lonely

It’s interesting to note that for a city like Karachi, which is sometimes called a metropolis by some, and cosmopolitan by others, there is no place for someone who wants to walk the streets. There is no area, even those that are deemed the “happening” places where one can just walk, shop and stop for a bite to eat, while watching a place that is pleasant, leave alone beautiful to look at.

Why this is the case, no one can really say. Perhaps in their minds, for the elite of the city, there is no real reason for mere beauty. Perhaps all that is needed are the ‘happening’ parties or restaurants where one can mingle with those that belong to the same class and background. There really is no need for any added interaction with anyone else.

For me, walking silently on my own has always been an ideal pastime. Walking the streets of New York, just watching the others passing by, would be an experience into itself. There was no need for another; me and New York would be enough. We’d give each other company, wherever I went, and have a grand old time.

But today, I am undeniably lonely. And perhaps, I have just come to terms with it in the sense that I don’t particularly make an effort of any sort to move ahead, and pull myself out of this loneliness. It is enough for me to blame my so-called bad luck on circumstances and bad decisions, in order to justify the pathetic state that is my life, for the most part at least.

And I can’t help but be discontent about the way things are. There has to be more for me. There is a whole world out there, isn’t there, that is beautiful, invigorating, and perhaps the most important quality – that it is unreachable? Perhaps it is human nature – or at least mine for the most part, to be discontent, snide and nasty about the life I have; perhaps it is only by looking down on what I have can I justify it.

Odd, isn’t it?

Lonley?

alone or lonely?

It's interesting to see that despite increased communication technologies, we're still a little more lonely than we were before. I don't know if this is just because as we grow older, we become more choosy, or whether we just become even more self-involved and see our solitude as a melodramatic sanctuary, in which we glorify our existence just for the sake of justifying it.

The Illusion.

Somewhere far away, there lies a path. The path leads to the top of a hill, where the wind blows, and the sun shines all the time.

That was the place where we sat; exchanging our laughter and joys. We sat there quietly sometimes, without speaking; words weren’t necessary then, our presence was enough. Thoughts could be exchanged by a mere flicker of eyelids.

Then the seasons came and went. Summer left us, and autumn welcomed us with its burnished fires. And then came the winter, when everything froze – as if frozen in time. Only the memories remained and the silences spoke to each other, a thought at a time.

The path still remains, leading to that hill. The sun doesn’t shine there anymore, though. Now the memories grow dim, perhaps reality never occurred. Perhaps it was a mere illusion, perhaps it was all a cruel joke that life tends to play on us, to make us realize the importance of companionship and friendship.

There the laughter rose, friendship was a reality; now it’s a mere memory that dims each day, and is lit again and again by the tired hopes, and is threatened to be engulfed in the mists of sorrow.

an illusion?

The story is an old one. And yet it lives on. All that happened, happened a long time ago. Or so it seems. Time has gone by and things have changed. I still search for that path, that let to that hill. The hill where the shiny green trees danced under the golden sunshine by day, and the silver moonlight by night. Perhaps it was an illusion, or a mere figment of an over active imagination? I don’t quite know yet.

New York to Karachi

Walking on the dusty streets of Karachi, he would sometimes think of New York City. He did not compare the two; really, there really was no comparison. He thought of the different moods of NYC, where he used to work in the Empire State Building. He remembered the hurry at 5:00p.m, when everyone rushed into the Subway station at Herald Square.

After work, he would sometimes go downtown, taking the faithful F train to west 4th street, where he found a very different atmosphere. Life began in the evenings here; the air was calmer, where throngs of people entered bars after work. Here, trees lined the roads if he went deeper south. Little cafes, bookstores and bars crowded those streets.

In Karachi, the atmosphere was similar in most places: a feeling of bewilderment engulfed the city. Dust and pollution rose from the streets, where people moved in an utterly chaotic manner, devoid of any organization; they jumped on buses, they hung out of buses. They rode on motorbikes; they hailed the noisy rickshaws and screamed at the erratic traffic. They hooted the horns for no reason; they crowded the streets and tried to cross the crazed roads. They walked slowly sometimes, on those tired streets, and yet managed somehow to keep smiling. There was a different charge in this city, he could not quite define it.

When he went to Clifton, he saw a range of people: some were poor, who had come to watch the sea as a means of entertainment with their families, women carrying their children, ecstatic at being there.

And then there were the so-called elite, who drove nice new cars that were air-conditioned, who walked with an arrogance they weren’t aware of, for this was their backyard, this was where they came on a daily basis with their friends, to talk, to laugh, to “hang out”.

They did not glance at the poor old men who were selling chanas on the streets, trying to make a sorry living. They were oblivious of those people who had trudged from their poverty stricken neighborhoods in crowded buses, to come to Park Towers, to watch the expensive stores and the people in them in awe and amazement, at their clothes and mannerisms.

For the elite, life was a picnic; they did not need to go anywhere else in the world, for they had everything they needed. When He looked at them, he felt more of an alien than ever. He had felt more at home in NYC, where 5 out of ten people were immigrants. He had not been rich there, but he had managed to enjoy the little things in life; he had sat in the outdoor bars in the village, and enjoyed a cold beer. Here, alcohol was an illegal vice; there was no open drinking. Drinking was more of an elitist activity here. He did not fit in with the elite, he felt inadequate with his pathetic little job at a newspaper.

And try as he might he did not have the willingness to change himself, to adapt. For all he had was himself, so he resigned himself to the oblivion of loneliness. Yet, he didn’t feel sorry for himself – why should he? He merely watched and observed this new city which was supposedly his home with the careful and indifferent gaze of a stranger, wondering how these poor people managed to smile, to celebrate and enjoy their lives despite the daily hardships and the disdain they face. He noticed these people more than anything, and wondered in amazement at their ability to laugh. He himself did not remember smiling, let alone laughing since he had come here.

So he sat on the beach, observing the public entertain themselves by watching performing monkeys and taking camel and donkey rides along the dirt-grey sand. The women were dressed in their traditional garb of shalwar kameez, which covered their entire bodies in the wrenching august heat. Some of them were carrying babies in the crook of their arms, and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Again, he gazed in wonder at their ability to enjoy so little; that was what surprised him. To him, the people of Pakistan seemed to have more willingness to be happy, despite their everyday hardships of water, electricity, pollution and dirt. Maybe it was because of these problems that they could appreciate the few carefree hours they spent on this dirty polluted beach. Or maybe they had realized that they only had a few moments of laughter assigned to their lives, and they had long ago decided that no matter what they would enjoy those few hours.

He didn’t understand this way of living at all, it was all alien to him. So there he stood, watching, observing, inhaling this strange way of life of this new city that was now his home.