The feeling runs deep. The memories deeper. The sorrow has the tint of always to it. The loss is no ordinary loss. This week Karachi, St Josephs, I, lost a great teacher. Ms Senior, Shafiqa, Fikree left us seemingly stranded in a world without her.

The first instinct says its not possible. Its impossible to imagine so many spaces without her. She was a teacher who gave you her all. With the utmost sincerity. Your word had meaning, whether in earnestness or in jest. She made it a point to listen, to weigh, to asses and to react.

It’s been years since I met her, its true. Even though I used to never let time go without meeting her. But that story is for another day. So much of what she was to me lives on untainted, unaffected by the mistakes of maturity, pure and simple. The space she has within me only has love and respect.

The second instinct came in the shape of vivid memory, connected to deep emotion, set deep inside my conscious. Half a sheet of paper with “For Nadia” written on it. As Ms Fikree shared her love of good stories with us, she made the effort to initiate us into reading and truly enjoying what we read. She filled two cupboards with the best reading material a teenage girl could ask for. And every afternoon, after her day’s classes were done, she would take out books for those who requested them in writing. But that afternoon, I found a surprise for me. A book for me, just for me, because I liked it so much. Without records or requests. Just with a singular piece of paper with “For Nadia” on it. This came to me, as I drifted of, with so much clarity it startled me.

I will never forget you Ms Fikree. You taught me so much I know and also how to know more. And perhaps its true that its not possible that you are gone, because so much of you remains within us, and always will. For my mistakes, forgive me.

An expanse of roads, traffic, pot holes and fumes. Thats what Karachi has become. Every day I travel from one end to the other, not ever getting used to all that seems unnatural. Tonight I got caught in the melting pot which I believe was the old landmark Regal Chowk. At least one neon sign pointed that out to me, as I tried to figure out which way the buses, cars, motorcycles seem to be headed. Nothing made much sense.

And as I tried to inch out of confusion, my mind wandered how the scenes must have changed. How noise and extreme traffic have probably nibbled away at the memory of Karachi as it was once in the minds of many. Where are the tea shops, where poetry and discussion could take passion to revolution? Where are the wide roads, where people could walk and greet friends and strangers on the way? Where, did the light, the very special light that belongs only to Karachi vanish? Now the buildings have no color, they are covered in dark pollution, with garish reflections from overwhelming traffic. And as times goes on, the moments become fewer and fewer, where glimpses of the past shine through. Does it matter that one day they will all be gone?