KARACHI: According to John Donne, “no man is an island”. Instant gratification and networking was the buzzword of Karachi. But this strange new world is unsettling. The city is the stranger in the mirror you do not know how to lock eyes with.

What is striking is the disquieting silence. Karachi’s mighty pulsating heart has become the stuff of legend. No matter how much many riots, forced shutdowns, assassinations, terrorism, robberies it saw, the city somehow managed to stagger to its bloodied feet from the mat and get back in the ring. But now it’s much vaunted resilience has been put to the test as never before.

What would one give to saunter down the same streets and meet those people who passed by in a blur because who could stop scrolling through the cell phone, iPad or laptop? Ironically, now that one is locked inside with the same gadgets, one yearns for the outdoors and the ordinary sights and sounds that make Karachi a great city.

No one actually looks forward to humdrum errands like going to the bank. In a normal world, one kept track of time, impatient because there was so much to do. Now that time has become elastic, Parkinson’s Law has come into effect which states that work expands to fill the time available for its completion.

The streets in Clifton are almost emptied of life. The few who speed by seem to have a sense of purpose, an urgency dogging their footsteps. Fruit sellers on carts wait for customers while swatting away flies. Everyone is donning a mask, including the bank guards who approach with the ubiquitous thermometer to assess whether one can be admitted into the company of other humans. The sound of silence hangs over the bank, settling into every disinfected nook and cranny. The couple of clients stare straight ahead, expressions couched by masks. They stand far away from each other in a city where the concept of private space has always been a challenge, where everyone’s business is your business.

The skeleton staff wear masks except for one who confesses he just took off his to say his prayers before jamming it back on. There is none of the usual bantering between them, the atmosphere as sombre as at a funeral. The wait prolongs as some clients are withdrawing hefty amounts of money. Being a Karachiite, the thought unbidden comes to mind: aren’t they afraid to openly cart around such big wads of cash? Perhaps Covid-19 has done what the police were unable to do in Karachi despite all efforts: scared off robbers for the time being.

At the superstore, customers are made to stand in a queue with circles drawn in chalk, temperature recorded, hand sanitizer and disposable gloves offered. People are jammed inside, shopping like there is no tomorrow. While children no longer clog the aisles, men survey the shelves calmly and women dart about here and there.

“Excuse me! Let me go through,” says one heavy set lady panting beneath her mask, pushing her heaving trolley on to the toes of other customers in the packed aisle for cooking oil and lentils.

The snacks aisle is being rapidly depleted as many Karachiites, deprived of boot camps and gyms, give in to the craving for chips, popcorn, cashew nuts and chocolate. As Oscar Wilde said, “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Surprisingly, the cigarette counter is nearly as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard since Covid-19 has proved to be more harmful for smokers. “People are smoking more, because they are stuck at home. Earlier, they used to get one packet. Now they get cartons,” says the bemused salesman.

Notwithstanding the problems brought about on Karachi because of the lockdown, street urchins, who live on a wing and prayer, settle on to patches of grass outside brooding houses after combing through their dustbins, laughter echoing down the deserted street. The bougainvillea on the street corner is a thrilling magenta, the green of the hedges emerald, the roses buttercup yellow. The neighbourhood boys venture out for a spot of cricket, the sound of the bat joyfully thwacking the ball slicing the night air, but at the midnight hour they are hurriedly called in.

The birds twitter as the breeze ruffles the leaves. The crows are in party mode, the pigeons are congregating, the seagulls circling lower, the koel is piping up and Karachi is finally listening. It is a scenario William Wordsworth, who felt that man had become hollow because he had lost his connection with nature because of the relentless rat race, would have revelled in.

“The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!”

Published in Dawn, April 15th, 2020