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.