ghazi52
THINK TANK: CONSULTANT
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The rain that laid bare Karachi’s vulnerabilities … and my own
This story is about us, the citizens of Karachi, called ‘resilient’ every year, but fast running out of resilience ... and hope.
Muzhira Amin
August 23, 2025
It was almost deja vu. We’d walked through this foul water before. Felt our way through barely recognisable streets from memory. When you live in a city like Karachi, it almost begins to feel normal. And yet, nothing can get you used to the fact that you — the privileged you, who has made a living out of writing on the city’s myriad governance issues — will be among the thousands stranded in water-clogged streets as you experience it in real time. Time and again.
In 2020, when Karachi witnessed one of its worst floods in decades — it can’t definitively be the worst because we like beating our own records — my dad and I walked back home, to Garden West, from I.I. Chundrigar Road in waist-high floodwaters.
At 55, my father was surprisingly surefooted with the stride of a mountain goat. He dragged me through the deluge, all the while making sure to keep an eye open for potholes, ragged stones and bare electric wires. He even cracked a joke here and there to ensure that the neurotransmitters in my brain remained balanced.
Five years on, as we relived the ordeal, wading through a mix of sewerage and rain water on the night of August 19, it suddenly dawned on me how drastically things had changed. The roles had reversed, and I hadn’t even realised it until we were in the thick of the storm.
Over 150mm of rain and Karachi had once again sunk. Why that happens every time and what the authorities are doing about it are questions all of us Karachiites ask every monsoon season. By now, we have come up with newer and better questions: Why does the mayor keep pretending all is well even as thousands of Karachi’s citizens remain stranded? Why can’t we plan better? Is it getting worse with each passing year? Is this the new normal?
Unfortunately, nothing has changed about the responses. It is a tale told and heard a gazillion times: “Jab zyada barish ati hay to zyada pani ata hay.”

A cloudy sky captured from the roof of my house.
I have been told I don’t learn from my mistakes (I get that from my dad), and so, living up to the reputation, I was at my workplace at 10am sharp on Tuesday. It had already begun raining before I logged onto my computer. The weather apps flashed red with warnings of rain that was going to last the entire day. But I was unfazed.
When are these predictions ever accurate? So I got to work, resolute and focused to file the story that was sitting in my drafts for days. At around 1pm, my boss came in and cautioned of an impending rainstorm. “Leave now,” he warned.
I brushed him off initially, but then it did start raining quite heavily. By 3pm, the sky was hidden behind thick and dark clouds, intimidating us. I immediately called my dad. “What’s the plan?” I asked him. He told me to stay put, his soothing voice devoid of any worry or anxiety.
And that’s exactly what I did. Even when nerves got the best of my colleagues, I remained calm. “Abba hain naa,” I thought to myself. You see, my father and I are partners in crime and despair. And in my head, it was supposed to stay the same forever; he would handle everything, he was invincible, and age, well, that was just a number.







