Something's fishy

Yesterday, I left work a little late then my usual 7 pm. I spot eight-wheelers all around; trucks, heavy vehicles sporting emblems of obscure mexicana traders and jagozai groups. The air is heavy, smelling of sea. There is a frivilous activity all around me. Honking cars, buses with sing-a-song horns, bellowing trucks and over enthusiastic women shoppers. Whats up? Karachi seems suddenly a bit too charged up to me. Everything audible has been multplied by 100 decibels.

I am not confined to my Alto, today, where I can slide-up the glass and turn up the radio. I am driving my dad's old car today, his first ever. Still intact after eighteen years of committed service. An 800 suzuki mehran. My car was hit few days back. I had forgotten how my city looked like behind the facade of this atrocious driving and maddening traffic, behind cluttered buildings and frenzied morning drives, behind tight-deadlines and boxed food.

I spot this guy in plain shalwar kameez driving a sheriff's bike. The mini-bus driver shares a laugh with him leaning halfway from his driver's seat. I feel like laughing too. The irony of pseudo-policewalah in real time.

The sights and sounds of Karachi are still very much there, ready to be devoured, to be cherished. We choose.