Karachi, You're Killing Me!

by Saba Imtiaz

  Consider lying about why I’m home rather than telling my father that I am an enormous failure and furthermore now unemployed and planning to live off him for the unforeseeable future. Take a deep breath, my stomach full of the same nerves I had when I had to tell him years ago that I was failing Calculus. ‘I actually quit my job today,’ I say, stammering slightly.

  ‘Oh, well that’s okay beta.’

  ‘You’re fine with this?’ How is this possible? My father has never advocated quitting. If he had, I would’ve left business school after the first semester.

  ‘Of course I am. In fact, I have been worried about you for quite a while. You were clearly very unhappy,’ my father says, as the cat yowls, hoping to get his attention. ‘You were always tired, you didn’t eat well, and I don’t say anything because you don’t listen, but you were drinking too much.’

  I can feel my eyes welling up. ‘Are you disappointed in me?’

  He gets up and hugs me. ‘In my brave, hardworking daughter? Of course not, beta. Your happiness is the most important thing to me.’ I’m so moved, I can’t even look at him. I look down.

  ‘This means that I won’t be getting paid for a while…’ I don’t quite know how to say that I have absolutely no savings and will need to ask him for money to pay the bootlegger and buy cigarettes.

  ‘Beta, money doesn’t matter. Just tell me how much you’ll need every month, and don’t worry about anything.’

  ‘I don’t know why you fret, you’ve always been my favourite daughter,’ my father says. I feel an enormous lump in my throat and turn to him with watery eyes. He’s talking to the cat who is gazing up at him adoringly.

  8 p.m.: My father’s reassurances aside, my stomach is still twisted into knots. I’d always imagined striking out on my own, but not after having a messy fight with my boss and walking out with no backup options. Spend the rest of the evening in and out of a cold sweat wondering why I didn’t have anything at all lined up before flouncing out of the Daily News. My heart feels heavy, and my breath keeps catching in my throat. I know I need to cry and get this out of my system. It feels like I’ve failed at everything. For years, I’ve focused all of my energy and time on my career because trying to work at relationships with douchebags like Hasan just didn’t seem to make sense. But now, nothing seems right. I couldn’t stop myself from liking Jamie, who unlike Hasan, actually seemed to understand the kind of life I led. But I couldn’t do anything when the fucker stole my story and ruined my life. I try to envision scenarios where I somehow exact a delicious revenge.

  Yeah, right, Ayesha. You’re going to bring down a beloved CNN correspondent. Even if he is a chootiya.

  Text. Perhaps it’s Zara coming over with some booze? Or Kamran begging me to come back to work with the lure of a massive pay rise?

  ‘Married or Getting Married Soon?

  Introducing Men-Taur, Ultra Men Power!

  Complete Herbal Cure for treating Erectile Dysfunction, Enhance stamina & timing for sexual satisfaction with zero side-effects.’

  Fuck my life.

  11 p.m.: As I’m going to sleep, I get an e-mail from Saad. It’s a photo of us at a club in Dubai, taken late at night after we had just downed a couple of tequila shots. The lighting must have been really good, I think, looking at how my skin is glowing and how happy I seem. Saad looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in years. We look really good together, I think. No. I’m just letting Zara’s comment from the other day get to me. Must sleep before I start obsessing about this.

  Sunday, April 19, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘Tomato goes out of reach’

  The next morning, I wake up feeling better. How is this possible? Realize it is the first time in years I haven’t set an alarm and my phone hasn’t beeped all night long with incoming work e-mails. I’ve slept through the night. I haven’t woken up with a feeling of dread at the prospect of another day at work, chasing someone down for an interview and competing with a dozen reporters for the same story.

  I suppose I can always ask Zara to get me an interview at Morning. Surely there’s some job at a TV channel that won’t involve me having to interview people to find out how they feel about the price of tomatoes.

  Or I could always get a job at one of the dozens of magazines that specialize in publishing photos of parties and socialites. I did put in a few weeks interning for a lifestyle magazine when I was twenty-one. Sure, it was mind numbing but would it be so bad to get paid for writing captions such as ‘Pinky and Pepsi take in a lawn exhibition’? Am looking through my e-mail to see if I still have the contact information for the magazine editor when I come across the press release she sent me to edit that almost put me off journalism altogether.

