Short story: Down the Memory Lane

As the tea trickled down the strainer, a drop of sweat fell on my flower-patterned kameez. I heard Kiran shouting from the bedroom that she wanted tea too. She always does this, notifying me she needs tea as well, after I have made the whole thing. Well she was not going to get it, simple. I briskly walked off to my husband, Khalid, to give him his cup which had a thick layer of cream on top, and put the rest on the table and asked my children to grab their cups. And then the buzzing of the washing machine reminded me there was no stopping. (Working as if you are a workaholic can possibly be the worst and most difficult pretense ever.)

I walked to the gallery to get the laundry out of that pathetic excuse of a basket. My mind was bustling with a lot of things-to-do since morning and it seemed hard to focus on one particular job.  No one can be more dedicated to his/her job than a housewife. As I threw the clothes on the marble floor, separating them, white ones, light colored ones, dark colored ones, my gaze drifted towards the road outside seemingly free of human existence. It was supposed to be active with cars at this hour of the day, and then I remembered it was a strike.  It was an odd day for a strike, but then every day is odd in Karachi.

Under a cloud covered greyish blue sky a lone donkey cart was continuing its voyage to utopia on the main road with it’s master singing such a gleeful song that it made me smile. Merey sapnon ki raani kab ayegi tu, ayi rut mastani kab ayegi tu. He was single, I guess.

The amount of clouds suggested a heavy downpour. Rain is one of the many unpredictable phenomena in Karachi.  It seems as if God wants us to know that even He is weeping at our condition.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, the donkey’s hooves clattered against the road, in the midst of a completely noiseless atmosphere, the silence middle-school teachers crave for. The donkey went click-clacking with his elated master and a cartful of juicy, ripe and tempting oranges.

The same type of oranges, which we used to have in Jamshoro, growing in our backyards. Growing like leaves on a tree. Which are the part of a tree that cannot be separated, because without it the tree will no longer have its splendor. Just like the part of my heart which gets lulled by that word anytime, anywhere. The word “Jamshoro”. Although I left that place twenty years ago I can still feel the smell of its soil tingling under my nostrils, at the mention of it. I guess I haven’t ever left it, literally.

Its wide roads covered with rusty leaves of fall are still lingering in my memory. With beautiful Goolar, Sheesham and Neem trees alongside the roads and a river flowing peacefully on the opposite side it may almost pass as a wonderland.

“Right Bank Barrage Colony”, where the workers and officials of the Irrigation Workshop dwelt as a large family. The place, which is my real home because a home is where you feel associated with, a place where you feel belonged, the place which you can never actually leave.

I was born in one of those quaint and queer quarters of red bricks and commitment. Even now, when all six of us siblings sit together, which is once in a blue moon, we cannot help admiring the comfort of our home-made garden, our father’s passion, and our mother’s unlimited vegetables, which we neglected when we had it. It’s now that I realize the real meaning of the phrase “Absence makes the heart grow fonder”.  When we lived in Jamshoro, I thought of it as a minor village

Since then, I have never seen so many multicolored roses in my life.  Even green and purple roses were planted in our garden.  My father had a passion for everything he did or another way to put it is, he was expert at everything he had a passion for.

The miniature replica of a poultry farm was no less than the home oriented garden, with Australian macaws and little canaries and little Kaushu, our little kitten.

Days in Jamshoro started as lazily as they continued. We all rose with the sun at Fajr, and along with our father we jogged, along the bank of the stream breathing in the fresh air. On our return journey, we encountered the mango orchard, the Bijli Ghar, the Girls’ Primary School and the Post Office.

I was thirteen then, and I am forty now, and not a single memory of that fairyland has escaped my consciousness. Achi Khala’s visit was always eagerly anticipated along with her beloved paandaan. And then the two ladies, Dulhan, my mother and Achi Khala would begin the endless chit chat and gossip with continuous supply of betel and tobacco.

Dulhan, had a clear view that we had to go to school and come back and eat and drink and survive, but she did not give a thought to what we were studying, or what were our aims, or ambitions or if we wanted to get a job when we grow up. It was our father, the more literate of the two parents, the more educated of the two parents and the more experienced, who went berserk worrying about our future.

My father managed to have a small library-ish place in our house, with books on palmistry, religion, urdu literature and Ilm-e-Najoom. It may not have been my favorite place at that time but now it seems like the exact thing I want for the moment.

