Se Agapo

Karachi.
I got a glimpse of the city from the plane as we began our descent.
It looked as lovely as ever-lights shone and sparkled like gold and diamonds. It felt as if a beautiful woman was showing off her exquisite jewels at a party. And what jewels! And what a woman!

Hello Karachi!
I smiled as I uttered these words.
Memories of that flight back from Lahore clouded my mind. As the plane had approached Karachi and she got her first glimpse of the city, these words had come out of her mouth. I could never forget the look on her face or the manner in which she had spoken these words, although it had been a mere whisper.

Hello Karachi!
Her memory came back to me as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. But twenty years have passed since that flight and much has changed. But not her. Not my Mamajani and her love for her beloved Karachi.

The sound of the wheels on the tarmac surface of the runway brought me back to the present and I geared myself to walk out.

Mamajani never came to the airport-not unless it was absolutely necessary. And so, I had stopped expecting to see her in the arrival section. It used to hurt initially but then, I got used to it. Just like I got used to spending all vacations with her even though Zoha and Hamza would insist that I spend at least one holiday with Dad. But I never felt like it. They called me stubborn. Maybe I was. But then, I was never close to him. I was only six when the divorce happened. And I had chosen Mamajani then. So had Zoha and Hamza but they had managed to keep a balance between both parents and eventually had settled away from both of them. Me? I guess I was Mama’s boy.

“Salaar Baba?” A voice called me from behind as I stepped out into the cool December night of Karachi. I knew who it was before I even turned. Rehman Gul never failed to receive me at the airport. Never.

“Rehman Gul! How good to see you. How are you?” I smiled at the wrinkled old face of our servant. A servant who had worked in my father’s house all his life and yet had chosen to live with Mamajani after the divorce.

“Salaar Baba!” The old man smiled his wide smile, showing his perfect teeth. Stained with paan and niswaar, but perfect. “The car is in the parking lot. In sector V, like always”

I nodded and walked behind him as he took over the trolley from the porter. I hardly noticed anything around me. Rehman Gul’s words kept going round and round in my mind. Always, always our car was parked in sector V. It was something Mamajani insisted on, whether she came to the airport or not. It was a mystery I had never been able to unravel. Although this sector of the parking was near the exit gate and not a long walk from the arrival lounge of the Jinnah Terminal but still, why always this sector? My chain of thoughts broke when I saw her car standing there-her black Pajero or ‘Puj’ as she called it. So, she had come after all because no one drives this car except her. No one is allowed to drive the Puj. Not even me!



“Are you lonesome tonight…..Do you miss me tonight?”
Mamajani’s favourite Elvis song struck an odd combination with the roar of the engine. Not that I didn’t like Elvis. I had even made it to Graceland two years back but the trip there had cut down my stay in Karachi and that had not fared too well with her. Of course I was able to woo her with all the Elvis memorabilia! I knew that she knew that I had made that trip for her only and she was happy with that knowledge and I was happy because she was. Simple.

“Does your memory stray, to that bright summer day…
…When I kissed you and called you sweetheart”


Elvis sang in his soulful voice and I absorbed the sights and smells of Karachi. When driving at night, she kept the sunroof open. She loved the city too and also she had to smoke...

Mamajani had started smoking after the divorce. Not in despair over the divorce but because now she didn’t have to worry about what her husband would think or in-laws would say. Even then, she would smoke at night after we kids had gone to bed. I would sometimes sneak out of bed and would look at her smoking on the terrace, the wind playing with the cigarette smoke, enveloping her in a white mist. She looked the perfect picture of a goddess or a queen.
She still did. I looked at her; poised, calm and so beautiful.
Yes, I was finally home.

I settled down in my seat and tried to enjoy the view. The ride from the airport doesn’t have much of a view though. Shabby apartment buildings greet visitors and are more of an eye sore. But they are interesting in their own way. Every balcony of an apartment tells its own story. There are balconies stuffed with old furniture and steel cabinets or balconies with clothes lines with an assortment of different sizes of clothes in faded colors. Then there are some balconies where you might find a woman standing with a child in her arms, looking at the many cars going past her home everyday. What thoughts must run through her head? What kind of a life did she or all the other people who inhabited those apartments, lead? What kind of problems did they face? How did they eat, sleep, celebrate or make love in those cramped apartments full of so many people?

The noise of the traffic became louder. Elvis wasn’t singing anymore. Another habit of Mamajani’s. Whenever we passed a graveyard she would stop the music and say fateha. That was what she was doing now.

Her cigarette was finished so I pressed the sunroof button and it slid smoothly into place. She looked at me and smiled. I knew I could start a conversation now.
Elvis came alive again. And we drove underneath the Shah Faisal bridge.
“So, when do you start telling me the story?”

She didn’t reply for a while. We crossed the railway pathak and stopped at the red light. She turned down the volume.

“So eager Salaar?” The sarcasm in her voice was clear. And so was the mischief. It was a good sign.

“Well, yes! Your call, your request for me to come ASAP to Karachi, and then your entire mysterious way of telling me you have a story and yet not giving any hint. Yes Mamajani, I am curious and eager”. I lay stress on the last word and gave her my most serious look.

The signal turned green and she put her foot down on the accelerator. The Puj roared forward. It didn’t seem as if she was driving a car. It seemed more like a living thing to me. Like a horse. A shiny black steed. Yes, she wasn’t a woman driving a Pajero. She was a queen riding her black horse. Bucephalus. That was the name she used when she would address the Puj.

My mother talks to her car.
“See the airforce base on the right Salaar? Behind this wall is a walking ground. Quite a huge circular walking track”

“Really?” I sat up a little to try and catch a glimpse of it. “How did you know?”

“I know because I’ve been there. At a much younger age than you are now. How old are you? Twenty five? Yes, of course. How time flies! Yes son, I have been to this place when I was younger and naughtier”. She smiled and looked at me.

There was a strange sort of mischief in her eyes that I had seldom seen. Well, except when she was driving her black steed. And she was doing that now.
“I thought you were eager for the story”. She looked at me with a little mockery in her voice and the same look on her face. “I don’t see any recorder or pencil and paper in your hands young man”

“Hey! Wait a second! You never told me that you had started the story and that this was a part of it. No fair Mama!” I had caught on her spirit. The excitement of being back in Karachi, being with her, the speed of the Puj, and Elvis made me feel thrilled. I felt like the seven year old Salaar who would scream with delight when Mamajani would drive fast and the lights chasing us would fall behind.

“It isn’t Salaar” She said quietly. “It isn’t a part of the story”.

The spell broke and suddenly everything changed. The Puj slowed down, the lights chasing us closed in and Elvis started singing “In the Ghetto”.

This song always made her sad.