The next morning at the docks, I walked more slowly than usual with my shoulders slumped. As I approached my friends, Omar spoke: "Hey, Razi. What's up?"
"Nothing much. I got a letter yesterday from a physics professor at the University of London who cut the legs off my rhoton theory. He blasted everything about it."
Rashid flipped his cigarette away. "That bastard!"
Word of my failed thesis spread rapidly at the docks that day. Karim came over and asked me what happened, so I started to tell him of my plight.
"Oh, shut the hell up," he said, "and quit your moaning and sniveling." He emphasized the word sniveling, by slapping me on the back of my head. "The trouble with you is you want the world on a platter. Instead of moping around like an asshole, get your act together and do something. So what if he didn't like it. It's powerful that you wrote it at all."
Karim reminded me of the wonderful opportunity I had been given to work at the library, where I could continue to study and read all the books I wanted to. I agreed with him, and life continued on for the next six months. I worked at the docks in the morning, and returned books to the library shelves in the evening.
One evening, when I returned home from working late, my mother handed me a piece of paper on which she had written the name "Chander Sarna" and a telephone number. I surmised that Chander's younger brother Naresh had asked him to get in touch with me. I had gone to high school with Naresh, who was becoming a chartered accountant (like a certified professional accountant in the United States), and would practice in London. I was closer to Naresh than to Chander, and I delayed a day or two before returning his call. When I did speak to him, Chander and I agreed to meet the next day, which was a Friday and my day off. He picked me up, and we drove to the Kuwait Engineers Club located near Kuwait City.
When we arrived at the canopied entrance, Chander said, "Let me show you around," and we walked across the marble floors in the foyer. To the left of the entrance, club members were playing tennis on hard courts, and coming and going with their racquet bags draped over their shoulders. I could hear the thwok of tennis balls making contact with the sweet spots of players' racquets. At an adjacent bar, people sat in captain's chairs around tables.
"Wait till you see this," Chander said. He took me by the arm and walked me farther into the building past a restaurant and through a door that opened onto an Olympic-size swimming pool. "Well, what do you think? Pretty nice, huh?" he said as we passed a dining room where we could hear the sounds of conversations and laughter. We played tennis and swam with friends of his, enjoyed lunch, and relaxed over coffee in the bar.
"Chander, what exactly do you do?" I asked once we were sitting alone again.
"I'm a software engineer."
I had never heard of software. This was an entirely new world to me.
Early in the 1980s, computer science in Kuwait was in its infancy, and computers had not yet grown into a staple of business and personal life. Few people here had ever seen a computer, much less used one; fewer still knew anything about this burgeoning field. Chander, of course, was an exception. The more I talked with him, the more curious I became about what he did with computers and how they worked. Without realizing it, he opened my vision to the coming computer phenomenon, and I felt drawn to be at its forefront. "This is where the world is headed," I thought.
As we talked, I confided in Chander my desire to attend a university. I explained about my high-school grades, my job at the docks, my lucky job at the library, and writing The Rhoton Theory.
"Razi, you've got to get a degree," Chander said. "No matter what you do, at the very least, you have to get yourself an undergraduate degree."
"How did you go about getting your bachelor's and your master's, Chander?" I asked.
"Well, first, I did my undergraduate work in India, and then I got my master's degree in America. That's the best way to go," he said.
Getting a master's degree in America? I had often dreamed about this. "Tell me more," I said.
Chander went on to explain that getting a degree from a university in India or Pakistan and then matriculating to a university in the United States for a master's degree was the most economical route to follow. "It doesn't matter where you get your undergraduate degree from, as long as you get one. From Timbuktu, if you can. Who cares? What about Pakistan? Your parents are from there; don't you have relatives in Lahore or Karachi?" he said.
"One of my uncles is an art dealer in Karachi," I responded.
"Well, there you have it. Why not go to a college in Karachi? You can get your bachelor's degree there. Then, you can go to a university in the United States for your master's degree."
