What an actor, director, broadcaster and conversationalist Talat Hussain was, truly iconic in so many ways. Just the right pauses in between the delivery of dialogues, the Cheshire cat smile when it conveyed apprehension without words, and the understated desire to be acknowledged in the role he was playing.

It is widely held that he would only lose his temper when no choice was left and that he had an incredible capacity to put up with amateurs and incompetent colleagues. Talat Hussain was in a class of his own.

His death brought back memories of the artistic, cultural, literary and social life of Karachi — where I went to school, college and, later, regularly to Radio Pakistan on Bunder Road (renamed M.A. Jinnah Road). Undoubtedly, it was an inclusive, plural, poor-friendly and largely peaceful city by the sea.

Memories confirm that the city then, during the middle and the last decades of the previous century, only obliquely resembled what it is today — barring its restaurants continuously offering exquisite desi and cosmopolitan fare since forever. However, the good thing is that those memories are not erased.

Columnists and writers continue to reminisce about those days, and the people who defined the cultural life of the city between the 1950s and the early 2000s are still not forgotten. From journalist and activist Waris Raza — who has been writing on the literary life of Karachi in his Express Urdu columns — to chronicler and scholar Aqeel Abbas Jafri, to academic and poet Uzair Ahmed Madni, Karachi’s literary life is being archived by some exceptional people.

Earlier, Ajmal Kamal and the late Asif Farrukhi played a significant part in collecting old writings about Karachi, besides publishing the new ones that were written on its lived experience. From Zehra Nigah, Fahmida Riaz and Zahida Hina to Zeeshan Sahil, the city has found strong voices in both prose and poetry.

Arif Hasan is the most celebrated pro-people architect and development practitioner in the city, who has also become an important social historian. American journalist Steve Inskeep and French researcher Laurent Gayer came up with their own understanding of how cities behave when their citizens are under stress. Contemporary Pakistani Anglophone writing has paid heed to the suffering of Karachi as well. Sindhi and Urdu literature continue to register what has happened before and what is taking place now.

Times change everywhere but, in some places, change comes about through natural evolution while in others because of natural disasters. The third reason which results in a place changing rapidly is man-made conflict and civil unrest. Karachi is the victim that falls in the third category. The English phrase ‘the past is another country’ is uncannily true in the context of cherishing and understanding the lovely cityscape and cultural life of Karachi in the not-so-recent past.

From the 1950s onwards, Saddar remained the heart of downtown Karachi, with places like Zelin Coffee House and Café George able to entertain all — journalists, writers, artists and businesspersons — who could afford an expensive tea and sandwich or a grog and a meal in an intellectual environment. But the neighbourhood of Nazimabad (including all settlements and housing societies that surrounded it) became one of the hubs of cultural activity for the emerging middle class in the city of Karachi.

That is where Mirza Zafarul Hasan established the Ghalib Library and the street vendors sold books, old and new. There were tea stalls there that turned into small scale eateries, where poets and writers would gather. The tradition continued for long, but the rapid expansion of the city allowed for the development of new centres where artists and writers would gather — Federal B. Area, Gulshan-i-Iqbal, PECH Society, Drigh Colony, Malir and North Nazimabad, to name a few.

The Saddar area became more inclusive with time and places that Karachiites referred to as ‘Irani hotal’ (affordable small restaurants run by people of Iranian descent in Karachi — both Bahai and Muslim) became places where intense literary and political debates would take place. Saddar brought in politicians to the fold of the literati. Those were the times when politicos also used to take students, labour activists, journalists, writers and artists seriously, irrespective of ideological differences. Personal relationships and mutual respect prevailed upon any ideological or political differences.

On M.A. Jinnah Road, Radio Pakistan was a centre of cultural and literary conversations. The cafeteria, where we would gather, was cheap and warm. In those times, the state — as dismissive of art and culture as it is today — still had the ability to hire the best of minds. Perhaps, the state was oppressive but not totally ambivalent to what society needed.

Radio Pakistan’s main building was adjacent to the Richmond Crawford Veterinary Hospital. In between the two buildings, as far as I can remember, there was a street that was always crowded with singers, musicians, radio artists and script writers. Most of them could only afford to have a cup of tea and a rusk or salty biscuit to go with it.

They had either found minor engagements or were seeking an audition for a part in a radio play or a singing opportunity or to be able to play the instrument they had mastered. That is where they mingled with the established artists who passed by. Many years ago, Sarmad Sehbai made a powerful telefilm titled ‘Fankar Gali [The Street of Artists]’, revolving around this very street by Radio Pakistan.

I first met Talat Hussain in that street, having tea with amateur artists and then in poet and broadcaster Qamar Jameel’s office in Radio Pakistan on the same day. I cherish the meetings we had since and, finally, our last phone conversation some time ago.

The writer is a poet and essayist.
His latest collections of verse are Hairaa’n Sar-i-Bazaar and No Fortunes to Tell

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, June 9th, 2024