Urban Bystander
In a city whose Master Plan was last seen hiding under a pothole, SP Zohraan Mir of the City Traffic Police began his morning with half-burnt toast and a full docket of civic despair.
But the City’s traffic never slept. Neither could he. He believed in flow, even if it only existed in PowerPoint slides.
In the City, traffic rules aren’t broken. They’re philosophically rejected. Wrong-way driving is civil resistance. Parking in the middle of the road is postmodern space reclamation. A retired bureaucrat once parked diagonally on a median and said, “Son, I designed this intersection.” “Sir,” the constable replied, “that explains a lot.”
At school pickup time, the City became a parade of privilege. SUVs with tinted windows lined roads like decommissioned tanks. Drivers double-parked. Aunties shrieked into phones while reversing blindly.
“You want me to walk away from the parking? I pay fees in dollars!”
Constable Rubina stood firm. “Madam, this is a no-parking zone.”
“Then make it yes-parking zone! I’m a mother!”
A private hospital had long since run out of space. Instead of building parking, it built more clinics. The result: cars sprawled across three roads like a medical emergency of their own. Even the ambulance bay was blocked by a BMW.
The hospital’s response? A new cosmetic dermatology wing.
The state telecom HQ had eaten two traffic lanes. Luxury hotels fenced off entire roads in the name of security. From above, Babloo the pigeon radioed in: “Schools claim pavements. Hospitals annex roads. Ministries eat intersections. Citizens refuse to yield. Gridlock diagnosis: entitlement.”
On Srinagar Highway, the Honorable Minister of Illusions was stuck in a jam caused by his own protocol. “Move these peasants!” he roared.
His driver whispered, “those are your escorts.” For once, the system ate itself. The internet gave him the only ticket that mattered: memes.
By 9:15 AM, reports stacked up like deadlocked cars. Faizabad was in container lockdown. Golra was blocked by a rogue traffic cone. Bhara Kahu was already philosophical. Somewhere, a Suzuki Alto floated through a flash flood. A biker hydroplaned down Jinnah Avenue.
At Aabpara Chowk stood the immortal Constable Tufail, a man untouched by retirement, unclaimed by paperwork, and always slightly damp. Even when it hadn’t rained in weeks, puddles gathered around his boots. “Sir,” he said solemnly one morning, “Every time it rains, I get transferred to a lake.”
Tufail saluted a passing cloud and whispered, “We only move when the VIPs do.” His son had recently drawn a traffic signal in his notebook again and labelled it: “Baba’s Job = People Don’t Listen.”
A drizzle began, bureaucratic and apologetic. Within minutes, it turned biblical. Sewer lids gasped. Signals sighed, and gave up. Zohraan offered Tufail an umbrella. It flipped inside out and flew off, carrying a mynah.
By 8:30 PM, the zombies awoke. Not the undead, worse. Citizens of Entitlement. They surged toward F-7 Markaz, F-10, and I-8 in hybrids, hatchbacks, and matte-black SUVs. Parking was fiction. Footpaths annexed. Aunties opened car doors like declarations of war. Threatening constables with consequences.”
Above them, Babloo called into HQ: “Markets fully zombified. Citizens refusing to return to residences. Zebra Strategy failing again, painted, ignored, and rain-soluble.”
Outside Karachi Company, the signal flickered. Jammed, but twitching. Zohraan drew a new zebra line in chalk. “What’s the point?” asked Babloo. “Hope,” said Zohraan. “No budget for that,” muttered Mynah.
Constable Tufail gave a half-salute. Rainwater dripping from his cap, socks melting into his boots, he murmured:
“Sir, this City doesn’t want rules. It wants mercy for breaking them and applause while doing it.”
