Along the Arabian Sea, every afternoon several neighbourhood cricket teams play their own version of Twenty20s and one-dayers merrily. Oblivious to the cricket aficionados, across the road, there has begun a flurry of activity of another kind.

Getting closer, amidst laughter interspersed with a volley of abuse in Pushto over blaring music, you see a group of mechanics heaving a heavy metal part on to a truck. The distant sound of an ice-cream vendor’s bell reminds one of the scorching heat. As if on some cue, a bearded man on a bicycle appears from nowhere and begins filling out glasses of juice – a concoction of gur and water – from a water cooler and passes it to the men, who wipe the sweat off their brow and finish the sweet liquid in a gulp. — Zofeen  Ebrahim