By Fizza Abbas
Strewn across an array of homes lie a pound of human flesh. Karachi Model Colony once there was. The town of happy homes that once emanated the childlike glee now collects the tears coursing down the cheeks of residents; rocks back and forth on the bed of fragments; he tries to give them a hug but averts every time they look at him: his eyes look like a prop flesh-toned with concealer while unkempt tresses hints of a failed vigilante who mistakenly punished his very own.
The coppery scent of blood invites him to dig in. He looks for signs of life, instead, the debris from the shattered buildings ask to fit in.
At one end, the half-burnt fritters, the alleged meal for Iftar, wails for departed souls that could never taste them, while at the other the town runs away, pleading other towns to accommodate the inhabitants.
N95 masks seem to be memorial jewellery to those whose loved ones died wearing them on their way to the homeland.
© 2020 Fizza Abbas