The Good Old World by Razi Azmi

It is a clich� to refer to the �good old� world and quite normal to be nostalgic about it. Good or not, life in the era gone by was slow and simple without doubt, and relatively stress-free. Indeed, it was excruciatingly slow and painfully simple � so basic in needs and desires that there was not much to be stressed about. Making ends meet was the basic goal and the business of life.

I count myself fortunate to have witnessed the qualitative leap from the old world to the new. I belong to a generation which spans both worlds and is bridge of sorts between the two. Born in 1950, I have seen the world change before my eyes in a way that few generations have been or will be privileged to witness.

Most of the things we now take for granted only began to make their appearance from the early sixties � that, too, in a rudimentary form, in extremely limited numbers and at unaffordable prices.

Like virtually everyone of my generation, I grew up in houses lit up, for lack of a better word, by lanterns with kerosene oil. These needed daily servicing, which, like all the rest of domestic chores, was done either by the women of the house or by servants (and I do not pretend to speak for either). A �petromax�, which converted kerosene oil into gas when pumped and produced light equivalent to, say, a 40-watt electric bulb, was a luxury. It must have been quite expensive, for most homes did not have even one. Petromax was mostly rented for special occasions, such as weddings and large parties, which were few and far between.

The three meals of the day were cooked by burning coal or wood. Again, it was the duty of the women of the house and/or the servants to strain their lungs by blowing air into the fire through a tube, especially on damp days, when the effort produced more smoke than fire. After each session, the fire was put out and the kitchen shut down. Business resumed a few hours later in time for the next meal. Everyone had to eat what was cooked. No choice, no leftovers, no fridge, no junk food, just healthy eating and simple, plain life. If one was fussy about the menu, one would have to wait until the next meal.

I was a lucky kid, for I got my first wristwatch when I was about ten years old. It was an old Limton, discarded by my father, who helped himself to a better one. It had to be wound every day and didn�t show day or date. Our home boasted a gramophone player which used long-play records with the trademark name �His Master�s Voice� printed in the centre next to the image of a dog sitting before a large hailer. The records had one song to each side. The gramophone was mechanically powered by a spring which had to be manually wound up.

We also had a radio powered by a 6-volt battery, the size of a car battery, which had to be sent to the charger every so often. The radio required quite an antennae, a wire some ten metres long, strung over two poles on the roof (the higher the better). Even so, reception was patchy and problematic. Like in everything else, there wasn�t much choice of radio stations either. The number of homes which owned a radio were few and those that could boast a gramophone were a rarity.

I was awe-struck on seeing a tape-recorder for the first time in the early 1960s, which my eldest brother had brought from England. It was the size and had the looks of a suitcase, and probably weighed 10 kilograms. But a wonder machine it was, for it could record and replay our own voices, allowed us to add songs of our choice and listen to many songs without interruption.

Tape-recorders became cassette players, which gradually got smaller and better, until the first really portable mini-cassette player was introduced in the early 1980s. From 60-minute tapes we moved to 90 minute and two-hour tapes. Impressive they seemed at the time, but were a far cry from today�s iPods. Smaller in size than my palm, an 80 GB iPod can store 20 thousand songs, as well as perform such other �auxiliary� functions as taking still and video pictures. A smaller version, the size of a thumb, can store 240 songs.

I vividly remember the first time I made a �photostat� copy. The year was 1969. Needing a copy of my mark-sheet, I had to travel some distance to find a shop that had a �photostat� machine. �Photostat� was done on special paper. After the machine took an image of the original, the paper with the still-invisible imprint was dipped in a tray with a chemical liquid and left there until lines and words began to appear after a few minutes.

That was progress. Before, the only way to make a copy of anything was to type it out (on manual typewriters) and get it certified as a �true copy�. One inserted carbon sheets between two sheets of paper to make additional copies as one typed. Handheld calculators made their appearance towards the mid-1970s and did not become affordable until a few years later. Until then, everyone did his calculations the hard way, with the help of multiplication tables which had to be memorised very well at school.

Television broadcasting (black and white) came to Pakistani homes in 1964, first in the two provincial capitals of Lahore and Dhaka (now the capital of Bangladesh), followed by Karachi and Pindi/Islamabad (1967), and Peshawar and Quetta (1974). In those early days, only the very rich could afford a TV. But those who didn�t own one didn�t miss much, for PTV broadcasted for only 4-5 hours every evening, with the exception of Mondays, which used to be a rest day (Sunday being the public holiday). PTV switched to colour in the mid-1970s, but most of the broadcasts were still in black and white. It wasn�t until the late 1970s and early 1980s that most middle-class homes got TVs and refrigerators. Colour TVs didn�t become affordable until a decade or so later.

One of the great pleasures of life up until TVs and VCRs became common was a visit to a cinema hall to see a movie, particularly in an air-conditioned one. It didn�t happen often, but was something to look forward to, a complete and comprehensive experience for the whole family or for a group of friends. The anticipation, the expectation commenced from the moment one bought the tickets, reaching a climax as one entered the hall. From then on, it was 2-3 hours of complete bliss, whether one was watching Indian/Pakistani movies with their usual mixture of tragedy, farce and comedy or 20th-century Fox�s �Ben Hur� or Columbia�s �Lawrence of Arabia�.

Whether to mourn the loss of the old world or to celebrate the new may be a philosophical question. Where one stands on this issue may depend on what station one occupies in life. But there is no doubt that, in material terms, the quality of life has vastly improved for nearly everyone, most certainly for women, the young and the poor.

The views expressed herein are the writers' own and do not reflect those of DesPardes.com

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The author, a former academic with a doctorate in modern history,
is now a freelance writer and columnist.
The writer can be contacted at raziazmi@hotmail.com

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