Mohajirs Are People Too

For only the second time in my life I arrived at Karachi airport. Unfortunately, like the first time, I never got to leave the airport. I did however, step out of the domestic terminal and walked into the international one. The five minutes that it took me to walk through the throngs of people and make my way to the international departure lounge, it appeared as if I felt the pulse of this city.

For starters, I could hear urdu with proper diction. This was a pleasant change from the punjabized urdu you hear in Lahore, the pothwarized urdu you hear in Pindi and the englishized urdu you hear in Islamabad. Secondly, I spotted real sindhis talking in their beautiful sounding language. This was again a pleasant change from the pseudo-sindhis like Bilawal, BB, and Zardari types you see in Islamabad.

And then I noticed something that made me feel proud that Karachi was part of Pakistan. No, it wasn’t the availability of condom dispensers in men’s restrooms. It was the fact that there was a quiet calm and order about the airport operations. Lines moved smoothly and efficiently. Airport staff was knowledgeable and helpful. Coolies were in clean white uniforms. In short, it was quite obvious that unlike Punjabis and Pushtoons, mohajirs have figured out that if there is chaos in the airport it is not because of Allah’s will, rather its men’s doing…and that there is a reward from Allah in the afterlife for ensuring smooth transit of passengers through airports.

The airport itself was beautiful and well maintained. The floors were so clean and shiny that I felt like rolling on them just for the fuk of it. First class lounge was spacious, clean, and equipped with free internet and pricey but beautiful girls who pointed you to samosas and soft drinks to help you alleviate the stress of first class travel. No rooh afza though, which was surprising given that Karachi is the home of world’s most refreshing drink. By contrast, the first class lounge at Islamabad airport is really just a cordoned off area within the general seating area, since the actual lounge has been under renovation for the past ummm… two years. The only "privilege" you get in that cordoned off lounge (?) is that an old gentleman from Abbotabad serves you a cup of tea and asks a customary "aur kuch?" in the hopes of earning a tip. The fact that there isn’t much in that lounge for him to backup his offer of "aur kuch?" is not lost on you. But if you are into fresh air and fresher faced girls, then general seating area is where you want to be – preferably facing the corridor so you wont have to turn your neck each time you hear the click click of high heels.

The politeness of staff at Karachi airport did encroach into my comfort zones though. When I stepped into a restroom, an attendant opened the stall door for me and helped me place my carry on in the stall. Its another thing that I was looking for a urinal, and not a stall. But since my carryon was already neatly placed in the stall, I had no choice but to follow. Now I am the kind of person who turns on all taps in the bathroom just to create what is commonly referred to as "white noise". And so this suspicion that he was standing just outside my stall was a bit unnerving. When I stepped out of the stall, sure as sheermal in Karachi, he was there…eager to give me a paper towel and earn his tip.

Walking around in the terminal, I noticed that the place was bustling with shops and kiosks. By contrast, the only interesting thing about the lone and dilapidated souvenir shop at Islamabad airport is the fading Marion Jones poster that is crudely tacked to one of its walls. Its an interesting poster for me because it is an apt commentary on the merchandize placed in that shop. On more than one occasions I have brought to the attention of the shop attendant that he should remove Marion Jones poster since she is as much of a disgrace to Olympics as his "souvenir" shop is to the airport, but my message hasn’t gotten through yet.

The fact that mohajirs are refined in their demeanor and in their interactions is quite obvious. I suppose this refinement has something to do with their long tradition in education and industry. The industrialist class of mohajirs emerged from their industrious traditions, where as the industrial class of Punjabis and Pushtoons emerged largely from their feudal traditions. While the mohajir businessmen took over leadership positions in Pakistan’s fledgling industry at the founding of the country, it wasn’t until 1970s and 80s that someone interrupted Mela Maweshian (the annual cattle festival) to break this news to the agrarian Punjabis that industrial revolution had found its way to Pakistan.

My stay at Karachi, as brief as it was, including the five minutes I spent walking in open air from domestic to international terminal, left me convinced of the inherent goodness of the people of Karachi. I can only wonder how long an account I would write if I were to spend a full day in Karachi. Granted I did not venture in to the famed Lalookhet and other such farmlands, I am convinced that Mohajirs, despite all their shortcomings…and Altaf bhai, are people too.

A people who gave the world raahat-e-jaan rooh afza cannot be all that bad.