Clifton Beach.

There is a man driving up and down the beach on a go-cart that's covered in cheap neon lights. I watch him zoom from one corner to another, and think to myself "Well, this is interesting.". Another attraction for the people of Karachi, apart from the camels and the semi-emaciated horses. There is a power cut, and none of the hundreds of painfully bright streetlamps that line Clifton Beach are switched on. Only the moon illuminates the white waves that crash calmly into the shore, and the fluorescent glow of tacky, 50 rupee (less if you can bargain) decoration pieces lends a strangely psychedelic glow to all the visitors. A tiny little girl in a sequined dress runs towards her mother, looking quite like a disco ball.
I sit in the car while my mother and sisters take a stroll down Clifton Beach, looking out into the vast, open space littered with people and things, all kinds of things. I suddenly think about how there could be a party here. Just like this, but perhaps with different people. It catches me by surprise, this distinction that I often make between 'us' and 'them'. But then it occurs to me: they are having a party here.
I'm just not invited.