PUBLISHED on November 30, 2025
KARACHI:
Mainly guilty of complaining, criticizing and condemning the authorities for power cuts, water shortage, gas shortage, high taxes against lack of facilities, corruption, crime, despicable condition of our roads and people for being discourteous, dishonest, lazy and insensitive, more so in Karachi, I truly had a moment of patriotism, amazement and pride after my visit to Clifton Driving License Center which deserves a story here. No more spoilers, read on.
When I chanced upon my soon-to-expire driver’s license, I groaned and cursed my life for the grueling task ahead of me. Not only would this be unnecessarily difficult, but it would also take a lot of time. In my experience, government documentation has always been tedious. Images of dirty, overcrowded offices with cunning employees and arrogant officials flashed through my mind. But then, faced with the risk of driving with an expired driver’s license, in a city with more than four million reckless motorcycles – where the majority of them seem to promise their mothers every morning: “If I’m still alive, I’ll go home” – and some seven million cars, I decided to go to the driver’s license office in Clifton the next day.
Karachi likes to stay up late and sleep in. The rare early risers like me take advantage of these peaceful mornings to do whatever errands we can, walk or go out for 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 workers get up this early as shops other than those selling 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 leisure and risk, it would be towed. The only option was to park along Zamzama Park or, if you were lucky enough, to park in the few parking spaces organized and managed by the guy in the yellow cap, who was reluctant to charge Rs 100 for parking because he knew your options well.
Since I wasn’t lucky enough, I parked next to a fruit cart along Zamzama Park and started walking. A brutal shock was imminent. As I entered the establishment, I realized that it was full of people. When did they get up and get here? Obviously much earlier than me, I told myself.
Overwhelmed by the rows and rows and queues of mostly men – dressed in a variety of greasy, strangely mismatched and poorly styled clothes, disheveled and scruffy – and a handful of women seated or served at counters by traffic police officers smartly dressed in white, I almost came across a well-dressed, rather elderly couple. If we had been intelligent devices and not humans, we would have instantly associated by recognizing each other. [well-groomed Clifton aunties] different from the rest of the crowd on the basis of presentability, polish and education, at least! Quick smiles and even quicker conversation told us we were there for the same purpose – driver’s license renewals – and that we were equally dazed.
Looking around, we spotted and approached a stern but decent-looking man, sitting calmly at a small white desk, occasionally glancing around, standing to guide the audience, or speaking into his small cell phone. He wore a number of insignia on his white uniform, a beret on his head and a service weapon attached to his belt.
Third shock: he got up from his seat to talk to us. Not everyone shows this level of respect towards women anymore, and we were visibly surprised. He politely told us the process would take an hour or more due to rush, if we decided to wait. He suggested that for faster service we should come back after 2pm or early the next day.
Still dazed, we decided to come back the next day, because coming back the same day or waiting in the noisy lobby didn’t suit either of us. We thanked the officer and left.
About 22 hours later, I happily parked my car in the space with about a dozen parking spaces, got out of my car, and embarked on the short walk to the door of the driver’s license center.
Little surprise. A dozen disheveled men were already waiting in the street, in front of the large gate that was still closed. It was only 8:30 in the morning. A bigger surprise came when one of them addressed me directly and suggested that I knock on the closed gate and head towards the public seating inside the premises. Like a dazed but grateful zombie, I thanked him and followed his suggestion.
Soon, I found myself sitting in an open-air corridor outside the Licensing Department Hall, known as Ghulam Nabi Memon Hall, named after the eminent police officer best known for serving as Inspector General of Police in Sindh province. As I basked in the morning sun, eyes closed and thinking about how happy my doctor would be to finally grant his wish regarding my daily intake of vitamin D and melatonin, I heard a strange, loud sound.
I looked around and saw that to my right, a small contingent of traffic cops and a few policewomen, smartly dressed in white, were falling into rows for some sort of assembly to begin – and the loud noise I was hearing was an order from the boss. After a short recitation of the Koran, a few instructions, and the assembly separated. At precisely four minutes to 9, I saw the officers running towards their desks in the lobby.
My friend from yesterday had also arrived, and fearing that the crowd we had seen gathering outside the main gate was already swollen, we quickly opened the heavy glass door and entered.
Inside the huge, clean and empty room, a policewoman approached us, greeted us and immediately told us to sit down and wait. Sit? Wait? And get pushed around by the crowd? No, we didn’t want to do that at all! We had made a great effort to get here and wanted fast service and action. We mumbled something about tokens, but she assured us we’d be called to the office soon.
The digital token dispenser must be broken, we assumed, after spotting something hidden to one side of the room. It was 9:03, but the wall clock was an hour ahead and stuck at that moment. But unlike the clock, the room came to life. Each counter was now manned by pleasant-mannered officers, some even smiling, in white, including a young woman, and a crowd of people bustled around the hall and lined up in front of the most central counter. How did they know where to go, what to do? I almost panicked – never in my life have I wanted a digital token so much!
Prodded by my buddy from the licensing office (LBB), I found myself at the counter, at the head of a line of two women right next to the long line of scruffy, not-so-scruffy and terribly dirty men. I was immediately attended to by the officer, who took my expired license and CNIC. Over the next five minutes, while the agent 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 which caused my LBB to give me a look of dismay, I was done and was asked to go to the bank teller to pay my fee for the process. The banker still hadn’t arrived and my LBB and I waited here for about 10 minutes, diligently holding onto our places in the rapidly growing queue.
In the midst of all this carry-on, the beret officer from yesterday – the only one with the weapon attached to his belt – presumably the one in charge, had arrived and headed towards everyone’s desk to shake hands. As he turned and walked past us, he nodded at us and coldly ordered us an “Asalamalaikum”. Then we saw him ask one of the agents where the banker was, and we were told that he hadn’t arrived yet. Soon we saw him take out his cell phone and a list of some phone numbers on a piece of paper.
Just then, a masked man with greasy hair and a brown shalwar kameez entered the lobby and quickly took his place behind the bank counter. I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between all the well-dressed uniformed police officers and the one civilian dressed so sloppily – and who is also a banker, who is normally extremely proud of his shirt and tie.
However, the negligent banker certainly made up for the time lost by his late arrival and handed me the payment receipt in no time. Next are the frame counter and the vision/medical test counter. Very pleasant and fast service. At the last counter, the slip was stamped and I was told that my new license would arrive at my home in four to six days.
It had taken only less than half an hour and on returning home I was still amazed at the careful and speedy procedure, courtesy, cleanliness and camaraderie of the Sindh Police premises. Job done in less than half an hour without any stress – without agents, without red tape, without rigid bureaucracy, without respect, without greasing hands, without requests for chai pani, without obsequiousness, without condescension. With the right leadership, Pakistanis can achieve anything.
