Week.

Dear Karachi,

I've been wondering these days what to write about. When I'm walking around Moho I have words swimming in my head, and sometimes I stop to take it all in. It's breathtaking, really. Especially the way it is right now, empty and serene.
Today I sat at the Thirsty Mind and looked out the window, and it was beautiful. I used to dream about this place. When I'm walking around I find it hard to believe that it's been two years, that I made it here and that I've come this far. I find it hard to recognize myself.
But this place doesn't move my soul to poetry. It doesn't tug at me the way you do. I feel affection, not all-consuming love. I've been told to stop romanticizing you, but how is that possible? How does one do that? You have been my muse for as long as I can recall, my oldest love affair. Even your worst failings I remember with a certain fondness I reserve for those I love entirely too much. Sometimes I dream about your salty air, the seaweed smell mixing faintly with the scent of camel dung, and then it escapes me when I open my eyes. One picture of you and something feels caught in my throat. I can't look for too long.
And now I don't want to look at pictures, because I'll see you soon, and breath your air, and when I wake up, it'll be under your skies. I might close my eyes a few times, blink to make sure it's all real. And then I'll sleep better than I have in months because you will surround me again.

Much love. 

change

Today at dinner I told my friends I don't understand atheism. I don't mind it, and I don't hold it against anyone, but I do not comprehend it. For a bit someone thought I was expressing my disdain for those who don't believe in any higher power, because in this place a lack of comprehension can be translated into intolerance. We like having our politically correct lines ready, just in case we may have to jump to the defense. So I explained, told her that's not what I was implying. Not an instance of boutique multiculturalism, merely a genuine inability to understand.
Somehow even my statements seem to come out as attacks these days, and I know I should probably learn not to cause offense. Cause offense to yourself if you must, trample all over your soul and sensibilities, but never those belonging to someone else. Those aren't yours to walk on.I try to stick fastidiously by those rules, and it's easier here where others play the same game.  Easier to listen, easier to appreciate, easier to learn. The power of dialogue and the importance of words.
But there's nothing more difficult than realizing that this place that I have treated for the past two years as a distant (but dear) love, partly out of my longing for home and partly because of the inevitably temporary nature of my time here, is slowly becoming the place I'm terrified of leaving and losing. We talk more about our bubble now that the bubble has completed half its life. Somehow, once this is gone I can see nothing but a looming disappointment in my interactions with people.
The ugly politics of privilege, the false convictions of being better, their world and then mine on peripheries, choosing love or choosing principles, the growing panic that the restlessness didn't stop when I had promised myself it would, the disgust with someone's illusions of self-importance, the shocks of reality.

"You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all of the time.."
Sylvia Plath obviously knew a thing or two.

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?

Ayah

There used to sit outside the ladies' changing room at the Sind Club an Ayah. She was a sweet middle-aged Hindu woman who was in charge of cleaning up the changing room and making sure extra towels were always available. She would sit on a white plastic chair, smiling at the aunties, the young mothers and their toddlers, the teenage girls in their bathing suits. She knew about the distance between herself and the patrons of the Club and so did we. She referred to the women as Memsahiba (Madam), respecting them on the basis of what they had and what she did not, and nothing more than that. She would always say hello to me, and ask about my mother and sisters if they weren't there. When they were, she would smile at all of us, and call my two year old sister guriya (doll).
I wonder how she felt about the difference in her own life and the lives of Sind Club members. Only the richest, only the best families, the elite of the elite. Did she ever think about it? Outside the Club there were no women tanning by pools, no interactions between men and women of the nature she would see at the club. Her day began and ended with a bus ride back home, for which she would don a black burqa over her modest white sari, even though she wasn't even Muslim. She probably just didn't want to be teased or pinched by some man on the bus who would get a moment's cheap thrill from this contact with female flesh.
I saw her this summer when I went back home. Her hair had turned white as the locks of the memsahibas became various hues of honey, indicating that the it-shade of the season had hit Karachi. She sat there, watching quietly, still smiling at everyone. It struck me that I knew this woman from as far as my memory went into childhood, but I still didn't know her name. She knew mine though. "Sanaa baby, kaisee hain aap? Ammi theek hain?"

I thought of the Ayah when I saw the new Sana Safinaz lawn campaign. Probably a strange association to make, but nonetheless.

