By Muzhira Amin
Monsoon Misery: A Father, a Daughter, and a City Left Abandoned…
When Karachi Sank Again And a City Losing Its Resilience
The rain came down heavy, and once again Karachi’s fragility was laid bare. For many of us, it was déjà vu a story retold every monsoon, yet lived a new with the same helplessness. We, the people of this city, are often praised as “resilient.” But the truth is, year after year, that resilience is wearing thin, and so is hope.
Walking through waterlogged streets no longer shocks us; it almost feels normal. And yet, every time, there’s still disbelief that even the privileged among us those who write about Karachi’s endless governance failures are no exception. We too stand stranded, knee deep in foul water, searching for safe footing in a city that has failed us over and over again.
In 2020, when record breaking rains submerged Karachi, I walked home with my father, waist deep in water, from I.I. Chundrigar Road to Garden West. At 55, my father seemed almost unshaken, guiding me carefully through potholes, sharp stones, and dangling electric wires, even cracking jokes to lighten the ordeal. He carried the role of protector effortlessly.
Five years later, on August 19, as torrential rains poured more than 150mm across the city, we found ourselves reliving that nightmare. Only this time, the roles had reversed. My father, now 60 and battling carpal tunnel syndrome, leaned on me as we waded once more through filthy floodwaters, struggling against the storm.
The same questions echo every year: Yes Why does Karachi drown so easily? Why do authorities remain absent? Why does the mayor claim “all is well” while thousands are stranded? Is this worsening each year? Is this our new normal? And every time, the answers are the same dismissive shrugs:
“Jab zyada barish hoti hai, to zyada pani ata hai.”
That Tuesday morning, despite warnings of heavy rain, I went to work as usual, refusing to let panic dictate my day. By afternoon, the storm turned fierce. Darkness fell with the downpour, traffic collapsed, and electricity vanished. My father called me calmly, reassuring me as always. Hours later, he appeared downstairs, soaked and weary, ready to walk me home.
Hand in hand, we trudged through streets flooded with sewage and rainwater. This time, I was the one warning him of open manholes and live wires, slowing my pace when he faltered, steadying him when he slipped. Strangers, too, became unexpected allies pointing out dangers, offering support, even just their silent presence providing comfort.
In one moment of kindness, a security guard insisted that we sit under his shed, even bringing us water before we resumed the long trek. Such gestures, though small, reminded us that Karachi’s people, abandoned by those in power, still find ways to hold each other up.
By the time we reached Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s shrine, we were drained. Fortune finally smiled when we found a ride home. At dinner later, my father joked, “Baap to baap hi hota hai,” trying to restore his image of invincibility. But I had seen the truth. I was the one leading now.
And yet, this story isn’t only mine. It belongs to the worried sister calling her brother dozens of times. To the food delivery rider stranded at Teen Talwar. To the friend whose brand new car drowned on Shahrah e Faisal. To the maid whose family lived two days without power.
It belongs to all of us Karachi’s citizens, labeled “resilient” every year, but who are slowly, painfully, running out of resilience … and out of hope.
