Before the trawlers had started to harvest the sea’s upset meadow and the refugees hadn’t started to migrate in large numbers, Elphinstone Street, or Elphi as it came to be known (much before it was renamed Zebunnisa Street) in Karachi was the centre of the universe.
All cities have their commercial centres and Karachi is no exception. The British, European and Indian banks, insurance companies and other houses of commerce were housed in McLeod Road. But for shopping there was Empress Market, Bhori Bazaar, Victoria Road and Elphinstone Street — all located in Saddar.
Elphi had the best of everything that was available in Karachi at the time. Day temperatures in mid-winter touched 55 degrees Fahrenheit. So the men wore tweed jackets, flannels and felt hats and left their sun topees at home.
Western women who were attired in frocks or skirts and blouses were protected by thick pullovers or jackets, and the Eastern women who wore those beautiful Indian saris wrapped themselves in woolen shawls. The shalwar kameez wasn’t often seen.
Also read: Nostalgia street — Elphi as it used to be
Gentlemen still raised their hats in the presence of ladies and demonstrated the utmost courtesy; and boy scouts and girl guides did their good deed for the day by helping old folk across the street or by carrying an overloaded shopping bag.
It was all very friendly and civilised. A spirit of good cheer prevailed. I thought it was the best city in the world. Even better than Bombay, though I missed the mango ice cream that was sold on banana leaves in Chowpatty.
In Karachi, instead of watching TV, people danced, were courteous and actually read newspapers
There were hardly any cars. Traffic moved both ways and boys and girls from the Karachi Grammar School, St Patrick’s School and St Joseph’s Convent cycled four-abreast and headed for the Manhattan Soda Fountain where boy met boy and sometimes girl. It reminded me so much of the Parisian Dairy in Bombay near Church Gate station.
The Manhattan served ice cold milk shakes and ice creams in glasses as tall as rulers and we marveled at the names of the delicacies that reflected the colours of the rainbow — Green Goddess, Hangman’s Blood, Purple Sunset and Hawaiian Surprise. It’s amazing what one can do with pistachios, pomegranates, grapes and almonds.
As we sat sipping our milkshakes we made plans for our next picnic which involved a tram ride from Empress Market to Keamari and then a bunder boat ride to Sandspit or Hawkesbay. After each picnic Bliss & Co., chemists and druggists, did a roaring business for we suffered from the most abominable prickly heat after having been roasted in the afternoon sun.
On the first floor of one of the buildings in Elphi, visitors were greeted by the faint pulse of gramophone music. The Abbas School of Ballroom Dancing attracted a small but committed clientele that was taught all the dances that were the rage in Europe.
The ‘forties were the days of the fox trots and waltzes and the torrid rumbas of Xavier Cugat and Don Azpiazu and the passionate tangos of Francisco Canaro and Juan d’Arienzo. It was rumoured that in three weeks, Maestro Abbas could turn a complete yahoo into one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse who could then clear the floor in every night club in Havana or Buenos Aires.
Ghulam Mohammed and Sons was the closest thing to a super market. Near the entrance in a large bowl, pale red goldfish ruffled the milky mucous on their skins and watched fashionable ladies who occasionally dropped in to buy chypre scent which came in a small green bottles. It was very fashionable in those days, like Evening in Paris hair oil for men.
Under an open skylight fixed on one of the walls which captured the brevity of the sun’s wintry light was a glass-topped cabinet which contained gentlemen’s items. There were ties and socks and underwear and exquisite cuff links.
Dining at the Karachi’s Beach Luxury Hotel of yore. —Photos courtesy Nadeem Farooq ParachaFor those who fancied English cigarettes that carried the Capstan Navy Cut, or the de Reske label by Carreras, or perhaps a box of Monte Cristo or Partagas cigars from Cuba, the place to go to was Rodrigues and Co.
The English Cold Storage which brought refrigeration to old Elphi, played host to the memsahib six days a week. The shop sold imported Swiss and English cheese, bacon, smoked salmon, sausages, liquer chocolates and Portuguese sardines.
Those who fancied Chinese food gravitated towards the ABC restaurant started during the Second World War named after America, Britain and China. We used to sit in a dingy dining room lit with disdainful efficiency by Chinese lamps, while a benign Chiang-Kai-shek smiled down on us from the eastern wall.
But after the communist revolution the portrait was replaced by a photograph of Mao-tse-Tung. The food was out of this world. Sweet and sour fish with egg fried rice washed down by Murree beer. It was the best Chinese food I have ever eaten.
There was also a restaurant called Mexicano. In a much thumbed menu the words ‘Aztec Steak’ had been underlined in red ink. Conceivably this was some very considerable delicacy which the waiters heralded with modest disclaimers. But somehow they did not sound altogether promising.
On the rare occasion when my friends and I stopped at the hacienda, we stuck to chicken curry and white rice. Tortillas and tacos would have to wait. The most reasonably priced and yet exceptionally tasty food, however, could be found in the many Bahai restaurants which carried the names of former British emperors and empresses. .
In the evenings, seven days a week, Francisco and his Hawaiian Serenaders strummed their guitars and entertained guests who sipped pina coladas laced with gin and Tequila Sunrises. The star attraction was his daughter Conchita who wore a grass skirt with a hibiscus lei around her neck and a gardenia in her hair. She danced the hula like a native of Oahu. Francisco was from the Philippines. But after a few pina coladas who cared where the fellow was from.
The tram that trundled along in its metal veins from Empress Market along Bunder Road to the port was a popular mode of travel. One met an interesting cross section of people, students, clerks, advocates, carpenters, welders, masons even the odd German tourist carrying his pack on his back.
Though he was staying at the Y.M.C.A. he used to take his meals in the restaurant at the railway station. The advocate joined in the conversation and said that he used to have afternoon tea there after the courts had closed. Chuckling, he added that when he received a retainer he would take the family for tea at Cumper’s Café Grand whose macaroon cake was almost as good as the one produced by the Bombay Bakery in Hyderabad.
In 1947 with a population of 300,000, newspaper readership in Karachi was around 12 per cent of the population.
Today in 2015 with a population of 188 million, the ratio has dropped to around one per cent. Everybody and their uncle watches the telly.
In 1947, there were six bookshops, one news agency and four jewellery shops in Saddar.
Today, in 2015, in the same area, there are no bookshops and 132 jewellers. Only a handful of people in Karachi talk about Indian films like Mr and Mrs Iyer, or Water or The Lunchbox.
As Maggie Smith said at the conclusion of the film The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, There is no present like the time.
I think that also sums it up pretty well for Karachi.
Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, January 10th, 2016