Satirical comment on the City of Lights
It is 6:36am; Karachi morning, and being a regular Fajar prayer person; which is to be said before the break of dawn, I am up so early unlike several Karachiites. Though the citizens asleep in their beds at early hours follow the same religion; apart from the foolish pride belonging to tens of different sects each one better than the rest, but the slumber pacifies them more than a note of thanks to God. Amazing, how they would be spending the day on their knees in front of different people muttering forceful notes of thanks and pleases. Life in Karachi is very superficial.
I do not know whether it is my obsession with spiritualism rather than materialism which make me enjoy the calmness every morning. But beneath the peaceful surface of the city’s early pre-sunrise hours there lies chaos and commotion.
As I draw the curtains of my terrace window open; in a suburb house where I have lived for the past decade, I glance at the morning scene. The Akhbaar wala; news paper man, on his scooter is jumping up and down on his seat as he jerks the vehicle to a stop at each gate and while supporting his weight and the scooter’s on one foot as he reaches into his sack. It is not the only weight he supports, there is a responsibility on his shoulders for his wife and several children who have woken up to consume another day’s meals. He throws a newspaper roll bounded like a college degree which he can only dream of for his children. The innocent looking roll of newsprint lands with a thud on the garages safely concealed behind the wooden or iron gates locked with a hundred locks for safety the night before. It feels like the dropping of dynamite in the four walls of a highly concealed foreign embassy for behind the innocence of the black and white paper roll there are stories to run a chill up one’s spine.
A cool breeze blows during the early morning hours on a June summer; an ideal deceit because towards the day’s climax, the heat would have killed many Karachiites. I look up at the grey skies which are constipated like myself. My reason is the severe diet I am on in an attempt to fit into the glam world of social butterflies who speak with an ethos of Miss Universe pageant winners. But the skies have better reasons, testaments from God, probably for the people.
Expectant, I search for signs of rain because the monsoon season hits late July. I look for the typical plump clouds which may break the silence and the rain may decide to show up earlier than expected like the many fresh grad students who would line up for interviews in different firms today, eager to get jobs. But unlike the striving young people in the city, the rain is as disappointing as the Karachi Electric Supply Corporation which keeps the City of Lights in a continuous blackout every summer, in the name of load shedding.
I sip my glass of chilled Olper’s milk sweetened with a tablespoon of Langnese honey, wondering how many people would die today because of the heat stroke. Five times prayers are simply not enough to thank God for the life He’s blessed me with but the comfort displeasingly pricks me each time I am confronted with a reality tale very different from my life. And then when the lights would go off and the elephant generator that my father had installed for us; falling prey to the excellent marketing of people who make these ostentatious summer goods, it would start with a mighty growl returning the power back to normal. I cannot answer my siblings who tease me for my anti-luxury and pro-modesty thoughts because I cannot bring up an explanation on issues like ‘why have I been anti-diamonds since there was a report on Blood Diamonds that I saw at college?’ , ‘why do I wince when my sister leaves food in her plate ever since I have the image of protruding ribcages and bloated bellies from Ethiopia?’ and ‘why am I at ease when I sweat in the sultry heat like the majority of Karachiites?’.
As I listen to sparrows chirp hymns in the praise of God as fluttering from one electric cable to the other, I ponder the ironic turn of events planned for later when the serene morning echoes in praise of God would be drowned by city sounds. These sounds differ from people to people, area to area, neighbourhood to neighbourhood. In lavish and ignorant luxury areas these sounds maybe coming from the stereos of modified cars blasting with rock songs proudly announcing western possession of the mind; however, in slums and city off skirts, these maybe from the rifles and guns firing another round to gift eternal slumber to someone’s father or son, sister or daughter in the name of politics, cast, creed or religious sect. The early morning broadcasts of holy verses on radio and television would convert to a newsfeed which would be counting the toll of people dying due to heat strokes or gunshots like counting the falling wickets of the Pakistan cricket team in a match on which the nation’s pride depends. The senior citizens would keep the political spirit alive and television screens would boast of the authority figures who care more of their pet dogs rather than the country and who would bark louder than them in beating about the ‘Bush’ rather than tending to the electricity issue.
The early morning hours are ones which I spend alone with myself and a glass of milk even though the river of thoughts flows with its regular might. I spend the time to reflect upon myself and acknowledge the benefits and discomforts of the life I live in and decide what niche I occupy in the world. My uneasiness grows; but my hypnosis doesn’t break, as the sun treads up the horizon announcing its might like Hitler or Stalin for that matter. There is an unusual comfort that I wake up early to experience which is missing most of the day; the chirping of the birds, the hissing of leaves with the early morning breeze and the sweat on my back as the heat starts to accelerate.
