Karachi Symphony!!

Karachi symphony

From S.M Arsalan Arif Khan, Pakistan

I was sitting at the National Stadium of Karachi. All alone; surrounded by a pack of thirty four thousand, two hundred and twenty eight empty seats. It was a bright and sunny day, illuminating a lush green deserted park. Towers of flood lights, that once upon a time illuminated the sky.. they stood still, with no power nor activity; sadly looking down at a deserted meadow of sprouting grass, just as I did. There were clouds usually hazed in strips; as if a white candy floss man had practiced his abstract strokes on the sky. And the ears were restrained to an excruciating mute. It was peaceful, but silent.

But peace and silence aren't always positive, because peace could also mean loneliness. The feeling of being targeted and outcasts. It was a depressing sort of peace. Solitary isolation granted by force. The only noise I could hear was the sound of the air blowing from the west; a region elsewhere; a country another. The atmosphere was empty, like time had stopped. Like someone had stole the soul of this mega structure, turning it into a weeping baby. And then came the heart ache, because memories leave indentations of fortune ... and memories bring along the heart-breaking form of nostalgia.

The dejected feeling of happiness and distress when you visit a precious place where you grew up with innocence and faith in a future that only promised peace. My heart broke by just glancing at the pitch that lay there in the centre. Brown and rolled; often criticized; often cherished. A center of attraction where hearts broke; and love won. Where there was a time when the silence in the park was overwhelmed by a roar of thirty thousand passionate spectators, adding another hundred and sixty million set of eyes that glared at this stadium through the lens.

The day India visited Pakistan for their friendship tour; some people may not know this ... but an official holiday was announced at Karachi, and I had never seen it so empty. No cars moved, no men walked out side. It was like everyone was smothered by the event of watching Shoaib Akhtar bowl to Sachin Tendulkar. No one cared about victory because cricket was back. India would smash a glaring 346 and Pakistan dauntingly replied with a total of 6 runs short.

This was a place where Mohammed Asif was introduced to world cricket as a leading swinger. It was Shahid Afridi's home ground. It was a place where Sir Vivian Richards whispered 'Murghi-Murghi-Murghi' (Chicken-Chicken-Chicken) to a Pakistani wicket keeper after he extensively appealed in vain. It was a place where Sir Vivian Richards smashed 181 runs in a world cup match: An event my father witnessed being there, and he often tells me stories about it. It was a place where Mohammed Yousuf completed his 9th century in a calendar year, piling up the world record of scoring the most runs in a calendar year; something Sir Vivian Richards embraced previously. It was a place where England battled it out even in the dark; just to ensure a victory. And they did. And who could forget Kamran Akmal's outstanding century, taking Pakistan from 39/6 to an Innings defeat.

There is a history piled up in that lawn of grass. A history of facts I can't even state in an article; because I'd need a book. And then I came back to the emptiness, staring at the blank screen switched off. And I felt low because the terrorists had won and I wondered why, because the instability was influenced by a war we weren't involved in. And I sometimes wondered, looking at that park ... about roses that bloomed in deserts and died through thirst. I would think about the oceans of pain and vengeance that stormed through hearts we never knew. The victims of terrorism and wars. Cricket was destroyed, and hate grew further. And by just looking at that park I wondered if I could just discover a part that might understand human depression as a whole. If only I could know why people commit wrong deeds for the right reasons.

If I could hold a magic wand and fill in the stadium with thirty thousand peace loving souls, I would. And then reality bit me. I recalled the firing Team Sri Lanka must have heard. The eight policemen who died protecting them. It was almost dark, as I closed my laptop and walked down to the stands. My Uncle, who is a PCB official was done with his work. We drove out of the ground; and I looked into the sky which had transformed into an emerald made of sapphires; a sky bleached with a tinge of darkness that surrounded my dead stadium: A place I proudly called 'my' home ground. The towers of floodlights beamed out hazards of red lights, reminding me that the soul of The National stadium still exists; like its heart still beats with the flickering of those bright red lights ... telling me it will live again.