PUBLISHED November 30, 2025
KARACHI:
Mainly guilty of complaining, criticizing and condemning the authorities for power outages, water shortages, gas shortages, high taxes versus lack of facilities, corruption, crime, the despicable state of our roads and the people for being rude, dishonest, lazy and insensitive, more so in Karachi, I really had a moment of patriotism, amazement and pride after my visit to the Driving License Center in Clifton, which deserves a story here. No more spoilers, read on.
When I happened to see that my driving license was about to expire, I groaned and cursed my life for the grueling task that awaited me. Not only would it be unnecessarily difficult but it would also be time-consuming. Government documentation, in my experience, has always been cumbersome. Images of dirty, overcrowded offices with sneaky employees and arrogant officials flashed through my mind. But, considering the risk of driving with an expired driver’s license, in a city with more than four million reckless motorcycles (where most of them seem to promise their mothers every morning: “If I’m still alive, I’ll come home”) and about seven million cars, I decided to visit the driving license office in Clifton the next day.
Karachi likes to stay up late and sleep late. The few early risers like me enjoy these quiet mornings to run as many errands as we can, walk or go out to breakfast. I arrived at the Sindh Police Driving License Office in Clifton around 10am, which is a comfortably early hour for Karachiites. Only students and office goers get up so early as shops that do not sell vegetables and milk, shopping malls and markets are closed.
Here begins a series of surprises and shocks that will continue until the next day. Firstly, there was no parking around this road between Zamzama and Neelam Colony. If you parked at your own risk, it would be towed. The only option was to park next to Zamzama Park or, if you were lucky, park in the few parking spaces organized and managed by the guy in the yellow cap, who hesitated to demand 100 rupees for parking because he knew his options very well.
Having no luck, I parked next to a fruit cart next to Zamzama Park and started walking. Minutes later a severe scare occurred. When I entered the facility, I realized that it was full of people. When did they get up and get here? Obviously long before me, I thought.
Overwhelmed by rows and rows and queues of mostly men, in a variety of greasy-looking, oddly mismatched and poorly designed, disheveled and disheveled clothing, and a handful of women sitting or served at counters by smartly clad traffic police officers, I almost bumped into a well-dressed, slightly older couple. If we had been smart technology devices and not humans, we would have paired instantly by recognizing each other for being [well-groomed Clifton aunties] different from the rest of the crowd in terms of presentability, refinement and politeness, at least! Quick smiles and even quicker conversation told us we were there for the same purpose (driver’s license renewal) and we were equally stunned.
Looking around, we saw and approached a stern but decent-looking man, sitting calmly at a small white desk, occasionally looking around, standing up to guide the audience, or talking on his small mobile phone. He wore several insignia on his white uniform, a beret on his head, and a service weapon strapped to his belt.
Surprise number three: he got up from his seat to talk to us. Not everyone shows that level of respect towards women anymore and we were visibly taken aback. He politely told us that the process would take an hour or more due to rushing, if we decided to wait. He suggested that for faster service, we should return after 2 pm or early the next day.
Still stunned, we decided to return the next day, since returning that same day or waiting in the noisy hallway did not suit either of us. We thanked the officer and left.
About 22 hours later, I was happily parking my car in the space of a dozen parking spaces, got out of my car and embarked on the short walk to the door of the driver’s license facility.
Little surprise. A dozen disheveled men were already waiting in the street, in front of the large door that was still closed. It was only 8:30 am. The biggest surprise came when one of them addressed me directly and suggested that I knock on the closed door and enter the seats reserved for the public inside the premises. Like a stunned but grateful zombie, I thanked him and followed his suggestion.
I soon sat in an open-air hallway outside the licensing service hall, known as Ghulam Nabi Memon Hall, named after the prominent police officer best known for serving as Inspector General of Police of Sindh province. As I was basking in the morning sun, with my eyes closed and thinking about how happy my doctor would be to finally grant his wish regarding my daily increase in vitamin D and melatonin, I heard a loud, strange sound.
I looked around and saw that to my right a small contingent of traffic police and a couple of female police officers, elegantly dressed in white, were lining up to begin some sort of assembly, and the loud sound I heard was an order from the leader. After a brief recitation of the Quran, some instructions and the assembly broke up. At exactly four minutes to nine, I saw the agents running to their desks in the hallway.
My friend from yesterday had also arrived, and fearing that the crowd we had seen gathering outside the front door must have increased by now, we quickly opened the heavy glass door and entered.
Inside the huge, clean, empty room, a policewoman approached us, greeted us, and quickly told us to sit down and wait. Feel? Wait? And being pushed by a crowd? No, we didn’t want to do that at all! We had made the super mega effort to get here and wanted fast service and action. We mumbled something about chips, but she assured us that we would be called to the desk soon.
The number token dispenser must be broken, we assumed, after seeing something covered on the side of the hallway. It was 9:03 in the morning, but the clock on the wall went forward one hour and remained stopped at that moment. But unlike the clock, the room was coming to life. Each counter was now manned by mild-mannered officers, some of them even smiling in white, including a young woman, and a crowd of people bustled in the lobby and queued in front of the most central counter. How did they know where to go, what to do? I almost panicked: I had never wanted a number token so badly in my life!
Pushed by my colleague from the license bureau (LBB), I found myself at the counter, leading a queue of two women right next to the long line of scruffy, not-so-scruffy, and horribly dirty men. I was immediately attended to by the officer, who took away my expired license and CNIC. Over the next five minutes, while the officer was talking to his colleague at the next counter about how slow the network was (if it was even working) and thus alerting us to possible delays that caused my LBB to give me a look of dismay, I finished and was asked to approach the bank counter to pay my fee for the process. The banker hadn’t arrived yet, and my LBB and I waited here for about 10 minutes, dutifully clinging to our spots in the rapidly growing longer line.
In the midst of all this commotion, yesterday’s beret-wearing officer, the only one with his gun strapped to his belt, presumably the one in charge, had arrived and approached everyone’s desk to shake hands. When he turned around and walked past us, he nodded at us and coldly ordered us an “Asalamalaikum.” We then saw him ask one of the officers where the banker was and was told that he had not arrived yet. We soon saw him take out his mobile phone and list some phone numbers on a piece of paper.
At that moment, a masked man with greasy hair and a brown shalwar kameez entered the hallway and quickly took his place behind the bank counter. I couldn’t help but notice the obvious contrast between all the smartly uniformed police officers and the sloppily dressed civilian, and that’s also a banker, who usually takes immense pride in his shirts and ties.
However, the careless banker made up for the time lost due to his late arrival and in no time gave me the payment receipt. This was followed by the photo counter and the medical/eye testing counter. Very nice and fast service. At the last counter they stamped the receipt and told me that my new license would arrive at my home in four to six days.
It had only taken less than half an hour and on the way home I was still amazed by the orderly and quick procedure, courtesy, cleanliness and camaraderie of the Sindh Police premises. Work done in less than half an hour without any stress: no agents, red tape, rigid bureaucracy, lack of respect, greased palms, requests for chai pani, servility, condescension. With the right leadership, Pakistanis can achieve anything.
