SHEZAN!

I am staying at Mrs. V's , living in a guest room and fed by Babul, the cook. The night whistling is not a "big bird." It is the chowkidar or night watchman - they roam the streets on foot or by bike at night, whistling plaintively to each other.

This house has its own family: a cook and a mali (gardener) and a lady who sweeps the floors with a rush broom. There is also a driver, a Hindu, Parkash.

It is the end of March and school begins tomorrow on April 1st. The beginning of the school year.

It's early days and, Mrs V not being around, I am taken by car to a well-known shopping area : Tariq Road. The Principal's daughter (the little owner) drives me. She has that clipped accent, precise pronunciation, and English that would be the envy of many native speakers. There is a modern air to her; in spite of this, she has the traditional long braid. Like many South Asian women, she has the lithe, quick movements and expressive eyes.



At a junction with Tariq Road, always full of snaking queues of people, we turn into Allama Iqbal Road. She takes me into SHEZAN restaurant. After the sharp sun of the streets, it is gloomy. If anywhere defined the word "dive"  this is it. Everyone inside, including the waiters, has the look of being "up to " something.

Vague shadows lurk behind doorways and around tables, there is the murmur of whispered conversations. Kidnappers? Drug dealers? I have a club sandwich and an ice cream. The little owner chats away about how, when her husband is away, she is free to drive and do what she wants.