Earth Beta Chapter 2: Karachi Beta



Welcome to Karachi. With a population nearing 20 million, it is the center of business, trade, finance and commerce of Pakistan and arguably one of the biggest metropolitan cities in the world. A leading seaport, Karachi is Pakistan’s equivalent of New York when it comes to opportunity and employment. Like other metropolitan cities  it is teeming with life; their rat race to make it to the end of the day a little richer while some just manage to earn enough to make the day go by. But make no mistake, Karachi is a hungry animal. It houses several multi-ethnic and religious sects which, while remain in the grind of normalcy, could erupt at the slightest provocation. Voted one of the ten most dangerous cities in the world, Karachi has a whole list of problems ranging from crime, ethnic strife, gang wars, target killing and political turmoil. Political parties seem to have an organized calendar of when to paralyze the city with strikes and shut downs, lead by the political rivalry of the urban Brotherhood Party against the rural-minded Public Party. Though both are populist & liberal-minded, and could very well lead the city to great progress, they still differ on the simple matter of urban and rural mindsets, which is further compounded by their indirectly supported militant wings that are engaged in the war for attrition and territory.

Still, for all its ills and evils, Karachi invites everyone from all over the country to make their mark. Better still, it dares them to. It is the center of economy, healthcare, technology and industry. It is the destination of choice for business process outsourcing from all over the world, and no one knows that better than GRT Global. With acquired offices all over Europe, Asia and America, the story of GRT is that of the proverbial David finally rising to become the Goliath of the industry. Starting as a simple call center in Lahore, GRT hit the jackpot when it started operations in Karachi, thus tapping into a well-educated and well-versed labor market which was smart, savvy, and above all… cheap. Focusing solely on English-Medium school students, it became the hub for all 18-somethings to enter the corporate world to polish their people skills and mint good money in the process. Sales, marketing, insurance, finance… GRT had a solution and workforce for all international client needs.

The success of GRT came solely from the quality of the people that they employed, and Mahmud Siddiq Jr. has been one of their oldest assets. Ever since his father Mahmud Sr.  passed on, he spent a few months getting his father’s affairs in order and then finally trying to get his own academic life on track when, by an extraordinary coincidence, his mother brought to him the classified section of the Torch newspaper with a GRT advert for recruitment. Mistaking it for a profit scheme, she gave her son the paper who informed her that it was for a job opening. He read the job requirements and was amazed that they had no educational degree requirement, a staple for all corporate employment across the country, and all that was required was excellent spoken & written English Language skills. He figured, what the heck, and in a few months his life changed forever. In the eight years that he’s been with the company, he’s become a corporate professional and now is a mentor to a whole new breed of employees. Sure he had to struggle in the beginning as he was bounced off to several departments, but that gave him great insights into how the company functioned till he finally became a jack of all trades.

His latest stint in training & development is to make the new breed of GRT professionals meet the standards of excellence that GRT upholds. This, truthfully, was becoming difficult to do with each batch of recruits that he trained. It wasn’t that GRT’s standards were near impossible to meet, but it did have a lot to do with the quality of the new recruits. Maybe he was being hard on them as he was the last of the crème de la crème of the original lot, but then again, GRT has evolved from a single storey call center to a global powerhouse. So while he can get a batch of talented young men & women to handle their responsibilities professionally and by the book, it’s when they’re met with something out of the box that requires his expertise, such was now when he finds himself donning the headset to handle a sensitive caller.

“So let me see if I have this right, sir. You’re saying that you once visited GRT Global’s website a few days ago and since then, every time you open your web browser, GRT’s website always shows up, and you’d like it to stop?”

“Got it in one, sonny!” the caller replies with that southern accent. From Louisiana no doubt. Plus he does sound like someone in his fifties who’s only been using a computer for a little time. “Not only that, but I want it back the way it was.”

“Excuse me?” Mahmud Jr. asked, a little bemused.

“Before your GRT thing started popping up, I always, ALWAYS got Dell’s Website on my internet. And I liked it, it had all the information I wanted updated every day, so you can understand how this has made me upset.”

“I completely understand sir, and I do regret the inconvenience you’ve faced. If you’re near your computer right now, I’ll be more than happy to talk you through some steps which you should have no problem in doing on your own. Once done, your browser should no longer show the GRT website anymore till you want it.”

“Uh huh, well give me just a second and I’ll get to my computer.”

“I’ll hold.” Mahmud responds as he lies back on the seat a little, surrounded by all the other agents who should have gone off on their tea-break, but instead stuck around to watch how their trainer handled calls. It’s not that he had to take the call; he only popped in on the floor to have a quick word with the supervisor who was apparently answering a call of nature. It was then that one of his old trainees asks him what to do about this caller he had on the line with an “unknown problem”. Mahmud took the call while most of the agents went off on break. Even when the supervisor returned, Mahmud still figured he should see this through. It has been a while since he took a live call, which frankly could work in his favor. Every time he tries to coach the agents on how to improve call performance, he gets looks from some problematic agents that instantly says “let’s see you do any better.” So here he was, not that he had to prove anything to anyone, but smug satisfaction still feels goods every now and then.

