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Authors: Deborah Moggach
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rendezvous outside see-see.â It had taken him a moment to realize, with a twitch of loyalty, that the man meant C.C.
On the pavement, scribes were packing up their typewriters; the offices were closed now for the weekend. During the week men would squat there dictating letters and petitions to be delivered inside. Within the building, no doubt, those letters would be piled up from years back, wedged in dusty corners. Bureaucratic red tape was something you had to come to terms with, here. He was discovering this, his cabinets silting up with official forms; Duke, too, appeared to be suffering considerable difficulties in getting his Translux off the ground. Doubtless Christine would blame this, too, on the British.
He slowed down behind a bus. It belched fumes; men clung to its sides, their clothes flapping. It looked like some extinct beast burdened with wings. His heart beat faster in this detective search. Wisps of half-remembered conversations hung most strangely around these foreign streets. One or two things, like those horse-driven tongas, were similar enough to click together with the past. But most of the city had changed too much to be recognizable. This had made him more determined, much to Christineâs surprise. But he could at least do this for his grandfather. He had loved Grandad but he had never said so; he had been too self-conscious for that. He felt guilty for all the times he had not listened, and for being up in London when Grandad had died and asked for him. When he had arrived it was too late.
Of course it was too late now. Much good this would do anyone. But then the rituals at a funeral did not help the dead one, did they? It was the living who were eased.
He knew some facts, having copied them into a notebook before he arrived in Karachi. Prior to Independence Grandad had served in Quetta, Karachi, then Cawnpore and somewhere outside Allahabad in what was to become India. Granny had come out to Karachi; they had married here in the church. He himself had visited it, of course. The place looked neglected now; children played ball games in the dust of the compound.
It was Karachi that Grandad had mentioned most often. âHappened on my Karachi tour,â he would say. But Donald was so young then, lying on the hearthrug and counting the tiles on the gas-fire surround. Karachi was the caged pinkish glow in the fire, somewhere far off. What else had Grandad said? It had mostly dissolved. We presume that when we speak we communicate; we have to believe this, otherwise what would we do? Donald could remember some chuckles about this or that, colonel somebody coming a cropper. He could not even distinguish if the setting was army quarters in India or England, where Grandad served for the last few years, they sounded so similar. The same talk, if he could remember any of it, and the same jokes.
He drove down past the cantonment station, with its tea houses and the squalid hotels where the hippies stayed. This was the sort of place Christine liked, its fruit stalls black with flies. Around it lay the old residential quarter, or what was left of it. This area, with its station, Anglican church and Military Lines, was where the British used to live if they did not live in Clifton, a mile away. One thing he did remember was Granny complaining that the shunting trains used to keep her awake.
Meadow Road. The name was carved in a corner wall. This sounded familiar but then he had searched along here before. At a junction stood the newer, metal sign: Ajazuddin Road.
He must have passed it on several occasions; due to the name he had not driven that way. It was another wide street, with old bungalows on either side. Built by the British for themselves, they had now been taken over: the brass plaques said
Alliance Française
and
Dubai Commercial Division.
These buildings looked mellow compared to his own raw house in K12. Ahead, the road curved round a corner.
He slowed down. Now he was here he
On the pavement, scribes were packing up their typewriters; the offices were closed now for the weekend. During the week men would squat there dictating letters and petitions to be delivered inside. Within the building, no doubt, those letters would be piled up from years back, wedged in dusty corners. Bureaucratic red tape was something you had to come to terms with, here. He was discovering this, his cabinets silting up with official forms; Duke, too, appeared to be suffering considerable difficulties in getting his Translux off the ground. Doubtless Christine would blame this, too, on the British.
He slowed down behind a bus. It belched fumes; men clung to its sides, their clothes flapping. It looked like some extinct beast burdened with wings. His heart beat faster in this detective search. Wisps of half-remembered conversations hung most strangely around these foreign streets. One or two things, like those horse-driven tongas, were similar enough to click together with the past. But most of the city had changed too much to be recognizable. This had made him more determined, much to Christineâs surprise. But he could at least do this for his grandfather. He had loved Grandad but he had never said so; he had been too self-conscious for that. He felt guilty for all the times he had not listened, and for being up in London when Grandad had died and asked for him. When he had arrived it was too late.
Of course it was too late now. Much good this would do anyone. But then the rituals at a funeral did not help the dead one, did they? It was the living who were eased.
He knew some facts, having copied them into a notebook before he arrived in Karachi. Prior to Independence Grandad had served in Quetta, Karachi, then Cawnpore and somewhere outside Allahabad in what was to become India. Granny had come out to Karachi; they had married here in the church. He himself had visited it, of course. The place looked neglected now; children played ball games in the dust of the compound.
It was Karachi that Grandad had mentioned most often. âHappened on my Karachi tour,â he would say. But Donald was so young then, lying on the hearthrug and counting the tiles on the gas-fire surround. Karachi was the caged pinkish glow in the fire, somewhere far off. What else had Grandad said? It had mostly dissolved. We presume that when we speak we communicate; we have to believe this, otherwise what would we do? Donald could remember some chuckles about this or that, colonel somebody coming a cropper. He could not even distinguish if the setting was army quarters in India or England, where Grandad served for the last few years, they sounded so similar. The same talk, if he could remember any of it, and the same jokes.
He drove down past the cantonment station, with its tea houses and the squalid hotels where the hippies stayed. This was the sort of place Christine liked, its fruit stalls black with flies. Around it lay the old residential quarter, or what was left of it. This area, with its station, Anglican church and Military Lines, was where the British used to live if they did not live in Clifton, a mile away. One thing he did remember was Granny complaining that the shunting trains used to keep her awake.
Meadow Road. The name was carved in a corner wall. This sounded familiar but then he had searched along here before. At a junction stood the newer, metal sign: Ajazuddin Road.
He must have passed it on several occasions; due to the name he had not driven that way. It was another wide street, with old bungalows on either side. Built by the British for themselves, they had now been taken over: the brass plaques said
Alliance Française
and
Dubai Commercial Division.
These buildings looked mellow compared to his own raw house in K12. Ahead, the road curved round a corner.
He slowed down. Now he was here he
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