For me, coconut trees evoke the memory of the street I grew up on- a quiet place lined with palm trees rising tall in front of the modest villas. The gardens where these trees grew were well-tended, layered with the colours and smells of bougainvillea, morning glory, frangipani, jasmine, periwinkle, Rangoon creeper and other plants. Yet, I was living in no tropical paradise.
Beyond the soothing whispers of the palms, beyond the street security barrier manned by a burly chowkidar, there was always the sheer press of Karachi’s teeming crowds, ethnic clashes, political instability, the bang and shatter of gunfire, regular news of bombs and bodies dumped in bags. Although we were cocooned in relative peace, the times were tainted with confusion, turbulence and often fear, as indeed they are today. In those days, the coconut palms dotting the violent landscape of my city came to signify a particularly defiant strain of grace and beauty for me.
Beyond the soothing whispers of the palms, beyond the street security barrier manned by a burly chowkidar, there was always the sheer press of Karachi’s teeming crowds, ethnic clashes, political instability, the bang and shatter of gunfire, regular news of bombs and bodies dumped in bags. Although we were cocooned in relative peace, the times were tainted with confusion, turbulence and often fear, as indeed they are today. In those days, the coconut palms dotting the violent landscape of my city came to signify a particularly defiant strain of grace and beauty for me.