Karachi

Poster in Frere Hall, an exhibition space that once housed the British colonial government in Karachi. Apparently, the first attempt to codify badminton rules also occurred in this building. Priorities were set.

I wish I knew more about the plenary session advertised on the disintegrating poster above. The speaker doesn’t promise a better world or a doomed one, just a different one. Seems like truth in advertising to me.

The CDAF grant winds down; Casim and I leave Karachi tomorrow morning after our final “Laughing Matters” show tonight. As with Islamabad and Lahore, Karachi has kept us busy. We sat for interviews on four TV morning programs and, in the process, had our Tarot cards read and our horoscopes revealed on air (my downfall will be my greed; please send money). We also visited schools to conduct workshops and spent an evening doing improv at a beautiful dance studio with one of Pakistan’s premier classical dancers. On top of this, the Pakistan American Cultural Center has hosted two workshops (and our show tonight) while keeping my blood sugar robust with endless cups of tea.

I also got sick; probably a case of hubris (“I’ll eat what I want!”).

Here’s some picture-postcard-charm from Karachi, a city I didn’t expect to like. Sneaky place. I’d come back in an instant:

Quaid-e-Azam House, Jinnah’s residence until his death in 1948. The architect, Moses Somake, was a Jewish-British-Indian man who designed many prominent buildings for the Raj. Some people here have lamented the demise of Karachi’s cosmopolitan character; fundamentalism can be a powerful astringent.

The Arabian Sea at Clifton Beach.

Poor Casim. Whenever he asks what I want to do, I say, “Could we stop by the beach?” I didn’t burden this unfortunate beast.

The Pakistan American Cultural Center. If I lived here I’d spend hours on this lawn, watching the crows circling overhead and hoping for a sea breeze. A charming place.

I have a weakness for schools and for evening classes. I may be alone in this. At the Pakistan American Cultural Center.

Distressed door at PACC.

The Pakistan American Cultural Center has unfurled lots of these descriptive banners (I am compassionate; I am smart). Fortunately, there are many to choose from.

I enhanced the color on this photo, but not by much.

Upstairs at Frere Hall. The trees don’t grow as tall here as they do in Lahore; they’re scrubbier, too. Can’t stop thinking of California and the Inland Empire.

Many, many beautiful mosques in Karachi. This doesn’t feel like the time to visit one as a tourist, so I went to the Christian cemetery instead. How did Nascimento Albuquerque find his resting place in Karachi, Pakistan, especially after Partition? Wish I knew.

More flowers, this time at the Dolmen Mall Clifton. Had paneer rolls and mint lemonade in an air-conditioned vegetarian restaurant. Both were laced with a hint of guilt and shame.

From the Frere Hall gallery: “God is in everything…”

…even at the KFC and McDonald’s. Both employ teenage women–an opportunity that doesn’t seem to come easily here–so I should wipe that sneer off my face.

Casim and the Blowfish. Summer tour pending.

A lot of the beachfront property in Karachi has disintegrated due to the harsh, sandy winds and the humid, salty air. Clearly this house had additional help in its demise; its neighbors, however, crumble slowly from this wearing abrasion.

Silhouette on a hot, windy afternoon just west of Karachi.

As I mentioned, Casim and I have been guests on FOUR different morning programs in Karachi, promoting our workshops and shows. The hosts’ ability to keep up the banter impressed me as they generated rapid-fire questions that sorely tested my improv abilities. Over the course of these four mornings I was asked if mental illness wasn’t entirely men’s fault; what I thought of Matthew Perry’s untimely death (very sad); if space was essential to a happy relationship (see you soon, Dennis!); and this question, presented here in dialogue form:

INTERVIEWER: When did humanity go wrong?

ME: Um.

(I actually tried to reframe the question to be about improv and its beneficial, collaborative effects. Casim took over in Urdu, thank goodness, although I’m not sure any language has the vocabulary to pinpoint a sufficient answer.)

Our brushes with fame, captured digitally:

In Aaj News’ shiny blue newsroom.

Cheerful makeup artist, working his considerable magic.

At Bol News, being jaunty enough.

With Casim and Amna Malik, host of Dawn News’ Chai, Toast aur Host. I blushed.

