Niyaz
People like him are rare
One fine day, I was walking toward home and caught a glimpse of a moment that took me back in time. A tall man seemed to be a helper, carrying the bag of a little girl in one hand and holding her tiny hand with the other.
The moment I saw this scene, I was transported back to my City School days, and like a flash of light, a flood of memories, detailed with colors, scents, and vivid descriptions, filled my mind. And all these memories only had one name — Niyaz Mohammad. Or as my cousins and I would say, “NIYAZZZZ.”
I asked myself, how could I not write about Niyaz? If I were to mention his name at a family gathering, the elders would smile softly, and the younger ones would have stories to share about him.
It would be unfair to describe Niyaz as just a driver or a helper because, with him, that was not the case. He was a part of our family, someone we fought with, debated with and shared jokes and stories of all kinds.
He was there with us on the happiest days and also during the loss of loved ones. He saw two generations grow up, and with each, he drove us to all parts of Karachi you could possibly think of.
From afar, Niyaz looked like an ordinary Pakistani man, always wearing light-colored shalwar kameez, Patan-style shoes, small rectangular glasses, with a blue ballpoint pen always in his front pocket, and a subtle beard. But calling him ordinary would be an understatement because that man always had extraordinary stories to tell.
In his village, he was a young wrestler, and his best childhood memory was playing football with his friends. He came to Karachi as a taxi driver and had fun and memorable interactions with each passenger.
He once got robbed and told stories of fairies, along with what Karachi was like during his youthful days in the Ayub Era. He had many children, each of whom he cared for dearly, and his grandchildren were his reason for going on.
I know so much about Niyaz because from my first day at nursery till I graduated from college, I was the one in the back seat of the car listening to his stories. He picked me up and dropped me off at many places, and during those rides, I would repeatedly demand these stories.
Now, when I think about it, I realize he was a born storyteller. He would tell me mischievous stories about fights between my sisters, funny stories about my aunts and grandmother from way before I was even born. In return for his stories, I gained insights into life.
I was a fairly well-mannered child, but he had seen my rebellious phase — from refusing to sit in the car until I got ice cream, to crying to him about why he came five minutes late to pick me up from tuition when he knew how much I hated going to it!
From sharing freshly baked bread and candies with him to him teasing me about how many more years I had left in my studies. When my Ammi went into shops, I would happily stay with Niyaz as he taught me to draw on small squared pieces of paper. In return, I would teach him something I had learned in school.
As much as we knew about him, he knew even more about us. When I asked him to buy me something, he knew exactly which snack phase I was going through. He knew my favorite spots, he would pick up and drop off my friends with safety and respect, and when my mom and I argued in the car, he knew whose side to take.
When you grow up with people like him, who are a part of your daily routine for years and years, you never think there will come a day when they will no longer be there.
When every morning and evening you are so used to calling, “NIYAAAZ chaloo,” you never think there will come a day when those words will never leave your mouth again.
One fine day, Niyaz told my father that because of his old age, he could no longer work. And just like that, the face I would see every day kept the car keys in the drawer and left. I remember him slowly disappearing from the streets as he walked further and further away.
One week before he passed away, he visited my Abba’s Dukan. Because how could you not drop by the people who have known you your whole life? My Abbu said all he asked was, “Alifya kesi hai?” (How is Alifya doing?)
You do not forget people, especially the ones who helped raise you as a child. And the more I grow, the more I realize that even though he was imperfect, and even though I quarreled with him, people like him are rare.
That’s when I realized how lucky my family was to have people like Niyaz, Sakina Masi, Naseema, Saima, Hawwa Masi, and more. These people cared for you not because it was part of their job. They cared for you because they truly, in every sense, loved you.
And if you grow up to be a decent person, it is because of the kindness, respect, and love they shared with you. And how do you know? Because no matter how old you grow, every time you remember them, you can’t help but smile at the naive memories created with them.
You end up carrying their kindness, even if you are no longer with them.
