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Lahore Stories: Tall tales

By Ayesha Javed Akram

Yesterday, I wrote the tale of woe of a 25-year-old doorman who stopped growing when he reached four feet and two inches. Today, this space is devoted to another 25-year-old doorman who, at seven feet and six inches tall, is still growing.

Some call him the lost brother of Alam Channa. “But the government gave Alam Channa a lot of respect and facilities,” he says, cradling a teacup in his massive hands. “I am still awaiting my dues.”

Atta Muhammed, better known as Babbo, is right to complain. His height has made even daily chores an ordeal. “If I am travelling in a taxi, I have to lie down on the back seat. When sitting in a wagon, I have to pay double the fare. And when going by bus, I have to stand up and stick my head out through the roof-window,” he says with a wry smile.

When travelling with his family, Babbo coordinates with the coach-driver to make special arrangements for his seat. “It’s difficult for someone of my size to just get up and travel,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his hair carefully slicked over his forehead. Baboo’s usual mode of transport is a motorbike that is now reaching its fourth anniversary. “Do you have any problems when riding the bike?” I ask. His eyes twinkle as he replies: “The only problem is that everyone laughs when they see me riding the bike. It is a proper adult motorbike but it just looks like a toy in my hands.”

Most things look like toys in his hands. The teacup he holds seems like something made for a Barbie doll. When he picks up a camera, it gets lost in his grip, and he has to hold the pen rather tightly to prevent it from slipping out of his fist. But not being able to use a regular pen is the least of his worries – finding a way to clean himself adequately is the bigger problem. “I can’t stand up in the shower, so I have to sit on a stool and take a bath,” he says.

Everything Babbo needs has to be custom-designed. “My bed is eight feet long, and is the only such bed the furniture designer ever made,” he says, gesturing with his massive arms to show the length. His shalwar kameez swallows up 13 metres of cloth and costs twice the market rate for an ordinary shalwar kameez. His shoe size is 16, and most shoemakers balk at the idea of making him a pair. “Four years ago, I was in a real mess because no shop was willing to take my order. Finally, I found a guy in Peshawar who made me a pair after charging me four times his usual rate,” he says, pointing at his brightly polished shoes.

Babbo’s feet are a cause of fascination for many visitors to Pearl Continental Hotel, which is where he has been working as a doorman for six years. “Often visitors put their foot next to mine and take a picture,” he says, showing me his photographs with Indian cricketers, Pakistani film stars and foreign delegates.

One of his favourite memories is of Sachin Tendulkar. “When the Indian cricket team came to Pearl Continental, Tendulkar came up to me and asked me for my autograph. And that’s when I realised that while he is a cricketing star, I too am a star because of my height,” he says, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Babbo always wanted to be a star. He was born in Kalash, Kaghan, and has fond memories of rushing streams, lush green fields and steep peaks. Sandwiched between two brothers and a sister, Babbo spent the first eighteen years of his life living an ordinary life. “I didn’t start shooting up till I was nineteen which is why now when my friends from school see me, they are very surprised,” he says.

This began to create problems. “My head would keep colliding in the doors and none of the furniture was comfortable for me. That’s when I started sleeping on the floor,” he recollects.

The possibility of appearing in the Tariq Aziz show brought him to Lahore, and the offer of a job as a doorman convinced him to stay. Today, Babbo is delighted he never left Lahore. “I am famous in Lahore,” he says, as he fidgeted to achieve a more comfortable posture in his chair. “No police officer has ever fined me, and even President Musharraf looked up at me with awe.” The latter incident took place when the president paid the Pearl Continental Hotel a visit.

Being a seven-and-a-half feet tall doorman in Lahore has its own perks. Children insist on having their photograph taken next to him, various foreigners have asked him to join their basketball teams, and many times a day he is asked what he eats. For the record, he eats one-and-a-half kilos of apples before breakfast, three parathas and three omelettes for breakfast, a full chicken and six rotis for lunch, about the same at dinner, and whatever else he can find for tea. The only reason he can afford to feed himself is because Pearl Continental takes care of his breakfast and lunch.

Recently, Babo has also been offered bit part roles as a film villain. His dream is to appear as a hero in a Pakistani film, but there is a problem. “No heroine looks good with me,” he mumbles, “I am waiting for the day when she comes.”

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