It was at the FTC intersection on Sharah-e-Faisal when Bilal looked out of the window and saw her sitting in her shiny new gray Civic.

She was young, perhaps still a student, but something about the way she was positioned in the car gave him the impression of a lounging empress. Her dupatta was carelessly thrown on the seat beside her, and she reclined comfortably against the car’s plush leather upholstery. Bilal let his eyes travel up her body, lightly idling his engine. The sight of her exposed throat, exquisitely curved, mesmerized him. He wandered over the features of her face, encountering fleshy lips, a short, straight nose and deep dimples. She looked up. In an instant, her eyes fixed on his. Their glances locked, and Bilal saw a burning fire. She flicked her lashes and was gone.

The Civic pealed away from the crosswalk, its shining gray chassis gleaming brightly. A few pedestrians dilly-dallying on the roadside, startled at the squeal of burning rubber, jumped back onto the curb. Bilal sat immobilized in his FX, the road forgotten, watching the Civic accelerate away. A momentary impression of the driver’s tossing hair and unnerving poise lingered in his eyes. Seconds ago he had been admiring the girl’s strikingly attractive features, and now her skillful driving held him enthralled.

Horns blared around him, and Bilal suddenly remembered where he was. In a rush, he fumbled the gas, and the FX lurched forward with a judder. He braked abruptly. Behind him, a truck tooted a merry warning. Embarrassed, Bilal threw back a quick abay chup kar! Then, with a growl, he revved the engine, pulled out, and straightened into an intercept course in the middle lane.

Ahead, the Civic’s sleek frame and beautiful radial wheels glinted like diamonds as it swiftly overtook a city bus and moved into the right lane. The car smoothly and silently darted through other motorists. The dark gray exterior sparkled, as though it were a fleet racing-mare’s dappled flank.

If I can catch up with her by the next light, I’ll light up a cigarette, he wagered. The pack of Marlboros, waiting patiently on the dashboard, indicated their assent by shifting slightly against the lighter. As he accelerated, the FX hit a patch of ruined road. The car jolted, and the cigarette pack did a little dance.

The Civic was still in view, sweeping in long, graceful arcs through the sparse midmorning traffic, and barely uttering a sound as it rapidly shifted gears. What amazing transmission, Bilal observed, simultaneously keeping an eye on the lurid paneling of the city bus approaching ahead. The Suzuki was still in third, and its engine was grinding at a terrific rate. The city bus loomed closer, blocking his overtake. He pushed up to a higher throttle and beeped an ahem, but the bus patiently ignored him. Then, it edged towards the right lane. The Karachiite’s equivalent to indicating a turn. Oh no you don’t, Bilal warned. He shifted to the left, speeding up and leaving the bus behind.

It was eleven-thirty and Sharah-e-Faisal was practically empty. Judging by the speed at which she was driving, the girl apparently knew it and was keen to run. Looks like I’m going to have to fight for that early cigarette, Bilal thought as he gritted his teeth.

He floored the FX and the needle crept up to 80. Loosening his arms, he pumped the Suzuki into fourth. Impromptu bouts of bravado were what gave driving in Karachi its edge, he decided—and I want to see her eyes again.

The engine roared again as he sped up, and he popped in a cassette. Led Zeppelin blasted tinnily from the useless, cheap plastic speakers. Groovy, he thought, and bopped his head to the beat.

The Civic veered closer up ahead, and he was pleased to notice the girl’s head also bobbing along to a ghost song. Must get nearer, he muttered to himself, swerving past a mullah standing in the middle of the road. He observed the swing of the girl’s long hair silhouetted behind the seat’s headrest. She wouldn’t be listening to techno, he mused. It’s dancey, but not trancey. He lowered the volume of his own cassette player. She looks like she could be into Nazia Hussain, he speculated, seeing her slender fingers tap out a tambourine on her steering wheel.

Until he was able to ascertain what she was listening to, the identity of the girl in the gray Civic remained an enigma. She’s incredibly attractive, Bilal considered. I’m curious to know what she’s listening to. Plus, I’m dying for a cigarette. The Civic deftly whizzed across the road ahead. About 200 meters behind it, Bilal streaked over the rough asphalt, gradually closing the distance between the two cars. This is turning into a real race, he observed.

