Rip Van Winkle

IT is all of 15 years since I lived in Karachi. So much of the Karachi I knew has been pulled down, the old landmarks removed or dwarfed, so many highrises, so many new hotels, shopping malls, fly-overs that I feel like Rip Van Winkle. This, I think, as I drive in from the airport, is not my Karachi—until I meet my friends. The years simply vanish. Every conversation is picked up as if the thread had been dropped but yesterday. There is little harking back to "Do you remember...?" and "What became of...?" because not a day seems to have passed since we last saw each other. Except that the girls are slightly less radiant and the men a good deal puffier. The instant rapport comes, I think, from the full frontal hug with which one is greeted; the cold handshake and the distant namaste convey nothing of the body language which comes with a really warm hug.