My trance breaks when I hear the servant call bell and my mother’s voice to call Nasreen the housemaid; a rural woman being forced to work by her husband under the threat to marry another woman because she is labeled useless for bearing no kids. Each person in this cosmopolitan has a story of her or his own. I wonder if my mother needs another errand run before she returns to bed to sleep a little longer giving in to her muscular dystrophy or she is finally up? Stress and anxiety in this city life can gift you with degenerations and disorders like fibromyalgia, anxiety neurosis, social anxiety and osteoarthritis because you have no time to give to yourself in an attempt to pull your loved ones along in life.
But my doubts that the day has finally started are confirmed when my cell phone beeps with an sms from Raza, my ‘Late to bed late to rise’ friend. The ‘late to bed’ routine unlike the stray Karachi youngsters is not because of drugging or drinking with a peer group but because of wrapping up the final college assignments, hanging out with a few decent friends who do not subject him to peer pressure, tending to family issues and spending a little time with himself in recreation. In a place where backstabbers and advantage winners are running loose like maniacs, he is one of those crazy few who would go the extra mile for you without seeking benefit. He and I are of the same age but I find an element of stability in this youth, an internal calmness and satisfaction that I do not have, bursting like the Fourth of July fireworks from this youth. Despite the fact that he would be spending the whole day driving through the traffic jams, sweating in the heat, facing the delays and hunger pangs in his already acid prone stomach, getting labour for the paintjob being done at his place, while his family shops and plans for his elder brother’s wedding, he is wishing me a very good morning with a Salam.
The Salam is a rare commodity from a particular breed of Karachi youngsters; labeled ‘Burgers’ by a satirical comic DJ on radio. The term is an allegory which signifies those who have cast aside their own morals in preference of the western attitude. So, Hi and Bye are considered to be the ‘IN’ thing and when criticized I am asked to ‘Chill Out’ which is slang synonymous for ‘Shut Up’.
The shrill sms puts a spring in my step as I brace myself for the humdrum that would follow during the day. Listening to positive influence; in contrast to the nagging ungrateful one who sip the Red Bull all day to get a boost of energy, works best to make me realize that not everything is bad about Karachi life.
Maybe it is people like these because of whom God’s wrath has not been unleashed like it was on Moen-jo-Daro when the city turned over, Atlantis which sank to never being found, Pompeii which was buried under the volcanic ash of Vesuvius.
You just wish to listen to the pacifying tone of such voices to combat the Karachi summers. Despite the painful blur created by the mixing of noises and images; the scooter engine of the Akhbaar wala, the thud of the newspaper on the garage floor, the chirping of birds, the servant bell, the political speeches and the gunshots, the horns and honks on city streets, the yells and screams of the agitated citizens, there is a sweetness in such voices. There is a message: ‘Life is one big show that must go on’ – a sweetness sweeter than that Langnese honey.
I do not know whether it is my obsession with spiritualism rather than materialism which make me enjoy the calmness every morning. But beneath the peaceful surface of the city’s early pre-sunrise hours there lies chaos and commotion.
As I draw the curtains of my terrace window open; in a suburb house where I have lived for the past decade, I glance at the morning scene. The Akhbaar wala; news paper man, on his scooter is jumping up and down on his seat as he jerks the vehicle to a stop at each gate and while supporting his weight and the scooter’s on one foot as he reaches into his sack. It is not the only weight he supports, there is a responsibility on his shoulders for his wife and several children who have woken up to consume another day’s meals. He throws a newspaper roll bounded like a college degree which he can only dream of for his children. The innocent looking roll of newsprint lands with a thud on the garages safely concealed behind the wooden or iron gates locked with a hundred locks for safety the night before. It feels like the dropping of dynamite in the four walls of a highly concealed foreign embassy for behind the innocence of the black and white paper roll there are stories to run a chill up one’s spine.
A cool breeze blows during the early morning hours on a June summer; an ideal deceit because towards the day’s climax, the heat would have killed many Karachiites. I look up at the grey skies which are constipated like myself. My reason is the severe diet I am on in an attempt to fit into the glam world of social butterflies who speak with an ethos of Miss Universe pageant winners. But the skies have better reasons, testaments from God, probably for the people.
Expectant, I search for signs of rain because the monsoon season hits late July. I look for the typical plump clouds which may break the silence and the rain may decide to show up earlier than expected like the many fresh grad students who would line up for interviews in different firms today, eager to get jobs. But unlike the striving young people in the city, the rain is as disappointing as the Karachi Electric Supply Corporation which keeps the City of Lights in a continuous blackout every summer, in the name of load shedding.