  ‘Ali Ansari (Intoxicated)

  One of the busy famous fashion personalities, Ali is getting fame day by day both at national level and at international level.

  He is a very intelligent and hard working fashion designer. His fashion collection really clicks someone aesthetic sense, especially those who have good fashion sense. Ali always try to give some unique and classic touch to his work, Although he is already admired and appreciated by many fashion personalities, especially on his latest ‘intoxicated’ collection but still Saim want to design something extravaganza.

  He gets lots of inspiration from his mother and wants her to be with him forever, his mother was also a fashion designer.

  Ali is a man who loves challenges and he is on the view that we have to survive in all type of circumstances.’

  Surely if Ali can have survived his circumstances, so can I.

  5 p.m.: I’m in a park in Lyari, having tea with Zafar Baloch after finishing my interview for the Al Jazeera story.

  ‘We’re just social workers, political workers, you know?’ he says, as the sunlight flashes off his iPhone and massive gold ring. I hope my face isn’t registering my amusement at this. Zafar’s rap sheet is a thing of legend—he’s accused of about a hundred murders.

  In the years since I was first introduced to him at a rally, he’s grown from being a figure on the sidelines to the second-in-command of a criminal syndicate.

  Zafar is now regaling me and a coterie of his guards—a bunch of skinny boys in their teens with guns draped around them—with a story about the latest politician who showed up at his office asking for a favour.

  The government has just announced a ten million rupee reward for his capture and every week without fail, a foreign correspondent flies in to Karachi to do an ‘exclusive’ interview with him. Zafar now has a press team, and the spokesperson laughs while telling us about the latest guy who came looking for a story. ‘He wanted us to show him where we keep our weapons!’ he says, and everyone sniggers.

  ‘I told him we don’t have guns here, only for our own protection,’ Zafar adds, patting his pocket. There’s a sniper on the roof of the building next door, two guys are keeping guard near the park gate and for all I know, there are guns buried underneath the table.

  ‘You know this latest gora reporter who showed up, he said, “Have you ever shot someone?” I mean we get some real idiots, but this guy was really bad,’ the spokesperson chimes in. ‘Honestly, I felt bad for poor Akbar who was translating.’

  ‘Akbar?’ I suddenly sit up. ‘Who was the guy?’

  ‘Some CNN guy,’ the spokesperson says, and hands me a plate of biscuits. ‘Eat.’

  So Jamie has been here, which means he is still in Karachi and still hasn’t bothered to tweet, call, WhatsApp, text, or e-mail any kind of explanation or apology. My state of calm—induced by seven hours of sleep and the post-deluge overcast sky—is slowly dissipating. I don’t want to feel so much rage at Jamie, but the urge to get one of Zafar’s boys to rough him up is overpowering. Or perhaps I can ask Zafar to call Jamie here so I can scream my lungs out and finally be able to tell him to his face that he is an asshole who doesn’t even deserve to work as a delivery boy, let alone a correspondent.

  Reminded of a yoga instructor
who would always say that one should ‘breathe through the spine and envision something calm’. Close my eyes for a second and the first image that pops into my head is the photo Saad sent of the two of us at that club in Dubai.

  No, cannot think about boys right now. Though Saad doesn’t count because he’s a friend. Focus, Ayesha, Focus. ‘So what else is going on?’ We end up talking about betting on cricket matches, and Zafar promises he’ll show me around the next time there’s a Pakistan-India match so I can witness the fortunes being made at about a hundred times the speed of stock exchange transactions. Between him, my hairstylist, the bumbling spy at the press club, and a server at Espresso who often lets slip who was at the coffee shop, I could quite possibly keep track of 95 percent of the city. Even though I’ve lived in Karachi my entire life, these are the only relationships I’ve actually invested time and effort in. This should make me sad, except I’m oddly comforted by the fact that inasmuch as I don’t like this city, this is a fantastic place to be a journalist.

  7 p.m.: Head back home, changing rickshaws twice en route because the drivers don’t want to cross from one gang-controlled area into another. Check online to see if Jamie has written anything new. Nope. Check his Twitter feed. The last tweet is from two days ago: ‘Dinner at Okra—fabulous!’ I wish he had choked on a mussel.

