Ten Things I Hate About Karachi

Originally conceived for, and published in, Dawn, this was supposed to be a top ten. As such things do, things spiralled rapidly out of control and one or two brainstorming sessions later became a top 20 as there were too many things to talk about. After much haranguing from my editor, it was reduced back down to ten. Then, the bane of all rambling-on-and-on writers everywhere, the dreaded Word Count Limit came into force, resulting in a further truncation and bringing the final list in published form down to five. Perhaps, in time, the remaining 15 shall also see the light of day…

There is a city that often will convince you that you are living in a Faustian nightmare of souls stained and damned. Its residents take a near-perverse pleasure in recounting the latest horrible incident to befall them or a close relative on the streets of this town. Urban legends mix in with true tales of horrible goings-on, and each take on mythological proportions. Its beaches are littered with the detritus of a million shattered dreams, their sands stained black by a million broken ideals.

A little to the West of this city, lies Karachi. Like a younger sibling eager to please Big Brother B, this city too has its share of carefully cultivated irritants designed to make life interesting for its residents at every juncture. After a meticulously developed and executed research program that involved a total of two phone calls, I have compiled the following top five list.

5:         The Red Light Carousel. That is the official name of the continuously changing fairground ride that stopping at a traffic signal earns you in the City of (KESC-willing) Lights. The varieties of human, animal and mineral wealth that are on display at the average intersection are too many to list, but the irritant-in-chief for me is a double act. The first phase is an invasion from the Planet of the Apes. A handler will deposit his pet monkey upon your windscreen, trained to place its bum in a manner carefully calculated to ensure maximum smearage, and then ask you for money in order to take the creature away.

In the second phase, a street urchin (Urchin: n. A prickly creature that is difficult to shake off once it latches onto you) falls upon your windscreen with all the glee of a wedding guest when faced with the last gulab jamun, insisting on cleaning your windscreen with his/her handy squeegee, laced with a liquid on whose origin it is best not to speculate. The incremental cleaning affect of this treatment is debatable, but at least, in the manner of the socialist programs of the old USSR, it redistributes the bum smearage from the monkey in a more equitable manner.

4:         Mobile malls. What the hell is that? A mall that moves around to a new neighbourhood every so often like a carnival?

3:         Graffiti glorifying dubious ‘gangs’ of youths who are affluent enough to afford spray paint, and mobile enough to place their strange tags on walls in the most exclusive parts of town, private security guards notwithstanding. These MTV-watching, wannabe-brother-from-the-hood types and their antics are abhorrent to me purely because their antics exhibit a distinct excess of money and lack of respect for other peoples’ property combined. Not to mention a proliferation of swearwords that often accompanies their inkings, which further underlines their lack of maturity and complete absence of creativity of any sort. These self-styled streetwise creatives have probably never even heard of Banksy.

It's sad that a style of personal expression that is synonymous with urban decay in the Western world has turned into a bourgeoisie indulgence closer to home; the real ghetto youth can't afford cans of spray paint. 

This is not to be confused with a city quirk that is common to this region and always provides a welcome diversion, especially in inner city traffic jams: advertising graffiti in the Urinating Dog style – so called because it was made famous by wall chalkings proclaiming all passers by to look at the dog that was urinating on said wall - often there would be no dog, but a dozen or so people doing their business against the message.

The graffiti most often advertises cures for “secret illnesses”; raising the question: if the illness is secret, than how can it be known, let alone cured? Also common are advertisements for aphrodisiacs and other ‘performance enhancing drugs’, clinics specialising in a narrow range of (embarrassingly well-described) male illnesses, and specialists of reversing the effects of black magic, begging the question: where do specialists of bringing into being the effects of black magic advertise?

2:         The Persistent Panhandler. This is a specie that is different from the regular alms-seeker, in that they are equipped physically and emotionally for the long haul. If your window is turned up, the better to protect you from the heat and our ‘TT’ wielding friends whose need for your mobile phone is greater than your own, the Persistent Panhandler will start with a rousing spiel in an exotic dialect, exhorting you to loosen your purse strings for the sake of their ailing/starving/both family.

The volume level is carefully modulated to penetrate the windscreen of your vehicle as well as cut across the inane ramblings of the dubious-accented “arejay” on the city’s 89^th FM station (does the man realise that a counter revolution is an effort in support of the status quo, or did he pick the name for his show because it sounded cool? The latter, I assume). If the exhortations fail to move you, he/she is equipped with a fistful of rings with which to rap on your screen in a manner aimed to make you worry for the continued existence of your windowpanes.

