re you part of one or more family or relative WhatsApp groups? If so, welcome to the club – you have my sympathies. The truth is, despite the “Good Morning” messages dutifully sent by elderly group members each morning, I am grateful for the instant connection. My mother’s side of the family is planning a long-overdue reunion sometime next year in Karachi. That particular WhatsApp group is abuzz with plans, ideas, and, most of all, reminiscences of when we either lived in Karachi or visited annually in what now seems like another life.

As a result, I find myself vividly recalling, with startling clarity, memories of being a child in Karachi during the ’80s. Being the sensory person that I am, I have realised that many of those memories are, in one way or another, tied to food. Recently, I started following some truly epic accounts on Instagram, and the omnipresent algorithm of that platform has been blessing my feed nonstop with a plethora of ’80s nostalgia, further fuelling a juggernaut of retro, nuanced emotions.

I will indulge in a few.

On one balmy summer evening, my cousins and I were watching a recorded episode of PTV’s Alif Laila on the VCR at our neighbours’ house, along with their kids. A cunning plan – initiated by the older children – was hatched to secretly pick and devour kairis from a prized mango tree in their yard.

The tree’s kairi-laden branches reached all the way up to the terrace, and no one, especially the family’s kids, was allowed to pick them. Feeling bold, we made our way up the terrace staircase, with its beautiful white Karachi-style balustrade, half-excited and half-scared, pretending we were going upstairs “to play,” as usual.

Once upstairs, everyone gleefully plucked as many large, oval-shaped, forest-green kairis as they could grab. Giggling and talking in conspiratorial hushes, we were, as expected, apprehended by the one person we had hoped wouldn’t find us: the feared family aunt. A kind-hearted soul, but with a demeanour to rival Freddy Krueger’s, she had taken it upon herself to check up on the kids – a noble gesture, no doubt, but a nightmarish one for us.

The illicitly picked loot was sheepishly handed over to Aunty. Amidst feeble attempts at protest, we were all marched downstairs. Needless to say, no one ever dared attempt another kairi-picking trip up the terrace again.

An adult’s birthday or anniversary meant one thing: a Black Forest cake. Considered the height of swish elegance by the adults and a very grown-up cake by us kids, it was the James Bond of ’80s celebration cakes. At one of my dad’s birthdays, a family friend insisted on collecting the birthday cake from the bakery en route to the party. The reason? She was getting her hair and makeup done at a salon (beauty parlour in ’80s speak) just a few shops away from the bakery and assured everyone that collecting the cake afterwards would be no trouble at all. Three hours past the party’s start time, the lady finally made an appearance, bearing a fabulous Black Forest cake and an equally fantastic hair and makeup job – straight out of Evil Dead.

Honestly, I don’t remember much of the party, but I remember her – the hair and the make-up. She looked decades older, forbiddingly unapproachable, and frankly terrifying. Fascinated, we kids couldn’t stop staring at her all evening. Thankfully, the adults were too well-mannered to do the same. Luckily, we still have photos from that evening—truly priceless.

Unromantic as it may sound, the heady scent of ripe mangoes does not send my South Asian senses reeling – except when it comes to good homemade mango ice cream. That alone has the power to make me go weak at the knees. Family celebrations often meant that after cake, the house party would move outdoors to the foliage-heavy garden. By late evening, it would be mercifully cooler, and the barbecue would begin on an impressively green lawn (no small feat, considering Karachi’s challenging soil and water conditions).

On one such occasion, the older kids started competing to see who could best imitate Ismail Tara doing the twist on a daig in the Fifty Fifty intro on TV. A rather overenthusiastic performance by one of the boys caused him to lose his balance and crash into the side of the ice cream maker bucket. That brought an abrupt end to both the dance competition and the hand crank handle. The custard base had yet to reach the creamy, fluffy stage where it could technically be considered ice cream.

With the ice cream no longer churnable, we faced a dilemma. What to do? True to the crestfallen yet supremely gluttonous nature of my family, dessert that night turned into bowlfuls of the cool, unset ice cream mixture. Decades later, I can still smell and taste that velvety, fragrant, pale daffodil-yellow mango custard.

If there were an epitome of an ’80s makeup tutorial, the bold, brash, and crazy-delicious gola ganda would surely be it. Crushed or shaved ice, drenched in a technicolour array of tooth-achingly sweet syrups, gola ganda was the ultimate icy summer treat from the streets. If its glittering shaved ice, evocative of crushed diamonds, tarted up with jewel-coloured syrups resembling molten rubies, emeralds and sapphires wasn’t enticing enough, the fact that it was off-limits only heightened its allure. I am forever indebted to my older cousins for occasionally letting me tag along on their roadside food escapades and facilitating my first taste of this frosty, clandestine delight.

Once, during a particularly warm afternoon, we ventured out and excitedly came across a gola ganda cart. Everyone got one, including me. Even though we stood in the shade to make quick work of the icy treat, it was melting fast.

These days, many gola ganda vendors sell upgraded versions with add-ons like khoya, condensed milk and nuts. Perhaps these toppings were always an option – I don’t know. I like to think of gola ganda as I remember it from back in the day: stripped of add-ons, in all its raw, snazzy, Boy George-esque glory.

So, here’s to the ultimate OTT decade: the most terrible hairstyles ever, the most phenomenal music of all time, simple yet glorious food, and the uncomplicated pleasures of an ’80s childhood in the city by the sea.