Stories of Karachi’s Taxi Drivers from 1993 to 2000
Zaffar Junejo
[Author’s Note: I a NGO 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.
On the surface, these pieces appear to be simple narratives. However, beneath the prose, they depict the complex socio-political and cultural landscape of Karachi during those turbulent days. They are the echoes of a city in motion. I present here the second instalment, which includes two stories: ‘The Road from Jacobabad,’ ‘The Bag on the Back Seat’ and ‘The Meter of Life.]
The Road from Jacobabad
I wanted to leave Karachi before the Eid rush thickened on the roads. Hyderabad first. Then Dadu. I stood outside my flat in Defence Extension, Phase II, with a small bag in my hand. The evening air smelled of dust and sea salt. A yellow taxi rolled to the curb.
The driver leaned over and opened the door.
“Kidhar, Sahib?”
“Saddar.”
He nodded and pulled into the traffic.
For a while we moved in silence. Buses groaned beside us. Motorcycles cut through gaps like fish in muddy water. The city was sweating under orange lights.
Then the driver spoke.
“I am Sarki,” he said. “From Jacobabad.”
He glanced at me in the mirror and smiled faintly.
“I work for the Sindh Government. Secretariat duty. Barracks side.”
I nodded.
He seemed ready to talk. Some men carry silence; others carry stories.
“I live here with my family,” he continued. “Three daughters. One is deaf and dumb.”
The taxi slowed near a signal. Vendors walked between cars with water bottles and cheap toys.
“It was hard to bring them here,” he said. “Very hard.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“No one agreed. My elder brother even threatened me. Said if I took my family to Karachi, he would shoot me.”
He laughed once. Dry. Without joy.
“He met my cousins too. My brothers-in-law. Told them to pressure us to stay in Jacobabad.”
The signal turned green. We moved again.
“But fools need tricks,” he said. “Straight talk never works.” He lifted one finger from the wheel. “First, I brought my elder son alone. Got him admitted to a government Urdu-medium school. Fourth class.”
“And?”
“I was afraid,” he said. “Karachi children are sharp. Fast. But the boy survived.”
Outside, neon lights flickered on tea hotels and tyre shops.
“Then I created another scene at home. I fabricated a story that the examinations were approaching, but my son seemed confused. I managed to ensure that the news reached my family. I succeeded. After that, I called my wife to Karachi and said the child needed her.”
He smiled this time. A real smile.
“She came for fifteen days. Then summer vacations started.”
The taxi crossed a crowded intersection. Somewhere a siren wailed.
“I went back to Jacobabad and brought everyone with me: my wife, the children, and even my elder brother’s daughter, just to spend the vacations in Karachi.”
“All together?”
“All together.” He tapped the steering wheel proudly. “With help from one education officer, I got admissions for all of them in the same compound school, where there existed a Boys Primary School, a Girls Primary School, and a Middle school. They were simple government schools, just a bit bigger.”
He fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed again.
“When vacations ended, telephone calls started pouring into my office.”
“What happened?”
“One clerk taunted me. Said, ‘For Sarki, we may have to apply to Pakistan Telephone for a new connection.’” He shook his head. “Only five calls came. But Sahib got angry. Asked why so many calls were coming for a peon.”
The road opened near Saddar. Old buildings stood in tired rows under dim lights.
“So your brother came after you?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “In August.”
The taxi slowed behind a bus coughing black smoke.
“He stayed with us in Karachi. First thing I noticed—the sea breeze softened him. Electricity shocked him more. In Jacobabad, power disappears like rainwater.” He paused. “One night after dinner, he called his daughter.”
The driver’s voice deepened as he repeated the words.
“Tomorrow,” his brother had said, “Bhajai and all the girls will return to Jacobabad with me.”
The taxi cabin grew still.
“What happened then?” I asked.
“All the children gathered before him,” Sarki said, smiling at the memory. “One after another, they said, ‘we don’t want to go. There is no electricity there. Too much heat. Mosquitoes everywhere.’”