The only saving grace in the panoply of persistent panhandlers is the subspecies Hejarah Chechodamus, commonly referred to as the Witty Eunuch. These creatures normally sashay up to you in some style, and their opening salvo is normally a flirtatious comment aimed at your appearance. Seeing a friend turn increasingly brighter shades of pink upon being referred to as ‘the one with intoxicating eyes’, ‘Frenchie’ or likened to a Bollywood hero is worth the price of admission, although having their attentions turned onto you can sometimes be less than enjoyable (especially is your friends sing songs at you about intoxicating eyes for the rest of the evening).

1:         The fact that, when all is said and done, this city is unique, and insidious to boot. You may moan and groan all you like about all the things that you are irritated by on a daily basis, but when you come right down to it, there is no other place like it. I for one know that I could never call any other place, ‘home’.

International Women's Day - Equal in Inequality?

As I flicked channels last night, I came across a rerun of a morning show in which the guest for the day was the host’s maid, accompanied by the maid’s mother. Once I had figured out that this was not some new low in terms of paucity of content but a special “International Womens’ Day” episode, two thoughts crossed my mind. The first was, ‘this maid is definitely going to ask for a massive raise in the next week or so.’ The second was, ‘how come there is no “International Mens’ Day”?

Before a morcha forms outside my door, let me hastily add that I am not some chip off the misogynistic MPA bloc. I am as much pro-feminism as the next guy (as long as the next guy is not a chip off the mysoginistic MPA bloc). It’s just that, there is no day for celebrating masculinity the way there is a defined day to celebrate femininity. And, especially in the lawn exhibition season, when the credit card bills mount and the car availability shrinks, it would be nice to have a bit of a celebration to.. err… celebrate.

Imagine the scene: a morning show hosted by a man who thinks Shahrukh Khan spends his evenings looking in the mirror working on his impression of said host. He flicks his hair back, being theatrically tousled by a breeze, and introduces as his guest for the day the boy who cleans his shoes. The boy, accompanied by his father (who is also employed by the host as the carrier of a pedestal fan to ensure a gentle hair tousling breeze is ever present wherever he goes), states over and over that the host is a great employer whose shoes are never too muddy. The host spends two hours looking patronising and feels his duty to underprivileged men duly discharged.

International Mens’ Day would also be the day when hundreds of urban begums would seriously jeopardise their paraffin manicures to celebrate masculinity, as their cooks would have the day off, they would need to spend the day slaving over a hot telephone ordering in food for the day (prepared by men in takeaway kitchens – after all, if Portugese grilled chicken vendors don’t give their staff a day off on the International Day of the Worker, then this would be a far cry indeed). Job done, they could then coo about how they gave their staff the day off to celebrate the occasion with the rest of their lunch party crowd.

There would also be a series of television shows celebrating manhood, but not in a Ron Jeremy kind of way. These would largely be watched by women, as their airing would clash with some form of televised sport or the other. After all, even watching the World Paint Drying Championships would be a more enjoyable option than having multiple channels airing shows with more or less the same cast of characters in each, mouthing the words to their last hits (from maybe two years ago), interspersed with commercial breaks that are longer than the programming it is designed to supplement.

International Womens’ Day is, after all, supposed to celebrate the struggle for liberation and equal rights. Which is why, perhaps, it is celebrated the most by the ones who have the most of both. In a society such as ours, then, where both are lacking, surely it makes sense for those few who have a modicum of either to celebrate their blessed status. For we are all equal in inequality, are we not?

Originally printed in Dawn, March 2011

Karachi Counterpoint

There is a famous saying: “Nothing changes; nothing stays the same”. When I sat down to put pen to paper today, this phrase kept coming back to me, for I was writing about the different things we Karachiites do to amuse ourselves. Even the most blessed among us would not disagree that day to day life in the City of Lights (and it seems like I am the only one who uses this former name any more) is more stressful now, than ever before. And yet there is this nagging feeling in many; that this, too, shall pass. And, like the generations that have gone before, we Karachiwallahs of today are as determined to enjoy our times of peace to the fullest as we ever were.

