The Gizri Bridge Analysis

The Gizri Bridge merely does not link point A to point B. It is an epitome of the numerous institutions

which dictate the society. It is redundant to think of it as a structure only. It is strong, powerful,

dangerous and not to be trifled with.

On a Monday morning, I deviated from my usual path of taking the bridge over the Gizri area and

instead explored the lower (the irony) road. I found myself sitting in a corner dhabba sipping my

unhygienic yet delicious pink tea as I re-evaluated the area under the bridge: A desolate run down area,

filled with potential. It smelt of gloom and despair. You could feel the uneasiness of the people, you

could feel their unhappiness. The sun warmed up the stuffy, stinking air which smelled of

She wore a black satin churridar and a powder blue

kameez, her hair braided with a green paranda. You could see no shame in her hip swinging and her

twirling fingers, but her large demure eyes tell a different tale altogether. A black dented pajero stopped

with a sudden jolt at the side of the bridge. A guard stepped off carrying a hefty brown envelope, and

handed it to the new girl’s escort. The girl was seated in the car which zoomed out of sight.

The foot path is overcome by drug addicts and homeless people who dump themselves on the cold

concrete ground ready to submerge into a deep slumber, hoping their day was just an illusion. Little

boys and girls sit in the corner in a circle passing around the yellow handkerchief containing glue;

sniffing it licking it they slowly fall into an intoxicated sleep. Only to be woken up by the insolent

children because in the day time, it’s their turf.

Seldom have people noticed the true beauty and enchantment of the area. With long forgotten secrets

lying deeply buried in its roots and vast knowledge in its stem, it will keep on living. No bridge, no law

can take away the iridescent souls who lurk around under the