Every inch of old Karachi constitutes my private heritage. I love walking in its narrow lanes and alleys
WHILE leisurely strolling between old Clifton Bridge and Teen Talwar roundabout, I saw a forlorn person standing motionless on the pavement across Red Crescent Hospital Complex on the other side of the road. I have an unreliable heart in my chest. It is fatally at unease. Doctors say it will suddenly stop beating, making me drop dead like a log. Therefore, they say I must walk, walk and walk to keep my ailing heart fluttering in the cage of my massive coffer. I wear a bronze tablet around my neck. It bears an inscription, “When found dead, place me at the top of the Tower of Silence. Let the eagles and crows devour my eyes, heart, and the obnoxious matter concealed in my skull.”
I therefore walk ceaselessly, but not necessarily between Old Clifton Bridge and Teen Talwar roundabout. I walk for hours on Elphinston Street, in Saddar. The city administrators baptised the famous street a few years after Partition. They gave it a new name, Zaibunissa Street. But I do not walk on Zaibunissa Street. I walk on Elphinston Street, my withered private heritage. I stop by Hameed Kashmiri’s book shop that I see, but the passersby do not. We gossip and talk, and discuss any subject that comes to our mind. We smile. We laugh. We cry. I then step into Elphinston Restaurant adjacent to Hameed’s book shop. It is the hub of the writers and poets of Karachi. They are no more there. So is the Elphinston Restaurant. The place has been turned into a jeweller’s shop. Hameed Kashmiri is not around.
We remain hooked to the pendulum of time. Nostalgia oscillates between past and present. ABC Chinese Restaurant was an authentic Chinese eatery on Elphinston Street. It was furnished with moulded cane chairs and teakwood tables with sparkling marble tops. Muslim youngsters were admonished from eating at ABC Chinese Restaurant. The elders believed the Chinese garnished the food with the smoked meat of reptiles such as snakes, and that that was the secret behind the delicious taste of the dishes served at the restaurant. It turned out to be a hoax. We very often bumped into our parents as they relished the Chinese delicacies, and the parents bumped into us while we sucked at the noodles with sticks tucked between our fingers. ABC Chinese Restaurant was the private heritage of the people of my age. It is no more in existence. It has been replaced by a huge shoe store.
Come, and walk with me steadily. When in the company of an old man with a frail heart do not walk briskly. He won’t be able to keep up with you. While going through the intriguing debris between ‘what was and what is’, walk with cautious steps. Are you following me?
Let us halt in front of the Saddar Post Office. Look at the neglected building beside the Post Office. Stretch your neck, retrieve the past, and look at the marvellous India Coffee House on its first floor. Are the couples and the families visible to you from the windows of the coffee house? If no, then come with me and I’ll take you upstairs. You will love its fascinating decor and the artistic interiors. Well, glance at the blended gentry consisting of Parsis, Anglo-Indians, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Bohras and the Bahais occupying the tables. They have always lived in peace and harmony, and have enthusiastically participated in each other’s festivals. India Coffee House is my private heritage. Would you like to sit down and sip from a glass tumbler of cold coffee with a chunk of floating ice cream of your choice?
Are you listening to me? Or have you travelled back to ‘what is’ from ‘what was?’ After Partition, the ownership of the coffee house changed hands. It came to be known by the name of Zelin’s Coffee House. Under the new management, it maintained superlative quality control for years. It remained a favourite spot for both the young and old Karachiites. But, with the passage of time, like everything that was nice, the soothing and tender Zelin’s, my private heritage, vanished.
Every inch of old Karachi constitutes my private heritage. I love walking in its narrow lanes and alleys. I sit on a wooden bench in front of a ba’akra (small tea stall made of planks) and dip moeni (deep-fried, fine-floor triangle cookie) in a cup of karak chai (strong tea) and relish it to my heart’s content. At times, I come out of my abode near Old Racecourse Ground and stroll between the original Clifton Bridge and Teen Talwar roundabout.
It was during my stroll recently that I saw a forlorn person standing motionless on a pavement opposite Red Crescent Hospital Complex. I went close to him, and asked, “Who are you, brother?”
Without looking at me he said, “They are chopping down Pepal.”
I turned around and saw a huge Pepal being chopped down within the confines of the Red Crescent Hospital Complex. Pepal, like the Banyan, is an enormously sacred tree that provides succour to tired travellers. From times immemorial, saints and sufis have meditated under Pepal and Banyan trees. As its massive trunk came tumbling down, the forlorn person sank to his knees.
“Many years ago they demolished the symbol of justice at Frere Hall,” he said. “Thereafter, the people have never known justice and fair play in this country.”
I had nothing to say. He rose to his feet, and said, “They are now after the Banyan and the Pepal, the revered trees of peace and tranquillity. Yet, they don’t understand why serenity and harmony have eluded Karachi.”
