Why this Divisive Mindset?
Do I dream differently than those uptown boys?
Dr. Fiaz Maqbool Fazili
The smell hits first. Not always bad. It’s the scent of centuries packed into narrow gullies, of sun-warmed brick and the damp breath of the Jhelum. It is the aroma of noon-hour haakh cooking in a hundred kitchens, mixed with dust, diesel, and the sharp note of pine from the mountains that watch over us.
This is Zaina Kadal. This is the map drawn on my soul.
I was born here, in a house where the walls are so close you can hear your neighbour’s dreams. My playground was the cobblestone street, my lullaby the chorus of vendors and the evening Azaan. We were rich in history, in a stubborn, unyielding sense of community. Everyone knew everyone. Your business was never entirely your own, but your grief was never borne alone.
Then came the uptown job.
The first day I crossed the bridge, the air changed. Fresher, quieter. The scent of watered lawns and expensive perfume. Houses that stood apart behind high walls, guardians of a different silence. Offices of glass and steel, reflecting a paler sky.
My colleagues were “uptown boys.” Fluent in a language of privilege. Ski trips to Gulmarg, imported cars, summers in Delhi. When asked where I was from, I said, “Zaina Kadal.” A pause. A flicker. “Ah, downtown.” No malice, but full of unspoken assumptions. Turbulent. Political. Poor. Other.
I am a downtown boy. What then?
Do I dream differently? Their dreams climb higher floors, higher peaks. Mine build from the ground up. From resilience. From shared struggle. From the gullies that raised me. Downtown teaches you to be part of an organism, to live an economy of care. It forges resilience, empathy, collective dreams.
Uptown teaches individuality. Downtown teaches humanity.
So why this divide? Because walls are easier than bridges. Because it is easier to dismiss a place than to understand its people.
But I have crossed the bridge. I carry Zaina Kadal into Rajbagh’s glass rooms. I see the loneliness in their wide houses, the cracks behind their facades. They have space but less breath. We have clutter but constant life.
Judge me not by my postcode but by my humanity. By whether my success lifts one boat or a hundred. By whether my ambition has a conscience.
I am a downtown boy. That means fire in my belly, sharpened by hard realities. My dreams are not just mine. They belong to the women who taught me the Quran, the friend who shared his last rupee, the streets that shaped me.
The divide is an illusion. The future belongs to those who transcend it.
Downtown? Uptown? These coordinates are obsolete. That identity is a cage. Break it.
The new race is not for status or territory. It is a race toward empathy. A marathon of mutual aid. The only competition is in caring more.
Forget the postcode of your birth. Your new district is Humanity. Your purpose is to lift others as you climb.
So, brush it off. Move. The starting pistol fired long ago. Let’s run.
(Author is a Senior Consultant Surgeon and writes as a concerned citizen on social and ethical matters. Email: drfiazfazili@gmail.com)