“Okay, I’m here, I’ve got explorer open and surprise surprise, GRT is staring me right in the face.” The caller returns, still upset.

“Right, I take it you’re using Internet Explorer.” Of course he is. He sounds fifty-ish. He likes his computer just like it was the day he bought it. So no, he’s not going to install a faster and efficient browser, not while the safety software on his computer would ask him if he wants any kind of software installed. Users such as this have a better running computer simply because they do things just as it says in the instruction manual.

“Darn right! Now what?”

Mahmud then carefully guides the user to the browser settings, on how to get to the home page section. He figures the best thing to suggest is to set it to default and save the settings, restart the browser and see what the caller has to say.

“Ohhhh, kay.” The caller still sounds apprehensive. Mahmud is now tensed, and it’s not simplified with some of the other agents trying to get in a listen at the call. “So, it’s not GRT anymore, which is a relief, but it’s going to this other site about Microsoft. I kinda liked it when it was Dell, y’know. It had all my stuff set just the way I wanted.”

Great, just great! The member had a Dell homepage set before, and it was probably configured to show him his custom stuff. Mahmud quickly starts typing at his terminal’s web browser and opens the Dell website. It is just like he said, a web portal with news, weather and all other information, with a line on the top saying “Hello Visitor! Click here to login.” Mahmud now plays a gamble which should pacify this caller. He asks him to go through the settings again and this time, type in instead of Microsoft. He figures the caller uses the browser every day and it shows custom information, so his Dell Account must be configured and saved to the browser. It’s only a matter of setting the homepage back. The caller complies as Mahmud waits for the reaction on the other end.

“OH! YOU THE MAN, MAN! YOU THE MAN!” Mahmud is quietly relieved. Crisis averted, no negative feedback for the company, and a satisfied caller. “Thanks so much, this is perfect. Oh and I’m sorry about all the things I said to that other guy. It was a bit out of line.”

“Not a problem sir, once again we regret the inconvenience.”

“Oh no, you’ve been brilliant, y’hear!”

“Well is there anything else I may help with?”

“Nope, I’m as happy as sunshine. Take care!”

“You too sir, have a nice day!”

Mahmud waits for the call to cut as he checks the counter. He took the call at about the four minute mark and its now at fourteen. He turns around and looks at the pleasantly surprised faces of the agents and the devilishly smiling face of the supervisor who’s been listening in on the call with his wireless surveillance system.

“Now children, let this be a lesson to you.” Mahmud addresses the eager crowd of agents that gathered around him as he takes off his headset. “Sure, be by the book all the time, but there are going to be times when you’re going to have to use common sense and your own ingenuity to get you out of scrapes, while also being sure that the company doesn’t get any bad word-of-mouth. Listen to the recording and you’ll know where you can improve.”

The agents applaud as Mahmud walks off, returning a high-five from the supervisor. Mahmud almost forgets what he wanted to talk to him about, but once done, he goes off on the terrace to get a bit of fresh air. Only another twenty minutes before he gets off from work. It has been a tiring day not just because of that call. The nights aren’t any easier now ever since they had their child. A daughter, just like he hoped. Little Alaya is only two months old and she’s already proving to be a handful. The sleepless nights are having an effect on both him and Riva, but he’s doing his best to remain charged up for work. He does wonder how hard it must be for Riva to take care of the baby, although his sister and mother are usually home after noon. Even so, Riva has the brunt of the work taking care of the baby, usually with Alaya waking up after every hour, so Riva has a very erratic sleep cycle. Mahmud figures he’ll get some sleep on the ride home in the office van, especially with the full air-conditioning it has. Although as he turns, he finds the bench looking very relaxing and just sort of drawing him towards it.

“Just a couple of minutes won’t hurt”, he thinks to himself as he sits himself down, lets out a deep sigh and closes his eyes.



“Excuse me!”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t see where I was…”

His eyes open and he is instantly taken aback. He remembers sitting down somewhere but now he’s outside, among a sea of people walking their way on the footpath. He can’t seem to remember how he got here, as if he was plucked from his cozy bench and dropped right on to this road. Where was this road? He looks around and notices a sign saying “McLeod Road.” He’s shocked, as only an instant ago he was somewhere else entirely. McLeod Road is Karachi’s financial hub with all major banks having their head offices located here, not to mention the stock exchange. He looks at his watch and sees the time is 5:15 PM, only it’s a watch he doesn’t recognize. It turns on just as he flicks his wrist up to show him the time and, to his surprise, a small message icon with the digit ‘2’ next to it. Before he can look any further, he notices his sleeve and the rest of him is wearing a black coat. In July? Why would he need to wear a coat in the summer? He then turns around to look at everyone else wearing warm clothing too. It’s only then that he feels the slight chill reminiscent of winter, and the sweet scent of pine.

