Even in all my anger with this place, with the people that fuel it and with the general hopelessness that surrounds our lives, I am afraid of leaving. Because you always run that risk, the risk of coming back and realizing everything has changed. Even that static silence (not that this place is ever silent, but it has been quiet of late) isn't reassuring. It exists because there are bodies falling. People are dying over mere words, the charred remains of a bus next to a burning tyre, closed petrol pumps- they tell me this is not the Karachi they grew up in. It was cosmopolitan, their Karachi. There were no locked doors, there was ample proof of life and most importantly, there was pride in the wonderful city by the sea.
But now this place is as tired as those who hold these faraway memories. I imagine her to be misty-eyed and arthritic, slowly losing the ability to defend herself. But her children are only just growing up.
So much changes, especially when you become a guest in the place you called home. That's what's frightening.
Woah!
ReplyDeleteEven though it is downright painful to read and to witness the gruesome and brutal ongoings of Karachi, this was a beautiful piece of writing.
I feel you. This is an indeed well-written post. <3
ReplyDeleteKarachi :(
ReplyDeleteBut to think that the patriotism is yet not shattered, that is the beauty of it. I know a bunch of karachiites and not one of them has lost their pride.
ReplyDeletei've felt like an outsider here for a long time without ever having left. but yes, the karachi of our elders is another city altogether. we don't know it. we only know its shadow, its silhouette, and we still love it. maybe even that shadow has changed, and we know it only peripherally. maybe that's why i feel like an outsider, and you feel like a guest. i don't know.
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