Romanticizing the streets of Karachi: A Love Story

Reading Time : 2 minutes

A staggering tale

The city of lights has always been a home to immense and intricate forms of art. If anything, our beloved, Karachi, has given its people an expression that outgrows misery. This expression lingers in the shrapnel studded like diamonds in the walls of every nook and cranny, empowering grief that is artistic more than it can ever be saddening; outrageous stories of romance budding from the slums like an ache that forever pulsates in our hearts. Etched in the seams of these streets are echoing gunshots that leave a message for anyone who dares question: what good is left of this city?

Of love that is sweat and dust

I scamper through the kitchen, quick few sips of chai at 8 in the morning, running late as always. No wonder when we say that people of Karachi always have a reason to be up early; they barely sleep. It’s always sweat and dust when you talk about the weather. The scorching sun burns its yellows into the walls as I set out for work.

And ugly potholes

When I think of Karachi, I don’t think of the potholes, puddles of sewage and heaps of trash upon heaps of trash. I can barely remember it on the streets, where cars from every direction pour in like an army of ants. The only difference is that ants are a little more organized. I hear horns of every kind blasting on the other side of the world— the one outside my car. In this city, everyone’s headed in the same direction somehow— no direction.

Of smiles

The security guards across the street have seen my car passing by so often to be finally able to recognize me. There’s something about their faces as they light up with a smile every time I wave at them. Something so familiar that it’s almost beyond understandable how we make a home out of tiny things that keep us moving every day.

That throb like an ache

With an ache threaded down my spine like a promise of forever budding, I stand across my office building. Walls stained in spittle of paan, bullet-holes from the terrorist attack on the Chinese embassy and poorly done graffiti, “Pakistan Zindabad”, how hurried were these people, I think. What stories do they hide, sheathed under their wrist-long sleeves that talk of blood more than blooming? What is the cost of love, if not closing your eyes shut?

Of smiles worth dying for

A trickle of silvery sweat trails down my forehead—sigh. When I talk about falling in love with this city, this is what I mean. Some days it’s grace and some days it’s grief. What could have been, I wonder, as I step into the building. I think love has different ways of coming at us. It could linger somewhere in the horror of crashing into another pothole, or in the subtle sway of the windshield wipers in the last-ditch hope of beating the storm. I smile.

But one thing is unmistakable, whatever it may come as, this city makes sure, it’s terrible; every bit of it, worth a story to be written and be remembered.