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LAST week, the stretch of beach that was occupied by the little group I was with was hosting a lot of other guests. One of the huts adjacent to the one we were in had been rented out for the day.
On these beaches, many of the huts are rented out on a per diem basis to picnickers and fishing sorties. Especially during the summer, they come in large groups, extended families packed in coasters and vans and buses hired for the day.
There are cauldrons of biryani, crates of soft drinks, footballs and cricket bats and all the other accoutrements necessary for a good day away from the urban decay of the metropolis.
Occasionally, one finds in Pakistan that things are just as they ought to be, and that is the case (so far, anyway) with Karachi’s open-access beaches: overwhelmingly, they belong to the masses. Some of the huts are rented out to members of the more affluent sections of society. But the presence of such fortunate beings, when they do visit, tends to be of low visibility.
On the day that I am referring to, instead of the buses and coasters parked on the access road that herald the presence of a large number of people, there were upwards of two dozen vehicles of a diametrically different nature.
There were SUVs, Corollas, a Kompressor, and other high-end rides, inevitably accompanied by a couple of vans bearing the names of private security firms, and some Suzukis belonging to the caterers.
It was a large family party of perhaps 50 or 60 people, maybe more, ranging in age from patriarchs all the way down to infants in arms.
There were gunmen. A barbeque had been set up. There were cloth-covered tables laden with food, and chairs in skirts like the ones at weddings. There were visible signs of piety aplenty.
Later in the evening, the bhutta (roasted corn on the cob) man came by. Far from his family in Mardan, this man is a regular on this strip of the beach; he earns his living here on the weekends, and in Lyari on other days.
No matter how pious Pakistan’s affluent classes become, their hearts only get harder.
He sells corn at the exorbitant rate of Rs50, but it cannot be denied that his ware is better than average — or at least seems to be when one is beginning to feel the chill as the sun starts going down.
He likes telling the story of the day he sold corn to a large party that turned out to include Gen Musharraf, and ended up chatting with the man himself.
On this day, he was selling corn by the armful to the luncheon party. Later, I went and bought my own, and commented that he must have made a killing. He spat on the sand, then said, “Sorry, but don’t talk to me about these people.
The man gave me Rs1,000 and said, ‘feed them all’, but now I’ve given out nearly 50 cobs and he’s nowhere to be found. The others tell me he’s saying his prayers. You tell me, how long will this take? And what’s Rs1,000 to a man who can afford this set-up?”
Also gathered around us were the men who offer camel and horse rides, target-shooting practice, and the snake charmers — the usual plethora of the poor who earn what living they can off the beach traffic, many of whom I am acquainted with by virtue of seeing them so often at this same spot. Many of their services were being enjoyed by the family next door.
The snake charmer duo approached me, asking for some food and water. Talking about the lavish party next door, they said they had asked there but had been refused. No doubt, they said ironically, there wasn’t enough to go around for the family itself.
With Eid just behind us, I can’t help but think that regardless of how pious Pakistan’s affluent classes seem to become, their hearts only seem to get harder. It’s not only about sharing what one is fortunate enough to have; it’s also about feeling the misfortune of others — of being human enough to empathise.
But perhaps the suffering all around us here is so great that to stare it in the face is to court madness.
Shortly after the current wave of Europe’s refugee crisis started, amongst the images that shocked the world was that of a Syrian man carrying a toddler on his shoulder, selling a fistful of pens. Of course, Europe should be appalled. But I was a little surprised at the number of online voices from this country, who by virtue of being literate and internet-enabled count as the privileged, commenting on gross inequality and poverty.
It was, after all, a scene that urban Pakistan knows well, a place where the stories of even worse forms of suffering are never heard, because the people they concern have no voice.
The writer is a member of staff.
Published in Dawn, September 28th , 2015
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