Kero and Basheer taught me how to read hands when I was in Matric, the books gave me enough knowledge that even now I can look at a hand and judge the person’s personality.

Life in Jamshoro was one of simplicity and tranquil. Everyone knew who lived two blocks away, and three blocks beyond; no one was a stranger. Be it a wedding, birth or funeral everyone knew whose it was and where.

We didn’t need to lock our doors after dusk for fear of robbery. We children could play out as long as we willed. Pittu Garam, Kora Jamal Shahi and Sitolia, were the games most in demand.  But after nine, no one could be seen out in the alleys of Jamshoro.  Not because of the curfew but because of a sort of discipline which has left all of our lives.

PTV was the only tv channel available. We did not have a choice of surfing over 150 channels and glue our eyes to the box the whole day, and we did not seem to long for that either.

From eight to nine, it was the drama-session, the time in which we all cuddled up in front of the black and white screen to be enthralled  by captivating serials like Waris, Raat Rail au Khat, Ek Muhabbat Sau Afsaney and many others which are still remembered as the golden classics of Pakistan Television.

The most interactive way of connecting to the world was the BBC Serbian, which provided us with news of the world in early morning. The most awaited segment was the City of Lights, Karachi. The news of Karachi was delivered to us from London. This was the maximum connection we had with the outside world, and we did not want more. We were happy and at peace with our playing and laughing selves, books and gardens.

When I was even younger we used to go to Amjad bhai’s mother, Khala, for learning to read the Holy Koran. She was wife of my father’s senior colleague.

Khala was a beautiful woman, with chubby cheeks and snow-white skin and cheeks like tomatoes which grew in her garden. She had a thick and long pigtail and used to wear silky-smooth ghararas of vivid, bright colors. We used to go into the garden, take a rug from the corner and sit under the shady mango and lime trees, and learned to read Quan. She didn’t take any fee for it but she made the kids do household chores after she had given the lessons.

One of the most exciting and exotic things about Jamshoro was the ‘vibrating fish’. Even now, when I tell my husband about it, he laughs and mocks me, because it might have been hard for me to believe it either, if I had not eaten it.

At 3 in the morning, once a week, we were accustomed to hear a truck coming to a halt at the door which was followed by a brief conversation between father and his repairing staff, and then they would give us the ‘vibrating fish’ for free, as a souvenir of the river, where at the dam they repaired gates.

They weighed almost 6 kg and even after they were cut into pieces they used to writhe. Yes, they were the freshest and the most tantalizing fish I have ever eaten. In Karachi we have days-old frozen fish, which are not even close to being fresh. After being processed and packed in ice in so many different ways it comes to us, when it has lost all its freshness somewhere near the river, by which we used to play all day as children. Where we would fish, cook, eat and then go home. Where we had so many memories compiled and stored.

I still lament the fact how my kids never had the joy of getting a fridge for the first time. They never had the joy of marrying their friends’ Barbie dolls.

People back then had time, they lived in harmony. They developed trust and conviction in each other, there was no ‘you-are-a-muhajir‘or ‘you-are-a-sindhi’. Despite of the difference in ethnic beliefs and ideologies, people were not at war.

Jamshoro’s rains were not just random rains they were miniature thunderstorms.  Where the wind would keep making whooshing sounds till the rain was over. Sometimes there was hail along with rains, during which people would snuggle under the covers in their rooms waiting for the hail to stop. Then we kids would go out and play in the mud puddles, splashing in dirty water taking in the post-rain demeanor of the place.  Splish-splash, splish-splash.

My thoughts were interrupted by a shower of rainwater on my face. Oh, so the clouds must have started crying for Karachi, again. As I began to assemble myself into one piece again, I gathered the laundry and quickly got inside closing the sliding door behind me. I then encountered a very welcoming view of life. My husband was in front of the television, watching news and smiling. Good news is that gust of fresh air that is seldom felt by anyone in Karachi.

“Guess what? They’re taking back the call for strike in two hours. Finally I’ll return to my Godforsaken office and get working.”

What could have I done instead of smiling, which I did, after such a vivid flashback of my previous life?

This is Karachi. Polluted, violent, corrupt, vivid, bold and ultimately Karachi.