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Karachi Vignettes
By INDIA TODAY's Sonia Faleiro

Breaking Bread
Good food and politics don't mix
The Karachi Press Club at 267, Sarwar Shaheed Road, Karachi, is a 'Bastion of Freedom'. In this picturesque circa 1958 Victorian bungalow, the following activities take place one Wednesday afternoon. On the ground floor meals (sans liquor) are being consumed. "The last time I visited India was 50 years ago", one man says. "Well, then you must pay us a visit," the Indian journalist retorts brightly. The Pakistani looks like he would rather not and continues eating.

In an adjoining room, (press conferences are regularly held). Looking at the knot of semi-comatose journos staring at a 32-inch TV blaring vulgar Hindi music, one believes the statement was meant in a very, very broad sense. On the floor above, there's the library which no longer subscribes to India Today (the subscription lapsed a year ago and no one bothered to renew it) the reading room with a painting by Sadeqain, and a conference hall of sorts where five Pakistani journalists and one lone Indian break bread, uh, naans, over chicken tikkas, coke, and mutton biryani.

The guests at the table included Guinevere David, reporter, Wali Rizvi, secretary of the Press Club and Rehana Iftikhar, a features writer with Inter Press Communication. The conversation was, I imagine, similar to those that countless Pakistanis and Indians, desperately trying to side-step the topic of Kashmir, have with one another. "What did you think of Karachi/Delhi ?" "Oh it's lovely. Much, much better than Delhi/Karachi. So clean, so green, so peaceful. Not like back home." The host is delighted, the guest breathes a sigh of relief.

Sometimes, of course, people forget to be polite. Last month, Iftikhar took the Lahore bus to Delhi. Sitting with her daughter right behind the driver she was forced to listen to a diatribe, the gist of which was, 'Pakistanis are evil Islamic fundamentalists.' Finally, unable to control herself, Iftikhar's twenty-something daughter blurted out, "Well at least we don't burn people while they're sleeping in their cars." Silence.

The topics discussed over lunch fell under the following broad categories: Musharraf, Bhutto, the Mumbai slums, the weather, and Jinnah. This was considerably prior to the pre-Independence Day Kashmir massacre. Says Iftikhar: "When there's bloodshed here we blame you (India) and when something goes wrong there, you blame us." It is, I realise, not a good time to scream, "If Pakistan would stop sponsoring terrorism in Kashmir there wouldn't be any bloodbaths to begin with." But the mood is merry and conversation tends towards the anecdotal. I'm told that in Karachi an unpopular female reporter is assigned the night shift. "So she quits," says Rizvi, snorting at the inequity. David is one reporter who didn't quit. A Catholic from a south Indian background, she covers city politics for the daily newspaper, The Nation. "This is the difference between India and Pakistan," she says when I (proudly) mention the equal proportion of male and female journalists in the Indian media. All at the table nod. A pleasant 20 minutes is spent in lavishing praise on India Today. Then Rizvi wonders whether the magazine is pro-BJP, why it has only one woman photographer and whether it will actually cross the 50-year mark. That sorted we move on to the issue of heads of state. David has a good feeling about Musharraf. Benazir Bhutto, not surprisingly, gets a resolute thumbs down. "Few have squandered so much good faith in such little time," I quote looking grave. Nods of assent.

Somewhere in the first 15 minutes both parties realise each others' utter lack of interest in discussing bilateral relations. Instead, we amicably argue over which of our principal cities is dirtier. Good food and politics simply don't mix.

A DAY WITH THE BARETTOS
A Touch of Goa, A Touch of Life
A mini van trundled up to the entrance of the Hotel Metropole. A lady in pants and a flowered shirt, followed by a young man in jeans, stepped out and into the foyer. This is not an unusual sight. Unless you're in Karachi where the only people in trousers are the men behind the hotel reception counter. The lady, Mrs Baretto, and her son Mark, were accompanied by the latter's fianc�e Sara, her brother Pat, friend Joe, and a driver who drove very fast, streaking through the city as if tailed by a vanful of soldiers (the kind who hang around the beaches of Karachi waiting to pounce on tourists trying to take pictures of the ocean and other top-secret government facilities).

Goans in Karachi emerge from two distinct categories. Those who were unwilling to live under the Portuguese in the mid-nineteenth century and moved first to Mumbai and then to Karachi where they remained, and the few who chose to stay on in the port town after Partition. Like Sara D'Silva, a 22-year-old receptionist from Colva, south Goa, whose family moved to Karachi in 1947. She holds a Pakistani passport, speaks fluent Urdu, and holidays in Murree, a hill resort near Islamabad. But some things never change. She loves seafood, is a devout Catholic, and has already had her white wedding dress designed by the neighbourhood tailor. Sara is just one of 2,000-odd Catholics in Karachi. And the community, along with other minorities, accounts for less than 3 per cent of the country's population. She's visited Goa once and echoes Mark's words when she says, "It has a personality of its own. I've never visited a nicer place." Mrs Berretto is luckier. She visits India often. Goa and Mumbai, where she has (more friends and relatives than you can imagine) are favourite holiday stops. Karachi's Goan community is a tight-knit one. Mass on Sunday is as much a religious occasion as it is a social one, to catch up with the ones who have visited 'home' and have the lowdown on Panjim's commercialisation, old Goa's deterioration and whether or not the February carnival is still worth a visit.

Karachi is dotted with institutions built by and for Goans. St. Patrick's Church, for example, was built in 1845 at a cost of Rs 6,000 raised by the Goan community through public subscription. It was Sindh's first Catholic church. Today it is flanked by St Patrick's High School. Both these limestone structures are fine examples of Gothic architecture and lie in a quieter part of Karachi, in a neighbourhood our driver told me was inhabited only by 'Goonses (Goans) and Madarasis.' I'm also told that the Karachi Goan Association is a popular city landmark. Like many such buildings in Goa, this too plays host to both congregations and celebrations.

The Barettos' racing van first took me to Clifton beach. The highlight here was a man armed with a mongoose and a snake, mercifully well hidden in a grubby bag. The sport I was supposed to cough up for was 'watch the mongoose (with all its skill and dexterity) catch this vicious viper'. I looked enthralled. "This we don't have in Goa," I said, clicking furiously. Mrs Baretto insists we stop at Snoopy, an upmarket ice-cream parlour. This is followed by a hasty round of the Clifton residential area where Mark is the fourth person to tell me that 'only people with black money can afford to live here'.

The Barettos, being of more honest stock, live in the multi-storeyed Goan Association building near Empress Market. The latter comprises a gargantuan row of structures constructed to commemorate the silver jubilee of Queen Victoria. Our last stop is Liaquat Hall. Indians aren't the only ones who believe in proving their patriotism by renaming colonial landmarks. Originally Frere Hall, after Sir Walter Frere, governor of Bombay, the building was constructed in 1865 and lies amidst the sprawling greens of Bagh-e-Jinnah. The hall houses the Sadeqain Art Gallery and the Liaquat Municipal Library where collectors' editions of the finest classics lie rotting in mildewed cupboards. Sara kindly read excerpts from a crumbling Quran that the caretaker/librarian told us dated back to the early 19th century. Here, not for the first time in the day, she's asked which part of the world she's from.

Goans in Karachi walk the walk and talk the talk like their counterparts across the border. The insularity of the community may well be a characteristic particular to minorities across the world, but the lilting accent, the wardrobe, and their love of laughter proves well enough that they're born of the land of palm trees.

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