This story is about us, the citizens of Karachi, called ‘resilient’ every year, but fast running out of resilience … and hope.
It was almost deja vu. We’d walked through this foul water before. Felt our way through barely recognisable streets from memory. When you live in a city like Karachi, it almost begins to feel normal. And yet, nothing can get you used to the fact that you — the privileged you, who has made a living out of writing on the city’s myriad governance issues — will be among the thousands stranded in water-clogged streets as you experience it in real time. Time and again.
In 2020, when Karachi witnessed one of its worst floods in decades — it can’t definitively be the worst because we like beating our own records — my dad and I walked back home, to Garden West, from I.I. Chundrigar Road in waist-high floodwaters.
At 55, my father was surprisingly surefooted with the stride of a mountain goat. He dragged me through the deluge, all the while making sure to keep an eye open for potholes, ragged stones and bare electric wires. He even cracked a joke here and there to ensure that the neurotransmitters in my brain remained balanced.
Five years on, as we relived the ordeal, wading through a mix of sewerage and rain water on the night of August 19, it suddenly dawned on me how drastically things had changed. The roles had reversed, and I hadn’t even realised it until we were in the thick of the storm.
Over 150mm of rain and Karachi had once again sunk. Why that happens every time and what the authorities are doing about it are questions all of us Karachiites ask every monsoon season. By now, we have come up with newer and better questions: Why does the mayor keep pretending all is well even as thousands of Karachi’s citizens remain stranded? Why can’t we plan better? Is it getting worse with each passing year? Is this the new normal?
Unfortunately, nothing has changed about the responses. It is a tale told and heard a gazillion times: “Jab zyada barish ati hay to zyada pani ata hay.”
I have been told I don’t learn from my mistakes (I get that from my dad), and so, living up to the reputation, I was at my workplace at 10am sharp on Tuesday. It had already begun raining before I logged onto my computer. The weather apps flashed red with warnings of rain that was going to last the entire day. But I was unfazed.
When are these predictions ever accurate? So I got to work, resolute and focused to file the story that was sitting in my drafts for days. At around 1pm, my boss came in and cautioned of an impending rainstorm. “Leave now,” he warned.
I brushed him off initially, but then it did start raining quite heavily. By 3pm, the sky was hidden behind thick and dark clouds, intimidating us. I immediately called my dad. “What’s the plan?” I asked him. He told me to stay put, his soothing voice devoid of any worry or anxiety.
And that’s exactly what I did. Even when nerves got the best of my colleagues, I remained calm. “Abba hain naa,” I thought to myself. You see, my father and I are partners in crime and despair. And in my head, it was supposed to stay the same forever; he would handle everything, he was invincible, and age, well, that was just a number.
Little did I know that this city was going to prove me painfully wrong. It gets to the strongest of us.
By 6pm, panic had started to settle into our building. There was a mess outside — a massive traffic jam, inundated roads and a downpour that just wouldn’t stop. And then, to make matters worse, the power went out. As the clock struck 8pm, the water levels on the main arteries had risen significantly, and it was pitch black.
I got a call. Father was downstairs. I was told to leave my bag upstairs and come with essentials — mobile phone and spectacles — tightly packed in a plastic bag. I did as told, and when I got to the main gate of our building, my lanky dad stood in drenched clothes and jeans folded up to his knees. He had already done some walking.
He was smiling his usual toothy smile, but the stress lines were evident on his face. There was no way to get home but to walk. He gripped my hand and we began the long journey ahead of us.
As we waded through the waters in front of Shaheen Complex, mixed with a bit of everything from rainwater to raw effluent, a feeling of disgust crept through me. Immediately, my father’s hand tightened around mine, this time not to give support but to take it as his foot got entangled in a floating plastic bag.
At 60, he was recently diagnosed with Carpal tunnel syndrome — a condition caused when the median nerve, in the carpal tunnel of the wrist, becomes compressed.
He kept losing his footing, almost falling twice if I hadn’t caught him in time. When he almost stepped on a bare electric wire, I didn’t hold back in scolding him, and henceforth made sure to make a small announcement every time I saw one.
These announcements continued even when a slope or steps came along the way. “Acha acha, baap ko mat sikhao,” he would say, laughing it off while also listening intently. At some instances, especially when we moved from a footpath to the main road, I took the first step to make sure that the ground beneath was solid, feeling with my feet where the eyes couldn’t see through the murky water.
In a few spots, I fumbled and almost fell headfirst into the water, but, miraculously, I ended up restoring my balance and that of my father. Later at night, I saw how these instances had left red scars on my feet.
In other places, when I faltered, strangers, who were probably as vulnerable as we were in that moment, signalled an open manhole, a leaking drain or a rocky crater. Even when nothing was said, their presence alone was comforting.
We were all one, abandoned in our struggle against a force we had no control over. A man dragging his wife on a motorcycle through the inundated streets. A group of chador-clad women walking back home, cursing at every passing car that splashed water on them. A father and daughter, walking almost two hours to get home, otherwise a 20-minute drive.
When we finally got to the road opposite the Pearl Continental Hotel, the water on the roads receded from our waists down to our toes. At first, we tried to stop a rickshaw, but every one of them was occupied. Some stopped in a frenzy, not to give us a ride, but to ask for directions.
So we continued our trek. There were moments when I would walk fast, too fast for dad to keep pace. I could see him heaving, out of breath, but not saying anything, and so I would slow down, the same way he did five years ago.
After walking for 10 more minutes, we stopped outside a shut-down bank along the route to take shelter under a leaky makeshift shed. By then, the rain was accompanied by gusts of strong wind, and so a break was necessary. We stood there, both looking intently at the road and the cars passing by, trying to gauge the velocity of the rain droplets.
Suddenly, a man, attired in the uniform of a security guard, walked up to us. “Sir, ma’am, please take our seats,” he offered in the sweetest tone. We refused politely, but he was so insistent that my father had to give in. A few minutes later, he brought two glasses of water. It was later that I realised how this small act of kindness helped dad cover a long distance on foot.
To think of it, he understood it before I did — I was the one in charge now; looking out for potholes, stones, and bare electric wires, cracking a joke now and then, and criticising the administration that was nowhere to be seen.
When we finally reached the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine — which is just a few kilometres from my current residence — we stopped. I was tired and worn out. So was he, but he tried his best not to show it. We decided to get a ride home. Fortunately, we were lucky to find one.
Had my father been in the lead, he would have made sure that both of us walked all the way, that he didn’t show his fatigue to me, and that he reclaimed his title of being the saviour for the umpteenth time. I may be his daughter, but I am not him, no matter how much we resemble, both physically and in personality.
“Baap to baap hi hota hai,” he joked later that night at the dinner table when I shared details of the journey with my family. And while everyone giggled, I couldn’t help but feel the invisible weight of living in a city where everything changes but nothing changes.
And this isn’t just about me or my dad. It is about the sister who called me a dozen times, worried sick, because she couldn’t reach my 25-year-old colleague. It is about the stranded Foodpanda rider I saw near Teen Talwar. It is about my friend whose newly bought car, a white Alto, was submerged in water on Sharea Faisal. It is also about our maid who didn’t have electricity for nearly two days.
It is about us, the citizens of Karachi, called ‘resilient’ every year, but fast running out of resilience … and hope.