Mobile Virus Hoax
Summers have long seemed the most appropriate time for love's beginning to writers and poets. Even though Karachi's own summers aren't exactly close to that poetic ideal (yesterday's maximum recorded temperature was 36 C, humidity was not as high at 29% but the load shedding schedule, at least in my locality, ran from 7 PM to 10 PM), but the character and spirit of some of Karachi's worst effected citizens to take into their stride, any and everything the summer season offers, is not to be underestimated. Yesterday was back-to-school day for me and after nearly a month and half of post exam holidays, when I went back to my college yesterday, that determination to enjoy the summer, despite its many tests, was at full display.
The morning's van journey would see the van driver return to play, customarily in maximum pitch, the same old dance remixes of the even older Indian music numbers from the black-and-white era (oh how I miss now the wonderful days of Muharram, the Islamic month when Shia Muslims mourn the martyrdom of the Prophet Muhammad's grandson Hazrat Ali, and no music is hence played in 'religious respect', and my ears spared of this aberrant noise pollution).
Then there would be the familiar faces of old friends and returning seniors, and amongst us all, some fresh juniors as well. The fashion trends, even a style-impassive person like my self could sense, had already changed to some extent; shirts were shorter (and tighter) still for the girls, and closing the top few buttons of your shirt was seemingly a fashion crime for the boys (and there I was thinking one of the easier ways to avoid complete dehydration in this weather was to adjust your clothing for minimum sun exposure).
But the surest indicator of summer's arrival came as we neared the college hospital in Azam Basti. This disparity between rich and poor in this locality is quintessential sub-urban Karachi all year round, but especially in the summers.
Huge, two story houses, with latest model cars standing outside them can be seen as you drive past the broken and sewerage inundated roads in one lane, and almost as huge piles of accumulated garbage meet your eye as you go into the next lane, which incidentally also leads into our college's clinical facility. Much smaller, unpainted cemented houses are seen in these parts, the roads here are less bumpy and ironically aren't flooded by over flowing gutters either, but there aren't many cars. Pathan men on foot inhabit these lanes, and the varied kaleidoscope of views on offer, each tells its own unique story.
Back in December when we came here in the mornings, there would be little groups of men standing around fires ignited out of the abundant paper and wood in the trash, warming themselves in the early morning chill, others would be seated inside a dhaba (small inn-like restaurant) serving oily parathas with tea for breakfast. 'Garam chai aur paratha lelo, aik dam garam lelo' (Get hot tea with bread, get it real hot) use to be their waiter's loud call in Urdu. The dhaba still serves aik dam garam chai aur paratha, but a new juice stand had emerged now within their inn; 'Tazza keeno aur ganney ka juice lelo, aik dam tazza lelo' ('Get fresh orange and sugarcane juice, get it real fresh') is now aptly the waiter's new call.
In the afternoon, this time on the way back from college, lemon juice had been added to the dhaba menu; the Walls ice-cream walla's (ice-cream man's) businesses was going stronger then the makkai walla's (roasted corn seller), and some of the little kids who were playing around in the morning, were still playing, seemingly unfazed by the heat, running around after a stray cat in the area. Still bare foot, still only half dressed.
In the relative comforts of our air conditioned residences and cars, our sun-glasses and sun-blocks covered bodies, as we continue to whine about the heat, I thought, on the way back, eves dropping shamelessly on the conversation of two of my batch matches going back home in their own private cars, may be we miss out on the real joie de vivre of the summer that those kids are able to enjoy.
The hazards of playing on busy streets, and of running around bare foot in environmentally adverse conditions not withstanding, there was an unquestionable bliss that you could see reflecting within their eyes. May be it was just the blithe of their childhood which has made me nostalgic; may be I'm just jealous, of those kids I saw in Azam Basti, and then a few more opposite sea view yesterday, taking a free of cost dip in a pound of accumulated rain water to cool off, jealous that can't even find an inflatable swimming pool to accommodate my size, that I wont be having summer holidays this time either, that I can't seem to enjoy the summer like those kids were doing.
Its worth asking if perhaps, its true, that we've grown so frustrated by the trails and tribulations of the summer, the scorching heat, the worsening traffic, the power outages, the post rain floods, and much more, that we've forgotten how to enjoy the harvests of the summer, the mango season, great new lawn sales, and the actual warmth and sunshine it self. We may find the constant heat a pain, but in other parts of the world, say London, for instance, people actually celebrate when the sun peaks through the clouds.
May be we take things for granted. May be we forget that hell will be hotter. Either way, the summer is here. Seasons greetings everyone.
Zainub Razvi is an opinionated dreamer, intermittent blogger, massive sports fan and aspiring journalist currently resorting to study dentistry instead, she detests bad hair and blogs on cricket at Sundries.
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