PUBLISHED November 30, 2025
KARACHI:
Mostly guilty of complaining, taunting and condemning authorities for power outages, water scarcity, gas scarcity, high taxes versus lack of facilities, corruption, crime, the despicable state of our roads and people for being rude, dishonest, lazy and insensitive, even more so in Karachi, I really had a moment of love for patriotism at the L’centre, after visiting my patriotism at L. Clifton, which deserves a story right here. No more spoilers, read on.
When I happened to see that my driver’s license was approaching its expiration date, I groaned and cursed my life for this grueling task. It would not only be unnecessarily difficult, but also time consuming. Public documentation has always been difficult in my experience. Visualizations of dingy and overcrowded offices with sly clerks and arrogant officials ran through my mind. But then, the risk of driving around with an expired driver’s license, in a city with over four million reckless motorcycles – the majority of whom every morning seem to promise their mothers: “If I’m still alive, I’ll come home,” – and about seven million cars, I decided to visit the driver’s license office in Clifton, the next day.
Karachi likes to stay up late and sleep in. The few early birds like me enjoy these peaceful mornings to do what we can, walk or go out for breakfast. I arrived at the Sindh Police driving license office in Clifton around 10, which is a comfortable early hour for Karachiites. Only students and office workers get up that early as shops other than those selling vegetables and milk, malls and markets are closed.
Here begins a series of surprises and shocks that 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 away. The only option was to park next to Zamzama Park or, if you were lucky enough, to park in the few parking lots organized and run by the yellow cap who hesitated to charge Rs 100 for the parking because he was well aware of your options.
Not being lucky enough, I parked next to a fruit cart next to Zamzama Park and started walking. A rude shock was minutes away. When I entered the facility, I realized that it was full of people. When did they get up and come here? Obviously much earlier than me, I thought to myself.
Overwhelmed by rows and rows and queues of mostly men – in an array of greasy-looking, oddly mismatched and ill-styled, disheveled and disheveled clothing – and a handful of women either sitting or being served at counters by traffic police smartly dressed in white, I almost bumped into a well-dressed senior couple. Had we been smart-tech devices and not humans, we would have mated immediately as we recognized each other to be [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 – renewing driver’s 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 looking around him, standing up to guide the public or talking into his small cell 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 talk to us. Not everyone shows that level of respect to women anymore and we were visibly surprised. He politely told us that the process would take an hour or more due to the rush if we chose to wait. He suggested that for faster service we should come back after 5pm. 14 or early the next day.
Still in a daze, we decided to return the next day, as it didn’t suit either of us to come back the same day or wait in the noisy hall. We thanked the officer and left.
About 22 hours later, I happily parked my car in a dozen parking spaces, got out of my car, and began the short walk to the gate of the driver’s license facility.
Small surprise. A dozen or so ragged men were already waiting in the street outside the great gate, which was still closed. It was only 8.30. A bigger surprise came when one of them approached me directly and suggested that I knock on the closed gate and go 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 sitting in an outdoor corridor outside the Licensing Service Hall, known as Ghulam Nabi Memon Hall, named after the distinguished police officer best known for serving as the Inspector General of Police for Sindh province. As I was basking in the morning sun, eyes closed and thinking about how happy my doctor would be to finally grant his wish regarding my daily vitamin D and melatonin boost, I heard a strange and loud noise.
I looked around and saw that on my right a small contingent of traffic officers and a few policewomen, smartly dressed in white, were falling into rows for some kind of rally to begin – and the loud noise I heard was a command from the leader. After a short recitation from the Koran, some instructions broke up and the assembly broke up. At exactly four minutes to 9:00 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 now have swelled, we quickly opened the heavy glass door and entered.
Inside the huge, clean and empty hall, a policewoman walked up to us, greeted us and immediately asked us to sit down and wait. Sit? Wait? And being pushed by a crowd? No, we wouldn’t at all! We had made the super-mega effort to arrive here and we wanted some quick service and action. We mumbled something about tokens, but she assured us that we would be called to the desk shortly.
The license plate machine must be out of order, we surmised, after spying something covered on one side of the hall. It was 9:03, but the wall clock was an hour ahead and stuck at that moment. But against the clock, the hall was coming alive. Each counter was now staffed by pleasant, some of them even smiling, clerks in white, including a young woman, and a crowd of people trotted the hall, queuing in front of the center counter. How did they know where to go, what to do? I almost panicked – never in my life have I wanted a number so much!
Pushed by my Licensing Bureau (LBB) mate, I found myself at the counter, leading a two-woman queue right next to the long queue of messy, not-so-crunchy and terribly unkempt men. I was immediately attended to by the officer who took 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 even worked – thus alerting us to possible delays that caused my LBB to throw me a look of dismay, I finished and was asked to go over to the bank counter to pay my fee for the process. The teller still hadn’t arrived, and my LBB and I waited here for about 10 minutes, diligently holding on to our places in the rapidly lengthening line.
In the midst of all this carry-on, yesterday’s beretted officer – the only one with his weapon strapped to his belt – presumably the one in charge, arrived and went over to everyone’s desk to shake hands. As he turned and walked past us, he nodded to 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 cell 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 stark contrast between all the smartly dressed uniformed police officers and the one civilian dressed so sloppily – and that too a banker who usually takes enormous pride in their shirts and ties.
Nevertheless, the slovenly banker certainly made up for lost time by his late arrival, and in no time handed me the receipt for the payment. Next came the image counter and the vision test/medical counter. Very pleasant and fast service. At the last counter the note was stamped and I was told that my new driver’s license would arrive at my home address in four to six days.
It had only taken less than half an hour and on the way home I was still amazed at the tidy and speedy procedure, the courtesy, the cleanliness, the camaraderie of the Sindh Police facility. Work done in less than half an hour without any stress – without any agents, bureaucracy, rigid bureaucracy, disrespect, greasing of palms, chai pani requests, obsequiousness, condescension. With the right leadership, Pakistanis can achieve anything.
