The fault, dear Brutus

PEOPLE in the concrete jungle are much too brutalised to brood over the whys and wherefores, and who can blame them. While some of us were told as kids by occasionally mystical fathers that only change is constant, as adults and taxpayers we seem convinced that what is must be, possibly forever. That’s how things are, what can you do?

Defeatist, certainly, but this attitude has a certain functional value, for decent, law-abiding citizens are the least empowered, not just in this city but the country as a whole. When thugs run the show, resignation to your fate can keep you sane — and alive, in the case of Karachi. Small and irrelevant no doubt but relatively stable for the most part, and that is critical because the mentally deranged find it hard to pay the bills.

Not that we are in chirpy mid-season form vis-à-vis the grey matter. Depression, both full-blown and ‘masked’, is rife in Karachi. Masked depression, I was once told with a significant look, is where the patient — unlike those who can’t get out of bed — remains more or less functional in terms of social interaction and holding down a job.

This bare-bones ability to deal with daily life often involves self-medication with alcohol or pharmaceuticals. Ever tried to pin down the amount of benzodiazepines sold over the counter in Karachi? Me neither, but it’s bound to be staggering. So’s the volume of booze consumed in this city both fair and foul. In Ramazan? Never, perish the thought. There are no alcoholics in Karachi, just people who drink a lot as a matter of routine.

Shaky mental health aside, this lack of say in the society and culture foisted on us by the violent, exploitative and corrupt, and thereby powerful, has warped our sense of priorities. Abusive employers are seen in respectable light, simply because they have the kind of money the rest of us can’t begin to imagine. Instead of despising the crooked, many aspire to be as powerful as them one glorious day.

Many amongst us admire the lawless, for their lives are not so straitjacketed as ours. This is how you are going to live from now on. Follow the drill. Yes, sir. What ought to trigger outrage is accepted with a shrug of shoulders already sagging with defeat while minor provocation, say an argument on the road, can lead to fisticuffs or the firing of weapons.

In the labyrinth of the concrete jungle, we have lost sight of the real enemy. Your neighbour, obnoxious to the core and a religious fanatic to boot, is merely the fly in the ointment, not the unguent itself.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are wusses. With little more than a murmur, we accept all and everything that is thrown at us day after day. No electricity, buy a generator. No water in the mains for the last ten years, get tankers every day — and pay the water board to boot. Road blocked by a shamiana, take a detour. Head splitting at 3 am from the Hindi music being blasted at the marriage party downstairs? Shut the window and hope that you’ll get enough shut-eye to cope with the morning.

All this too falls in the realm of self-medication that helps keep mind, body and soul together in one neat package. Instead of demanding our rights and a measure of civility we meekly do as best we can, for life has to go on doesn’t it? Chalta rehta hai.

No. If betterment is the goal, sometimes life must come to a standstill. Think about it. Why would the state, the city government or a private-sector utility give a damn when citizens are so ready and willing to fend for themselves, and when business and industry keep chugging along come what may? If the influential and passably prosperous didn’t have generators, do you think KESC’s performance would be as dismal as it is today? No, it would haul ass and scamper to deliver.

Things have to stop working, the must fall apart. True, there will be chaos if not anarchy at the outset. But hitting rock bottom has one great advantage: the only way out is up.

Enough said, for now.

imalik@dawn.com