Chander pinned it down for me. Pakistan made sense, and Karachi made even more sense. I spoke Urdu, the native language there, as well as English, and I would be near my uncles. We finished our discussion, and I thought about this idea during the ride home. As soon as I arrived, I presented the idea to my parents, who were receptive to the plan.
Six months after that, I said goodbye to my friends at the docks and at the library. All of them were sad to see me go, but understood the desire I had for higher education. I then went to live in Pakistan.
Coming to Pakistan was like revisiting a dream forgotten. Though my father and mother had emigrated from this country to Kuwait and had lived and worked there for decades, they held fast to their customs and language in spite of an overbearing Kuwaiti culture that might have softened less stalwart individuals. As a boy, I listened to my father's stories about his native land, the liberation from British rule, and the struggle to gain independence as a nation-state. Yet, as much as my parents tried to instill the Pakistani culture in our household, I was still not prepared for the culture shock I was about to face.
When my flight touched down in Karachi, I was poised like a runner at the starting line, ready to begin my education. I spent the next few days deciding on what college I should attend; with some help from my cousins, I decided upon the National College of Pakistan, affiliated with Karachi University. It was a government-run, nationalized school located near the largest vegetable market called the Subzi Mundi of Karachi.
My first venture onto the streets of Karachi gave new meaning to the word "congestion and complication." The city simmered with air pollution caused by excess numbers of rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, buses, cars, minivans, and any machine that had wheels. The humidity was at 100 percent. The noise—from the unremitting cacophony of car horns blaring to people who could care less while walking on the streets—was overwhelming. And the crowds! Always the crowds! To walk about was to feel oneself caught up in a seething flow of people compressed into a tiny container of a town.
I was at the bus stand near my cousin's house, totally unprepared for the experience I was about to endure. In my opinion, if one has not traveled on a Pakistani bus, then one hasn't achieved anything. When the bus arrived, the first thing I noticed was how completely full it was. People were sitting on the roof, and the door was blocked by passengers standing on a tiny foothold, and holding the bar on the side of the door. When it stopped, I just stared at it, not knowing what to do. The driver looked at me with curiosity, and seemed to wonder why I wasn't immediately climbing up on the roof. One helpful passenger even showed me a two-inch foothold that I could stand on while holding the bar at the top of the door. I just kept staring, not believing that I was supposed to get on this overcrowded bus. At that moment, I heard a number of voices shouting, "You idiot! Do you want to get on the bus or not?" I said, "Okay," and stepped on the two-inch foothold and held on to the bar with all my might. The guy next to me banged the side of the bus twice, and we started to move. I figured out that the code was one bang the bus stops, two bangs the bus moves.
People riding on a bus in Karachi
It's was a wild experience attempting to hold on to a bus that's traveling at 40 to 50 kilometers per hour. Even though people would get off at every stop, there was never enough space for me to move inside. After about eight stops, I experienced a smell in the air that was entirely new to me, that of vegetables and fruit in various stages of decomposition. The bus dropped me off in front of the vegetable market. I made my way through the streets and reached a building with the sign, "National College."
The college was nothing like Kuwait University with its manicured lawns, paved walkways, tinted glass, and electronic swishing doors. It was a modest building with dusty tracks as walkways and rooms lacking doors. I quickly spotted the line of waiting applicants and estimated that about a hundred students were waiting in line. Many were dressed in the traditional Pakistani attire of shalwar kameez—loose-fitting pants and a long, tunic-like shirt. The revolving ceiling fans did little to alleviate the heat and humidity, and the sweaty condensation on the walls. I waited in line from 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. No chairs were available, so I sat on the floor and sidled along whenever the line inched ahead. When my turn finally came, I walked up to a man whose droopy eyelids and frequent yawning belied his boredom.
"I'd like to register for the start of the next school year," I said.
"May I see your permanent resident certificate and certificate of domicile?"
I was confused. I didn't understand what he was talking about. "My what? What are those?"