The driver stared ahead.
“My brother stayed silent for a long time. Then he said only one sentence.” His voice softened into Sindhi. “Aba Jacobabad ta pahenjo mulk aa. Ker chhadendo?” Jacobabad is our land. How can we leave it?
A motorcycle sped past us. The sound faded into the night.
“Then his daughter Aysha stepped forward,” Sarki said. He straightened with pride. “She told her father, ‘We study here now. How can we leave school?’”
“And your brother?”
“He looked at her with wild eyes,” Sarki said softly. “I thought the teacup in his hand would fall. Then he told the children, ‘Baba tahyan wanjo. Chachan saa galhayoon thoo.’ Go away now. Let me talk to your uncle.”
Sarki exhaled slowly.
“After they left, he looked at me and said, ‘Aba he kahro kahr kayoo thaee.’ What cruelty have you done?”
Traffic thinned. The city had begun to cool.
“And now?” I asked.
“Now?” he said, his face brightening. “Aysha is an MBBS doctor. My daughter Fatima teaches at a deaf and dumb school. My two younger daughters work for pharmaceutical companies.” He patted the steering wheel gently.
“And this taxi?”
“Yes?”
“I drove taxis for almost twenty years beside my government job. Now retirement has come.” He smiled into the dark road ahead. “Now driving is only for ser sapato.”
For wandering.
“For pleasure,” he said. “For seeing the world move.”
The taxi stopped near Saddar. I paid him the fare. He turned back toward me.
“Sahib,” he said softly, “sometimes a man must leave his watan to save his children.”
***
The Bag on the Back Seat
I came out of the office in the evening. The air was heavy. Karachi was already glowing in weak streetlights.
I walked toward the shrine of Abdullah Shah Ghazi and hired a taxi near the road.
I opened the back door, placed my shoulder bag on the seat and sat beside the driver.
We moved slowly. The car turned near Jehangir Kothari. The sea was close. The wind was sharp.
In front of the Pakistan Institute of Management, the driver slowed and stopped. He turned slightly.
“Ji Sahib,” he said politely, “please keep your bag with you.”
I looked at him. I did not understand.
He waited. Then I nodded. I pulled the bag from the back seat and placed it near my feet. I felt uneasy. Something had shifted inside the car.
We crossed the Do Talwar intersection. Traffic thickened. Horns rose and fell.
The driver noticed my silence. He spoke again.
“Last week,” he said, “something happened.”
I listened.
“A young man took my taxi from here. Same place. Shoulder bag like yours. He said, ‘Gulshan-e-Iqbal.’ No bargaining. No talk.” He paused and kept his eyes on the road. “I did not suspect anything. We reached near Clifton. Near 70-Clifton, the police stopped us. Every vehicle stood in a line. A young policeman came.”
“Who are you?” he asked. “Show me your Identity Cards.”
I showed mine.
“I am a student,” the passenger said.
The police searched the car—seats, doors, dashboard, even the mirrors. Then the officer pointed at the bag.
“Whose bag is this?”
Silence. The young man did not answer.
Again the officer asked. No movement.
The policeman pulled the bag out. “Come out,” he said to the boy.
But the boy stayed seated.
The officer looked at me now. “Step out,” he said.
I came out. I parked the taxi near the footpath. The search continued. Then everything changed.
The boy looked back. A motorcycle came from the opposite side. It slowed near us. In one sudden movement, the boy dropped the bag. He jumped onto the motorcycle, and it vanished into traffic.
A sharp sound of cracking glass came from behind us. The smell came fast. Strong. Alcohol. Spirit.
The officer froze. He picked up the bag carefully. Liquid had already started leaking.
Later, they took me to the station. The senior officer listened to me. The night passed. I stayed there until a new shift arrived. Near midnight, they released me. Two thousand rupees changed hands.
