Written in 1957; Pakistan was still part of India in the early 1940s when these events took place.
Pakistan, land of snake charmers, belly dancers, and sacred cows, lay steaming under a blistering sun, screened by Oriental mystery. Fantastic funeral processions twisted and wound their way through the littered streets of Karachi, where untended sacred animals foraged, a menace to traffic.
Shopkeepers stood in doorways in open competition for the prospective customers strolling casually down the cracked and uneven sidewalk.
Two American Air Transport officers appeared, their voices animated, their eyes missing nothing and darting excitedly from shop to sidewalk to street. As if by signal, the shopkeepers came to life and rubbed their hands together in anticipation.
The officers stopped at a shop to peer into the interior, and the merchant wasted not a moment. He sprang in front of them, grasped an elbow and gestured toward his shop. He extolled the wares of his establishment with words the fell here and there and tumbled over one another.
The officers shook their heads and looked down the street. The shopkeeper seemed to grow frantic, his gestures wilder. He pleaded. He begged. He seemed to threaten. The two officers went into the shop.
When the shopkeeper entered the shop, his frenzy fell from him like a cloak, and he became the host, the businessman, the proprietor. He picked his way amough narrow tables and past full shelves of sandalwood figurines, ivory knickknacks, water-buffalo-horn carvings, and bolts of silk cloth distributed in reckless abandon. He beckoned his visitors to follow him, making sure that he led them past all those items that attracted the eye of the tourist.
After traversing the length of the room, the hose bade his guests sit down and relax. He clapped his hands, and a short plump woman appeared out of the darkness in the rear, bearing a tray with an ornate teapot and small teacups. Turkish cigarettes were passed around and the hose make polite conversation about the war, American politics, baseball, and Mahatma Gandhi as the two men sipped their tea and inhaled aromatic tobacco.
As one of the Americans finished his tea, he pointed to a piece of silk cloth and inquired for the price.
Ah. . .h. . . the fat was in the fire. The host became the businessman. He knew what interested his customers . . . no more shadow boxing. He girded himself as a gladiator for the fray. There would be haggling, but that was part of the game, a game at which he would bow to nobody.
The fish had taken the bait, and a master fisherman was handling the reel.
Pakistan, land of snake charmers, belly dancers, and sacred cows, lay steaming under a blistering sun, screened by Oriental mystery. Fantastic funeral processions twisted and wound their way through the littered streets of Karachi, where untended sacred animals foraged, a menace to traffic.
Shopkeepers stood in doorways in open competition for the prospective customers strolling casually down the cracked and uneven sidewalk.
Two American Air Transport officers appeared, their voices animated, their eyes missing nothing and darting excitedly from shop to sidewalk to street. As if by signal, the shopkeepers came to life and rubbed their hands together in anticipation.
The officers stopped at a shop to peer into the interior, and the merchant wasted not a moment. He sprang in front of them, grasped an elbow and gestured toward his shop. He extolled the wares of his establishment with words the fell here and there and tumbled over one another.
The officers shook their heads and looked down the street. The shopkeeper seemed to grow frantic, his gestures wilder. He pleaded. He begged. He seemed to threaten. The two officers went into the shop.
When the shopkeeper entered the shop, his frenzy fell from him like a cloak, and he became the host, the businessman, the proprietor. He picked his way amough narrow tables and past full shelves of sandalwood figurines, ivory knickknacks, water-buffalo-horn carvings, and bolts of silk cloth distributed in reckless abandon. He beckoned his visitors to follow him, making sure that he led them past all those items that attracted the eye of the tourist.
After traversing the length of the room, the hose bade his guests sit down and relax. He clapped his hands, and a short plump woman appeared out of the darkness in the rear, bearing a tray with an ornate teapot and small teacups. Turkish cigarettes were passed around and the hose make polite conversation about the war, American politics, baseball, and Mahatma Gandhi as the two men sipped their tea and inhaled aromatic tobacco.
As one of the Americans finished his tea, he pointed to a piece of silk cloth and inquired for the price.
Ah. . .h. . . the fat was in the fire. The host became the businessman. He knew what interested his customers . . . no more shadow boxing. He girded himself as a gladiator for the fray. There would be haggling, but that was part of the game, a game at which he would bow to nobody.
The fish had taken the bait, and a master fisherman was handling the reel.
