The Koel Bird in the Tamarind Tree

The summer of 1992 was a hot one, the sort that made your neck itch. We’d stay in most days with the air-conditioning on at full blast. When the power failed, we’d sit in silence, letting the beads of sweat run down our faces and backs, finding little respite in the humid breeze from the open windows. Unrest had gripped Karachi once again, and although our home was far removed from the areas where violence was rampant, curfews were in place and fear stalked the streets.

The trouble was mainly confined to the localities of Nazimabad and Liaquatabad, where there was a concentration of MQM supporters. The movement was campaigning for Karachi to become an independent state, something neither the army nor the prime minister, Nawaz Sharif, wanted. ‘Operation Clean-up’ aimed to curb MQM strongholds, and the armed forces were given their orders: Muhajirs did not belong here, they were to be contained and not allowed to gain control. The city was effectively under siege. Newspaper headlines were of tear gas and gunfire, and the news on television was nothing but depressing: we’d watch as protestors engaged in running battles with the army and tanks rolled into Nazimabad, where my Dada and Dadi’s house was.