Quetta as it once was
Quetta in early 1970s was a quiet, peaceful, sleepy town, where militants did not attack people of the Hazara tribe
anwer.mooraj@tribune.com.pk
The first time I visited Quetta was on a cold morning in January in the early 1970s. With me there were a retired brigadier and Omar Kureishi the cricket commentator, author and columnist. As the airplane was approaching the airport I noticed the town was covered by a thick blanket of snow. The runway had, however, been recently swept and glinted in the sun. After we landed, Omar turned to me and asked with a twinkle in his eye if they accepted rubles in the place. Of course it was meant as a jest, but… it so transpired, that Quetta was simply brimming with Russian goods. There were short-wave radios which were selling for Rs200 and genuine silk for half the price charged by the Chinese. There were blankets, bed sheets, matching pillow cases and towels — all carrying a detailed Central Asian design. There were also bicycles, shoes and fountain pens where the nib and feeder retreated into the barrel by twisting the nob at the end. Iran was represented by a bewildering variety of ceramics and a small universe of exquisite opaque dark blue glass which appeared in the shape of contoured vases, small bowls encased in silver coloured frames, carpets and scents.
The retired brigadier knew of a Chinese restaurant in the mall that served delicious food. The three of us put on our overcoats, mufflers and gloves and got into a taxi. We crossed a number of tea stalls where men wrapped in thick blankets sat huddled around a roaring fire munching samosas and drinking hot tea. We reached the restaurant, entered and were immediately struck by how cozy and warm it was inside. A guest was already seated. He turned out to be an Italian archeologist. A small meek man with horn rimmed glasses who probably referred to himself in the third person. The owner met us and greeted us warmly. For the food I did the ordering. Won Ton soup, egg fried rice, roast duck, sweet and sour fish, noodles and Swiss cheese. For the drinks Omar became the selector. He ordered Vodka for himself, the distilled essence of grain for the brigadier who had spent 10 years in Glasgow and still retained some of the Hi-land brogue. I stuck to the Murree Brewery. We had a corner table with a large window which was blurred on the inside by the condensation. Using my napkin I wiped a portion of the window and all I could see was a sheet of white similar to the white spaces in Japanese paintings.
The restaurant had started to fill up. In a corner were two middle-aged European women, probably Dutch, wearing large round white-framed sunglasses. A family consisting of a father whose face betrayed a testament to endurance and humiliation, was accompanied by a large florid woman with a divine amplitude of upholstery and four children, two boys and two girls who were engaged in trench warfare. They were causing so much commotion that the brigadier picked up a chopstick, strode across the room in measured tread, stopped at the offensive table and addressing the gang of four informed them that if they didn’t shut up for the rest of the meal he would make all four children sweep the snow from the road in front of the coal mines.
After that the two European women, the Italian archeologist, the harassed parents, Omar and I raised their glasses in silent toast and tribute. That was Quetta in the early 1970s, a quiet, peaceful, sleepy town, a smuggler’s paradise, where female shoppers were not molested, where militants did not attack people of the Hazara tribe, police stations and military installations, were still a caveat of the future. That Quetta, regrettably, has been buried forever.
Published in The Express Tribune, October 30th, 2016.
The retired brigadier knew of a Chinese restaurant in the mall that served delicious food. The three of us put on our overcoats, mufflers and gloves and got into a taxi. We crossed a number of tea stalls where men wrapped in thick blankets sat huddled around a roaring fire munching samosas and drinking hot tea. We reached the restaurant, entered and were immediately struck by how cozy and warm it was inside. A guest was already seated. He turned out to be an Italian archeologist. A small meek man with horn rimmed glasses who probably referred to himself in the third person. The owner met us and greeted us warmly. For the food I did the ordering. Won Ton soup, egg fried rice, roast duck, sweet and sour fish, noodles and Swiss cheese. For the drinks Omar became the selector. He ordered Vodka for himself, the distilled essence of grain for the brigadier who had spent 10 years in Glasgow and still retained some of the Hi-land brogue. I stuck to the Murree Brewery. We had a corner table with a large window which was blurred on the inside by the condensation. Using my napkin I wiped a portion of the window and all I could see was a sheet of white similar to the white spaces in Japanese paintings.
The restaurant had started to fill up. In a corner were two middle-aged European women, probably Dutch, wearing large round white-framed sunglasses. A family consisting of a father whose face betrayed a testament to endurance and humiliation, was accompanied by a large florid woman with a divine amplitude of upholstery and four children, two boys and two girls who were engaged in trench warfare. They were causing so much commotion that the brigadier picked up a chopstick, strode across the room in measured tread, stopped at the offensive table and addressing the gang of four informed them that if they didn’t shut up for the rest of the meal he would make all four children sweep the snow from the road in front of the coal mines.
After that the two European women, the Italian archeologist, the harassed parents, Omar and I raised their glasses in silent toast and tribute. That was Quetta in the early 1970s, a quiet, peaceful, sleepy town, a smuggler’s paradise, where female shoppers were not molested, where militants did not attack people of the Hazara tribe, police stations and military installations, were still a caveat of the future. That Quetta, regrettably, has been buried forever.
Published in The Express Tribune, October 30th, 2016.