Urban Bystander
In the Valley of Margallas, June dissolved into July, and the underpasses of our discontent lay wide and waiting, patient for the next betrayal of rain.
It began, as it always does, with a procession of advisories.
PMD solemnly forecast, “Vigorous monsoon activity. Flash flood risk in vulnerable pockets.” NDMA declared, “All stakeholders vigilant. Control rooms operational.”
CDA promised, “All drains cleared. Pumps stationed. Mops sanctified.”
On 26 June, the Jinnah Square Underpass, quickly nicknamed The Pool of Promises, filled ceremonially. Serena slip road collapsed like soggy cake. CDA’s Rapid Response Unit arrived with brass plated mops and arrest warrants for eucalyptus branches.
Then came His Dualness, Chairman of Concrete Dreams Authority and Commissioner of Capital Dilemmas, wearing two name tags and conducting what he called a joint operations review with himself. On one side of the table, the Chairman firmly blamed the Commissioner for the chaos, while the Commissioner indignantly demanded an explanation from the Chairman. Both men nodded gravely, took notes, and promised decisive action. From above, Babloo observed with admiration as His Dualness passed a unanimous resolution holding himself accountable and immediately declared victory.
On July 8, the rains turned diplomatic. The Dutch Embassy floated politely on its flooded lawn while the missing culvert, still unrepentant, lay buried under years of ambition. Nosy Mynah filed her report to the Ministry of Illusions:
“Culvert declared missing. Drainage declared ceremonial. All flow now at the discretion of fate.”
Mirza Chughal Khor, perched like a black feathered bureaucrat, intoned, “This is not a flood. This is Nautical Diplomacy. Gondolas pending Cabinet concurrence.”
By July 18, the clouds grew impatient and crushed F 8’s link road and H 12’s resolve. The seasonal nullahs, mutinous as ever, crashed through the city, snapping at manholes and scattering solemn traffic cones like startled pigeons. The drains belched and gurgled but declined to perform.
At Karachi Company, citizens waded through waist deep water while samosas floated solemnly toward Aabpara. Children ferried groceries and homework on shopping trolleys and crates. A blackout fell. Neighbours formed candlelit choirs and shared ghost stories of floods past, their voices rising above the roar of the water. In some lanes, improvised boats appeared, laundry tubs lashed together with rope, pushed bravely by residents in rolled up shalwars.
In I-8 Sector, the stray dogs, having escaped the CDA’s flooded Dog Pit, guided pedestrians through puddles, guarded transformers, and stood watch at collapsing manholes, their tails raised like battle standards. Citizens, emboldened by their new guardians, waded with a little more confidence, and one even attached a torch to the lead dog’s neck.
Incensed, Mirza issued a memo: “Unauthorized canine intervention is strictly prohibited. All assistance must be routed through proper channels.”
The citizens ignored him and christened the strays Flood Response Unit: K9 Division. Then, in a final act of theatrical irrelevance, appeared Mehrun Nisa Shamshad, the self-proclaimed “Premier Climate Expert.”
“I have been saying this for months,” she began, smoothing her imaginary scarf. “Stochastic precipitation paradigms,” she paused, “must synergize with hydrological resilience matrices.”
The anchor gasped. The panelists scribbled. A retired teacher wading through G 9 muttered,
“She speaks like the nullahs — loud, relentless, and flooding every channel without ever helping anyone.” Nosy Mynah tilted her head and wondered aloud how she managed to appear on every channel at once, even as the water rose.
By dusk, the Minister of Haste arrived, a mythic figure in polished boots, known to race the monsoon and lose. He paced the flooded road, pointing grandly at pumps that wheezed pompously in the water, at mops that now required ceremonial bearers, at nullahs roaring through their chains.
At a press briefing, His Dualness stood at the podium, flanked on one side by Concrete Dreams Authority and on the other by Capital Dilemmas, sternly demanding that he hold himself accountable for these failures.
NDMA’s Situation Report 27 followed: “All stakeholders remain vigilant. Citizens advised to follow advisories. Helplines operational in principle if not in sound.”
CDA’s own bulletin declared: “All underpasses functional at ceremonial capacity.”
And so the city floated. Soggy prayer mats were sold at discount with umbrellas. Children splashed while their parents debated, “Clouds or CDA?” Neighbours rescued a mobile phone with a human chain and drafted a Citizens’ Committee for Rescuing Disgraced Pumps. One young man even pinned a notice on a traffic cone: “This drain is under citizen surveillance until further notice.”
Above it all, Babloo, Nosy Mynah, and Mirza perched on the fractured lip of F-8’s road, surveying the underpasses of their discontent. They stood as monuments to soggy ambition, ceremonial swimming pools commissioned by misfortune, the city’s open veins bleeding quietly into the night.
“Three spells, three statements, and still they rehearse the same play,” Babloo murmured. “Control rooms remain operational, emotionally, at least,” Nosy added.
Mirza adjusted his monocle and said,
“Water writes its press notes. We just take minutes.”
Somewhere beyond the Margallas, clouds huddled, already drafting the next manifesto.
On a wall near Melody Market, written in chalk by some anonymous citizen, the final advisory waited: “Dear CDA, kindly evacuate your excuses before the next rain. Underpasses of our discontent remain open for inconvenience. Over.”
(The writer can be reached at [email protected])
