Mera Sheher.

It's burning again. People die in Gulshan, Sohrab Goth, Patel Para, Guru Mandir. All of them die on the other side of a bridge more symbolic, more meaningful than the promises of patriotism made by the drawing room brigade. They fall into dust, others cower in houses, and no one is winning. A day of mourning is called, but what are we to mourn for? The lives lost, the blood shed, what does it all mean if in another moment of rage there will be more bullets, and men will fall once again? Is anyone repentant for what has been done to Karachi?
If it's not guns, it's bombs. Sindhis against Muhajirs against Pakhtoons, battling it out to rule over 17 million, at least half of whom either don't know or don't care.
In the putrid smell of burning tires and torched cars Karachi loses its meaning. No one is thinking of the evening breeze. No one remembers the sea coming to life and the salty ocean air offering respite to all those who ask. She welcomes you with her open arms because she has room for everyone, solace in some nook or another. And then you destroy her again.
Roshiniyon kaa Sheher. The City of Lights.
Where did they go?