Karachi, a City Born of Dreams, Bred with Love and Left to Rot

It’s a cold dark day in hell. Violent cloud masses over bear the sun’s erstwhile presence. It’s going to pour. A silent but violent lash of thunder whets the sky. And slowly viscous beads of poodles and Siamese streak across the moonshine appearance of our city. Gently, then rapidly collecting in growing poodles of water and muck. Endangered species of monster mosquitoes and Godzilla flies once more commune with their species and prepare to inherit our earth. And since rain happens either when the clouds approach from behind a certain apartment block in Gulshan (according to a self proclaimed meteorologist friend of mine) or on the off chance that somebody finally did something right for once, giant entertainment starved masses crowd the formerly deserted stretch of the infamous Sea View road. Friendly dates or romantic rendezvous’, drag races or “chill” drives, families or young men (read boys), all creed of Karachi culture can be simultaneously observed with Darwinian accuracy, interacting with each other in some insane human comedy. If Freud was a Pakistani, he would have been there too.

I guess it can be most easily presumed that Karachi is a city of metropolitan pizzazz and “Wild West” (or rather East) connotations, a part of a larger, atomically inclined whole. Karachi is what it is. Only “Karachi” can define Karachi the way it is. There is no past, there is no future. Only now. We Karachities take extreme pleasure in our “living for the moment” attitude and our “cross the bridge when we get to it” mentality. And we are happier then most anyone we know. Nor could we live any where else. It’s a complex blend of insanity with a conscience, procrastination with urgency and red tape with tennis balls. Of blackouts with mosquitoes and complaint telephone personnel with hardy attitudes. I advise the reader not to delve too deeply into my writing. I say it like I see it. And mostly I don’t mind what I see. Except the deep socio-economic disparity that has its roots in greed and power. But lets not even veer that way for now.

My mother and father both narrate stories of their childhood in Karachi with alarming congruency, more aimed towards reprimanding me or my sister rather then teaching us the human factor of Karachi’s history. And I am sure most of you have experienced what they tell me. Let me see now…no one to take them to school…they used to bike or walk….used to entertain themselves…never used to be as “materially inclined” as my generation seems to be….etcetera etcetera etcetera. Sound familiar? Our maybe even surprisingly accurate? Why is it so easy for parents to disassociate changes in society and techno culture from the lives of their children. Or maybe it’s just us who still think they have all the answers.

Apparently this aspect of parenting remains conceptually untouched around the world. What does matter though, is that all these stories of Karachi’s glorious past sadden me deeply. How I want to be able to see my city in all its glory, unscathed by ethnic revolution, political insanity and the viscous gun culture. Without police scouting for victims or criminals or both nor people reading into who you are because of what you wear, where you eat, who you see or what car you drive. A place of calm surrender and tolerance so deeply engraved in their psyche that one could actually smile because they couldn’t help themselves not to. A bourgeoisie paradise if you will.

An age old adage claims that “insanity in the way of progress overshadows serene stagnation”. Somehow Karachi skips the entire “progress overshadows…stagnation” part and sticks to tried and tested insanity. It works as a finely engineered system which tries to fit all under one common roof of gross ignorance, gross ignorance being the root cause of this insanity in the first place. Another adage claims that never let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. Even that has been refined and decimated down to fingers from hands, nails from finger and cuticle from nail. And in the midst of this decimated, segregated, isolated and divided system lies the middle class of the 90’s Karachi. Painfully seeking their identity in a society as differentiated as coffee parties to student political federations, Vti’s and taxis, Agha’s and the general store in the market, Lurpak or Milkpak, Haleeb and that sordid mix of milk and water from some obscure river yet undiscovered by Karachi’s topographers. You have got to admit that being middle class in a yet unorganized revolution has its advantages. In Karachi one just hopes that one is always at the right place at the wrong time.

Now don’t get me wrong. Its not that I believe so blindly in it’s past that I am repulsed by its present state. It’s just a great place to go in your mind when not much else seems to make much sense. Our generation has great plans and great dreams. Unfortunately they all revolve around getting out of the country. We have lost hope. And yet we hope against hope for its mere survival. Plainly put, we cannot see ourselves investing our futures in a country where there is no security of life or love. How does one begin to justify the enormous wealth that has been squandered away by our benevolent leaders, all in the name of God and country. And then, how does one digest statements like “our future rests with our children”? How does any educated and rational person belonging to our society justify the unaccountable billions wasted in the arms race over the years in both India and Pakistan, when they see poor, hungry, unclothed and unsheltered children, in ragged attire and bright shimmering eyes at every intersection of every road in Karachi. At the signal of the intersection of Khe-Shamsheer and Khe-Badban stands a boy who tries to sell peanuts from a ragged little ice cream box, the peanuts to few to count. No, I am not repulsed by Pakistan’s state. I am saddened so deeply that my heart sinks. And truthfully, there is nothing we can do about it. It’s in our blood, in our minds and a part of our psyche now. They gave up our futures for their personal heaven. And now expect us to rebuild it. Blame it on the rain gentlemen, its more believable then the childish excuses you throw our way. Its time for a revolution. And this time, we shall eat cake.

Pakistan has been on the precipice of collapse for too long. Yet somehow the storm always passes us, grazing our skulls but never fatal. In our shadows lie our darkest fears. Fears of anarchy, fears of terrorism and fear of failure. I love Pakistan. I would shed the last drop of blood coursing through my veins to save it in its time of need. I will battle bravely forth, through mountains and valleys till the end of the world. I will arrive swiftly on my valiant steed in her time of need. In the meantime I have my life to live. I would prefer not to live it under the microscopic scrutiny of society nor under the overbearing sword of economic embowelment. Help us to dream gentlemen, but also give us the faith to carry us into the next millenium.