Home Part II

It smells nothing like the sea here. Nothing like the salty, smoky smell of a Karachi breeze in the night, no sign of balmy air catching you by surprise on an oppressively hot day, no smell of tikkas and kebabs sizzling on skewers across the street, and the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps. Never, not when bombs are exploding, not when people are killing or dying, not when the electricity conveniently goes out and comes back on. The city takes it all in her stride, and we as her children, do the same. So when I wake up in the morning not to sights of crazy-coloured buses wreaking havoc in heavy traffic, aided by motorcyclists who quite evidently seem to be on some sort of death mission, when I don't hear impatient drivers blaring horns at other cars and instead have to rely on an alarm clock to wake me up- it bothers me. There's only so long you can stare at a clear night sky with an abundance of celestial bodies before you start missing the tell-tale smog of Home, and only so long when walking out of your dorm in the morning you to see squirrels scurrying about over leaves in various different shades of yellow and orange is a novelty.

I'm not sick of it here. I probably would never be, but I guess it's a tough one to let loyalty face a head-on collision with awe.

"We're gonna watch the sunrise, do you want to join us?"

At least they asked. And I didn't even know them.

When the fog became God

Here we begin, in near-paradise, our lives. New and untainted, we spend our days broadening our horizons and our minds, spotting migratory birds, sitting by the lakes at sunset and walking and walking and walking. In this  bubble we forget our Self, or perhaps the multitude of Selves we used to be. Here, we are new. We have no shame, and nothing to hide. Here, we are cocooned if we choose to be so. And here, there will be no judgments. Come tomorrow, we will not be called to account for what we did. It's really a rather carefree, mirth-filled existence. Life is endless readings, overpriced cigarettes and coffee, the search for authentic tea, beautiful windy mornings with hints of a chill and a lack of men (we don't complain about that, believeyoume).
We study music, and gender, and philosophy, and the environment- we rattle them all out in one breath, like it's really the most normal thing in the world. We have big dreams, we want to make this world a better place. We really tend to believe modern-day versions of fairy tales here. Here is where no one notices the colour of your skin, where you come from, your religion or the lack of it, your sexual orientation- really, nothing matters much. We go from being 17 to 25 in a matter of seconds, and back even quicker.
And what about me?
I fear this new-found freedom will convert the misfit in me from it's dormant state to a bitter, unfitting part of the Life Puzzle when it is time to leave.

And then, there are some who want to be seen, and known, and heard, and talked about. But never, for once, will they let this be known. And in this not letting it be known, they forget themselves the true meaning of essence, and then it is lost. They are all and nothing, starting a fire and ending up with ashes.
And what about ashes?
They go where the wind goes.

12.

Nostalgia chooses to peek out of the strangest corners; it envelopes me when I look at deserted, half-constructed buildings, when the smoke from piles of burning rubbish gets caught in my throat. when the stench of fish accompanies me through half of Clifton, the beach with its sour, dirty smell against the too-bright glare of whitewashed light. The streets with roads eroded and filled with water because of rain, swarming with mosquitoes. The urchins and the hijras and the thousands of beggars in Ramadan. Streets suddenly plunging into complete darkness because of power cuts.
And of course, Abdullah Shah Ghazi ki mazaar. It twinkles and shines, like a gaudily decked out monarch showing off his jewels. You can blow up as many shrines as you want, and these people will still flock to them.
In the evenings when the air is still and balmy, and there is not a single hint of a breeze.
At 3 am, when the roads are empty and quiet, yet never quite asleep.
At random times when there is nowhere to go, nothing to do except sit around and hang out in someone's room.

It is always the same Karachi. It is in my blood and my heart and my flesh. Karachi, in all its third-world glory, unabashedly proud. It is home, like no place will be.

You leave a million heartbreaks in your wake, with each turn of every season. For what? Alternatively flitting and stumbling through life and love, this restlessness will turn one day into a pain you cannot ignore, and from there on the curse will take its toll as the seasons you fled tie you in their threads of spun silk that just won't tear. One day there will be a sky to look at, but no sun that holds meaning for you and there will be nothing left in your name or later, your memory.
You will be a speck of dust, and they will walk over you like you did over them. They will not notice, and you will not startle, for you will not be what you were: there will no longer be a tiny, golden deity. Instead, you will be what you never thought you could become. An inconsequential grain of unremarkable brown sand.
And then, you will wonder.
How is that for change?

They call it the City of Lights but it don't shine here no more.