“I… I’m in the future?”

He could only mutter those words to himself when a large shadow falls over and the entire street. He looks up and if he wasn’t taken aback before, the sight before him now has undoubtedly given him the shock of his life. About four hundred feet above him, a massive object has just clouded the sky, moving forward majestically across the city skyline without skipping a beat. He can scarcely believe what he’s seeing.

“Excuse me sir,” he stops a gentleman walking along, “could you please tell me you’re also seeing that object in the sky?”

The gentleman looks at him bemused. “New to Karachi, are ya? It’s a Zepp, innit!”

“A… Zepp?”

“Yeah! Zepp, Zeppelin; whatever floats your boat. Looks like the weekend flight to Hyderabad to me. Pretty nifty, those Zepps. Been on a few myself but they are ruddy expensive. You should try ‘em once, especially the buffet lounge.”

The gentleman waves him goodbye and is on his merry way, leaving him to process this new bit of information. What the heck is a Zeppelin and when did it start flying from Karachi to Hyderabad? It’s a blimp; that much he knows, but the only thing he can think of with the word Zeppelin is a heavy metal band. More to the point, did that gentleman speak with a cockney accent? In Karachi? He isn’t familiar with the crowd working around McLeod Road to know what kind of language they speak. Or at least he thinks he isn’t.

As he walks in the general direction along with everyone else, he begins to recall where exactly he is now. He’s nearing the roundabout that leads from McLeod Road to Shahrah-e-Faisal on the left and Saddar to the right, with the Rex Shopping Zone right at the start. The roads themselves seem to be piling up with vehicular traffic, understandable since it is quitting time for most offices, and yet the traffic seems to be moving smoothly. What’s amazing is that there are literally no motorcycles, one of the most notorious kinds of transport there is. He climbs up a tram heading for main Saddar via Victoria Road and pays ten rupees to the conductor. It’s when he gets his change that he sees something he hasn’t seen in ages.

“What the …?” he gawks at the small bluish & white two-rupee note, a bill that’s been out of circulation over a decade ago. More to the point, a tram?! He can scarcely believe that he’s in a tram. He remembers his mother telling him that they used to have trams in Karachi but they were phased out in the 1970s. And now he’s in one. It travelled along Victoria Road at a brisk pace as he took in the sights. All of the Rex Shopping Zone, followed by the Electronics Market, and not one car or motorcycle parked. Any and all vehicles were moving along, stopping only to drop someone off or pick someone up.

He finally gets off at Bunder Road and crosses over in the direction to where he wants to go, when he’s greeted by a Double Decker bus. “Just like London,” he mutters to himself as he gets on and finds himself a seat. As he heads for home, he starts processing all this information. Trams, Zeppelins, clear roads, and now a Double Decker. “So, not in the future then. The past?” He looks out of the window and his theory is instantly squashed. There’s nothing around him that shows that he is in the past. Apart from the old heritage sites, everything else looks modern, spic & span and with a glint of being right out of the assembly line. The signboards appear to be digitally printed and the cars around him are modern alright. But where are all the motorcycles?

He looks back at his watch which lights up the clock face as soon as he flicks his wrist. He notices a button on the side, on pressing which the clock face disappears and a whole menu of options appears. “It’s a smartwatch!” he exclaims and checks his pockets to see if he should have a smartphone. Instead, all he finds is his earpiece which he takes off every now and then. He checks the messages icon to show his pending messages. One’s a special offer yet again, and the other one is from Riva, reminding him to bring milk and bread on the way back. “Okay, so she’s texting me now. Interesting.” He has been on her case to text him instead of calling only if she needs essentials or stuff while he returns from home. He notices the date on the watch which confirms that he is indeed neither in the past nor the future. He is in 2011, just like he should be. December 21st to be precise. And yet, he remembers it was July for some reason.

He disembarks at the University Road, right outside the Army Park from where he crosses over to his apartment blocks. He’s lived here in the neighborhood of Silverson ever since he was a child, ever since there were ethnic disturbances in old Nazimabad which forced his family to find other places to live. As he approaches his home, he hears a child calling towards him.


He turns and notices Zaviar running gleefully towards him from the Silver Park gate. He lifts up his boy in his arms and notices Riva holding little Alaya in her arms as they return from their evening stroll. Little Alaya is just a little over a month old whereas Zaviar is a year and a half. Zaviar hugs his father tightly as Riva smiles at him.

“Milk and bread? I texted you just like you asked.” she says sarcastically.

“Nice to see you too, Riva.” he responds with a sigh. “Give me a couple of minutes to freshen up and I’ll get them.”

“Sure, I’m heading up. It’s her feeding time.”

