Stories of Karachi’s Taxi Drivers from 1993 to 2000
Zaffar Junejo
[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.
I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]
Bribe to Buy Time
Leaving the Pakistan Medical Centre building, I ambled toward a nearby hotel close to the IBA City Campus for a quick cup of tea. A humid breeze swept through the street. Stepping out onto the pavement outside the IBA gate, I hailed a yellow taxi.
The cab engine sputtered to life. My driver swung the wheel hard, cutting off M.A. Jinnah Road near Aga Khan III Road before merging onto the main artery.
Everything went smoothly until Numaish.
Suddenly, the driver’s knuckles paled against the steering wheel. Sweat glinted on his temple. Eyes darting toward the rearview mirror, he adjusted his posture nervously.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
He shook his head, denying any issue.
Past Quaid-i-Azam’s Mausoleum, his tense shoulders relaxed. He cleared his throat. “Did you notice the traffic police back at Numaish?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Three officers stood there.”
“Four,” he corrected softly. “One was the inspector in charge.”
“Why does that bother you?”
Silence filled the cab for a moment. “They terrify me. They could have impounded us. We got lucky.”
“Why fear them?”
“I don’t have a driving license,” he confessed.
“And the taxi’s registration papers?”
“None.”
I leaned forward in my seat. “How do you operate a cab on the city’s main roads without documents?”
The driver held up his right hand, rubbing his thumb and index finger together in a universal gesture. “Money solves everything.”
“Are these officers really that powerful?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Senior drivers tell me the only way to avoid impoundment or save your skin is to give them ‘Fatima’s brother.'”
“What do you mean?”
He tapped his chest, mimicking the crisp rustle of paper bills. “Jinnah Sahib. Cash.”
I nodded, grasping his dark humor. “They hold immense power. For instance, these white-uniformed police can halt any vehicle instantly, regardless of your emergency. They inspect documents, and often, they slap you with fine slips without even glancing at your paperwork.”
“Really? They hold that much authority?”
“They punish drivers for speeding, running red lights, driving the wrong way, or lacking documents. Their discretionary power poses the biggest threat.”
“Discretionary power?”
“Yes. They decide whether to overlook a slight speed violation or ignore a jumped signal—for a price.”
The driver shifted gears, accelerating into the open lane. “Their best trick for extracting cash involves checking route permits on public vans and buses.”
“Where else do they look for bribes?”
“The entire car,” he laughed bitterly. “Tinted windows, high-beam headlights, illegal sirens, or faded license plates. Anything serves as an excuse.”
As we approached Gulshan-e-Iqbal, the heavy traffic slowed us to a crawl. “How do they treat drivers during an inspection?” I asked.
“Aggressively,” he grunted. “They speak in a stern, menacing tone. Worse, once they decide to squeeze cash out of you, they move the goalposts. First, they ask for a driving license. Hand it over, and they demand vehicle papers. Show them the papers, and they criticize your license plate.”
“What happens next?”
“You stand stranded in the blistering heat,” he continued, gripping the wheel tighter. “The officer ignores you, walking away to flag down another car. Frustration boils over. Eventually, the driver surrenders and hands over the bribe just to escape.”
“So, what works best?”
“Act fast,” he advised. “If they flag you down, step out immediately. Slip a few hundred-rupee notes into the officer’s closed fist, jump back inside, start the engine, and drive away.”
He paused, glancing at me through the mirror. “A traffic officer once shared his formula with a friend. During peak hours, snatching three hundred rupees from three hundred cars in quick succession yields far more profit than holding fifty vehicles hostage for five hundred rupees each. Time economy. It saves energy and keeps the cash flowing.”
His twisted logic made a strange kind of sense.
“Park near the Sindh Technical Board Office,” I instructed, pointing toward the curb.
The taxi glided to a smooth halt. I handed him his fare, stepped out into the afternoon heat, and watched the cab blend back into the chaotic stream of traffic.
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Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com
