Now he couldn’t survive without some mode of transport. But he couldn’t figure out which kind would be best. Taxis weren’t yet popular. Back then, they were used only on very special occasions, like taking someone who has just had a heart attack to the hospital, kidnapping, robbery, or giving a lift to a police officer. And in the case of the heart-attack patient, it was used only to confirm that the person was not yet dead! That was because even back then Jinnah Hospital and Civil Hospital admitted only those patients who, after having already undergone treatment in one of the hospital’s doctors’ private clinics, found their conditions deteriorate so much that, upon this doctor’s recommendation, they gained admittance just to ease their way into the sweet hereafter. I have no objections to dying in a hospital. Actually, there’s no inappropriate place to die. It’s just that a private clinic or hospital is best because then there will be no bloodletting among the deceased’s survivors, seeing as how all the person’s property, possessions, and savings will fall into the doctor’s hands! Alas! In the time of Shah Jahan, there were no private hospitals. If he had been admitted into a private hospital, then he would have been spared his long imprisonment at Agra Fort, and so saved himself from living out such a miserable life. And then his four sons wouldn’t have played Hide-and-Seek all over India as they sought the throne (and sought to behead one another) because the root of the conflict — the throne and its treasury — would have been peacefully transferred to its legitimate heirs, meaning, the doctors.
A Wind Blew from the West
In his collection rounds, Basharat took a cycle rickshaw several times. But it unsettled him. The rickshaw cyclist would have to carry a load double his own weight, and Basharat suffered under an even greater weight — his conscience was killing him. In my opinion, men should be allowed to carry other men in only two circumstances. One, when one of them is already dead. Two, when one is an Urdu critic, for whom carrying dead people is not only a part of the job, but also his livelihood, and the reason for his fame. Twice during bus-strikes, he had to ride a bicycle. He realized that, in Karachi, due to the wind that blows in your face for all twelve months of the year, bicyclists and politicians can’t advance even ten steps. Sometimes he felt as though the entire city was stuck in a whirlwind’s eye. Call it the malice of the western wind blowing off the ocean, or call it the bad luck of Karachi’s people, but if you set out in politics or on a bike, whichever direction you go, you’ll find a headwind. Both are like trying to fly a kite in a storm.
Suicide Is Beyond the Reach of the Poor
Once or twice it occurred to Basharat that it would be much better to buy a motorcycle than to suffer the harum-scarum push-em-pull-em of buses. The motorcycle rickshaw was out of the question; committing suicide this way was not yet in vogue. Back in those days, an ordinary person had to go through a lot in order to commit suicide. Houses were so tightly packed that in one room you would have ten people crammed together so closely that each one could hear the next one’s stomach growling. In such a situation, where could you find enough privacy to string up a noose to hang yourself in peace and quiet? Moreover, each room had only one beam, from which a ceiling fan was hung, and the residents of each hot room would have refused to let anything else be hung from it. As for pistols and guns, you had to get a license, and only the rich, Vaderas, and government officials could get those. So, a man wanting to commit suicide would have to lay himself down on the railroad tracks for an entire day since trains were often twenty hours late. Then, despairing of not dying, the poor soul would get up, dust off his clothes, and walk off.
To Basharat, the biggest problem with motorcycles was that wherever they were on the street, they seemed to be in the wrong place. After conducting research and collecting data about traffic accidents, I’ve come to the same conclusion: on our streets, pedestrians and motorcyclists find their normal habitat underneath trucks and mini-buses! The second problem is that I’ve not yet met any man who has ridden a motorcycle in Karachi for five years who hasn’t suffered broken bones in an accident. But wait, something just occurred to me. There was one man I met who rode a motorcycle in Karachi for seven years without getting into an accident, but he rode in the circus’s Well of Death. The third problem that Basharat saw was that the Karachi Municipal Corporation always keeps in mind two things when it comes to manhole covers. One, they should always remain open because if robbers and their like should see them with their lids down, they would become unduly curious as to what is inside. Two, they should be wide enough so that motorcyclists should fall in without any discomfort. Very easily. Very quickly. And with a passenger seated behind him, as well.
Donkeyography
It’s likely that the question has arisen in your mind that, with all this talk about modes of conveyance, why didn’t I suggest donkeys and donkey-carts? The first reason is the one that you have already thought of. The second is that after reading Chesterton’s excellent poem about donkeys, I stopped laughing at them and considering them ridiculous. I’ve lived in London for eleven years, and so now I know that the West doesn’t consider donkeys and owls as terms of insult. Especially owls, which are considered symbols of wisdom. In the first place, in the West, you won’t find someone who truly deserves to be called an owl, and, if someone gets called an owl, they will be happier than a clam. In London Zoo, there must be at least fifteen cages for owls. Each big, Western country has a representative there. Each cage is as large as those we have for lions. And each owl is as big as each of our asses. In comparison to them, our owls look like real dunces. England’s largest eyeglass maker, Donald Aitcheson, uses an owl for his company’s logo; it’s reproduced on their billboards, their letterhead, and their receipts. And, in America, the owl is the logo of a big brokerage firm. This isn’t just hearsay, it actually happened to me, that after I started wearing Donald Aitcheson glasses, and after I took the advice of the abovementioned stockbroker and did advance trading on his company’s stocks and bonds, I was left looking like both companies’ mascots.