He checks on his darling little girl sleeping in her small blanket as Riva takes her upstairs. “So how are you doing champ?” he asks Zaviar.

“Zavi waiting for you. Go outside.” Little Zaviar replies in his sweet way. He’s beginning to pick up language pretty fast and should be talking properly in a few months.

“Dada!” Zaviar points towards a maroon 2000 model Toyota Corolla as it approaches them towards the driveway. He looks intently at the car, wondering why Zaviar would call out to a grandfather. Unless…

The door opens and Mahmud Siddiq I steps out, briefcase in hand. He locks the car and heads towards them.


Trams, Zeppelins, Two Rupee Bills, Double Deckers… none of these compare to seeing his father again. He looks exactly like the last time he saw him, neatly dressed in a black coat & tie, with a crisp white shirt, grey trousers and shiny black shoes. His hair is now gray, with a receding hairline along the temple. His spectacles are on his face, still tied around his neck with the aid of a thread.

“Sorry I couldn’t bring you along. Had a late meeting about a case.” Mahmud I says as he approaches his son and grandson.

“It’s okay, I just got here myself.”

“And how are you doing my little knight?” Mahmud I coddles Zaviar on the hair. “Has your father taken you the store yet?”

On Zaviar shaking his head, Mahmud I brings out a hundred rupee bill and hands it to his son. “Get him those Pepsis, he likes those very much.”

“Seriously dad, you never let us have a drop of Pepsi in our lives, always reminding us how bad it was for us.”

“Oh pish, he’s only a boy. Let him have his fun.”

“Fruit juice it is dad.” He replies as Mahmud I scoffs. They all head up the stairs while he starts thinking.

“I’m back again, back to that other place. Back to being Mahmud II.”

He looks at the mirror in the foyer to see himself dressed in the similar black coat & tie with white shirt, grey trousers and black shoes as his father. “Back to being a … paralegal, was it?” He looks at his mother, sitting at the swing sofa in the hall, watching TV just like she always does. Riva is obviously in their bedroom feeding Alaya, and the rest of the house feels empty. He closes his eyes and thinks hard. It’s the second time he can remember that he’s been in this exact dream state, in this exact city with all its subtle changes; nay, improvements. He remembers all this while he was back here a few months ago.

But are dreams really this accurate? Aren’t they all supposed to be random depending on the state of mind?

What if this is more than just a dream? Because if he didn’t know any better, he’d say this is reality.

This, this is home.






The events depicted in the above are a work of fiction loosely based on events in the life of the author. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental; unless you’re related to the author, in which case you were most likely the inspiration behind it. 


Earth Beta Chapter 1: Dreams



Slightly above average.

School, college, work, relationships. You can be really good at them or really bad, and yet, there’s always the one that’s “slightly above average.”

At 27 years old, Mahmud Siddiq II seems to have done reasonably well for himself. He started working very early as a paralegal with his father while still in law school. As he’s been told countless times, his father, Mr. Mahmud Siddiq I is one of the most respected attorneys in the country, having accomplished a great deal in his time at the bar and no doubt managed to make both friends and enemies in pretty powerful places. Which is a blessing since no one in the legal circles will make fun of the younger Mahmud’s shared name. Mahmud the Second? If it’s supposed to show aristocracy, it doesn’t work. Not because either father or son are undeserving of it, but it does have a lot to do with his father’s character & wit firmly rooted from humble beginnings as a school teacher. The younger Mahmud is not at all surprised that his father managed to make sure his children know how to work hard for their success. Whatever influence his father may have, it’s all on him to build himself a future of his own. Before even thinking of how to use the influence and of course the connections his father has, he’ll have to crawl on his own before he can run. That’s a cycle that includes studying hard, working an entire rear-end off, fighting privilege at every turn and eventually make a name for yourself.

Such efforts & ideals were no doubt in vain when it came to Mahmud II who was never the best student at school; in fact he was, as expected, slightly above average. On trying, and eventually failing at different business ventures, he at last realized that he was never going to escape his father’s shadow. Though still studying law while he tried his dab hand at fashion photography of all things should have been a sign. Still, it’s another blessing. Fashion photographers called Mahmud Siddiq The Second will never be taken seriously in showbiz, and getting the nickname ‘Sidd’ is something he’s always hated.

“Ugh… mmm,” he clutches his head almost in pain, but it’s not physical. It’s like a sea of thoughts & memories started flooding into his mind. Something… something about television production?  Why was he suddenly thinking about producing TV shows, of all things?

“You feeling okay?” He recognizes the voice instantly and is relaxed, even though the tone was that of concern. His better half, the love of his life and mother of his children. Just thinking about it makes him forget any troubles he might have.

