The day BB died

I first heard the news when i sat down at the dinner table to break my fast having just returned from a swim. My father sat twitching at the head of the table, his fingers clutching his mobile phone willing it to ring. The television had been left on and his ears strained to tune in to it over the clatter of tableware and cutlery.
I asked if i could switch it off and his eyes almost popped out of his head. 'Benazir has been shot'
'What?!' i couldn't believe it. Benazir? Shot? I had never heard of such a thing.
'Is she alive?' I rushed towards the television. One of the local news channels was broadcasting live. The ticker running below proclaimed in BIG BLOCK LETTERS Benazir Bhutto shot at rally in Rawalpindi. 10 minutes later she had been proclaimed dead.
I sat glued to the television, my family around me, stunned. My father's mobile rang continuously as he tried to get through to a friend in the PPP to press for further information.
There would be riots.
At times of crisis, us Karachiites follow one simple code. Get home as fast as you can and stay there until the smoke clears. We were safe, but it was just after 6 and there were several people on the streets trying to find their way home. My sister was one of them. Several frantic attempts to call her later, we realised that the phone lines were jammed, possibly due to an unexpected influx of traffic.
I felt tears prick my eyes as i watched footage of Bhutto walking from the rally into her bullet proof car, followed by an aggressive Naheed Khan. The footage of the actual moment when she was shot could not be broadcast due to PEMRA regulations. So we watched as she walked towards her godforsaken car time after time: an instant replay of the moment JUST before Ms Bhutto was attacked followed by footage of static ambulances and bleeding bodies amidst smoke and flames. The imagery shifted to feature throngs of grief stricken people within the hospital walls.
No one deserved to die like this, regardless of how corrupt or power hungry they may be, without any family or loved ones about, amidst strangers and opportunists. I wept for the loss of her life and of those that were lost, swept away by the forces of hatred and anger.

A few minutes after, i felt a sense of calm descend, unlike any i had felt since i heard of her arrival on Pakistani soil and certainly in opposition to the fear that clung to my heart as i watched her step out of her aeroplane at the airport. I am ashamed to say that i actually heard the lyrics 'Ding Dong! The witch is dead' resound in my ears. Finally, the situation had reached a moment of climax, some great evil had been averted signalling a change to an old decrepit system. The extremist elements in the country will now come head to head with the true spirit of democracy, not the sham the nation had been dreading.

My father picked up his walking stick. It was time for commiseration, conjecture and heated politcal debate. It was time to go visit Chacha Dada (his uncle). Being quite fond of Chacha Dada myself, and eager to hear his opinion on the matter, i slipped on my walking shoes and we stepped out. The street outside our house was still, our chowkidar advised us to return early and to be careful, his brows furrowed under his white prayer cap as he slowly shut the door behind us. We walked towards the market, past a dark petrol station that had hastily been closed down, and a main road jammed by slow moving loudly beeping traffic.
'You see beta! we couldn't have gotten anywhere with our car. This is why i Knew walking is the best solution!' my father's eyes were bright with excitement.
The cars lined up as far as the eyes could see. Perhaps if i looked hard enough i'd spot Rabia. But my father was pulling at my arm as we wound our way across the street.
We arrived at Chacha Dada's. The televison blared in the living room, in several of the bedrooms and upstairs, in his annexe, remote in hand, sat Chacha dada. His face lit up as we entered and my father and him plunged headlong into their discussion.
I watched the television, watched their faces, numb with the rapidly unfolding sequence of events.
Rabia rang to inform us of her arrival and my father breathed a sigh of relief. Having decided that the Bhutto dynasty had finally come to an end, that the elections would now have to be postponed and some names of possible party leaders to take her place thrown up in the air, my father decides it is time to return home.
The streets are now quiet. The traffic had magically disappeared. My father holds me back and we stop to watch a throng of men cross our path, laughing at our fear. A lone stranger asks if we can direct him to Khayaban e Badban, public transport having come to a standstill and him now having to walk his way home.
At home we learn that cars have been burnt, my aunt in fear for her safety has switched off all the lights in her home. Some friends and acquaintances have chosen to spend the night at the office for fear of facing an angry mob on their way home. A cousin's car gets attacked. A petrol station, a car dealership, a hospital has been set aflame.

Who are these people? It is as if whenever the country faces some crisis, a self motivated, self directed, made to order, angry, violent mob hones in on banks, petrol stations, cars and unleashes its fury. Are these the very people that get stepped on year after year by a self serving government that makes empty promises, in or out of uniform? Benazir offered no democratic solutions, she was as power hungry as the rest of the feuding feudals, politicians and military personnel clambering to the very top of a crumbling, shattered, broken nation. Perhaps disappointment and resentment runs so deep, that this is the only time these people can express their dissatisfaction.
In their self expression lies the true voice of the people and the tragedy that is Pakistan today.