In many ways Karachi reminds you of Mumbai… the food is as great as you find in India's business capital… from street food to plush, upmarket restaurants, there is an eating joint in every nook and corner, catering to all classes. And if the Pakistan economy is groaning under the double whammy of global economic downturn and violence and terrorism scaring away foreign investors and turning off US aid pipeline, there is no evidence of this in the packed restaurants.

Port Grand is a glitzy complex of shopping outlets and eating joints; it is built alongside the shimmering waters, the entrance is Rs 300 per person to keep away drifters, and even here food appears comparatively cheap, going by our rates.

But then that's because your currency is so strong, is the refrain I hear all the time… a dollar fetches (Pak) Rs 92, so the price of everything is almost half for Indians.

In the invariable Indo-Pak comparisons, one thing Karachiites mention proudly is that nobody goes to sleep hungry in this mega city of 19-20 million. With the mullahs frowning on family planning, Karachi is bursting at the seams “but at every street corner you will find rows of people seated outside small eateries, being served food for which either voluntary organisations or NGOs have paid,” Asif Noorani, a journalist tells me.

Akhtar Alavi, Advisor to the EFU Insurance, Pakistan's largest insurance group, says this is nothing new. “We may not be a wealthy country, but the charity here is unbelievable.” Apparently, Karachi tops the charts; “we call it the Gharib Nawaz (sustaining the poor) City; it absorbs everybody.”

There are well established organisations, citizens' groups and individuals sponsoring feeding programmes for the poor. And it's not daily dole or leftover food being distributed. “ Yaha koi bhooka nahi sota . People are seated on footpaths outside restaurants in the evenings, they are given khana and the tabs are picked up by voluntary organisations or individuals. Similarly large voluntary organisations run on donations from businessmen have set up schools in Karachi slums to provide not aisa-waisa (indifferent) but quality education to poor kids,” he says.

In a lighter vein he adds: “Otherwise, where will this population of nearly 190 million or whatever go? Tum log toh lega nahi, tumharey sir par museebat aa jayenga (You guys will not take them; you will hit a crisis)!” I respond: “ Hamarey pas kum hei kya ? (As though we are short on numbers!)

But in a country on the backfoot on several economic, social and political counts, there is ample display of both nationalism and resilience. Alavi is livid at those affluent classes who say – and here he lapses from chaste Urdu to Bambaiya Hindi, showing another similarity between the two cities: “ Hum loot gaya hum mit gaya (we've been looted, destroyed). So I say: ‘ Sala tum log itna accha ghar mei rehta hei, itna achha khana khata hei, itni badi gadiya hei.. tumko kya kami hei . (You people live in such palatial houses, drive such big cars; what do you lack?) Why do you keep grumbling all the time? Is mulk se kamaya , is mulk mei banaya (You made all your money in this country) and then you cruse the country?”

Alavi adds that the kind of text messages circulating cursing the country and the government sometimes get a bit too much.

“If you read those, and read/listen to the criticism in the media, you will marvel at the tolerance this government has shown. You may say it is a weak government and has no choice. But you should hear some of our screaming, self-righteous TV anchors (I interrupt him to say we have a matching number!), and yet not a single publication or channel has been banned. This wasn't so in the past.”

We have this dialogue after a sumptuous fish and mutton lunch in the Sindh Club, Karachi's plushest and snootiest clubs, where Alavi has been a past president.

The food is unbelievable, the fresh orange juice to die for. The colonial hangover is amply evident.

The weather is balmy, and we chat about numerous issues plaguing the Indian sub-continent. He tells me about his days in pre-Bangladesh Dhaka.

It is time for coffee, but the main kitchen is closed. Alavi walks me through the sprawling lush green campus to a corner of the Club into a Bistro where a few tables are laid out.

The décor is simple, the ambience Europeon and for the first time I see some Western visitors sipping chai . I ask for a cappuccino; it is served with freshly baked cookies that melt in the mouth. The last time I had cappuccino of this quality was in Italy.

(To be continued)

> rasheeda@thehindu.co.in

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