Karachi in 1982 was a city that never slept, its pulse a relentless rhythm of life that thrummed through crowded bazaars and neon-lit streets. Known as the City of Lights, it was a place where the air was thick with the scents of roasted corn, diesel fumes, and the faint brine of the nearby Arabian Sea. Rickshaws sputtered alongside donkey carts, and the call to prayer wove through the cacophony of vendors hawking their wares. Yet, beyond the vibrant heart of the city, Karachi was stretching its limbs into new territories—sprawling suburbs and half-formed neighborhoods that crept into the wild, untamed fringes. Here, the urban clamor faded, replaced by the rustle of wind through thorny bushes and the eerie quiet of open land.
Karsaz Road was one such frontier, a lonely stretch cutting through a cantonment area where military outposts stood sentinel on one side and dense plantations of acacia and wild jasmine choked the other. The road was a ribbon of cracked asphalt, unlit by streetlamps, flanked by shadows that seemed to swallow the headlights of passing vehicles. In the 1980s, Karachi's bus system was a point of pride, its colorful W-11 buses ferrying thousands across the city with a reliability that rivaled the world's best. Painted in vivid reds and greens, adorned with poetic Urdu couplets and jingling talismans, these buses were lifelines for the working class. But on Karsaz Road, especially at night, they could feel like ghosts gliding through a forgotten world.
Anum stepped off the rickshaw at the DHA bus stop, her red gharara shimmering under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight. She was twenty-two, a vision of grace with wheat-colored skin that seemed to glow, unmarred by imperfection. Her black hair, silky as a moonless night, fell in loose waves down her back, framing a face with sharp cheekbones and eyes like polished obsidian. The gharara, embroidered with gold threads that caught the light like fireflies, swished softly as she moved, a remnant of the joyous wedding she'd just left. Her cousin's celebration had been a whirlwind of laughter, dhol beats, and rose petals scattered underfoot, but now, past midnight, exhaustion weighed on her. Her feet ached in their delicate sandals, and her small purse held little more than a few rupees after gifting cash at the wedding.
"Taxis are too expensive tonight, beta," her aunt had warned, adjusting Anum's dupatta with a motherly touch. "Take the bus. The Karsaz route is direct, and it's safe enough. Just keep your wits about you."
Anum had nodded, though a prickle of unease stirred in her chest. She'd heard the whispered warnings about buses—tales of leering men and groping hands—but the Karsaz route was known to be quiet, and thrift trumped caution. She climbed aboard the W-11 bus, its engine rumbling like a tired beast. The driver, a grizzled man in his fifties with a salt-and-pepper beard and a faded Pathani suit, barely glanced at her as she asked, "North Karachi?"
He grunted, waving her in. The bus's interior was a relic of better days: cracked vinyl seats patched with duct tape, dim fluorescent bulbs casting a sickly yellow glow, and newspapers littering the floor, fluttering in the breeze from open windows. Anum scanned the passengers—only four men. Two slouched in the back, one dozed near the middle with his head against the window, and a tall man with a protruding beer belly sprawled across a bench like he owned the space. Their eyes flicked toward her as she boarded, lingering too long, appraising the red fabric that clung to her slender frame.
She chose a seat near the front, clutching her purse tightly, her dupatta pulled close. The bus lurched onto Karsaz Road, leaving the city's lights behind. The landscape changed swiftly—high-rises gave way to sparse buildings, then to open land where wild plantations pressed close, their thorny silhouettes swaying in the darkness. The air grew cooler, carrying the earthy scent of dust and faint jasmine, but the isolation was palpable. No streetlights, no houses—just the bus's headlights slicing through the night.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the engine's drone and the occasional creak of the seats. Anum stared out the window, her reflection a ghostly outline against the black. She thought of her bed in North Karachi, of the familiar bustle of her neighborhood, so different from this desolate stretch.
Footsteps broke her reverie. The tall man with the beer belly approached, his heavy tread deliberate. He stopped beside her seat, his presence looming. In his thirties, perhaps, with a mustache that curled at the ends and eyes shadowed under thick brows, he smelled of cheap tobacco and sweat. His shirt strained against his gut, a faint tea stain marring the fabric.
