Tangled Realities
Translated by Ayaz Iqbal from the original Urdu series by Akhtar Malang,
I felt the urge to write, to put my thoughts on paper. But we no longer live in the age of pen and paper. These days, a smartphone is the new notebook. So I picked up my phone, ready to write, but I had no topic. Every subject felt exhausted, overdone. I thought maybe I could write about silence… or perhaps about the society around me.
Determined, I told myself I had to write. My fingers were ready to type. But write what? Lies? No, this isn’t the age for lies. People see through them. Lies today need flattery to hide behind, and even then, they don’t stand for long.
Then I thought, maybe I’ll write about the weather. But just as I had that thought, the electricity went out. The fan stopped. The room was hot. I opened a window, hoping for a breeze—but even the wind seemed to have disappeared. Sweat ran down my forehead. I felt drained, both by the heat and by my inability to find a story.
I set the phone aside, thinking a shower might help. I reached for a towel, but then the kids called out, “There’s no water in the tank. It’s been dry for 15 days.”
The heat was unbearable. I splashed some water on my face and stepped outside, deciding to get groceries instead. But as I reached my motorbike, I saw the front tire was flat. Still, I managed to start it and head toward the market.
On the way, I looked for a puncture repair shop, but everything was shut. Streets were empty. Even the puncture guy’s shop was closed. For a second, I wondered—had martial law been declared? Then I chuckled bitterly. In a way, hasn’t it always been?
I found a corner to sit and checked my phone. I hadn’t looked at it all morning. That’s when I saw the messages: there was a strike today. Kontani Hor, Talar Check Post, and the Pickup Union had called for a complete shutdown of Gwadar.
Just then, my phone rang.
“Hello, this is Qadir Bakhsh from Jiwani. Akhtar, my brother’s had an accident. Please reach GDA Indus Hospital. We’re on the way to Gwadar.”
Qadir Bakhsh is a distant relative. I asked, “What happened? How bad is it?”
He replied in a shaken voice, “He was crossing the water at Kontani Hor as usual when a boat hit him from behind. He fell into the water and got caught under the engine. The fan blades struck his back, and one leg was crushed under the speedboat. His spine is injured. We’re bringing him to Gwadar Hospital. Akhtar bhai, Kontani Hor isn’t work, it’s a death trap. So many young men have lost their lives there. Children are orphaned. Mothers lose their sons. We don’t have other job options. The government must give us safe employment. Anyway, we’ll talk later. Please, just get to the hospital.”
But how could I go? My bike tire was flat, and no one was offering a lift. Still, I took a deep breath and began my slow journey. I figured, at this pace, I might reach the hospital just as they arrive from Jiwani.
The roads were another challenge. GDA had dug up so many ditches it was impossible to ride smoothly. The main holes had been open since before Ramadan. At one spot, even a goat had fallen into an uncovered manhole. I kept going, inch by inch, and finally reached the hospital.
Qadir Bakhsh and his family had just arrived five minutes earlier. His brother was rushed to the emergency room. Doctors ran X-rays and tests. The leg was badly fractured. Surgery was essential.
But then the harsh truth came out, Gwadar Hospital didn’t have the facilities for such treatment. The doctors recommended immediate transfer to Karachi.
I stood there silently, furious with the system. This hospital is huge, with expensive machinery and millions in government budget, but we still have to go to Karachi for real treatment? I wanted to scream.
Others noticed my silence. One of them asked, “What’s wrong? You seem lost. We’re panicking and you look… defeated.”
Yes, I was defeated—not by the situation, but by helplessness. Photo ops and ribbon cuttings won’t heal patients.
I thought to myself: Was it really a blessing that Oman left us this land? Maybe it would’ve been better if Oman never gave it back. Our elders couldn’t see this future coming.
Qadir Bakhsh’s family couldn’t afford an ambulance, so I advised them to go by coach instead. He grabbed my hand and said, “You have to come with us. In Karachi, the police will rob us blind without someone trustworthy.”
I hesitated, but eventually agreed.
I pulled out my phone and called the bus company. I already knew: no buses were running due to the strike.
“Hello, I need two front seats for tomorrow.”
“Are you not aware of the strike?” the booking agent replied. “All buses have been shut for five days.”
I turned to Qadir Bakhsh, “We’ll have to rent a car instead.”
He nodded, “I expected this. That’s why I made arrangements in advance.”
I called my cousin, asked him to bring me a change of clothes, and to take the motorbike back home to avoid theft.
The hospital gave us referral papers. I had a few numbers of car rental drivers saved. Most were either already in Karachi or en route. Finally, I found one.
“How much for Karachi?” I asked.
“Thirty thousand.”
“What? The going rate is twenty!”
“Rates have gone up. That’s the current price.”
“But petrol prices have dropped!”
“That’s true,” he said, “but you’re sitting on explosives here. One spark, and disaster follows. This isn’t a regular trip, it’s a risk.”
“Still, we’re not going on vacation. We have a patient!”
Eventually, he agreed to 25,000. We asked him to meet us at GDA Hospital.
My cousin reached the hospital, angry. “No rickshaw driver would come. Some asked for a thousand rupees, others five hundred, for just a short ride. What kind of lawless place is this?”
I handed him the bike keys and said, “Take it home.”
The rented car arrived. We adjusted the patient inside. Qadir and I sat in the back. The others from Jiwani waved us off.
As we drove, we grabbed water, snacks, and the patient suddenly said, “Bring me some mawa (tobacco chew).”
“You’re going to Karachi,” I laughed. “Take Gwadari halwa instead, it’s our real specialty!”
“Mawa isn’t for eating,” he grinned. “It’s for chewing.”
We drove past the Royal Hotel, stopped at a checkpoint.
“Show your ID,” the guard said.
We did, and were allowed to pass. Further down, we hit a traffic jam near Pasni Zero Point, huge trucks and containers lined up.
“What’s going on?” I asked a passerby.
“Women are protesting ahead,” he said. “They’ve blocked the road.”
We approached on foot. A child shouted, “Can’t you see the road is closed?” Others threatened to deflate our tires.
I walked over to the women. “What’s the reason for this protest?”
“My brother’s missing,” one replied.
They explained the situation at length. But after seeing our patient, they said, “We don’t stop women or the sick. Go ahead.”
We thanked them and continued the journey.
Finally, we reached Karachi- Othal Zero Point, Hub Check Post, Yusuf Goth… and then, Sher Shah Bridge.
The police stopped us. “Lower the windows. Where are you from?”
“From Gwadar,” replied the driver.
“Any weapons?”
“No, we have a patient for treatment.”
“Step out,” they told Qadir and me. They searched us, even checked our phones and wallets, then returned everything.
Then they noticed the patient… chewing mawa.
“Where did he hide it?” they muttered, checking him too, but found nothing. The mawa was so well hidden even his father couldn’t find it.
Then they found a basic phone with an Iranian SIM card.
“An Iranian SIM?” the officer questioned.
“So what?” I asked.
“Pull the car aside,” he ordered.
And that… was just another chapter in this never-ending chaos.