The city never slept. At least, not in a way that lets you breathe. Karachi in the summer of ’97 was a pulse you felt in your chest long before you heard it in the streets—the clatter of boots, the hiss of tires, the occasional pop that could be a gunshot or just a car backfiring. You learned to tell the difference eventually, but not tonight. Tonight, every sound had teeth.
I stepped out of my building in Liaquatabad, careful to keep my bag tight against my shoulder. The sun had gone down hours ago, but the streetlights barely pierced the black. Power outages had become predictable—planned or accidental, it didn’t matter. Darkness was a leveler. Everyone looked the same under it.
I had lived here my entire life, but tonight felt unfamiliar. The street ahead, usually busy with vendors and rickshaws, was empty. Even the stray dogs were silent. I glanced at the small grocery on the corner. Its shutter was halfway down, the owner nowhere in sight.
A low hum came from somewhere behind me. I froze, pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering. Footsteps. Someone running? Or walking fast? I couldn’t tell. The city had trained me to hesitate and observe. Hesitation could save your life. Observation could, too.
A shadow passed by the flickering streetlight. A man, lean, his face obscured by a scarf. He didn’t glance at me, but his presence alone made the hair on my neck rise. I adjusted my pace, making my steps quieter, calculating.
My father had warned me about nights like this. “Stay inside, Fahad. Stay quiet. These streets take no names, no mercy.” I never understood him fully until now.
Halfway to the bus stop, I saw the first body. Not lifeless, exactly. Slumped over a rickshaw, clutching his stomach, a small pool of dark liquid spreading across the cracked asphalt. No one was around. No cries. Only the buzzing of a distant generator.
I froze. My chest tightened. There was no time to think. No time to react. Training kicked in—stay calm, stay small, stay unremarkable. I walked past him, eyes down, pretending I hadn’t seen.
This was Karachi. This was normal.
The bus stop was empty. I could hear voices in the distance—shouting, a scream, maybe. I couldn’t tell. The roads were fractured with barricades, small groups of armed men moving like shadows, checking IDs, demanding silence. I flashed my bus pass, though they didn’t ask for it, and kept moving.
Inside the bus, people didn’t speak. Everyone stared at the floor or out the windows. The driver muttered curses at the traffic, and a man in the back fiddled with a pistol under his coat. It was not unusual. I had seen worse.
The bus lurched, stopping suddenly. A gang of four men blocked the road ahead. They waved their hands, gesturing aggressively. The driver cursed again, rolling down the window.
“Karachi City Police,” one of them said. “Everyone out.”
I didn’t move. I held my bag tight. Others began to exit quietly. The armed man in the back whispered something to a neighbor, and they both froze. I realized too late that the men blocking the bus were not cops.
Bullets fired. Not on the bus exactly. Into the air. To assert control. People screamed, falling over each other. My heart hammered so loudly I thought they would hear it.
I pressed myself to the floor, covering my head with my bag. The bus windows shattered, letting in shards of glass and smoke from the small fires burning on the street. The driver was yelling something, but the sound didn’t reach me.
When the firing stopped, I slowly lifted my head. Bodies moved, some crawling, some lying still. Smoke hung in the air, thick and sweet with gunpowder. The armed men were gone, disappearing into alleyways I didn’t know existed until tonight.
I wanted to run. But running would make me visible. Running would make me a target. Instead, I stayed low, inching toward the rear exit.
The city has taught me well. It has trained me in observation, in patience, in silence. Every day since I could remember, Karachi had whispered: See, but don’t act. Hear, but don’t respond. Survive at any cost.
I reached a narrow alley and pressed myself against the wall, gasping. My hands shook. The air smelled of burnt rubber, iron, and sweat. Somewhere, a child cried. I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep moving.
Home felt distant, though it was just a few streets away. Every turn felt unfamiliar. I counted them silently, hoping I hadn’t missed one. That was another lesson Karachi had taught: Count your steps. Know your exits. Trust no one.
I reached the corner near my building. A figure stepped from the shadows. A man, tall, with a rifle slung across his shoulder. I froze. He didn’t move toward me. He looked at me. Slowly, he nodded. Then he disappeared into the darkness.
I exhaled. My heart refused to slow. Every step toward my apartment was deliberate. I unlocked the door, closed it behind me, and collapsed.
The city continued outside. I could hear distant gunfire, shouting, sirens—sounds that once would have paralyzed me. Now, they were routine. Normal.
Later, I would remember the neighbors. One apartment had a man staring silently at the wall, muttering numbers. Another family, huddled in the corner, counting bullets they didn’t have. Children slept in cupboards to escape noise. No one called for help. No one could. The system—the chaos—had made it impossible.
I sank onto my bed. Sweat soaked my shirt, my heart still racing. I thought of the man in the alley. I thought of the armed gang. I thought of the body on the rickshaw. And I realized something terrifying: I was still alive. Not because of skill. Not because of luck. Not because I was better than anyone else. I was alive because I had learned what the city demanded.
Silence. Compliance. Forgetting.
I closed my eyes. The city pulsed outside my window, endless and indifferent. Karachi was a teacher without mercy. It had trained a generation to survive, to witness without reaction, to adapt without conscience.
And I had learned well.
Tomorrow, I will leave the apartment. Walk the same streets. Take the same bus. Watch, count, survive. The violence would continue. And I would continue to move through it like a shadow, unremarkable, unnoticed, alive.
But at night, when the streets were quiet enough for memory to surface, I would remember the screams. The smell of smoke and blood. The body slumped over the rickshaw. And I would shiver—not from fear, but from the knowledge that surviving here had a cost.
I had survived Karachi. But the city had survived me, too.