  Zara texts to ask if I’d like to go out for coffee or have a boozy dinner. But now that I know Jamie’s in the city, I’m filled with a weird sense of dread. If I do run into him, I can’t count on myself to react in a civil manner. If I don’t see him, I’ll be wondering where he’s eating overpriced pasta instead. Even though I’m dying to analyse the post-job situation with Zara, my mind is still racing with ideas from my interview with Zafar and I want to get started on my story. I make plans with her for the next day and get writing.

  10 p.m.: My father knocks on the door. ‘Are you not answering your phone again? Saad’s just called on the landline.’

  I call Saad back but his phone’s switched off. That’s odd, wasn’t he just calling me? Write him an e-mail asking if he was calling. No reply.

  11 p.m.: Decide to call it a day. Have written about a thousand words already and have a surprisingly good feeling about this, the kind of optimism I last felt when I was banging out the detainee interview on that flight back from Dubai.

  11:15 p.m.: Dad knocks on the door again. Only when I get up to open it, it’s not Dad, it’s Saad.

  ‘What are you doing here?!’ I yell, before hugging him and knocking over a bottle of Diet Coke in my enthusiasm. ‘Had some time off,’ he says, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. ‘Haven’t been to town in a while, it’s Mum’s birthday and I got your e-mail literally when I was packing, so it all worked out. Now go get me something to drink, and jeez, what are you wearing?’

  Look at myself. Am in ratty pyjamas and thick-framed, for-home-only glasses. My hair has escaped its clip, so I look like I’m sporting a Mohawk and a mullet at the same time. ‘Oh shut up Saad, it’s not like all of us have a fancy job that pays for our bills at Armani.

  ‘I don’t have anything,’ I say, rummaging around in the closet compartment where I keep liquor, hidden behind bags full of empty beer cans, a pair of old sneakers, and, oh look, a shawl I’ve been looking for for a year now. ‘Maybe there’s a shot or two left in one of these old bottles.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Saad says, ‘I brought booze from Dubai for you.’

  He hands me a bottle of Glenfiddich and I could swoon right then and there. I pour out two drinks and settle on the couch with him. ‘So, how is life without the job… and Jamie? Have you spoken to him at all?’

  ‘No,’ I say with a snort, and add Diet Coke to my whiskey after the first swig. I am still too much of a philistine to appreciate expensive booze.

  ‘Well, you know what I told you. You’re better off without that choot. But your job, Ayesha. You hated the place but you love being a reporter.’

  ‘Well, things might not be so bad,’ I say, and tell him about running into Andrea and the Al Jazeera stories. ‘That’s great,’ Saad says. ‘We’re always going to land on our feet.’

  ‘Well, speak for yourself. I might have to move to Dubai and work as your maid if this doesn’t pan out.’

  ‘Ha, that’s not a possibility anymore. I’m quitting my job and moving back home.’

  ‘What?’ I start. ‘Is everything ok? Did you have an accident? Are you insane? I know you get nostalgic after eating kebab rolls, but seriously, why?’

  ‘Believe me,’ Saad says, staring into his drink, ‘I never imagined I’d be doing this so soon. But I kind of have to. Ammi’s been getting really lonely. She was perfectly fine with me being in Dubai and didn’t want to guilt me into staying in Karachi, but I knew she missed me. And honestly, I don’t mind,’ he says with a shrug.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ I shriek. ‘It’s Karachi. It’s where life and love come to die. It has nothing.’

