Free The Scatter Here Is Too Great by Bilal Tanweer Page A

of a park where the air turns into an incredible stench of piss. He points me to the building in front of us, which is a crumbling colonial facade on top and a camera store below. “That was the India Coffee House,” he says. “All the intellectuals, poets, and artists came there. You remember the sketches I have at home? All of them were made by my friend Salahuddin over a cup of tea. Everyone I met, everything I know about life and politics, I learned from there. I came here with my friends after college, which was near the old Karachi University campus.” He takes a pause to laugh. “The owner of that place used to shout when he looked at me: Ho ho! Here he comes, our young intell-kachool! ”
    I look at his smiling face and then turn to look at the decrepit old building and try to reconcile the emotion. It is then, perhaps, for the first time I am confronted with the fact that places and people are like things: both made of memories and meaningful to us in the same way: we construct ourselves in our conversations with them.
    I am perhaps too young to realize all this, but my relationship with the city has already been established. It is one of perpetual loss.
    Sadeq and I sat on the ledge facing the sea, our shirts filled with the gusty breeze. Our frenzied excitement upon first seeing the sea had subsided, and now we were flicking roasted chickpeas into our mouths. We were calm and without the need to speak with each other.
    The sea at 11:00 A . M . was one Karachi dream that came true each day. It was one part of the city that remained as it ever was: a vast desert of water meeting a uniform spread of gray sand that shimmered with litter in sunlight: plastic bags lolled their heads in the constant wind, half-buried glass bottles stuck their radiant necks out of the sand, varieties of seaweed lay wasted like old mop cloths, and the sea breeze was forever at work scrubbing sand on everything that interrupted its movement. And then, the crows—everywhere. The sea was full of them. We watched them as they scampered, all at the same instant, lunging and snatching after a piece of bread or any desirable or shiny object—they made one-legged, lopsided landings, flipping and flailing in the sea breeze and colliding into one another without caring a damn about anything. And then after eating the piece of bread or whatever they scavenged, they played among themselves with the wild abandon of children still learning the rules of the game. In some sense, the crows embodied the spirit of the city itself. To me, they looked like litter with wings.
    A couple had veered too close to us. The boy was wearing tight jeans and in one of his hands he was turning a key chain. They had their backs toward us and were walking toward the sea with their bodies rubbing each other’s. The boy put his arm around her. He snuggled his face in the girl’s hair and kissed her on the neck.
    â€œHa-ha! Did you see that?” I exclaimed to Sadeq.
    I realized he had been looking at them for some time.
    â€œYes,” he said, not taking his eyes away from them.
    â€œJust look at the guy! He’s got the face of a shaved chicken. Even he’s got a girl.”
    They took off their sandals where the wet sands began and then began walking barefoot toward the water. At one point, the girl stopped and pulled the boy back with his sleeve. She pointed him toward the footprint he’d just made on the sand. The boy bent down to look at the footprint closely and clutched the girl’s bare ankle. Both of them laughed as she tried to release her leg from his grip.
    â€œYou don’t need a face to get a girl, my dear,” Sadeq said, still holding his stare. “You need balls that weigh two grams more than the rest of them. That’s all.”

    I am sitting with Baba on the roof of a tall building and we are both looking down. It is like flying, really—so little noise, full of air and happiness.