The driver in front of me turned quiet for a moment.
“I am sorry, Sirji,” he said finally. “I should not have told you to hold your bag like that.”
I looked at him. I said nothing.
I looked out of the window. The city was in motion.
***
The Meter of Life
It was Friday, and Karachi had loosened its grip on itself. The heat still lay on the roads, but it no longer pressed down harshly. It only lingered, like something half-forgotten.
At Punjab Chowrangi I stood at the edge of moving traffic. Horns passed, faded, returned again, but nothing felt urgent. A yellow taxi rolled in slowly, dust softening its body, sunlight dull on its glass. I raised my hand.
It stopped.
I opened the door and got in.
“DHA Phase II,” I said, settling beside the driver.
He nodded and started moving without looking at me.
Then came the familiar question.
“Meter or lump sum?”
“Lump sum,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “Meter.”
A pause entered the cab. Not dramatic, but firm. His hand stayed on the wheel a little longer than needed, as if measuring something beyond fare.
Then he said, “Okay. Meter.”
We moved.
The taxi pulled away from Punjab Chowrangi and joined the long stretch of city road. Traffic opened and closed in waves. We passed under fading signals, past scattered shops, toward the quieter institutional lines of the city. The road carried us in the direction of College of Physicians and Surgeons, though neither of us named it.
Inside the cab, silence settled.
But it was not a peaceful silence. The driver’s shoulders were tight, his posture fixed. He looked ahead like the road required constant negotiation. I noticed it before I understood it.
After a while, I spoke.
“You didn’t want meter-charges.”
He did not answer at once. The city moved outside like blurred sentences.
Then he said, “My meter is okay.”
“Okay?”
“Not tempered,” he added.
That word stayed between us.
“If I agree with every passenger, meter fare,” he continued, “I lose.”
He said it without anger. Like a rule he had already accepted.
“But others charge meter,” I said.
A faint smile came and went.
“Their meters are tempered.”
He shifted gear smoothly, as if even the movement supported his argument.
Then his voice deepened slightly, as if the conversation had moved into older ground.
“I don’t open things. Dashboard, front panel, wiring. Once you open them, they never return the same. Engine, gear box, steering—everything stops being original.”
He paused at a signal. Red light filled the windscreen.
“If I sell this car, the buyer brings his mechanic. In minutes, everything is judged, so I prefer to keep the car intact, with all its parts unchanged.”
A silence followed, thicker than before.
Then he added, quietly, “I made a vow. I charge fair, lump sum.”
After a moment, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Today is holiday. Few passengers. That is why I agreed.”
The car moved again.
I noticed small slips of paper stuck to the corner of the windscreen. Poems of Ghalib, Mir, and Iqbal.
“Who fixed these?” I asked.
“I did,” he said.
We crossed another signal. Green this time. The city obeyed, then drifted back into disorder.
I changed the question.
“So when will you temper/ change your meter?”
He gave a small, tired smile.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Then, after a pause, his voice shifted.
“Angrez gave us meters so we don’t waste time arguing. Time was meant to be saved.”
He glanced briefly at the road.
“But we broke every meter. Electricity, gas, petrol—everything.”
A short laugh escaped him.
“For us, meter is like red cloth for a bull.”
The road narrowed into a service lane. Flats of DHA Phase II began to appear in more regular lines, quieter, more robust.
He said, “Three to five minutes.”
I asked the final question, but it broke before completion.
“So, meter for us is—”
He answered immediately, but in a different tone and perspective.
“We are experts at reversing the meter, slowing it, and bending it. But we have not learned the meter of life.”
He did not look at me when he said it.
Out of the way, I don’t know why I asked for his name and area.
Then he added, “Muhammad Tufail, North Nazimabad.”
The taxi slowed and stopped.
I paid him.
I stepped out.
The yellow cab moved away, blending into traffic again, carrying its dust, its silence, and that unfinished thought about life and its measures.
___________________
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
