Urban Bystander
In the valley of Margallas, where ministers dream and meters lie, winter arrived like an absent-minded landlord: late, underdressed, and with no intention of fixing anything. It brought a laminated Schedule of Flame, distributed with the solemnity of a constitutional amendment. Citizens now knew precisely when they might cook, bathe, or recall what heat used to feel like.
In G-9/4, Aamir has pinned the schedule to his fridge. Not because it helps, but because it mocks him less when it is visible. Six to nine AM. Noon to two. Six to eight PM. Gas, allegedly. He reads it each morning like a horoscope issued by the ministry: vague, oddly specific, and quietly cruel.
Outside, the thermometer reads 7 degrees. Inside, it reads futility. “The rest is theory. Gas theory. Kinetic theory. The molecules are somewhere, just not in my pipes.”
His wife, Saba, has adapted. Islamabad trains resilience like finishing schools once trained posture. She wakes at 5:30 to race the burners, cooking breakfast, lunch, and a semblance of emotional stability before the gas evaporates into theory. Their daughter, Hira, bathes with the precision of a space launch: scheduled, fast, and freezing.
In G-11, nine-year-old Sana wore gloves to class, she couldn’t grip her pencil otherwise. Her teacher called it discipline. Her mother called it bronchitis.
The Metrobus slides past like a heated rumour. The city hums in half defrosted rituals while Nosy Mynah, perched on the Sui Northern headquarters rooftop, unfolds her wings and coughs delicately. She has the figures.
“7 to 8 hours of supply,” she announces to no one in particular. “In a 24-hour day, that’s approximately 33.3% service delivery. Recurring. The remaining 66.7 % is classified as ‘demand management’. Not shortage. Not failure. Demand management!”
Down below, Mirza Chughal Khor sits in his corner office, reading his Ledger of Urban Absurdities. “It’s elegant, really,” Mirza mutters, turning a page. “They’ve reduced civic life to three two-hour performances. Morning Matinee, Afternoon Encore, Evening Finale. Outside those hours, the stage is dark and the stoves won’t light.”
He reads from a Sui Northern press release: “Due to supply constraints and to ensure equitable distribution…”
“Equitable,” he repeats. “Everyone freezes equally. Democracy.”
Somewhere in a ministry with working heat and uninterrupted gas, officials present charts and click through slides: “Manageable shortfall. Equitable distribution. Public cooperation appreciated.”
Nobody mentions the families waking before dawn. No one discusses the children bathing in cold water before school. Nobody calculates the cumulative hours citizens spend rearranging their lives around utility schedules. “It’s a vocabulary of failure,” mutters Mirza. “Dignified by PowerPoint.”
In Karachi Company, Boota the LPG dealer has a record month. “Nine rupees per kilo increase,” he says. “People complain, then buy. I sell hope. Expensive hope.”
At 7:12 PM, the gas sighs into G-9/4. Saba lights all four burners, not out of ambition, but trauma. Dinner is cooked like contraband. By 8 PM, the flame dies with bureaucratic precision.
“Same time tomorrow,” Aamir says. It sounds like ritual. Or warning.
Mirza writes: “The state has mastered a language where deprivation is policy. Citizens freeze, but officially, they’re being managed. Children fall ill, but technically, it’s equitable. It’s a vocabulary of failure dressed as competence.”
The remarkable thing, Mirza notes in his ledger’s final entry for December, is not that the gas crisis happened. It’s that it stopped being news after two weeks. Citizens adapted. Media moved on. Officials stopped explaining. The schedule became routine. Living by the clock became normal. The final stage of civic failure, when the absurd becomes accepted, when the temporary becomes permanent, when the emergency becomes just another Tuesday.
The gas will come tomorrow. For two hours. Three times. On schedule. The capital will call it winter. The officials will call it management. The citizens will call it life.
And the bills will call it “full charges apply.”
The writer can be reached at [email protected]
