Indiana Jones
Suddenly there he is. He seems never to sweat and stands with his weather-beaten hat, his smile, his ..shortness. Jones comes just after Christmas. He has a good grasp of Urdu and a travel-may-care attitude that has brought him all the way across from India to Lahore. From there he has headed south (ish) to Karachi., where I meet him at the Central Railway Station.He has seen Wagah and shared a train carriage with some Sikhs who slept on the top bunk of a sleeper, with tickets being checked by an Edward G. Robinson lookalike conductor. He is Jones, or his full name: Travelling-in-India-Jones.
Karachi Central Railway Station
Wagah
He stays in a small run-down hotel along Allama Iqbal Road, not far from SHEZAN! restaurant and Jheel Park Jones likes anything flea bitten, dilapidated or beaten up. Somehow he has been followed by an Urdu Professor: Prof. Binks whom he has taken a dislike to. Prof. Binks has written big books on Urdu and Poetry. He tags along after Jones, usually a day or two behind, hoping for the recreation of some long-lost childhood adventure.
"He's somewhere back there," Jones tells me. "I thought I lost him in Calcutta."
He tells me an incredible story of bumping into Binks three times at three stations purely by accident in a country with 852.3 million people crammed into cities and villages. (India)
He tells me an incredible story of bumping into Binks three times at three stations purely by accident in a country with 852.3 million people crammed into cities and villages. (India)
He credits Binks with the nose of a badger.
Downtown, we wander along, past the Fish n Chip shop and Mr Chand's furniture store, which looks very dark and empty. Jones sports a loose sack hung over his right shoulder containing all his travelling needs. He dumps it in his room and we stroll along Tariq Road in the encroaching evening.
We stop by Cafe Liberty on the corner and have biryani in a booth-like cubby served by waiters in grubby white uniforms.
It's dark outside and we continue along the shop-lined avenue of paan shops, shoe shops, cloth and clothing merchants. We cross to an ice cream parlour looking new and sparkling in the meagre street lighting. Inside it is painfully bright and a few high stools are scattered against the large window overlooking the curious multitudes outside. There is no one else, and a friendly, elderly man picks up the scoop. Mr Falooda is small and wide with a nice neat clean apron wrapped around his midriff.
"What would you like?" he asks in a soft Peter Lorre rasp. I choose chocolate chip. Jones examines the open pots of strawberry, pineapple, lemon and other exotic delights. Het takes a strawberry one and we sit, sipping at the melting cream as it drips down the cones. Mr Falloda fusses around us, asking if we need anything more.
Jones and I talk about our travels together and of mutual acquaintances in England. Distance and time (it's been a few years) have driven a little barrier between us and Jones keeps referring to Karachi as my 'home.' Jones will be visiting for just a few days, then heading on to India, his love. I have a love of my own to tend to.
Downtown, we wander along, past the Fish n Chip shop and Mr Chand's furniture store, which looks very dark and empty. Jones sports a loose sack hung over his right shoulder containing all his travelling needs. He dumps it in his room and we stroll along Tariq Road in the encroaching evening.
We stop by Cafe Liberty on the corner and have biryani in a booth-like cubby served by waiters in grubby white uniforms.
It's dark outside and we continue along the shop-lined avenue of paan shops, shoe shops, cloth and clothing merchants. We cross to an ice cream parlour looking new and sparkling in the meagre street lighting. Inside it is painfully bright and a few high stools are scattered against the large window overlooking the curious multitudes outside. There is no one else, and a friendly, elderly man picks up the scoop. Mr Falooda is small and wide with a nice neat clean apron wrapped around his midriff.
"What would you like?" he asks in a soft Peter Lorre rasp. I choose chocolate chip. Jones examines the open pots of strawberry, pineapple, lemon and other exotic delights. Het takes a strawberry one and we sit, sipping at the melting cream as it drips down the cones. Mr Falloda fusses around us, asking if we need anything more.
Jones and I talk about our travels together and of mutual acquaintances in England. Distance and time (it's been a few years) have driven a little barrier between us and Jones keeps referring to Karachi as my 'home.' Jones will be visiting for just a few days, then heading on to India, his love. I have a love of my own to tend to.
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