When I look at children growing up now in Karachi I feel a pang of pity for them. Given the high crime rate and the chaotic traffic, their parents make sure they don’t leave their homes unsupervised. This is very different from how I remember growing up: in those days, the only parental guideline was to finish our homework, and return home when it got dark.

Needless to say, neither stricture was closely observed. We would roam the neighbourhood (and beyond), getting into fights, organising our own games and generally raising hell. Unless somebody complained, our parents did not ask any questions about what we had been up to.

My earliest memories are of Napier Barracks, a military housing area, where our family was housed when we arrived from India at Partition. I was three, and at that age, the spaces between the single-story structures seemed huge. Whenever I passed by the area as an adult before the barracks — located behind today’s Crown Plaza Hotel — were demolished, I was amazed at how the distance had shrunk with the passing of years.

Looking back, I am still surprised at how much freedom my brothers and I, together with our friends, enjoyed. We were free, for instance, to walk to Elphinstone Street to spend our pocket money on books or the movies. Once, when I was around 15, my cousin Babar and I bicycled to Dumlotee, about 25 miles away, where my uncles had a construction site for their company, Omar Sons Ltd, which was then laying a large water supply pipeline from River Indus to Karachi. We spent many weekends there, going off on hunting trips with Anees Mamoo, who would also turn up to play cricket with us on Sundays.

School was not as competitive as it is now. All that was required of us was to pass our exams and stay out of serious trouble. I remember Father Tony and his habit of caning us hard for any infringement of the rules. Lesser crimes would be punished by class teachers by making us kneel for the whole period. When you are wearing shorts, this can be quite painful.

During the break, a number of stalls sold delectable treats: there was the choorunwalla who dispensed small paper twists full of mouth-numbing powder; for an extra two paisas, he would ignite the contents with a chemical, making it flare. God knows what ingredients went into the mix, but we loved it. Then there was the faloodawalla who would mix brightly-hued concoctions in a glass full of shaved ice. If you had a little more money, you could go to the school canteen where samosas, patties and colas were on sale.

Often, I would walk home with friends through Saddar. Here, Goan ladies clustered in their skirts, and familiar shops tempted us with their wares. There was no suggestion that kids my age might be at risk walking around on our own. Safer, more innocent times…

As there was no TV and no computer games, we had to make up our own entertainment. Of course, there was cricket. But we also played gulli-danda, marbles and tops. Along the ways, we made up games that, looking back, would certainly be off-limits to my son when he was the same age. For instance, we would divide up among two groups, and get on bikes with the intention of knocking our opponents off their saddles. For some reason, this rough sport was called ‘Migs’, and we all ended up with bruises and scratches. The only rule was that nobody could complain to our parents.

After it got too dark to play outside, we turned to reading or to indoor games. We would use our meagre pocket money to buy books and comics, although our mother had banned the latter. So these comics had to be hidden under a tile on the roof. This meant that to read or trade our prized collection, we would have to scramble up a bair tree.

Once, I remember that I ‘ran away’ from home over some real or imagined issue, thinking that there would be panic among the family once somebody discovered my farewell letter. In order to better watch the reaction, I was perched up on the roof, reading our hidden comics. Hours passed, and there was no sign of the cops or any visible commotion. Having re-read the comics, bored and hungry, I climbed down to discover that nobody had read the letter. Sheepishly, I tore it up and did not mention the incident to anybody.

Movies were the big thing in our lives. Rex, Rio, Palace and several other theatres loomed large on our cityscape. Once we had scraped together enough money for a matinee show, we would spend hours arguing which film offered the best value. Luckily, in those days there was a market for distributors, and the latest movies would come to Pakistan very soon after their release. The magic of the big screen is something that has stayed with me my whole life.

Growing up outside constant parental supervision gave us a degree of independence that has come in handy over the years. Children forced to spend much of their time at home are all too often fearful and unsure of themselves. Watching television and playing video games does not prepare them adequately for the rough and tumble of life. As kids, we were fortunate to live in a tolerant city that posed little threat to callow youngsters.

One area near Napier Barracks I remember well is the Christian cemetery known as Gora Khabaristan. As I recall, the graves were well tended, and the whole place had an air of serenity and peace. Recently, a reader emailed me photographs of the graveyard as it is today. Children from a nearby basti were seated on the graves, many of which were in ruins. The boundary wall had collapsed, and a certain amount of encroachment had taken place. From the images, the whole place reeked of decay and neglect. In a sense, Gora Khabaristan is symbolic of what has happened to the city I loved and grew up in.

The writer is a Dawn columnist