“I’m fine Riva, just a little pinch in the head that’s all.” He looks around in the taxi cab where both he and his wife are seated in the back as they’re about to pull up at the hospital maternity clinic. They’re expecting their second child soon, just a couple of more months. He hopes it’s a girl, as having one boy is already a handful. He does feel lucky about his son Zaviar, especially with all that happened during the birth. Premature delivery always carries a lot of risks and a lot of worries, but he does feel lucky. Lucky enough to have a son that isn’t named Mahmud for a change. Still, things could have gone wrong… very wrong.

He looks at the hospital and is struck by how clean it is. Incredibly clean, almost like they were entering a bio dome. All the white makes it look like something out of a Hollywood future utopia flick. It’s after he pays the fare that he notices the car is the latest Toyota Corolla. In an orange and blue color scheme? “Weird,” he wonders, “must really have my mind on something else.” He was always prone to distractions, “flights of fancy” as his father put it and of course attributed to his slightly above average success in all walks of life. Mahmud II can’t help it. He likes being imaginative, he appreciates creativity, and he certainly has scant regard for anything monotonous. Sure he’s a bit timid but he wouldn’t mind living a little, but now that he has a family of his own, any adventurous tendencies are obviously on hold indefinitely.

As he was walking away from reception, he gets a call and instinctively clicks his earpiece. “Dad? What’s up?… Wha– really?… Yeah I’m right there too with Riva… Of course, I’ll pop over there in a few minutes. We can go home together.” He clicks the earpiece again and walks over to Riva in the waiting hall.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“It was dad, he’s…”

“Calling you back into the office?” she interjects.

Almost used to her interruptions, he carries on without even asking. “He’s actually here, at the hospital, in the neuro ward of all places.”

“Oh,” Riva now sat dumbfounded. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, the doctor’s called him up for something. I thought, if you’re going to be here for another 30 minutes, I may as well check on him. I told him we could drive back home together.”

“Right, because obviously he has the car to himself.” she replies, a little coldly.

“Now now,” he realizes they’ve had this conversation before but he’s learned how to keep his cool while stating the obvious, “we both know the Family Car law will only let us have a car of our own once we’re at least four members in the family. Which’ll be in a few months and…”

She interjects again, “And even then we won’t get one, not till you’ve obviously earned the money for it, every single rupee of it. Which, with the new Honda City, will take you a good while.”

“Have a little faith, please. And it’ll be a Honda Civic.”

“Oh great, that’ll make it happen soon!”

“Look,” he knows he should get moving before this gets more out of hand, “I’ll be back with him in thirty minutes. We’ll go back home together, alright? Let me just check on him and hopefully you’ll be done by the time we get back.”

He walks out of the waiting hall, with a few curious glances from the other women. Great, just what he needs: judgmental soon-to-be moms thinking all sorts of things about him. He shouldn’t really let them get to him. It’s not as if he’ll be seeing them again anytime soon. And he shouldn’t let her get to him either. She’s not entirely argumentative, but she can be like a brick wall at times. It’s not that they don’t have a good life. He’s got a good job, they all live together in the same house along with his family, but sometimes the little things do tend to come out in the open. Or it could just be one of those days in the pregnancy.

As he asks for directions, he is still astounded by the hospital itself. He could just spend his entire life here, taking in the rich azure-blue sky and the perfect air, with the beautiful greenery all around in the lawns. He watches some kids playing, little girls on swings along with their parents. Someday, he’ll be taking his little girl to a park and on to a swing. Will she enjoy it? Or be scared?

He smiles as he finally walks up to the building with the sign “Neurology”. He’s about to enter when, without warning, a gentleman bursts out, walking away in a huff holding onto what is no doubt an envelope of medical reports. He’s immaculately dressed in a black coat & tie, with a crisp white shirt & grey trousers, and shiny black shoes. Perfectly immaculate, just like his perfectly combed gray hair and horn-rimmed spectacles hanging off his neck with the aid of a thread. He’s no doubt kept himself fit even at the age of sixty-six and has every bit of a temper towards everyone. Even for Mahmud II, who just smiles as he watches his father walk away without even noticing him.

“Dad? Wait up!”

“Oh,” Mr. Mahmud I turns around finally noticing his son calling out to him. “It’s you.” No pleasantries, no handshakes. “I hope I didn’t hit you with that door.”

“No of course not, I’m…”

“You should watch where you’re going. No telling how hard someone could burst out of a door and slam your face in.”

Mahmud II now realizes that he’s had a lifetime to get used to being interrupted. It’s why it comes so easily to him.

“I take it you’re done with the doctors. What are you doing here anyway, and in the neuro w…”

“Oh it’s not important!” Not important? If his father tells him something’s not important and it’s keeping him out of the office during working hours, he’s obviously lying. And ouch, now even he’s buying into the urban legend that ‘lawyer’ sounds exactly like ‘liar’.

Well, where’s that wife of yours?” the older Mahmud finally asks. “You said she was here for her checkup. I’m sure you’re eager to get home so where is she?”

“She’s probably just about to meet with her doctor. Should be another twenty minutes or so.”