When we weren’t basking in our televised fame, we spent most days and evenings doing workshops (28 in 21 days). I came away from every one feeling hopeful. In fact, and at the risk of getting simpy, the sentiment on the plenary session poster from Frere Hall–Another World is Possible–rang true.

We experienced these other possible worlds multiple times. In Karachi alone we worked with members of oppressed sexual minorities, trauma survivors, neurodiverse clients, adolescents, kids, senior citizens, lawyers, Urdu speakers and Panjabi speakers and Sindhi speakers, sweaty older White men whose digestion refused to cooperate (hi!), librarians, social activists, corporate trainers, feminists wearing hijab and feminists who didn’t, psychologists and occultists and atheists and fervent believers. Guys who play guitar and those who admire them…

In every single case we laughed and exhaled and supported one another. Our differences didn’t evaporate; instead, we all hung out happily together, a perfectly acceptable and accepting mix, at least for those moments.

I read the international news this morning and could feel the divisions reasserting themselves, the dividers fanning the flames, heckling their opponents (their opponents?) as if anyone could win at this violent, stupid, wasteful game.

Good grief.

With artists, actors, and dancers at Sheema Kermani’s studio, underneath her movie and performance posters. Ms. Kermani’s in the red-and-white sari, just to the left of Casim. A vital, committed, persuasive activist, she wears a sari as a form of resistance. Follow this link to learn more: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca2NrK3CJ3U.

With Student Affairs staff at Habib University. The vertical garden behind us gets its water from condensation in the school’s air conditioning system (which, in turn, is solar powered). Fantastic place.

At the Institute of Business Administration in Karachi. A boisterous bunch.

The cast of our “Laughing Matters” show at the Pakistan American Cultural Center. A brave, funny group, all recruited at the absolute last minute.

(I’m back in Islamabad, leaving tonight for home).

Almost done. Pat Strandness–an improviser herself–recommended this poem by Jack Gilbert; my lifelong friend (and source of inspiration) Addie Sinclair referenced it in the comments for the previous posting. Perhaps this convergence is a sign that we ought to take Gilbert’s poem to heart:

Now, I’m not sure about God and the Devil, but I appreciate Gilbert’s acknowledging the need to defend delight in the face of seemingly intractable horrors. His line, “We can do without pleasure, but not delight” captures something I’ve been trying to fathom since I got here. The dubious pleasures conferred to a White man in a (not entirely) post-colonial world don’t sit easily for all concerned. I’ve been lauded and pampered beyond all measure with genuine hospitality (and, occasionally, some sly resentment); recruited for my Western voice by more-qualified Pakistanis; allowed to escape the grim poverty and retreat into an air-conditioned cocoon whenever the delicious paneer rolls–

(Hold on! This is in real time. No kidding. Autocorrect just changed the last sentence to read, “Allowed to escape into an air-conditioned raccoon.” That is delightful. My super-clever paneer line just got eaten by an air-conditioned raccoon. Surprise, absurdity, popping the pedantic balloon: something that makes us gasp and be out of time for a moment.)

The universe has spoken. I have said enough. Thank you, autocorrect.

I just saved you from a lecture. You’re welcome.

(Just one more thing, though): Gilbert’s last lines serve as a coda to another poem I love, Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy. Both poems speak to exploring and the beauty (and horror) it can reveal; both use harbors as metaphors for finding a place in this world; and both encourage us to cultivate an alert, observant mind.

The hope expressed in Cavafy’s poem kills me:

May there be many a summer morning when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you come into harbors seen for the first time

(from Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy)

Gilbert seems to speak to an older audience, one that–maybe–feels the inevitable chill.:

We stand at the prow again of a small ship

anchored late at night in the tiny port

looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront

is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.

To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat

comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth

all the years of sorrow that are to come

(from A Brief for the Defense by Jack Gilbert)

Ah. I want to thank Casim Ovais for taking such good care of me and for enriching all the work–and we did a lot of work–we did together. I’d also like to thank him for stopping every five minutes so I could fuss with my phone and take portraits like the one below.

Casim, hoping the gate will close on further photos.

At the gate, now, about to fly home by way of Doha and Chicago. Thanks for reading…

Waiting for a chance to return. Thank you, Pakistan.

The tarot reading on TV revealed my greed. I want more comments.