Rhythms of the coast

It was a sweltering summer in Karachi, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer like a mirage on the Arabian Sea horizon. Aisha, with her wild curls and bright smile, was navigating the bustling streets of Clifton, lost in thoughts of the upcoming university semester. She had just turned twenty, and the world felt like an endless possibility, much like the sprawling city itself with its mix of modern skyscrapers and old colonial architecture.

Aisha’s days were filled with coastal walks along the Karachi beach, where she’d often ponder about life’s big questions – love, dreams, the universe. Her friends would tease her about being a hopeless romantic, but Aisha couldn’t help how she felt. She believed in the kind of love that swept you off your feet like a gust off the sea during a monsoon.

It was on one such evening, strolling past the vendors selling chaat and fresh coconut water near the beach, that Aisha first saw him – Zayn. He was sitting on a low wall, sketching the waves with intense focus, his hair tousled by the ocean breeze. There was something about the way his pencil danced on the paper, capturing the rhythm of the water, that caught Aisha’s attention. She slowed her steps, intrigued.

Zayn looked up, caught her gaze, and smiled – a quiet, captivating smile. Aisha felt a flutter, like the first tremors of a butterfly’s wings. They didn’t exchange words then; the moment hung suspended like the seagulls flying overhead.

The next day, Aisha found herself walking the same stretch of beach, almost as if drawn by an unseen thread. Zayn was there again, this time with a small book of poetry open beside him. He looked up, and their eyes met with a spark of recognition. This time, they spoke.

“Hi,” Zayn said, closing his sketchbook. “You look like someone who loves the sea.”

Aisha laughed, feeling a touch shy but curious. “I do. It’s like Karachi’s heartbeat, isn’t it?”

Zayn nodded. “I feel the same. I’m trying to capture its mood in my sketches.”

They talked about art and literature, the poets they loved like Faiz Ahmed Faiz and the painters like Sadequain – conversations that flowed like the tides. Aisha was captivated by Zayn’s passion for creativity, the way his eyes lit up talking about colors and forms.

Days turned into weeks, and their meetings became a sweet routine. They’d walk along the beach at sunset, discussing dreams and fears with an ease that felt like they’d known each other for years. Zayn introduced Aisha to his world of art – showing her how he blended colors to mimic the Karachi skies at dusk. Aisha shared her love for stories, how words could paint pictures in her mind like the bustling streets of Saddar.

It was during one of these walks, with the sky ablaze in oranges and pinks, that Zayn turned to her and said, “Aisha, I think I’m falling for you.” His voice was low, sincere like the quieter moments of night on the coast.

Aisha’s heart skipped like a wave hitting the shore unexpectedly. “I think I’m there too,” she whispered back, feeling like she was floating on the warmth of that Karachi evening.

Their first love blossomed like the fragrant frangipani flowers in the gardens of the Karachi University campus. They’d steal glances in crowded cafeterias, exchange notes with lines of Urdu poetry they both adored. Zayn would draw Aisha’s portrait with the sea behind her, capturing the spark in her eyes. Aisha would write short stories for Zayn, filling pages with characters they both imagined walking the streets of their city.

They laughed together over chai at street corners in Lyari, danced under the stars at a friend’s rooftop party in DHA, and comforted each other during Karachi’s sudden rainy nights when the city’s sounds seemed to soften like their own tender feelings.

Their love wasn’t without its complexities – like the time Aisha’s family had reservations about Zayn’s artistic ambitions, or when Zayn struggled to balance his passion for sketching with the practicalities of earning a living. But in the midst of it all, their feelings for each other felt like an anchor, steady like the old lighthouse at Karachi Port Trust.

One night, as monsoon clouds gathered over the city, Zayn took Aisha to a quiet spot overlooking the sea. The wind was picking up, carrying the scent of wet earth and salt. He turned to her, his eyes serious yet full of emotion.

“Aisha, you’re the color I didn’t know I was searching for in my sketches,” he said, his voice carrying above the rising breeze. “You make Karachi feel like home in a way nothing else does.”

Aisha felt tears prick her eyes, happy like the first drops