I remember when they inaugurated the activation of this very unremarkable fountain in the middle (?) of the sea. There were fireworks, and the people of Karachi had something to look forward to that weekend. The police cordoned off Seaview. If there's one thing you should know about the security forces in Karachi, it's that they're perpetually found cordoning off one area or another. We went to our khala's place and stood in her balcony on the tenth floor, obnoxious male cousin in tow, watching as the bright lights and smoke filled the air. I remember looking at the the men who were setting these gigantic fireworks off, they looked like ants from that high up. I remember being concerned for their safety and hoping they didn't get burnt. But it was gorgeous, and for those fifteen minutes I forgot all about all the sadness I felt back then.
Too much teenage angst, coupled with feeling betrayed and too saddened for my own good. Those really were the days.
A year or two went by. The fountain no longer worked, and I was probably still angry. No one seemed to remember the fireworks, and in school people cracked dirty jokes about the now inactive fountain, the nature of which shouldn't be too difficult to guess.
And now I'm here, and I remember the fountain and the fireworks, but most of all I remember the sea it was in the middle of.

I've come to realize that there are two separate types of loves for me when it comes to Home. One is patriotism, but the other one, the one more dear to me (and this might perhaps be the problem many of us suffer from), which overshadows everything else is what I call Karachiism. I haven't figured out yet if I'm ashamed of it, and maybe that's why I'll admit to it. Pakistan is what I read about in the news. Pakistan is what I want to save, it's what I want to see flourishing, it's what I want to change misconceptions about. You know, the traditional way you try to change an image by thinking about it rationally and not overreacting, not letting things get under your skin?
I'll admit to faults, defend it where I have to and try to clear away misunderstandings if I'm asked.

And then there's Karachi, and that's a different story altogether.

Have you felt the sort of love that makes your heart want to burst into pieces and become part of the beloved? Love that inspires poetry and anger and desperation and grief and ecstasy?
Ask me why I want to go back to one of the most dangerous cities in the world, and I won't be able to give you a rational answer. What I will be able to do, however, is feel inexpressible anger. How dare you imply that it's not worth going back to?
But you didn't imply that at all, you were simply curious.
It is I, in my crazy, stupid, senseless love, unable to see beyond perceived attacks that may not exist at all. You see, every blow is one you deal to my heart.

How can you betray her, I want to ask those who leave. How can you betray your City that gave you so much? Did you even give her a chance? Did you try to understand?
And how was it possible to abandon that place with it's salty-sea smells, the scent of roasting bhuttas, the cobbled streets of Saddr that shout out for their former, now paan-stained, glory, those buses with the men trying to look into your car with their beady eyes for a fleck of female skin they can only fantasize about, the people at Funland you share the city with but are simultaneously scared of?

My heart is Pandora's box overflowing with strange details about a certain city in a struggling third world country.

homesick.

picture this,
a million souls under
a starless sky next to
waves high, so high and
the shore so quiet

picture this,
this home amongst one too many
twisted alleys and rotting sewage
smells and thick smoke on
your face, your clothes clinging
with a day's grime.

picture this,
the summer monsoon
a little too late, inconvenient
and ugly as soon as it touches
roads the tar falling apart,
late afternoon traffic and acid rain
on skin.

picture this,
the smell of summer and salt,
the warm evening breeze and scents
you find here, just here,
on rooftops as you smoke
a guiltily hidden cigarette.

now picture this,
your soul in that grime,
your heart in those waves and
home in those chaos,
not in this civilized, beautiful valley but
in that debris of too much falling apart
and too little coming back.

picture this, picture this, picture this.

So.

My carefully numbered days at home are nearly over. The city that's part of my soul is still bleeding away, with temporary breaks here and there, but mostly just open wounds that we've learnt to ignore. 40 dead. 28 dead. 70 dead. Dead dead dead dead. Sitting at Hotspot and someone's parents call, telling them to get home asap. Shehr ke haalaat kharaab hogaye hain..
We take our time, so what's new? Finish our frozen yogurt, light a few more cigarettes, watch the smoke spiraling from the end of the burning cherry. Someone's talking about getting high. Someone else wants to go to the beach. Let's get drunk, are you mad? It's Ramazan!
I'm listening and watching, and every now and then I will add my two cents to a conversation that doesn't mean much either way, to anyone. We're all guests here now, going soon to run after a better future. But who's to say what's better? It's all so relative to these ideas of what you think is right and wrong. Things move along, change so fast that if you were to chase the past running to the present and try and catch up with the future, all you'd end up with is a stitch in your sides and not much else. That's how I feel. A little bit tired, and a little puzzled about how I got here. I do try to take out the time to find out why, but time is exactly what none of us have here. Too fast, this world, these days.

