Karachi's City Court, a place of little mercy

A lawyer writes an application at Lahore High Court | Murtaza Ali, White Star

KARACHI - At eight o'clock, the city court sits as one with its surroundings. The morning breeze, untainted by the music of the day, flows past the arches of its two-hundred-year old sandstone structure. These currents of air arrive from the direction of the port that lies barely three kilometres away. For this long-time inhabitant of Bunder Road, this is a rare quiet moment. In its stillness, there is a hint of what Karachi’s Saddar neighbourhood perhaps once was—a hint of the place this city’s many lovers struggle to preserve today.

It is as if the court has imposed its own order on its surroundings; the bank, the post office and the mosque are obediently lined up by its left boundary wall. To the right, food kiosks and bookstores sit tight. 

The breeze registers in the trees, pipals and neems, that have stood here for decades. Their purpose is shade, not the cosmetic uselessness of date trees that have been imposed on the city and seem internally displaced, barely invited. At this time of day, and from these branches, the koel calls out and indeed, can be heard, for her voice can cut through the air, which has not been maddened yet by the day's business. And on the ground, the dogs go about no particular business. Their presence is a familiar comfort and yet surprising. The morning at the court brings with it a profound sense of nostalgia for a place you have never been to and for a time you have never really known.

An alley at Karachi City Courts | Mohammad Ali, White Star

As the day rolls out, the court becomes less of how the city once was and more of what the city really is—a ruthless, unkind space to too many of its inhabitants. The magnanimity of the building recedes into the background and the pre-Partition structure demystifies. Now the city court takes away the romance and serves up a reminder that to be poor in Pakistan is a crime in itself.

This reminder is served again and again. From the policemen standing outside the court jail who shove away anxious family members, to the judges who appear obviously bored and exasperated before their job has even begun, to the conversations one can overhear between lawyer and clients, nervous, scared family members being told “aap to baat samjhti hi nahin.”

This is not a place that is meant to be kind.

It is, as one would expect, harshest to the accused. Corridors of the court’s six buildings, labelled A to F, with each building meant for one district of the city, are lined up with people waiting for their case to be heard. Outside every courtroom, which is usually not more than six-feet wide for this building was built as a jail back in 1847 and these rooms barracks, a court peon or pattaywala steps out every few minutes and roll calls:

“Muhammad Iqbal aur waghaira”

“Saleem Ahmed aur waghaira”

A hawker sells snacks at a city court in Lahore | M Arif, White Star

Saleem Ahmad may be there, but if the waghaira are not, that’s all there is to the day. His case cannot be heard now. So Saleem Ahmed and countless others like him will come again and again, day after day, sometimes for months, sometimes for years.

The rich just send a lawyer.

In one courtroom in Block F, I witness Abdullah’s case proceedings ending. There is no lawyer with Abdullah, who seems to be in his late teens or early twenties at best. He is called in by the judge and told his case has been disposed, except he has to give a surety bond of Rs30,000. By the look of his clothes, it is easy to tell that he won’t be able to pay any bond, and certainly not one for Rs30,000. I wonder if he even heard the judge right for the noise from the fans absorb much of what is said, but the space is so intimidating and a sense of fear so tangible that I know he will not ask what he does not understand.

Now Abdullah’s case will become a file in the record room. All the blocks have this room where the respective building’s archives are kept. The record room’s process of cataloging is a mystery. It would be remarkable if it made sense to the record keepers. Files are stacked one over the other. The men here say there is some method to this madness, but no date, year or any other identification of cataloging is visible. The files are kept in uncovered shelves, with easy access for insects and vulnerable to general decay. It is in these record rooms that all the mercy petition must lie. On these petitions, empty, dirty cups of tea rest.

Arrested suspects at Karachi City Courts | Mohammad Ali, White Star

While I look around the room, the man at the reception flips through files, singing to himself, “Ye kya ho gaya hai, yeh kuch ghalat ho gaya hai.”  The lyrics and the music are undoubtedly his own.

It is around 10 o’clock now. 10 0’clock is an important time at the court for this is when the “custody” comes in.  It was early in the morning when I first heard of the custody.“Custody 10 bajay tak aaye gi”.

A bookstore outside District and Sessions Court, Rawalpindi | Mohammad Asim, White Star

It is around 10 o’clock now. 10 0’clock is an important time at the court for this is when the “custody” comes in.  It was early in the morning when I first heard of the custody.“Custody 10 bajay tak aaye gi”.

The “custody” are the accused men in police custody who come in high-security vehicles. The vans look like deep blue graves on wheels. In these prison vans, there is barely five inches of an opening for air to cross. This tiny window also has bars. All you can see are several hands holding on to these bars; there are so many hands it is difficult to distinguish one from the other.

Arrested suspects being brought for a hearing at District and Sessions Court, Rawalpindi | Mohammad Asim, White Star

The custody vehicle parks itself outside the entrance of the on-site jail. One after the other the accused get off the van and into the gate of the temporary jail where they will be kept until they are called for hearing. The van is parked so close to the gate that you cannot see who is stepping out. Yet, family members continue to struggle to see, standing as close to the gate as they can, trying to get a glimpse of the men stepping out. Once all the men in custody are in, relatives stand outside, sometimes for hours, for their family members to be called out.

The jail premises itself is among the most wretched sides of this city. at least that I have ever witnessed. It is a terribly kept version of what one would imagine a human zoo to look like. People sit on the floor of the jail yard, their hands chained to one another with rusted, thick chains otherwise used for shop shutters. There are small barracks here too. These special places are for the mad ones, for the pagal who must be kept behind bars at all times. There is no space here for human dignity.

Strangers stepping in gives hope to these men in chains. A man comes up to my friend who can be recognised as a lawyer in his black-and-white attire and whispers that he has served his maximum three-year sentence, but the written order says six. “Can you help? Please take my mother’s number, call her.”

This sense of desperation is on all these faces. The only possible source of help for them may be the sign above the black gate leading out of the court jail. “Bismillah parh kay bahar niklain.”

A family waits for a hearing | M Arif, White Star

As people step out for their hearing with their locks and chains, relatives and lovers rush to them. It seems as if they are not here as much for the hearing as they are to have lunch together. A mother who has been standing outside the jail for hours immediately brings out a plastic bag with chickpeas and a cold bottle of seven-up when she sees her son.

They look for a spot of shade besides a staircase and sit in a circle on the floor. Her son eating from the hand that is not chained, while other family members just watch him eat. Some families around them take selfies, making moments of this time together.

The lunch is had quickly because the “custody” must leave. The breeze registered in the trees has now settled. Now there is only a harsh sun and many harsh realities. The dogs seem just as comfortable as they did in the morning though.

The men in custody walk back together towards the prison vans, their hands chained to one another, one of them on crutches, all of them innocent until proven guilty.

A boy who may be around four or five runs after his father. They share a joke as he watches his father being taken away. The court that appeared most gentle in the morning now shows its worst self - a place of little mercy.

Published in the Herald magazine: https://herald.dawn.com/news/1153789