Streets are called arteries of a city, but arteries are hidden from the eye. Streets may be better understood as the rivers and canals of a city — ever-flowing, with rapids and meandering lanes, teeming with varied life along their edges.

There are streets, roads, avenues, lanes or, as in Urdu, shahrah, sarrak, raasta, gali, each with its own personality. Blogger Julia H suggests roads represent journeys to or from one place to another, while streets draw attention to what is happening in them. Streets are places of social interaction, neighbourhoods and commerce.

Both streets and roads have inspired books, poems, films and songs. The road trip is a much-repeated theme in American culture, epitomised by the film Thelma and Louise. The road is personalised by songs such as John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads and Ray Charles’ Hit the Road Jack; or become a central motif, from Bob Hope and Bing Crosby’s seven Road To… comedy adventures film series, to the grim dystopia of Mad Max Fury Road.

Jack Kerouac’s stream-of-consciousness novel On the Road became iconic, as did Muhammad Asad’s The Road to Makkah. Robert Frost’s poem, The Road Not Taken, depicts life’s dilemmas symbolised by crossroads.

While the road in Western culture is full of possibilities for a new life, and streets create a sense of belonging, in Urdu literature, raasta is often a symbol of difficulty and pain.

Qaisar-ul-Jafri writes, “Raasta dekh ke chal, warna ye din aisay hain gungay pathar bhi sawaal kareingey tujh se” [Be careful as you walk down the street, otherwise these days even mute stones will raise questions].

And, of course, there is Mustafa Zaidi’s well known couplet: “Inhi patharon pe chal kar agar aa sako to aao/ Miray ghar ke raastay mein koi kehkashan nahin hai” [Come only if you can walk on these rough stones/ There are no stars to light the road to my house].

Much of the poetry written on buses and trucks in Pakistan reflects the loneliness and dangers of the road. A popular slogan reads: “Road se dosti safar se yaari/ Dekh pyaray zindagi humari [I befriend the road, my companion is the journey/ See the life I lead, my dear friend].

The Grand Trunk Road or Sarrak-i-Azam, expanded by Sher Shah Suri in the 16th century from Kabul to Teknaf on the border with Myanmar, had serai[s] or inns for travellers, wells and gardens. Not even the motorways of today can boast so much care for travellers.

By contrast, the majority of streets in Pakistan are, as they say, full of zehmat [discomfort] rather than rehmat [comfort]. Open potholes, piles of rubble spilt over from construction sites, thela [cart] sellers and, of course, double- and triple-parked cars, are the norm.

Yet, these streets are so much more than laid tarmac. They also hold the life of a city. Straight roads become winding streets with bazaars, shops, dhabas and Friday worshippers spilling on to the pavements and roads. Neighbourhood boys socialise on street corners. The homeless quietly seek a safe spot for the night, as office workers rush home to their flats or mansions. Young Afghan paper pickers keep their eyes on the ground in search of discarded pan wrappers and burger boxes. It is on the street that the rich encounter the poor, even if only through the windows of air-conditioned SUVs.

The crumbling heritage buildings and street names are witness to a lost past. In Karachi’s Ranchore Lines, Ali Budha Street is flanked by Solomon David Road and Shivdas Road.

The bustling streets transform as night falls and restaurants come to life and workplaces recede into silence. The night streets and lanes or galis, especially in Ramazan, become playing fields for night cricket. Or more ominously, as Raymond Chandler puts it, “The streets were dark with something more than night.”

Streets were transformed into eerie emptiness during the curfews of the past or the 1990s when dead bodies were dumped on them. To some, a city’s distress is an opportunity. John D Rockefeller once said, “The way to make money is to buy when blood is running in the streets.”

Streets are often used as a metaphor for spiritual journeys. Sufi masters are called murshid-i-rah or mashal-i-rah [teacher or light of the road]. On the other hand, those who lose their way become rah-se-berah.

Durriya Kazi is a Karachi-based artist.

She may be reached at durriyakazi1918@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, May 1st, 2022