Annoyed by the racket created by the FX’s engine, he turned the volume up again to drown out the noise. “Kashmir” reverberated loudly along with the roaring engine. He contrasted it to the silent performance of the Civic’s machinery. I’ll bet her souped-up sound system outclasses mine too, he grumbled. But then again, anything could surpass these useless, cheap plastic speakers. The air in the car was hot and dry. He licked his parched lips, weaving through a bend, his eyes lingering on the shining vehicle ahead. I’ll bet her A.C. keeps her as cool as a penguin with a Polo.

Engrossed by his obsession with the gray Civic, Bilal forgot to watch the road. The tiny car bounced over a pothole and he cursed as he bit his tongue. Jarred by the sudden jolt, a tiny wad of folded paper tumbled out from where it had been wedged in the FX’s equally useless, cheap plastic stereo. The LCD display on the rickety system blinked twice and died. John Bonham’s mechanically precise drumbeat was cut off, abruptly plunging the car’s interior into cacophony.

The roar of his engine rattling and raging threatened to deafen Bilal as he shakily gunned past a motorcyclist. With one hand steadying the wheel, he frantically scuffled with the dashboard, groping for the tiny button that reset the tape deck. Ahead, the Civic effortlessly swerved past another motorcyclist.

Refusing to brake and risk losing the Civic, Bilal whispered curses at the phantom button as his finger groped the panel clumsily. It was at times like this that he blamed the miserable stereo for all the car’s defects.
He veered sharply around the second motorcycle laden with three small boys and their sullen-looking father. The maneuver produced more grinding bellows from his car. I need music now, he silently screamt. Finally, his finger located the elusive button. The song shouted forth, once more drowning the engine’s drone. Bilal darted his eyes to the road—and saw in a heartbeat that he was speeding into the gray Civic, going too fast to stop.

With a grunt, he wrenched the wheel and slammed his foot into the brake. The Suzuki’s light tires screeched alarmingly. Allah T’ala, what was I thinking, he thought. Robert Plant shrieked hysterically as he swerved to a sharp stop at the intersection, right beside the Civic. The amber light turned red and once again, angry beeps from all around told Bilal that his neighbors did not approve of his driving technique. He shrank in his seat, and winced as he noticed the policeman directing traffic momentarily glance in his direction.

Remarkably, the policeman returned his attention to his duty. In fact, he seemed entirely involved in directing traffic in the most professional manner possible. The man saluted and stamped his feet smartly as he held out a gloved palm to stop traffic on all sides.

Must be some bigwig around, Bilal thought. He raised himself upright in his seat again. Sure enough, fast approaching the intersection from the left was a Land Cruiser loaded up with a forest of waving antennae and four sets of headlights. A pair of police motorcycles and two private security cars sped along behind the behemoth. Motorists observing the signal drifted into the intersection despite the policeman’s unwavering command. The Land Cruiser seemed to bare its fangs as it barreled through them, horns and sirens wailing dire warning. The little flags it sported on its bonnet fluttered meaninglessly as the huge machine and its entourage zoomed past the traffic guard. The policeman, looking unhappy, slouched back to uninterestedly directing traffic.

Realizing that the cop was not about to question the cringing occupant of the squealing Suzuki, Bilal relaxed. His attention returned to the gray Civic. Trying to look casual, he carefully ventured a look to his right. The girl was staring straight at him, and before he could think, an idiotic grin spread across his face. A careless smile wavered on her strawberry lips. She lifted her hand in a familiar gesture, and her face flared into lavender flames. A cigarette!

His breath caught as he leapt for his own pack, which had fallen somewhere by his feet during the sudden brake. He shook out a cigarette and put it between chattering teeth. He tried again to place the girl, and frowned as he lit the cigarette. Maybe I’ve seen her before, but I’ve never had a conversation with her, he decided. This was altogether possible. Only in Karachi, he observed with a smirk. The myriad levels of the city’s social circles necessitated a vigilant memory. Failure to record intricate layers of intimacy like these could easily prove fatal.

He rolled down his window and blew clouds of bliss out the window. I earned it, he decided, sort of, and continued watching the girl in the gray Civic as she smoked. She blew two self-conscious smoke rings into her rear view mirror. Sexy, Bilal noted. She was still nodding to her music. Is it Bee Gees, he wondered. No, too irregular. He glanced into her car, looking for CD covers or reading material. He was oddly pleased to see a pack of Benson’s on the seat next to her. What a woman, he thought. She smokes a man’s cigarette.