"The permanent resident certificate shows that you are legally approved to live in Pakistan, and the certificate of domicile shows that you have established residency."
"Here is my Pakistani passport. May I have admission forms so I can start the process?"
I sensed that he was reaching the limit of his patience with me.
"I cannot give you the admission forms till I see a valid permanent resident certificate and a certificate of domicile. Your Pakistani passport means nothing. You need to go to the Office of Domicile and Permanent Residency; it's near the Metropole Hotel. You can get them there."
"Is that near here?"
"Not exactly. Just go and come back when you have your paperwork." With that, he looked over to his colleague and said, "I hate it when these damn fools ask for admission forms without proper paperwork."
I was stunned. Unsure of what to do next, I paced around the building, searching to speak with someone who could give me some guidance as to the proper procedure to gain admission. All I knew was that I had to get something called a PRC and a domicile.
I left and walked to the nearest taxi stand about a half-mile away, and caught a taxi to the Metropole Hotel. There, after asking around, I found the Office of Domicile and Permanent Residency. The building looked run down, like a holdover from the British Partition era. The dark-brown patches near the doors and corners were a testament to years of people's spitting when chewing a green leaf called pan mixed with tobacco. Upon entering the building, I approached a man dressed in an official-looking uniform and asked, "Where and how do I obtain the PRC and domicile documents?"
"You've got to fill out a separate form for each," he said. "If you go back out through the main door and turn left, you'll see a window. You can get them there."
I did as he suggested, only to find 25 people in line ahead of me. I cringed. Another line! I waited for half an hour before it was my turn to speak with the clerk, an older, balding gentleman perhaps in his mid-forties.
"Sir, may I have the forms to apply for a permanent resident certificate and a certificate of domicile?" I said.
"Sure, here is the form for the certificate of domicile. I do not have the form for the PRC, though."
"What do you mean?" I said.
The man explained that PRC forms were in short supply, and he was unsure when the next batch would arrive.
"How could a government office run out of forms?" I said under my breath. Imagine my perplexity—a government office without forms, and worse yet, this man had no clue when he would get a new supply. As I stood there thinking, a man wearing sunglasses sidled up to me. Though he looked dressed for business, his shirt was rumpled, and his tie was loosened.
"I know where you can get the forms you need and have them completed," he said.
Surprised at this overture, I asked, "How do you know what I need?"
"I'll show you. Follow me."
We walked out of the building, crossed the road, and made our way to a most peculiar office. A man sat under a tree behind a small folding table with a portable typewriter on it. As we approached, he sipped water from a glass and smiled.
Pakistani typist at work underneath a tree
"Are you looking for the forms for permanent residence certificate and the certificate of domicile?" he asked. I surmised that he already knew the answer to his question.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"Well, you're in luck. I have a ton of them," he said. "And I not only have the forms, I can type them up for you."
I just stared at him in complete confusion. Who was this person?
"You can have a copy of both forms and have them typed for 100 rupees. For 5,000 rupees, I can arrange to have both the PRC and domicile delivered to you in a couple of hours."
I gave him 100 rupees to get the forms and have them typed.
"All right! What do I need to do now?" I asked.
He instructed me to go back into the building to Room 128, knock, and wait to be invited in. Once inside the room, I was to ask the man seated there if he would like a cup of coffee or tea. The man would refuse, open the top left drawer of his desk, and wait without saying anything. Once the drawer was open, I was to drop the 5,000 rupees in it and walk out.
"Remember—this is not a bribe. Think of the money you pay as a reward for the man who will arrange to get you these documents in a day. Understand?"
"Yes, I think I do."
I went back inside and followed the man's instructions to the letter. I knocked once and entered at the sound of a deep voice. "Come in." I walked into a semi-penetrable fog of cigarette smoke to see a balding, gray-haired man seated behind a desk covered with stacks of paper. "Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?" I asked, repeating the sentence verbatim as I had been instructed to do.
"Kind of you to ask, but no. Let's get right to it, shall we? Let me tell you how to get your permanent resident certificate and certificate of domicile completed, okay?"
