least I am not crazy.” My parrot spoke in Gujrati, and said, “The rabbit sitting in the pouch of my master is crazy. It relishes forbidden food.”
“What about you?” The rabbit yelled from the pouch.
“Well, I am a parrot. I talk.”
The bewildered Parsi couple moved away. I then listened to the conversation in a group of overcautious people.
“Why doesn’t he hang up his gloves? Calls it a day, and bids goodbye to the ring?”
“He has frozen fingers. The gloves keep his trembling fingers warm.”
“How did he get his fingers frozen?”
“He fiddled with the glaciers.”
Suddenly, the group caught sight of me and stopped talking. They appeared frightened. One of them said, “It was just trivial talk, sir.”