“Perfect! More delays.” he grumbles, rubbing his forehead and looks around. Something really is troubling him, but it is hard to tell with the level of grumpiness he exhibits every day. “Well, this place has a canteen or such so let’s go there and wait. Dry sandwiches will have to do. Come along boy, don’t dawdle!”

Mr. Mahmud I walks off without even waiting for his son who momentarily stands behind, speechless as always, before following him. “Yes sir.”



Dry chicken sandwiches, chicken patties and milk tea. What more could anyone else want in a hospital canteen. Mahmud II forgot he barely had any lunch as he hungrily wolfs down the last of the mini sandwiches while his father sips his tea.

“These doctors, with their complicated medical terms which are difficult to pronounce even for the most learned people.”

“What’s complicated about ‘dementia’?” Mahmud II asked his father.

“Congratulations,” his father replied. “You’re probably the only person who’s not a doctor that can say that with a straight face.”

The younger Mahmud is left stumped. All the years spent with his father, and the last few years when he crossed fifty five should make him careful while talking to him. Of course, it’s not easy when his father himself is as blunt as ever. That’s the benefit of old age apparently. You can get away with saying absolutely anything without having to worry about what anyone else has to think. Talk show politicians have made that art a cash-cow.

“But no, it’s dementia in their books and so dementia is what it will be just to make them sound amazingly superior.” the older Mahmud continues while sipping at his tea. “Why can’t they just say memory loss and end with the cure? Oh no, there’s all sorts of nonsense now. Therapy, counseling, talking about your everyday feelings. What is this, anger management? Doctors!”

Mahmud II instantly smirks, “Says the man who’s own son is about to graduate from med school in a few years.”

Mahmud I coughs, almost spilling his tea. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m messing, dad. You know I am.” Mahmud II has been listening to his father explain about his diagnosis: short term memory loss, inability to recall certain events or minute details of life. It does however explain a lot of the obvious recent changes with him. He’s claimed to have lost his glasses several times, a quarter of which ended up in laughs as he discovered they were on the top of his head the entire time. Other times he’d leave them at the office, therefore having to buy two different sets. That of course involved getting another prescription for new glasses and that’s another can of worms. It was Mahmud II’s genius solution of tying them with a thread around the neck that the old man now considers his son’s finest moment. One time Mahmud I accidentally jumbled the numbers on his particular hair color at the market and ended up turning his hair into a rich shade of grey. He would simply not accept that he could have made an error and no one could convince him otherwise since none of the previous hair color packaging was available to compare with. It wasn’t until his own natural grays blended with the synthetic that he realized he preferred this new color. Probably the only change he’s accepted in a decade.

“Well you did say this was the most senior doctor, so he obviously knows what he’s talking about.” Mahmud II gently puts his point across as he sips on his tea. “Wouldn’t be wise to disregard his diagnosis.”

“Yes I suppose that’s true,” his father responds after simmering down a peg. Mahmud II smirks again as he realizes his hypothesis is correct. In the mind of his father, anyone as ancient as he is automatically always right. And anyone even older might just be considered holy. So it’s obvious what the opinion of anyone younger means to him.

“But there’s so much that I still need to do with my life,” his father continues.  “So much yet to accomplish. You may not believe this but a man doesn’t get by his life without regret. There is so much that I do regret and now, with this dementia business, I may never get around to fixing any of it!”

To Mahmud II, this was incredible.  Denial, anger, bargaining, guilt; his father’s already gone through four out of seven stages of grief in the middle of a casual tea break. He’s shuddering to think just what’ll happen by the time they get to the car. “Hmmm, well what you don’t remember won’t be there to bother you then, will it?” He smiles.

“Not amusing.” his father responds.  Just then, Mahmud II clicks his earpiece for an incoming call.

“You done? … Alright we’re on our way … Oh he’s fine … huh? … I’ll TELL you when we get home, okay?”

“No. You. Won’t.” his father speaks as Mahmud II clicks the earpiece off. “Not a word to anyone, especially to your mother. You know how she gets at things like this.”

Mahmud II exhales, “I also know how she gets when she finds out much later about things like this and how cross she’ll be on learning I’ve known about it a lot longer.”

“I’ll tell everyone when I’m good and ready. I haven’t even decided how I’m going to go forward with this. So till then, silence.”

“Fine but what harm will come of telling Riva?”

“You forget: women talk! Speaking of whom, let’s get that wife of yours and be off. Getting a bit chilly here.”

They rise and walk out of the canteen, continuing their conversation. “Still not considering an ultrasound to find out the gender?”

“Not at all!” Mahmud II replies. “I prefer the suspense. Personally though, I do hope it is a girl.”

“Ah yes. I remember how happy I was when your sister was born. Three sons and a daughter, that’s what I had hoped for and that’s how I was blessed. You think I should buy some of those brownies your sister likes on the way home?

