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.]
The Music and the Mist
The sky held heavy clouds. I woke late. The regular bus on 26th Street past Abdullah Shah Ghazi was gone.
I rushed out from the flat complex. The morning carried a thick gray sheet, and a cold drizzle hit my face. Because the dense clouds blocked the light, my internal clock failed me; I thought it was still dawn.
I ran toward the main road and stood on the edge of the footpath by the Accounts General Office in Gulshan-e-Iqbal. My hand shot up, signalling every taxi heading toward NIPA. Fifteen minutes passed before one car finally pulled over.
I pulled open the heavy passenger door and dropped into the front seat beside the driver.
The interior belonged to another world. A blue cloth covered the dashboard shelf above the steering wheel, absorbing the gray light. Soft cushions lined the seats, and wide cloth blinders shaded the windows. From the rearview mirror hung a silver ornament bearing the name of Allah, which swayed with the vibration of the engine. Down by the gear stick sat an old cassette player, and a small bottle of cologne fixed to the passenger dash filled the cabin with the scent of jasmine.
A low voice rasped from the speakers.
The driver glanced over. “More volume?”
I nodded.
He twisted the dial, and Muni Begum sang her ghazal: Aawargi Mein Had Se Guzar Jaana Chahiye.
“You like her music?” I asked.
The driver kept his eyes on the road. “I only buy the EMI tapes.”
“They have the best catalogue of the classics.”
He reached down and handed me the empty plastic EMI cassette case. I tracked the song titles with my finger.
“My favourite is here,” I pointed. “Ek Bar Muskura Do.”
He pressed the fast-forward button. The plastic gears clicked, and soon the car filled with the heavy vibration of the harmonium. The music took over the space.
“Sharah-e-Faisal is better today,” the driver said, steering through the mist. “The rain demands Muni Begum.”
“How long have you listened to her?”
“Since 1976. She was the queen then.” His grip tightened on the wheel. “Then Zia came. The music stopped on the radio. A dark time for this country.”
Silence returned as the car eventually approached the Do-Talwar roundabout.
I looked through the side window. The grand bungalow of Mumtaz Bhutto passed on the left, and next to it sat the dense concrete of Neelam Colony. As my stop at 26th Street neared, I pulled my shoulder bag close.
The speakers hummed a new verse: Tumhare Sheher Ka Mausam Bada Suhana Lage.
“Here is good.”
The car slowed to a halt. I counted out 650 rupees and handed the paper notes to him.
I stepped out into the air. Above me, the sky swirled in shades of pearl white, deep charcoal, and soft velvet black. The clouds caressed the horizon, and the green dome of Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s shrine rose against the misty backdrop like a painted masterpiece from an ancient romance. The air tasted of salt and fresh rain.
I closed the door and whispered to the wind, “Tumhare Sheher Ka Mausam Bada Suhana Lage.”
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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