"Assalam-o-alaikum, sister," he said, his voice slick, a smirk curling his lips. "Late night for a pretty girl like you. Where you headed?"
Anum's pulse quickened. She kept her eyes on the window, avoiding his gaze. "Walaikum-assalam. North Karachi," she said, her tone clipped, hoping to shut down the conversation.
He leaned closer, the scent of him overwhelming. "North Karachi? Long way to go alone. No brother or husband to keep you safe?" His words were laced with false concern, but his eyes roamed over her, lingering on the gold embroidery of her gharara.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice sharper now, edged with unease. "I don't want to talk."
He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver through her. "Arrey, no need to be rude. Just being friendly. This road's lonely, you know." He flashed a dark smile—teeth yellowed, one glinting with gold—before sauntering back to his seat. Anum caught him whispering to the man in the middle, a stocky figure with a scarred cheek. Their words were too soft to hear, but their glances in her direction were unmistakable, heavy with intent. Soft laughter followed, chilling her blood.
The bus felt smaller, the air thicker. The other two men shifted—one cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet. The driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. Was he watching her, too? The elder in the back, a wiry man in a prayer cap, met her gaze briefly before looking away, his face impassive.
Panic clawed at her chest. This wasn't right. The men's stares, their whispers, the empty road—it was all wrong. Anum stood abruptly, gripping the overhead bar as the bus swayed. She moved to the driver, her voice trembling but firm. "Bhai, stop the bus. I need to get off."
He raised an eyebrow, the dashboard lights casting harsh shadows on his weathered face. "Here? In the middle of nowhere? It's not safe, memsahib."
"Just stop," she insisted, her throat tight. "I'll manage."
He sighed, pulling the bus to the shoulder with a groan of brakes. Dust swirled in the headlights' beam as Anum stepped off, her sandals sinking into the soft earth. The door hissed shut, and the bus rumbled forward, its taillights glowing like embers.
Relief flooded her—briefly. She stood alone on Karsaz Road, the darkness pressing in. The wild plantations loomed on both sides, their thorny branches rustling like whispers. The moon hung low, a pale sickle casting faint silver light. No houses, no lights, no one. Just her, the road, and the endless night.
Then, a few meters ahead, the bus's brake lights flared red. It stopped again. Anum's heart stuttered as the door opened, and three men stepped out: the tall one with the beer belly, his scarred companion, and the lean one from the back, his eyes glinting like a predator's. They stood silhouetted against the bus's lights, their intentions written in their stances.
Anum's breath caught. She turned and ran, her gharara catching on her legs, the gold threads snagging on thorns as she veered into the brush. Her heart pounded like a dhol, her breaths sharp and ragged. Behind her, heavy footsteps thundered—boots on gravel, voices jeering.
"Come on, sweetheart!" the tall man called, his voice dripping with mockery. "Where you running to?"
"Don't be shy!" the scarred one laughed, their pants echoing like hyenas in the night.
Anum pushed harder, branches tearing at her arms, drawing thin lines of blood. The ground was uneven, roots snagging her sandals. She glanced back—the men were closing in, faces twisted with lust, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. A hard shove sent her sprawling, pain exploding in her knees as she hit the dirt. She rolled onto her back, gasping, tasting dust and fear.
The three men towered over her, chests heaving, sweat beading on their brows. The tall one knelt, his belly casting a shadow, his gold-toothed grin a slash in the dark. "Told you this road's lonely," he sneered. "No one's coming."
Anum scrambled back, her hands scraping sharp stones. "Please… don't…" Her voice broke, a sob rising. "I'll scream!"
The scarred one laughed, a cruel bark. "Scream all you want. Ain't nobody here but us."
From the direction of the bus, two more figures emerged—the driver, wiping his hands on his shirt, and the elder with the prayer cap, his face impassive. The driver spat on the ground, the sound wet and final. "Told you it wasn't safe," he said, his voice almost regretful, but his eyes held no remorse.
Anum's gaze darted between them, her heart a frantic drumbeat. Were they here to help—or to join the others? Their shadowed faces gave nothing away, the night holding its breath as the men closed in.