Articles

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The World of the Wandering Circus

Dated February 2000. Previously unpublished.

The sunlight on that 22nd January 2000 forenoon had washed away the magic of the previous night. Shorn off the glitter and the glamour, the circus arena and the surroundings were bathed in a homely, rustic glow. The tusk-less elephant stood morosely, flapping its ears. The white majestic horses with long manes had their nozzles in the hay bins. The panoramic cupola of the tent was folded up, exposing a criss-cross of thick ropes and poles still pegged on the dusty ground, giving ample space to the children artistes to glide by on their roller skates. The full circle of the make-shift stadium was broken as the workers pulled apart the raised iron benches and were busy stacking them. The stage floor was half gone, exposing the wagon of the caged lions. The raised floor of the musical band was still up, hanging in mid-air, with a disorderly queue of drums and other instruments. Beyond the remains of the stadium, were rows of small tents pitched side by side. Some of the curtain doors were flung open, exposing artistes on bed, curled up in comforters, some yawning, some still asleep, with the crumpled shiny costumes of the last show heaped on the top of the huge zinc trunks.

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Notes from a Diary: Independence Day

(First published in Daily Dawn, Karachi, Pakistan, in its Sunday Magazine edition, on 10 August 1997. Later published in Sampark: Journal of Global Understanding, Pakistan: an age of violence, Vol. 4, Issue 1, 2004, New Delhi)

14 August 1996:  It’s quiet outside. No traffic. But something is amiss. On this 49th anniversary of Pakistan. What is that? I try to figure out. Oh, yes. Now I remember. It`s the sound of cannon-fire. Twenty-one salutary shots to be exact, in the morning. Yes, I didn’t hear cannon-fire this morning. We are too far away from the Naval post in Manora Island. Is it 25 km or 30 km from Gulistan-e-Jauher?

I recall the morning of the Independence Day just a year after the 1965 war with India, when I was 13; I had woken up with a start at the sound of the cannon-fire and thought another war had begun. ‘Do you hear this sound?’ In panic, I had rushed to my parents’ bedroom. ‘Go back to sleep. They are celebrating Independence Day’, my father had told me. But somehow, for many years, that salutary cannon-fire kept disturbing me annually. Why can’t they fill the air with chimes, or some kind of music, instead of this thunderous, terrifying, terrible sound?

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A Story of Karachi: Life in Liaquatabad and Elsewhere (1995)

Coming from Hasan Square, Gulshan-e-Iqbal, past Ghareebabad, you would find the left footpath of the main road leading to Al-Karam Square dotted with red-hooded stalls. I had noticed them for the first time a few years back. That evening they seemed to have sprung up all of a sudden, out of the pulsating, violence-ridden, notorious Liaquatabad/Ghareebabad cauldron. The bright red sheets tied up with balusters, reddish brown earthen jars, their mouths covered with white kerchiefs, and a bearded fellow–donning white kurta, pyjama and cap–on each stall: I had marvelled at this fleet of qulfi-wallahs, at their spirit, panache and determination to earn a living decently in these miserable times, in Central District, Karachi. A few odd customers, probably residents of the nearby lanes, were sitting on chairs, and a car or two were lined up on the kerb, ordering the Ghareebabad speciality. Indeed, it was delicious.

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