How Sindh police is driving change
Mostly guilty of complaining, cribbing about and condemning authorities for power cuts, water shortage, gas shortage, high taxes versus lack of facilities, corruption, crime, the despicable condition of our roads and people for being discourteous, dishonest, lazy and insensitive, more so in Karachi, I truly had a moment of patriotism, amazement and pride after my visit to the Driving License Centre in Clifton which merits a story right here. No more spoilers, read on.
When I randomly spotted my driving license nearing its expiry, I groaned and cursed my life for this gruelling task ahead. Not only would it be unnecessarily difficult but time-consuming too. Government documentation, in my experience, has always been cumbersome. Visuals of grubby and overcrowded offices with cunning clerks and arrogant officials raced through my mind. But then, the risk of driving around with an expired driving license, in a city of over four million reckless motorcycles — where the majority of them seem to promise their mothers every morning, “If I am still alive, I’ll come home,” — and some seven million cars, I decided to visit the driving license office in Clifton, the next day.
Karachi likes to stay up late and sleep in. The few early birds like myself enjoy these peaceful mornings to do whatever errands we can, walk, or go out for breakfast. I arrived at the Sindh Police Driving License Office in Clifton at about 10 am, which is a comfortably early hour for Karachiites. Only students and office-going people get up this early, as shops other than those selling vegetables and milk, malls and markets are closed.
Here begins a series of surprises and shocks to continue till the next day. Firstly, there was no parking around this road in between Zamzama and Neelam Colony. If you parked at your will and risk, it would be towed away. The only option was to park alongside Zamzama Park or, if you were lucky enough, to park in the few parking spaces that were organized and run by the yellow-cap fellow, who had hesitation in demanding Rs 100 for the parking because he was well aware of your options.
Since I wasn’t lucky enough, I parked next to a fruit cart alongside Zamzama Park and began walking. A rude shock was minutes away. As I entered the facility, I realised that it was packed with people. When did they get up and get here? Obviously much earlier than me, I thought to myself.
Overwhelmed at the rows and rows and queues of mostly men — in a variety of greasy-looking, oddly mismatched and mis-styled, dishevelled and scruffy apparel — and a handful of women either seated or being served at counters by traffic police officials smartly dressed in white, I nearly bumped into a well-dressed, somewhat senior couple. Had we been smart-tech devices and not humans, we would have instantly paired as we recognised each other for being [well-groomed Clifton aunties] different from the rest of the crowd on the basis of presentability, polish, and education, at least! Quick smiles and an even quicker conversation told us that we were there for the same purpose — renewal of driving licenses — and that we were similarly dazed.
Looking around, we spotted and approached a stern but decent-looking man sitting calmly at a small white desk, occasionally glancing around him, getting up to guide the public, or talking into his little mobile phone. He wore a number of badges on his white uniform, a beret on his head, and a service weapon was strapped to his belt.
Shock number three — he got up from his seat to speak to us. Not everyone shows that level of respect to women anymore, and we were visibly taken aback. He politely told us that the process would take an hour or more because of the rush, should we choose to wait. He suggested that for quicker service, we should return after 2 p.m. or early the next day.
Still dazed, we decided to return the next day, as coming back again the same day or waiting in the noisy hall did not suit either of us. We thanked the officer and left.
Some 22 hours later, I was happily parking my car in the one-dozen-parking-places spot, disembarked from my car, and embarked on the little walk to the gate of the driving license facility.
Small surprise. A dozen scruffy men were already waiting on the street outside the big gate that was still shut. It was only 8:30 a.m. A bigger surprise came when one of them addressed me directly and suggested that I knock on the closed gate and walk inside to the seats meant for the public inside the premises. Like a dazed but grateful zombie, I thanked him and followed his suggestion.
Soon I was seated in an open-air corridor outside the license service hall, known as the Ghulam Nabi Memon Hall, named after the prominent police officer best known for serving as the Inspector General of Police for the Sindh province. As I was basking in the morning sun, with my eyes closed and thinking how pleased my doctor would be at finally fulfilling his wish in regard to my daily vitamin D and melatonin boost, I heard a strange and loud sound.
I looked around and saw that on my right a small contingent of traffic policemen and a couple of policewomen, smartly dressed in white, were falling in rows for some kind of assembly to begin — and the loud sound I heard was a command from the leader. After a short recitation from the Quran, some instructions, and the assembly broke up. At precisely four minutes to 9:00 a.m., I saw the officers running to their desks in the hall.
My friend from yesterday had also arrived, and fearing that the crowd we had seen gathering outside the main gate must have swelled by now, we quickly opened the heavy glass door and walked in.
Inside the huge, clean, and empty hall, a policewoman walked up to us, greeted us, and promptly told us to be seated and wait. Sit? Wait? And be jostled by a crowd? No, we didn’t want to do that at all! We had made the super-mega effort of arriving here and we wanted some prompt service and action. We mumbled something about tokens, but she assured us that we would be called to the desk soon.
The number token dispenser must be out of order, we assumed, after spying something covered up on one side of the hall. It was 9:03 a.m., but the wall clock was an hour ahead and remained stuck in that moment. But unlike the clock, the hall was coming alive. Each counter was now manned by pleasant-mannered, some of them even smiling officers in white, including a young woman, and a crowd of people bustled in the hall and queued up in front of the centre-most counter. How did they know where to go, what to do? I almost panicked — never in my life did I want a number token so bad!
Pushed by my license-bureau buddy (LBB), I found myself at the counter, leading a two-women queue right next to the long queue of scruffy, not-so-scruffy, and terribly grubby men. I was immediately attended to by the officer, who took my expired license and CNIC. In the next five minutes, while the officer spoke to his colleague at the next counter about how slow the net was — whether it was even working — and hence alerting us to possible delays that made my LBB shoot me a look of dismay, I was done and asked to move over to the bank counter to pay my fee for the process. The banker person had still not arrived, and my LBB and I waited here for about 10 minutes, diligently holding on to our places in the queue that was rapidly becoming longer.
In the midst of all this carry-on, yesterday’s bereted officer — the only one with the weapon strapped to his belt — presumably the in-charge, had arrived and went over to everyone’s desk to shake hands. As he turned around and walked past us, he nodded at us and coolly commanded an “Asalamalaikum” from us. Next, we saw him ask one of the officers where the banker was, and was told that he hadn’t arrived yet. Soon we saw him whip out his mobile phone and a list of some phone numbers on a sheet of paper.
Just then, a masked man with greasy hair and a brown shalwar kameez entered the hall and quickly took his place behind the bank counter. I couldn’t help but notice the glaring contrast between all the smartly turned-out uniformed police officers and the one civilian dressed so sloppily — and that also a banker, who normally takes immense pride in their shirts and ties.
Nevertheless, the sloppy banker certainly made up for the time wasted by his late arrival, and in no time handed me the receipt for the payment. Next followed the picture counter and the eyesight test/medical counter. Very pleasant and prompt service. At the last counter, the slip was stamped, and I was told that my new license would arrive at my home address in four to six days.
It had only taken less than half an hour, and on my way home, I was still amazed at the tidy and prompt procedure, the courtesy, the cleanliness, the camaraderie of the Sindh Police facility. Work done in less than half an hour without any stress whatsoever — without any agents, red tape, stiff bureaucracy, disrespect, greasing palms, chai pani requests, obsequiousness, patronising. Given the right leadership, Pakistanis can achieve anything.