Led Zeppelin faded out in the FX and the cassette fell silent. Through the Civic’s closed windows beside him, he barely heard the struggling tremors of a deep bassline. He closed his eyes and listened intently. The lazy sounds of the light morning traffic drifted in. The policeman held up a gloved palm and a few cars weakly protested. Motorcycles and scooters prattled into empty crevices. Somewhere, a beggar’s voice cried out for pity. The sun beat through his eyelids, and he saw red blotches dancing in a black sea.

His eyes still closed, Bilal suddenly remembered the song’s video. In it, a strange girl had been piloting a massive truck down the street; a truck capable of crushing anything in its path. The image echoed Bilal’s favorite Karachi driving fantasy, even more satisfying than the one about coasting down Zamzama in a gleaming, golden Lambourghini. As he tried to remember the name of the song, a ghostly Bilal waved aside moral thought, got into a large, indestructible garbage truck or bulldozer, and simply annihilated them all. Slow drivers who refused to indicate were smashed aside; brash, senseless bus drivers who insisted on stopping in the middle of the road were up-ended; peddling rickshaws flattened like parathas. The merciless donkey-wallas were twisted and mangled, their beasts braying away to freedom; plodding, moronic taxi-drivers found themselves tossed like toys. The pestilent motorcyclists who arbitrarily puttered into every available crack went spinning into the pavement—hell, even the pedestrians were sent screaming in his daydream, as he worked the crank shift madly, drooling and cackling maniacally. . .

His eyes fluttered open to reality, and focused on the traffic light above glowing red and amber simultaneously. In the corner of his eye, the girl threw him a glance. He shifted into first. In the split second as the light turned green and the cars around them revved up, they were off.
The girl in the gray Civic had almost gotten away from him last time, but his recent bout of rigor mortis at the wheel had given her a healthy head start. The FX was no Civic, but when he let the demon loose, the result was a fast fucking ride. This is it, he thought, slamming his foot down on the accelerator.

Unavoidably, his engine brayed alarmingly, betraying the strain that the miniature machine was enduring. The Civic, on the other hand, coolly kept its pace, its self-assurance flashing darkly in the sun. Its almost noiseless drive maddened Bilal, who was being bombarded by his music and his car simultaneously. Yet despite the Civic’s obvious advantage, they were neck and neck when they skidded into Metropole Plaza. The Coke billboard was a blur against the sun as the two cars sped around both turns in twin zig-zags and, tires shrieking, looped around towards Clifton bridge.

It’s now or never, Bilal thought, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Once we get onto the bridge, I’ll lose her for sure. He coaxed the engine into fourth gear and pressed on. The car edged forward as its engine achieved its highest pitch yet. Just a few more inches, he judged, listening intensely to the howling din. Slowly but surely, he increased his lead. Glancing momentarily at his opponent, he was shocked to see that the girl was calmly smoking as she guided the Civic one-handed. Power steering, beautiful radial tires and automatic transmission, he registered, noting with resentment the dwindling cigarette in his own fingers that he had been too busy driving to smoke. He threw it out of the window and pressed on. The Civic was clearly faster and easier controlled, he noted, but I’ll show her a thing or two. The rhythmic knocking of his engine was almost at the right timbre.

In reply, the girl revved a bit also, and the Civic threatening to rush ahead of the jeep. Frere Hall flew past on the left and Bilal abruptly downshifted. Sounding as though it was being massacred with a machinegun, the FX jack-rabbited ahead of the Civic. He felt the sudden tug as the tires treads scraped the tarmac. The next instant, as he regained his footing, he shifted up and pulled away from the Civic. He couldn’t help but glance in his side view mirror. The girl, visibly infuriated, seemed to be hurriedly stubbing out her cigarette. Ha-ha, Bilal laughed to himself.

The Civic was now caught in the right lane, where ahead, a rickshaw puttered raucously, seemingly oblivious to the impending commotion. Bilal raced ahead of the beetle-like contraption on the left, enjoying the wild fluster of the rickshaw’s course as he rocketed past.
Nearly throttled by the uproar of the passing Suzuki, the rickshaw driver was veering into the left lane. Unfortunately, the equally fat duo of burqa-clad women seated in the rickshaw blocked the driver’s view of the road behind him, and of the Civic’s ominously silent, but equally swift approach on the left.

