ALL cities have secret lives but with so many hopes packed into such a cramped place, Karachi is in a league of its own. Zealots, honey traps, gangsters, politicians, idealists, humanists, artists and far too many young men willing to use violence: Karachi has got it all.

And as the many millions who live there struggle to survive, the city’s nightly death toll means that angst hangs in the air. There are parts of town best avoided and streets many Karachiites will never see. In other words, Karachi is a city full of dark corners. A place with an underbelly so teeming with fear and loathing that many of its denizens have developed the practice of minding their own business into a whole lifestyle.

Except, of course, the police. Whatever you might think of their morals and methods, Karachi’s finest see it all. It is, after all, their job to mind other people’s business; to break down doors and let in a little bit of light. And if you want an author who can illuminate some of Karachi’s murky realities then you are not going to do much better than look to a man who, for over a decade, has tried to enforce Pakistan’s distinctly wobbly laws.

If the quality of Omar Hamid’s crime novel can be judged by the perceptiveness of the characterisation then The Prisoner scores highly. These are not two-dimensional figures devoid of nuance. Rather, they are believable people whom we come to care about. The good guys are flawed, constantly making compromises with both principle and power as they seek to navigate their careers through the uncertainties of a city in which back room deals are a way of life.

The Christian at the heart of the story is more prudish than many of his apparently religious Muslim counterparts. The cop who takes the most risks to bring justice to the streets is quite comfortable killing miscreants in cold-blooded extra-judicial murders. Army officers with the black and white thinking that comes from decades of regimentation have to cope with a city in which people don’t think in straight lines. And then there are the employees of the intelligence agents: powerful and arrogant, as well as subtle and capable.

As well as being authentic, this book is also smart. Having a Christian policeman drive the narrative enables Hamid not only to reveal some petty prejudices faced by a member of a religious minority but also to tempt the reader to observe the unfolding events with a degree of detachment that comes from looking through the eyes of someone who will always have the sense of being, to some extent, an outsider. And as those familiar with the Karachi police have commented, some of the book’s leading protagonists seem to be drawn closely from real-life people. Maybe that’s why they are so believable.

In a place where compromise is a way of life, people who embrace confrontation are not only an awkward rarity but also a blessing. And of course it’s reassuring to believe that while the establishment ducks and weaves, some people are willing to take a stand. And if that sounds like a tribute to the late lamented Chaudhry Aslam then the plot lines of The Prisoner do ring all sorts of bells. Whether its the description of the kidnapping of an American journalist or the references to the over-weaning power of a party leader living in self-imposed exile, it’s clear that this is a book that has drawn inspiration from recent real-world events.

But the best thing about The Prisoner is the insight it gives into the thinking of, and challenges faced by, policemen operating in one of the toughest cites on earth. Prior to reading the book, I’d always assumed that police officers wanted postings in the city’s richest suburbs. I now realise that was probably rather naïve:

“In a poor mohalla, even if a hundred people get killed on your watch no one will be too bothered. In a rich mohalla, if someone’s cat goes missing, they’ll hang you by your balls.”

It’s just one of many examples in which the realities of life in Karachi is laid bare. Hamid understands the realities of wealth in Pakistan’s richest city. He has seen religious and political ideologues driven by the lure of money. As a policeman he has to cope with it; as an author he just has to describe it.

Are Karachi’s police corrupt? Of course they are. Do they take justice into their own hands, administering punishments with no legal process? Sure they do. But many still have an underlying desire to bring down the criminals whose activities make life in the city so difficult. The Prisoner describes a world in which principled bravery exists alongside base cowardice and self-interest conflicts with self-sacrifice.

I have long thought that, were he alive today, one of the greatest novelists of the last century, Graham Greene, would have been found hanging out in Kabul, soaking up the atmosphere as he watched the Americans and the Taliban. The Afghan capital, it seemed to me, would have made an excellent backdrop for one of his books. Having read The Prisoner, I think it’s fair to say that on his way home, Greene would have stopped off in Karachi too. With supercharged religion, beleaguered democracy and foreigners misunderstanding everything, both cities have a surplus of rich material.

Most of Pakistan’s talented English language writers to emerge in recent years tend towards the literary end of the market, writing erudite books that attract committed readers. Hamid, by contrast, has produced something faster paced, grittier — and, for many, more accessible. Let’s hope he’s working on a sequel. And let’s hope he sticks to Karachi.

The reviewer is a journalist

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The Prisoner

(Novel)

By Omar Shahid Hamid

Pan Macmillan, India

ISBN 978-93-82616-14-6

344pp.