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Atres Artes, v. 1, issue 3, 1946

Page 9

Fantasy article A VISIT TO KARACHI by Pvt. Russ Whitman
(a yank in India)
I signed for my pass early in the day, since I wanted to make certain of getting it that evening at five. Several times the trip had been postponed on account of bad weather as rains here in India are not conductive to travel. Then other times the sun seemed to
hang directly overhead and sapped all the energy from my body. This time, however, I was determined to let nothing, rain nor sun prevent me from visiting Karachi and observe the goln's on therein.
     It wasn't (long untll I hitched a ride on an army truck called a "shuttle bus" that made regular runs to the Red cross headquarters in Karachi. The trip to town was rather uneventful for me because the canvas covering on the side of the truck obstructed the view from my curious eyes. I could see the highway, however, and the
picturesque ox carts, large and small, on their way to and from market, drawn by stout, persistent, and patient  donkeys (though oxcarts
drawn by donkeys may sound queer, that's the way the author's manuscript reads. ed.) Now and then a small Indian boy waved at our retreating vehicle and his tiny figure would soon become swallowed up in the distance. The funniest sight was a small boy trying to persuade his donkey to move. The poor beast didn't understand, or
was too stubborn to understand, so the boy wildly beat him, shouting as he did so. It nearly culminated in a casualty for the donkey, as he finally moved to the right side of the road just in time to
miss being struck by an auto.     The narrow escape gave me quite a start.
     It had been a long, hot trip, so I decided to visit the Red
Cross Enlisted Men's Club and clean up a bit. The shuttle bus drove to the front entrance and stopped. The first thing a soldier asks when he hits a new outfit over here Is, "Where's the Red Cross?" By
hook or crook, this wonderfully efficient  organization manages to evoke the sublime from a shambles of the lowly, and a soldier may not be too surprised to find coca-cola or a dish of Ice cream awaiting
him there,  Both are rare over here, and in high demand.   They might even have hamburgers, too, and  occasionally one might even find a dance in progress or an excursion to some place of local interest. As we entered, we noticed several games of ping pong were being played; inside, the atmosphere was cool, pleasant, and inviting.
There were more ping pong tables, and a lot of other games were being played; checkers, chess, dominoes, and just about every parlor
game imaginable. There was also a small reading room with an interesting library. All this suited me fine but most of all I was hungry, and it didn't take long to investigate a sign something like this, "food upstairs." I'll never forget that meal, although I've eaten many a better one. It seemed just plain wonderful. I ordered a full course steak dinner. It was a trifle, though, but still very
much appreciated. The meal cost about two rupee, three annas, or sixty-six cents in American money.  A chicken dinner can be had for one rupee, or thirty cents, without trimmings. So far as my appetite was concerned, this was the most important event in a long time, as steak isn't exactly plentiful over here even though millions of cattle roam over the countryside.    Ice cold lemonade set off the meal perfectly. So, like hundreds of other G.I.'s who had eaten there, I felt like a "king for a day." The cafe was operated by a Chinaman who was an exceptionally good cook. There was music, too, and electric fans over head, clean white table cloths, and best of all—white china   doubtlessly reminding many of the boys of home. But the joint
was—I was not at home. I was in India, and I had a pass. It seemed like a dream.
    My curiosity about an Indian city was getting the better of me.
— Page 9 —

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Fantasy article A VISIT TO KARACHI by Pvt. Russ Whitman (a yank in India) I signed for my pass early in the day, since I wanted to make certain of getting it that evening at five. Several times the trip had been postponed on account of bad weather as rains here in India are not conductive to travel. Then other times the sun seemed to hang directly overhead and sapped all the energy from my body. This time, however, I was determined to let nothing, rain nor sun prevent me from visiting Karachi and observe the goln's on therein. It wasn't (long untll I hitched a ride on an army truck called a "shuttle bus" that made regular runs to the Red cross headquarters in Karachi. The trip to town was rather uneventful for me because the canvas covering on the side of the truck obstructed the view from my curious eyes. I could see the highway, however, and the picturesque ox carts, large and small, on their way to and from market, drawn by stout, persistent, and patient donkeys (though oxcarts drawn by donkeys may sound queer, that's the way the author's manuscript reads. ed.) Now and then a small Indian boy waved at our retreating vehicle and his tiny figure would soon become swallowed up in the distance. The funniest sight was a small boy trying to persuade his donkey to move. The poor beast didn't understand, or was too stubborn to understand, so the boy wildly beat him, shouting as he did so. It nearly culminated in a casualty for the donkey, as he finally moved to the right side of the road just in time to miss being struck by an auto. The narrow escape gave me quite a start. It had been a long, hot trip, so I decided to visit the Red Cross Enlisted Men's Club and clean up a bit. The shuttle bus drove to the front entrance and stopped. The first thing a soldier asks when he hits a new outfit over here Is, "Where's the Red Cross?" By hook or crook, this wonderfully efficient organization manages to evoke the sublime from a shambles of the lowly, and a soldier may not be too surprised to find coca-cola or a dish of Ice cream awaiting him there, Both are rare over here, and in high demand. They might even have hamburgers, too, and occasionally one might even find a dance in progress or an excursion to some place of local interest. As we entered, we noticed several games of ping pong were being played; inside, the atmosphere was cool, pleasant, and inviting. There were more ping pong tables, and a lot of other games were being played; checkers, chess, dominoes, and just about every parlor game imaginable. There was also a small reading room with an interesting library. All this suited me fine but most of all I was hungry, and it didn't take long to investigate a sign something like this, "food upstairs." I'll never forget that meal, although I've eaten many a better one. It seemed just plain wonderful. I ordered a full course steak dinner. It was a trifle, though, but still very much appreciated. The meal cost about two rupee, three annas, or sixty-six cents in American money. A chicken dinner can be had for one rupee, or thirty cents, without trimmings. So far as my appetite was concerned, this was the most important event in a long time, as steak isn't exactly plentiful over here even though millions of cattle roam over the countryside. Ice cold lemonade set off the meal perfectly. So, like hundreds of other G.I.'s who had eaten there, I felt like a "king for a day." The cafe was operated by a Chinaman who was an exceptionally good cook. There was music, too, and electric fans over head, clean white table cloths, and best of all—white china doubtlessly reminding many of the boys of home. But the joint was—I was not at home. I was in India, and I had a pass. It seemed like a dream. My curiosity about an Indian city was getting the better of me. — Page 9 —