We leave Hotspot. The beggars swarm around our car. Lock your doors, they might try to open them. This is so uncomfortable, he's asking me for ten rupees, Baji aik sou pachaas rupay kaa juice pi saktay ho, das rupay nai desaktay? (You can drink juice that costs Rs. 150, but you can't give me Rs.10?)
Somewhere in the back of my head my conscience pinches me. But I ignore it.

And then we drive away.

countdown.

There's one thing this city doesn't let you do. It never allows you to forget. It's difficult, in fact nearly impossible, to block Karachi out. You can try, and I know those who have, but even in people's best efforts to let it go, Karachi holds on with a persistent grip that shows no signs of weakening. Not always good things, these imprints  belonging to a sprawling city by the Arabian Sea. There's the simple fact of lost lives turned into stats that increase day by day, almost challenging you to dare and do something about it. But you can't, and for that you can hate the city. And then there is the balmy summer night breeze- barely there, except in one or two gentle waves that wash over you and then disappear like they never were. Can't forget that either, but that's one of the beautiful things about here. I'm trying to memorize this place so that when I close my eyes in the middle of a winter I find impossible to comprehend, I can recreate this. Soon I'm going to leave again and home is going to turn into an idea that exists, carefully preserved, in corners far away from the mundane and the everyday. A thought to be drawn upon every once in a while, and hidden quickly before it dries out and shrivels up.
But it never does. That's why it's home.

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.

Remind me

There's two of them on the mattress that she's moved on to the floor, four of us on the bed and one sitting in a corner on the couch, staring intently into the laptop screen. The two on the mattress are together, you can tell by the way they're comfortable with the angles of each other's bodies, moving slightly at the same time, a little here, a little there, till they're sitting just right.We're all playing Taboo and she cheats a little, helping him with a word although she isn't on his team. I suppose that's a form of adoration too, and rather sweet. I'm sitting here observing. If there's one thing I've learnt, it's the significance of just looking at things. Patterns are important, and paying attention you realize there are a lot of times when you will find yourself in the same settings, albeit with people and places that aren't the same.
It often makes me wonder if the comfort I derive from being around people comes from the presence of those particular people, or from a situation I find some part of my past in.
We've ordered pizza, and when it arrives, half the people in the room declare they have no money, but we eventually end up finding enough anyway. It makes me smile because it's so very typical and, later as I sit in my bed at home talking to mum, it reminds me of myself back in high school- perpetually broke, and always ready for a new adventure. She laughs in agreement and asks if I'm broke at college. I sense carefully hidden guilt behind her laugh, because she has mentioned before how she doesn't like being unable to help me more than paying for my tuition. It always leaves me wondering why she feels obligated to do more than she already is, because what she does now is something I will never be able to repay.
I shake my head carefully, it's a little more complicated than just being broke or not. I suppose I could be a little bit of both at college, but I never really think about these things until a lot later. Moments have always been very absolute for me, it's always a question of yes or no, but then later the lines get muddled up. So I try not to think too much, about anything.
Every fifteen minutes or so some of us will get up and go to the bathroom for a smoke. When it's time to go home I will spray myself with perfume and hope mama doesn't smell the smoke on me. I know she knows, but like many things, we don't talk about it.
All of them are going to college this fall and they'll be different when they come back to Karachi. But when they get together like this in someone's room, it will always be as the saying goes, just like the old times.
That's what I love about this place. Embedded memories.

It's still the same in some respects, but things have definitely changed since when I was last here. It's not as.. alive(?) as it used to be. The traffic jams, the power cuts, the throngs of people at Clifton beach, rush hour traffic in Saddr, the inconvenience of roads broken to be rebuilt two years ago, more flyovers, the immense divides amongst the people that no bridges can cover, afternoon madness at Sunday Bazaar, all of that remains the same. But there is more suffering. This city had life pulsating in undercurrents, it fueled its residents' resolves to keep going on no matter what. But now there's an air of defeat. The people of Karachi are tired. They are tired of putting on brave faces everyday, and they are tired of hoping for the best. Where is this hope going? The silent question looms over this city, in the air around us. What are we running from, and to where?