"Yes, please do," I said.
"Tomorrow, you will return here at the same time with two black-and-white, passport-sized photos of yourself. It will then take me two hours to complete the process. At the end of that time, you'll have the permanent resident certificate and certificate of domicile that you need. Don't be late."
"And regarding that coffee or tea," he said as he leaned over opened the top left drawer of his desk, and kept looking at me for his 5,000-rupee bribe.
I was unsure what to do next. I knew I needed the documents to get my admission, and that going through the normal channels would force me to wait many weeks and likely miss my admission date. Something about the whole scenario was odd: the shady character who led me to the man under a tree who had all the forms, the dialog about tea or coffee, and now staring at an empty drawer in which I was expected to place money. I knew it was wrong, so I just walked out with the typed forms in my hands, completely uncertain of anything.
Later that same day, at my cousin's house, I recounted my experience at the office of domicile and permanent residency to my cousins. As I told my story, they laughed.
"Oh, Razi. This is Pakistan, not Kuwait. That's the way things are done here. That's how we all operate," said one of my cousins.
Just as everyone chimed in about this and other similar experiences, a knock at the front door interrupted our conversation. It was a friend of the family named Farouk and his wife, Shirin. My cousin mentioned to the couple that I had recently arrived from Kuwait and was planning to enter a college in Karachi.
"Which college are you planning to attend?" Farouk asked in Urdu. I could tell by his accent that he hailed from the Sindh province of Pakistan where the mother tongue is an Indo-Aryan language called Sindhi. People there speak Urdu as a second language.
"Well, today, I went to the National College, but was refused an application form without a permanent resident certificate and a certificate of domicile. Then I hopped a cab to the Office of Domicile and Permanent Residency, but that was a dead end. All in all, it was a terrible experience."
He chuckled as he opened his wallet and took out a business card. "Since you've just arrived, you may not know who I am," he said.
"I'm sorry to say that I don't."
He wrote something on the back of his business card. "I serve on the government committee to inspect colleges and professors and certify the schools they teach at. You say you want to get into the National College?" he said.
"Yes, I do."
"Here's my business card," he said. "Tomorrow, I'd like you to meet Dr. Ismael. He's a professor of mathematics at the National College. Give him my card; tell him that I sent you, and that you want to attend there."
It was hard for me to understand what was happening, but I began to see the importance of having connections in Karachi. "I'll certainly do as you suggest. Thank you. I hope that I can return the favor one day."
"You're entirely welcome. Keep me posted on how you make out," he said.
"I certainly will," I said. Afterwards, I read the back of his business card. It read: "Please provide all the support you can to Razi Imam. He is my friend."
The next day, I returned to the National College admissions office, asked for directions to Professor Ismael's office, climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked to his office, located midway down a long corridor. I knocked at the open door. Professor Ismael was writing something at his desk. He turned to me and lowered his head slightly, peering at me over his reading glasses. He waved me in with pencil in hand. "Please come in, young man." We shook hands and I sat down.
"Good morning, Professor," I said. "I appreciate your taking time to see me. My name is Razi Imam. I'm here at the suggestion of Mr. Farouk. He gave me his business card yesterday and recommended that I meet with you." I handed him the card. "He wrote a note on the back of it," I said.
"Well, Razi Imam. What are you looking for?"
"I'd like to enter the bachelor's degree program here and major in physics and mathematics."
"Well, you've given me a card with a request I can't refuse. Please come with me."
I accompanied Professor Ismael downstairs past the long line of students still waiting for their application forms and into the admissions office. There, he requested, and promptly received, an admissions application form from the same guy who had told me yesterday to first get a PRC and a domicile certificate. The professor signed his name on the line that said "Sponsored By," and turned to me.
"Fill in this form right now," he said. I rushed through the form and handed it back to him. He, in turn, handed it to the same admission czar who took it and stamped it with a thud, Admitted.
This was how things were done in Pakistan.