  ‘Oh c’mon. You’re here. I won’t be worried sick about mom all the time. And I don’t even need to look for another job. Work will transfer me here, and I’ll actually make better money. And there’s great food, cheap beer, and I won’t have to go to god awful bars anymore.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. But Saad’s jaw is still set and he’s staring into his drink. I can tell he’s not entirely happy with this decision. I decide not to be a Grinch about Karachi—at least for now. There’ll be plenty of time for us to bitch about the city when he’s actually here and the honeymoon period ends and he’s complaining with the rest of us about extortionists and muggings and sectarian groups calling for carnage. I put on my best fake excited tone, which I usually use around people who insist on showing one endless photos of their babies/nephews/nieces on their phones. ‘Do you realize we haven’t lived in the same city in years? This is going to be fantastic. And Anil is going to make SO much more money off you.’ Saad puts his glass aside and suddenly reaches out to hug me. It feels a bit strange. I really can’t figure out why. Maybe I’m just surprised, since I’m holding a lit cigarette and am scared it will burn his shirt, but also because Saad has never really hugged me spontaneously since our respective parents’ funerals. I awkwardly stroke his hair and he eventually lets go. I can’t place the look on his face, which is odd, since I’ve known him for so long that I can quite accurately tell what he’s thinking at any given moment, including when he’s so bored at a dinner that he would rather hang out in the car park than eat Carpaccio. ‘Your hair is nicer than mine,’ I mumble, for lack of anything better to say. Saad bursts out laughing. ‘Thanks Ayesha. I wouldn’t have agreed to come home if you weren’t here.’

  ‘When are you moving back?’ I get up to fix another drink. I am still a bit startled by the hug and feel like I need to put some physical distance between us, even though there’s no reason for me to feel this way. ‘In a couple of weeks,’ Saad says.

  Saad leaves a little while later because he doesn’t want to drink more and get completely smashed for the drive home. I open my laptop and try to work on the interview some more but I can’t quite focus and I keep thinking about Saad’s decision to move back. Part of me really feels bad for Saad, but on the other hand, I am desperately excited that he’ll be back in the city. I won’t be alone again.

  ‘But for how long?’ a voice in my head pipes up. Saad will be lonely for a bit at first and will want to hang out but then he’ll meet someone and will be occupied being starry-eyed all over town. Oh well. Given Saad’s track record, that will fizzle out pretty soon and he’ll be back to haranguing me to join him in a quest to find the city’s best bun kebabs.

  Wednesday, April 22, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘Cannibals had disturbed childhood’

  8.30 p.m.: Saad and I have spent the past few days hanging out, usually at Espresso where he would keep up a running commentary on everyone around. He asked me to come over for dinner to his house this evening since his cook has rustled up some amazing haleem. I’ve never been able t
o say no to haleem, and I realize I haven’t hung out with Saad’s mother in a few months. After Saad is dispatched to buy naans, his mother, who has been idly chatting about sales at Khaadi and lawn prices, furtively looks around and draws her chair closer to mine. She relaxes when she hears Saad’s car leave the driveway. ‘Beta,’ she says urgently, in a tone that suggests that she’s just murdered someone and needs my help to roll the victim up in a carpet and dump it in the plot next door. ‘Ji Riffat aunty,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Ayesha, can you talk some sense into Saad? I don’t want him to move back.’

  Oh no. Cannot land myself in the middle of a family drama. She might be offended if I tell her that Saad was driven by a sense of obligation and guilt because he thought she was ‘terribly lonely’ living in Karachi.

  ‘Aunty, isn’t it a good thing? I think Saad wants to spend time with you, to be with you. You’ve been an incredible rock since uncle passed away, but I’m sure it isn’t easy living in this huge house alone…’

  ‘Do you seriously believe that?’ she says impatiently, gesturing towards the small army of cooks in the kitchen, the cleaners mopping around them as they cook and her housekeeper setting the table for dinner. ‘There are so many people in this house, I barely get a moment to myself. I’m out all morning anyway because I’m teaching English part time at your old school, and then one of my friends comes over for lunch or tea. In the evenings, I go for a walk in the park with my neighbour. When I’m bored, I go shopping. I don’t need a 28-year-old boy to be here having dinner with me every night! When I miss my child I can fly to Dubai and have dinner with him there.’

  I ask her if instead of venting to me, she’s had a chance to talk about this with Saad. ‘Beta, of course I have,’ she says and sighs. ‘But each time it’s the same response: “I want to be here with you, I’ll be happier in Karachi, Ayesha is here”.’

  I can’t believe Saad is telling his mother that I’m one of the reasons why he wants to move back. I am going to rip his head off. ‘This is why I’m asking you beta, please tell him how unsafe it is here. You’re a journalist. You know how terrible things really are. Also tell him that I’m really independent and I don’t need him to look after me all the time.’