The sounds change as the moon rises then dips
below the Karachi horizon.
The whir of the ceiling fan provides the canvas,
while car horns and shouts from the street below are the threads of the tapestry.
Two or three cats hiss and yowl like banshees in
the garden. They may be the displaced spirits who claim this plot as their own.
Deep in the night the watchman whoops and calls as
he rides the streets, our protector on a rusty old bicycle. He is unarmed and
ill-equipped but he channels our guardian angels and is more powerful than you
would believe.
On New Year’s Eve fireworks and celebratory
gunfire start just before midnight. It’s a real cacophony of sound…not just pistols
but machine guns and Kalashnikovs add to the mix.
There is peace for a few hours until the call to
prayer marks the end of night. But I confess that rest is more tempting than
prayer and I sleep until a mynah bird squawks, “Wake up! Wake up!” directly outside
the window while Shameen’s pots and pans clang in the kitchen.
The soft swish of a broom on marble soothes me
into the day.
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