Karachi Diary -- Meri ball do!

Violence has been an existential reality for our city. The waves of violence are etched in most memories, whether it be the ethnic clashes of the 80s and 90s, the sectarian clashes of mid and late 90s, or the spill over from the ‘War against terror’ of the last decade.

However, back in the 90s, when I was a zealous teenager, cricket was a religious ritual that commenced at 4.30pm each day – during mild winters and excruciating summers – regardless of the city’s law and order situation.

Playing cricket on the streets and dreams of emulating the Imran Khan’s cornered tigers (of 1992 World Cup fame) was a dream everyone nurtured irrespective of skill and ability. The greatest threat, then, was an irate uncle or aunty who would try to clear us off in order to enjoy the siesta; or those rare loathsome grouches who would refuse to return the tennis ball if it landed in their house or apartment. But they were a minority, and our cricket teams often had local patrons who would finance our equipment; a few lucky teams even had their portable set of stumps with bails.

It was unheard of back then to think twice before stepping out of the house and walking unconcerned towards the de facto cricket pitch that was usually in one of the lanes, with at least one boundary stretching upto the main road.

Maybe it was because there were no cellular phones back then, and we only had enough money to get us a drink or the tape for the ball.

Nowadays, stepping out requires certain considerations. Duration and mode of travel, kind of location (whether main road or lane) and the time at which he step out are variables that have to be considered to ensure that no untoward incident takes place. Paranoia also features as those who have had been held-up often believe that they are being followed.

The fear of the unknown has crept into our collective psyche; we are forever wary of the ‘other’.

Even playing cricket with the same people on the same streets is no longer the same. Back then, the setting of the sun would end our cricket, but the teams would usually cool off at the local general store and discuss matches against teams from other areas.

Now, wrapping up begins just before sunset as everyone prefers to be off the streets even before darkness begins its descent.

In the 90s, the threat of ethnic and sectarian violence was much closer. Every couple of months, there would be a funeral in the area in which the person had either been a victim of target killing for his beliefs, or ‘collateral damage’ during an upsurge in violence.
Such developments, however, would not disrupt our routine for more than a day. In present times, the violence is often far-off; and pitched battles are fought in the peripheral localities of the city. But fear has gripped everyone.

While cricket continues to thrive on the streets, especially on holidays, there has been a change in approach: one has to be on the look-out at all times.

The worst reaction has been of the elders. Their solution for all problems is to stay at home. Those residing in the vicinity, too, have turned against street cricketers; and the most common point of conflict comes when a ball now lands inside someone else’s residence. Invariably, the response is ‘go away’; whether this is due to the fear that those asking for the ball could be ‘someone else’ or it is part of a new philosophy of ‘minimum interaction’ remain moot points, but one thing is clearly established: the balls would not be returned no more.