“You can’t because firstly she’s in New York and secondly, that bakery closed down a year ago.”

“Hmph! I knew that…”

“Heh, sure you did…




His voice trails off in an echo that seems to go on forever. He feels his body numb as he tries to feel everything around him, but his fingers don’t respond to him. It isn’t till the echo begins to subside that he gets the glimmer of feeling back into him, his heart pounding away like a beating clock. His eyelids open slowly, gently and finally clearing away from the blurry haze. He wakes up and looks at the ceiling fan, humming and spinning away. He wipes off the cold sweat across his forehead while sitting up to take in the surroundings.

Mahmud Jr. is in his bedroom, waking up from what may have been the most vivid dream he’s ever had. Sure he’s had many, many more dreams but this was something else entirely. If he didn’t know better, he’d say his life as he knew it was a complete lie and what he saw in the dream, what he felt in it was real. And how could he not? A life just like his, but different. He wonders, who calls himself Mahmud II these days? As if Junior wasn’t bad enough. He looks next to him on the bed where his wife Riva is sound asleep. He looks at her and their unborn child still safe in her, waiting for another trimester till the big day. He hopes it is a girl.

He looks further on at the bed but there is nothing there. No, he never had a son. There were… problems. “Intrauterine death,” that is what the ultrasound report said last year when it happened. Those two words are forever seared into his mind. He was so devastated but not as much as Riva was, and much like his whole life, he’s had to keep a cool head on his shoulders to get through this. So he bottled the grief in, seldom letting it out. But how does one bottle up the saddest moment in their life?

No, not the saddest.

Mahmud Jr. gets up from bed and walks to the wardrobe, gently sliding the door open so as to not wake Riva. He turns on the door light and looks around for something in the upper drawer. He picks up his office identity card at GRT Retail where he’s recently been promoted to manager. So, not a lawyer then. And yet it was all so real. Another person just like him but leading an entirely different career? He picks up his wallet, opening it to see his father’s old identity card from work. Only, much like him, he wasn’t a lawyer either. Producer at National Television Network; so that’s why he found it strange thinking about television production when he was in the taxi cab. But was he in a taxi-cab? An Orange and Blue color scheme Toyota Corolla that looks nothing like the Corolla he knows.

He quietly steps out of the room and into the living room. It’s six am, still a few hours or so before he has to wake up and get to work. He looks back at the ID Card. He’s had a color copy of it ever since his father passed away seven years ago. He thinks back to how far he’s come ever since, how he left the media industry after, how he decided to make something for himself in something else entirely, how he’s now a seven year professional in corporate retail management. And much like the Mahmud II in his dreams, he finds that he’s also slightly above average.

He tries to recollect as much as possible, as dreams have the tendency to fade away like cheap aroma sprays, but he’s managed to piece together the important facts: somewhere in his dreams there’s another him in another Karachi which is by and large the cleanest & organized city he has ever imagined. Certainly decades ahead than the metropolitan nightmare that his Karachi is, with crime, pollution, gang-wars, ethnic strife and pretty much all the pains of a metropolis boiling in a single powder keg. Somewhere in that city he’s seen another life, where he’s married to the same woman, with a son that he never had, with another child on the way. Just like him, the other Mahmud also hopes that it is a girl. And unbelievable as it may sound, his father, who’s been dead for the past seven years, who has been the most important person in his life, is still alive. A bit more cynical and world weary, but still alive.

But was it only a dream? Was it his sub-conscious mind working into overdrive and creating the most amazing reality he could have hoped for? Was it a glimpse, a premonition? A view of the world as it should have or could have been?

Or was it something much, much more?





The events depicted in the above are a work of fiction loosely based on events in the life of the author. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental; unless you’re related to the author, in which case you were most likely the inspiration behind it. 


I am the land, the earth. I am home. I remember I had purpose, a simple one. To nurture, to care, to be home to life. Glorious, wonderful, beautiful life.

I have failed.

I tried. Oh how I tried. I was teeming with life. I was happy, joyous. I had beautiful forests, clear waters, and wonders as far as the eye could see. I was molded to be the ideal sanctuary for all life. All life. I was lonely at first but as life began, it grew exponentially. No, not grew… it blossomed. It was beautiful, and I was there with it all the way. All the joy, the excitement, the wonders of life and I was privileged to bear witness. I shared with them my bounty, I gave to them unconditionally. I gave them all they could ask for. Food, water, clothing, and shelter all to nourish them. And when they craved more spiritually, sustenance was not far. I am the land, vast, plentiful & bountiful. And so, side by side, we explored and reached new heights. I reveled as they soared through the blue skies, I beheld as they dived the greatest depths of the oceans, I smiled as they climbed the highest peaks with dogged determination. They created wonders, they achieved enlightenment, they debated points of view and indulged in intellectual prowess. They saw existence with color and complexity.

Oh how I long for that moment of euphoria to last till eternity.

