August 13, 2009
I hate Karachi. Or more accurately, I hate what this city does to me. When I’m here, this strange slow lethargy seeps through my body until the only thing I’m capable of doing is lying in bed lazing the day away. I have so much work to do, a report to finish, a project proposal to write, an invoice to submit, banks to liaison with, a hundred practical things to sort out. I also have so many people I should-have-gotten-in-touch-with to call and reassure that I’m still alive. But all I can really do is wander from my bed, to the TV lounge and back to bed trying – and failing – to battle the sinking sense of loss that just doesn’t go away. I miss him all the time, no matter what city I’m in, no matter what else I may distract myself with, but in no other city, in no other house do I yearn for my father so very much. So much that every time the bell rings or the door opens or I hear footsteps my heart beats a little faster in anticipation-I-just-cannot-help, only to stop completely for a second or two when I remember that I’ll never hear his footsteps again, hear his voice calling out my name or see the slow, mischievous smile on his face delighting in my presence. Home, is still home. But home is – and forever may be – incomplete somehow, empty, hollow, painful.