Nothing changes; nothing stays the same. When I was growing up, weddings were rescheduled at the last moment due to the venue being in a ‘curfew’ area. Now, weddings are rescheduled at the last moment as the venue has been changed into a high security zone and all bookings unceremoniously cancelled.

Nothing changes; nothing stays the same. A generation ago, ‘going crabbing’ meant going out into a rickety launch, laying some traps down in the Kemari harbor, and catching what one caught. With the harbor waters now resembling the contents of the average septic tank, this is no longer possible, so you have three options. The first is to go out into the harbor in a rickety launch, and eat crabs that have been caught earlier in the day, several miles away. This is still as much fun as the original, with all the benefits of the sea breeze, the journey itself, etc.

For those who prefer to be able to see what they eat, the captains of the ship (somehow they all seem to be called Saleem) will also happily come over to your house with their trusty kerosene stove, and cook the goodies in your kitchen, clean plates and all. And if even that is too unhygienic for you, just ring up a new service advertised on a website for snobbish Karachiites, and have the finished product delivered to your door.

Nothing changes; nothing stays the same. Street food remains king, whether it is on ‘food streets’, or just regular old streets, where food can be bought. You can enjoy a gourmet meal at a bistro on a food street with a high cover charge (the better to keep out the riffraff), or a bun kabab (diesel fumes thrown in for free) at a street-corner where the seller has been using the same family recipe for three generations. Which tastes better? The answer to that lies in the tastebuds of the beholder.

And when it comes to eating out, nothing beats the Chinese restaurant. These purveyors of Hot and Sour Soup and Chicken Manchurian are the great social levelers of our times. The preferred restaurant of a family spans the entire age spectrum, sometimes four generations can be seen contesting the last piece of spring roll. And not only do these restaurants help bridge the gap between generations, they are second only to the seaside in equaling socio-economic divides. People will drive great distances to partake of the Sticky Chicken from their preferred restaurant-in-a-bungalow, and think nothing of sitting cheek-by-jowl with another family from a part of town they may not even have heard of.

Nothing changes; nothing stays the same. Weekend afternoons can comfortably be whiled away at the weekly bazaar. It used to be held on a Friday, and now is held on a Sunday. What remains in common is the fruit and vegetable stalls, the booksellers from Khori Garden, sorting through whose wares can easily take up half a day if you are not careful, the street urchins willing to carry your bags for you, and the outlets selling cut-price cooking oil. What has changed (other than the day it is held) is the proliferation of shops selling the castoffs of European charity stores, from clothes to broken-down toys, always worth a rummage just in case you can find a working Lightsabre.

Nothing changes; nothing stays the same. Hundreds of families still ‘go to Clifton’ to ‘eat the air’. The Hully Gully and the Pirate Ship are still there, only now as an aside to the Ibn e Qasim Park. However, just like that huge clock tower in Makkah does not at all steal the thunder from the reason you are there, the huge expanse of grass, even in a city as devoid of them as Karachi, does not detract from the dodgem cars.

Of course, the Ibn e Qasim Park does not open till the late afternoon. So, if you want to sneak away from college for an illicit date (complete with school bag and uniform in some cases), there is only one venue for you, just as always: the zoo. There are plenty of secluded spaces where a bit of sneaked hand-holding can be managed away from the prying eyes of school groups and Maya Khan-types, and so what if Anarkali has departed for the great big herd in the sky? In her place you have two new pachyderms to make friends with; Madhubala and Noorjehan. Not to mention the half-eunuch, half-stuffed fox that is Mumtaz Mahal, always worth the (two rupee) price of admission.

At the seaside too, some things change, while others stay the same. Sea View no longer has the beached shipwreck so many Karachiites grew up with, although the camels and horses remain. Hawkes’ Bay and its associated beaches have not changed much at all in the last few years (the absence of lifeguards and the sad news stories of drowned picnickers included), complete with snake charmers, hawkers and pye-dogs. And, although Paradise Point has lost a lot of its mystique as the iconic blow hole has eroded away, and Devil’s Point its cachet due to a nice smooth road leading weekenders thence, there are few things the residents of this city would rather do than head for the seaside when there is some leisure time to be had.

That, then, is Karachi in a nutshell. A city which finds stability in its instability, constancy in its change. And, of course, for its ‘entertainment starved’ population, its leisure wherever and whenever it can be had. 

Originally written for Dawn, 2012.