As life grew, so with it did the feelings. Joy, love, hope, excitement, compassion, happiness, contentment, charity… fear, loathing, envy, pride, avarice, resentment, hatred, rage. When they knew that I would always be there for them, they turned to each other. They created brotherhood, society, community. They lived together, ate together, laughed together, loved together. And then, when all was done, they fought. It was small at first; a prank, an argument, an insult. Like life itself, it grew. Slaps turned to brawls, brawls turned to battle. And then, something new. Something I had never felt before. It spilled onto me, red, warm, boiling. It was lifeblood, spilling into my soil. It was then that I was introduced to life’s constant but silent companion: death.

They may have grown in number, but grew further apart. They could not comprehend subtle differences among one another. They screamed, they shouted. Their words spewed fire. They divided into nations, into castes, into creeds, into color. They looked no different to me. They were beautiful and yet they had forgotten that true beauty was skin deep. But the joke of it all as that they could never be enough hate. It grew, it festered within. When color was not enough, they differed on faith. When faith was not enough, they differed on might. And so it goes, they kept digging within themselves to find more hate, and more and more and more. And when that hate surfaced, all of life turned ugly. They killed, they maimed, they tortured. They used their fists, with punches, with kicks, and venom so terrifying that there seemed no cure. And when they could find no more ways to do harm themselves, they at last turned to me.

I had given them everything they ever wanted, everything they ever needed. I could not refuse them, how could I? I loved them unconditionally. I asked for nothing, only that they be happy. But it seemed that they could only remain happy in their own suffering. And so when they turned to me, how could I refuse? They dug further into me; they found new ways to do each other harm. What were mere powders that could heal, they turned to deadly chemicals. What were mere oils that could light their world, they turned to fuel for war. What were mere trinkets, they turned to weights to bury their rivals in debt. They burned my forests, they clogged my skies, and they poisoned my oceans. They called it progress but it was just a name for finding new ways to destroy each other. It was a means to an end, or rather, THE end.

They armed themselves to the teeth; they entered a race of meaninglessness. To see who could out-muscle the other. To see who could sting the fiercest. So they warred among themselves, on land, in the skies, in the seas, even the void surrounding my being; all in the name of some cause. It didn’t matter what the cause was, just as long as there was someone else who opposed it. Someone with a different point of view was to instantly become the object of their hatred. They saw no compassion, no regret, no remorse, no peace. They plundered, they raped, they killed, they maimed. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. They wanted more destruction, they craved it. So they used their most powerful tool of all, their intellect. What once created jewels of art, poetry, music, now turned their creative prowess to finding new ways to eliminate each other. They made guns to kill one, and then bigger guns to make the biggest dents, and then faster guns to kill as many in an instant. They used technology to spew their hate, to demean each other through vast distances, ensuring that everyone could hear them. Hear their hate. They made explosives which grew stronger & deadlier. They created to destroy. They invented lethal bombs, with their curiosity ever wondering just how many it would take to finish it all.

In the end, it took just one. They were all ignited everywhere but they all felt like just one. A very powerful, very bright, very ugly bomb. A bomb from which there was little chance of escape for anyone or anything caught in its destruction. An explosion which needed to tap into the elemental forces of my own self. It transmuted steel & concrete into glass and wiped out everything in a single stroke. Not all died, few remained. But those that did wished immediately that they hadn’t. The purpose of the bomb was not just to eliminate all life, but to ensure that no other life could survive in its wake.

They called it “Mutually Assured Destruction.” So great was their hatred for each other that they saw the only way to be rid of them once and for all was to end everything & everyone, including themselves. And not just end themselves, end everything, all life, as they couldn’t stand to breathe the same air.… they breathed the same air. They breathed… the same air.

Weep not for me, I am already sodden. I am burdened with the sweat of the fathers & brothers who dig their loved ones out of the rubble, only to bury them again. I am drenched in the tears of the mothers, crying over the broken corpses of their children. I am crimsoned with the blood of all those that marched on bravely to fight for their homes, their families, their futures. My fields are scorched from undying flames, my waters are acid, my skies are blackened with the never-ending smoke. Today I am a rotting shell of my former self, but how long has today been? It has been ages since the sun shone through the dark clouds, since there were any saplings sprouting from the soil. What once teemed with undiscovered life beneath its depths, the oceans now stand still, putrefied with the filth dumped in it. Summer and spring seem like a distant dream as the cold, unforgiving winter is all that remains.

As I fade into quiet oblivion I wonder, was I wrong? Was it wrong of me to be happy? Was it wrong of me to give unconditionally? Or perhaps they were never truly happy. No matter how much I gave, no matter how much they took, it was never enough to satiate them. As I had shared in their joy & laughter, I could only be a silent spectator to their wrath. I wanted nothing more than their happiness. I wanted them to thrive. I wanted them to find peace.

And how ironic that in the end, there is only peace. There is only silence.