I sip my glass of chilled Olper’s milk sweetened with a tablespoon of Langnese honey, wondering how many people would die today because of the heat stroke. Five times prayers are simply not enough to thank God for the life He’s blessed me with but the comfort displeasingly pricks me each time I am confronted with a reality tale very different from my life. And then when the lights would go off and the elephant generator that my father had installed for us; falling prey to the excellent marketing of people who make these ostentatious summer goods, it would start with a mighty growl returning the power back to normal. I cannot answer my siblings who tease me for my anti-luxury and pro-modesty thoughts because I cannot bring up an explanation on issues like ‘why have I been anti-diamonds since there was a report on Blood Diamonds that I saw at college?’ , ‘why do I wince when my sister leaves food in her plate ever since I have the image of protruding ribcages and bloated bellies from Ethiopia?’ and ‘why am I at ease when I sweat in the sultry heat like the majority of Karachiites?’.
As I listen to sparrows chirp hymns in the praise of God as fluttering from one electric cable to the other, I ponder the ironic turn of events planned for later when the serene morning echoes in praise of God would be drowned by city sounds. These sounds differ from people to people, area to area, neighbourhood to neighbourhood. In lavish and ignorant luxury areas these sounds maybe coming from the stereos of modified cars blasting with rock songs proudly announcing western possession of the mind; however, in slums and city off skirts, these maybe from the rifles and guns firing another round to gift eternal slumber to someone’s father or son, sister or daughter in the name of politics, cast, creed or religious sect. The early morning broadcasts of holy verses on radio and television would convert to a newsfeed which would be counting the toll of people dying due to heat strokes or gunshots like counting the falling wickets of the Pakistan cricket team in a match on which the nation’s pride depends. The senior citizens would keep the political spirit alive and television screens would boast of the authority figures who care more of their pet dogs rather than the country and who would bark louder than them in beating about the ‘Bush’ rather than tending to the electricity issue.
The early morning hours are ones which I spend alone with myself and a glass of milk even though the river of thoughts flows with its regular might. I spend the time to reflect upon myself and acknowledge the benefits and discomforts of the life I live in and decide what niche I occupy in the world. My uneasiness grows; but my hypnosis doesn’t break, as the sun treads up the horizon announcing its might like Hitler or Stalin for that matter. There is an unusual comfort that I wake up early to experience which is missing most of the day; the chirping of the birds, the hissing of leaves with the early morning breeze and the sweat on my back as the heat starts to accelerate.
My trance breaks when I hear the servant call bell and my mother’s voice to call Nasreen the housemaid; a rural woman being forced to work by her husband under the threat to marry another woman because she is labeled useless for bearing no kids. Each person in this cosmopolitan has a story of her or his own. I wonder if my mother needs another errand run before she returns to bed to sleep a little longer giving in to her muscular dystrophy or she is finally up? Stress and anxiety in this city life can gift you with degenerations and disorders like fibromyalgia, anxiety neurosis, social anxiety and osteoarthritis because you have no time to give to yourself in an attempt to pull your loved ones along in life.
But my doubts that the day has finally started are confirmed when my cell phone beeps with an sms from Raza, my ‘Late to bed late to rise’ friend. The ‘late to bed’ routine unlike the stray Karachi youngsters is not because of drugging or drinking with a peer group but because of wrapping up the final college assignments, hanging out with a few decent friends who do not subject him to peer pressure, tending to family issues and spending a little time with himself in recreation. In a place where backstabbers and advantage winners are running loose like maniacs, he is one of those crazy few who would go the extra mile for you without seeking benefit. He and I are of the same age but I find an element of stability in this youth, an internal calmness and satisfaction that I do not have, bursting like the Fourth of July fireworks from this youth. Despite the fact that he would be spending the whole day driving through the traffic jams, sweating in the heat, facing the delays and hunger pangs in his already acid prone stomach, getting labour for the paintjob being done at his place, while his family shops and plans for his elder brother’s wedding, he is wishing me a very good morning with a Salam.
The Salam is a rare commodity from a particular breed of Karachi youngsters; labeled ‘Burgers’ by a satirical comic DJ on radio. The term is an allegory which signifies those who have cast aside their own morals in preference of the western attitude. So, Hi and Bye are considered to be the ‘IN’ thing and when criticized I am asked to ‘Chill Out’ which is slang synonymous for ‘Shut Up’.
The shrill sms puts a spring in my step as I brace myself for the humdrum that would follow during the day. Listening to positive influence; in contrast to the nagging ungrateful one who sip the Red Bull all day to get a boost of energy, works best to make me realize that not everything is bad about Karachi life.
Maybe it is people like these because of whom God’s wrath has not been unleashed like it was on Moen-jo-Daro when the city turned over, Atlantis which sank to never being found, Pompeii which was buried under the volcanic ash of Vesuvius.
You just wish to listen to the pacifying tone of such voices to combat the Karachi summers. Despite the painful blur created by the mixing of noises and images; the scooter engine of the Akhbaar wala, the thud of the newspaper on the garage floor, the chirping of birds, the servant bell, the political speeches and the gunshots, the horns and honks on city streets, the yells and screams of the agitated citizens, there is a sweetness in such voices. There is a message: ‘Life is one big show that must go on’ – a sweetness sweeter than that Langnese honey.
