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Requiem To The Sea
By Ambreen Ishrat, Fri Dec 9th
It's been so many moons away that I have come to sit with you,sea - my friend. Still many moons have passed, since thedestruction was unleashed upon you. It is yet a night so similarand yet different in so many ways. Tonight I have come to pay myhomage to the imperious sea, or what remains of it. Can't helpit if my homage sounds like a requiem. As I am here, by yourside to shed my tears on your fate, and my own which is entwinedwith yours. Today, I have come to say a silent prayer for my own future andthat of yours. I hear the damp saline ocean waves cry on and whisper to me. Inthat I hear the echo of my own fear, a wail for my ownabandonment and those of my dreams. I recall the last time I washere, a partly cold December last year, when I walked thestretch of the Clifton beach. I took long strolls, turning backand forth retracing my own foot marks. The waves were carryingown their ballet, as the children on their winter break wereplaying and laughing. The breeze was pleasing to my face. Idipped my fingers in them and felt a silent and simpleexhilaration grow inside me. But as dreams are lost upon water,the reverie is gone. It was then, and its gone now. Right now adark stretch of water lays in front of my eyes, as if I amstaring at an abyss, and it is looking back to me.
Too spent to take a stroll, I choose to sit on the dusty brickwall breathing in the sadness and silence around me. I lookaround, at the vast stretch of the deserted beach, thiswasteland. Not far from where I sit, the lights of two populareateries shine on. But over here, an impregnable gloom hangs onthe atmosphere, which overwhelms the heart and senses. As theyellowed foam slide back, it reveals bared and scraped beachstretch, raked clean by tractors in their bravado salvationefforts. There is no seaweed, no broken sea shells andironically no trash. Though a solitary white polethene bagpuffed up with air, is dodging the waves and rolling onwards, asif it has a life of its own. But soon enough, the waves catch upit and it disappears in the unfathomable depths. I look onwards, the dark and almost ghostly figure of the oiltanker is visible, whose dark shape I could only fathom fromwhere I sit. I am a scavenger always on the drift, a tramptrying to outrun the bounds of civilization, stealing my way outof city that echoes the emptiness of monotony and routine. I amforever a melancholic creature, who finds excuse and objects fornostalgia all too often. For me, life is a perpetual yesterday.I remember you in your former glory. And so I remember you asyou were before and can't help comparing it with your desolatestate today. You were the venue for celebrations with friendsand for the solitary walks. You were my recluse from the citylife, and today you toss and turn all alone. The crowd is gone,so has the snake charmer, the camel wala or the photographerwith his camera. Necessity has forced these people, who used todepend upon you for their
livelihood to go elsewhere. Thepicnickers that used to throng at your side every evening andnight are all gone now. They have abandoned you for some otherdazzling joint, where city lights outlast the night and theparty ever carries on. Did they ever care about you at all, Iwonder. Yet there are a few faithful ones who still choose tocome here: sparse joggers, some couples deeply engrossed inprivate conversations and in each others. And there are a fewscavengers like me. The blanched moon beckons and the angrywaves ebb and flow in their ancient rhythm. This ancient rhythmthat has been here, since the beginning of creation, even beforeman was here. To every pattern and to every beginning, there isan end. And mankind, is always trying to orchestrate the end ofhis own beginning, trying to haste on the nemesis. Almost acentury back, Matthew Arnold looked at the dark sea andcontemplated upon the man's faith and his fate. How far have manprogressed since then? So much intelligence and so much ofadvancement and yet there remains disdain, pompousness and acriminal neglect towards the environment that sustains him. Somany months have passed since the oil spill tragedy has takenplace, the effects on which still linger on. The toxic wastagelies in the bottom of the sea, hidden from our discerning eyes.It is still seeping in the unfathomable depths, poisoning thevery core, the roots and essence. Water being our integralconstituent, this toxic wastage is poisoning our souls as well. The Karachi beach, as we have known it never had the crystallineclearness of the Bahamas, of Florida, Miami or Hawaii, Thepolluted and trash strewn coastline stretch used to speakvolumes about our civic sense, but it still was something betterthan having nothing. It used to offer us the luxury of watchinginfinity. The Sea is what defines our status as a coastal city.It is and would always be a prominent element of our landscapeand geography. As for karachittees social life and culturalmilieu, the cooperate food chains, restaurants and food outletswould keep on opening, but the damage done to the sea wouldlinger on. These cramped spaces are meant for a blessed few andspeak volumes about our empty souls and excess desires, overbrimming indulgences and depraved values. In spite of thehoodwinking claims made about the amount of damage beingminimal, in the heart of our heart, we ought to know better thatan irreparable damage has been done and the sea has beenblemished. We ought to know now that the price is to be paid, byus and by our future generations. Scared I am to bring mychildren into this world, and to think about the kind of futurethey will have.
About the author:The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing fromKarachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in EnglishLiterature from the University of Karachi. Currently working asa content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams ofpursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbiesinclude reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critiqueshe can be reached at galatia2001@yahoo.com.
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