In a swift, fluid motion, the Civic glided around the rickshaw at 120, beeping lightly, twice. From the look on her face, Bilal was certain of one thing: even if he couldn’t remember her features before, now he would never forget them. The girl’s eyes were fixed on him in a determined, no-nonsense way. Her lower lip had been seized in her teeth as she concentrated on her driving. Her tan allowed just enough color for her cheeks to flush slightly with the effort. Both hands gripped the steering wheel firmly at the top. She was Venus de Milo protesting against nuclear power: livid and resolute, yet serenely composed, immaculate. She was clearly pushing her gray Civic to its limit, and the car was closing the distance to his own with increasing confidence.

As he neared the last traffic light before the bridge, Bilal caught an empty red light and slowed his reckless pace. Traffic was still slim, but why take chances? The Civic did not reciprocate this caution. It whirred past him and darted into the intersection. Without warning, a minibus whirled through its green light from the right, on a collision course with the errant Civic. The minibus let loose a barrage of various horns but did not alter course or decrease its wild velocity. The Civic barely managed to veer away in time. Pinning her against the left curbside as he passed, the bus driver unleashed a torrent of oaths in Pashto. Karachi driving etiquette, observed Bilal. Give ‘em a dirty look at least, even if it means having to slow down.

Meanwhile, his own light finally turned, and he burned out towards the bridge. As the engine shrieked and the car jumped forward, Bilal heard a hideous clank. The sound of his engine instantly went up several decibels. Damn, he thought, braking sharply. The dreadful sound must have been caused by his muffler suddenly breaking off. Resuming speed, he discovered from the sound of harsh grating under the car that the muffler was being dragged along the asphalt. Ahead, the Civic, though now freed from its minibus prison, had not picked up speed but was not stopped either. I don’t believe this, he exclaimed. Nothing for it now. He shifted into second and hit the gas.

The FX had certainly been loud before, but certainly no louder than any other average Suzuki engine. Unceremoniously deprived of its silencer, the message from his car was now nothing short of explosive. The alarming spectacle of a dark shape dragging underneath, illuminating the undercarriage with a jagged shower of sparks, presented the message visually.

Bilal ground his teeth together as he bore the incredible din. The sound was practically propelling the little car along. In his rearview mirror, Bilal saw cars that had been racing up behind him hastily brake and linger at a safe distance. Ahead, even the bus driver (who had climbed a significant portion of the bridge by now) showed a sign of concern, braking and provoking dozens of heads to pop out. Through the ringing noise, Bilal was gratified to see the girl in the gray Civic also swing her head around and gawk. At last, I’ve got her attention, he smirked. His face fell as he noticed some children in the back of a pickup screaming in mute dread, their hands over their ears.

Shit, he thought, and snatched his foot off the accelerator. The noise of the engine abruptly ceased, and the rattling scratch of the muffler died from a continuous wail to an occasional clatter. Relief swam through his body as he saw the children stop howling.

He had picked up enough momentum on that last, ridiculously loud burst to get him alongside the Civic. He switched to neutral and coasted, tapping to the beat with his suddenly available legs. Traffic gradually returned to normal.

The children in the pickup were still eyeing him warily as he cruised up behind them. One of them saw him intently observing his proximity to the Civic and figured out what was going on. Within seconds, the secret had been passed around and soon the entire group was laughing merrily at the loud young shehzaada. Bilal stuck his tongue out at them. Some reciprocated, whilst the younger children laughed even harder, considering it beneath their dignity to stick their tongue out anymore. One of the older kids made a crude remark beyond his years. Shifting back into second, Bilal revved the motor and smiled as the small laughing face turned white.

The Civic’s silent machinery, which just moments ago seemed terrifying, now murmured unassumingly as Bilal coasted passed the pickup. The girl, apparently shaken by her close encounter with the minibus, drove noiselessly in her lane, the mad race forgotten, the faint jingle of her music still fluttering through the air.

Approaching her vehicle, Bilal decelerated and peered into the window. The girl’s face was bright with promise, and she extended him a look as if to say, you okay? He couldn’t resist nodding in reply.

She settled back into her seat and resumed driving, ignoring him as he glided beside her. Bilal lit a fresh cigarette and happily scaled the bridge towards Clifton