Nothing divides people more than money. No religion, caste, creed or country creates more division than our social status. We are measured by the size of our backyard, the make of our car, the price of our handbag and the zeroes in our pay package. In Karachi, you are largely defined by the area you live in; it is a quick shot bio data of your entire life. “Where do you live?” slots you into happening or not-so-happening bins immediately. And then, there is no redemption from that. Middle and upper middle class folks aspire to mingle with the solid rich, the old rich enjoy their cocktails with the powerful lot, leaving us with the ‘maila’ (the dirty one). Nobody wants their selfie with a maila. Yes, the dirty one ‘burgers’ and ‘wannabe burgers’ look down upon; the term itself is so offensive that one wonders if this category of Karachi-ite is even considered human by others sharing the city. That Karachi is divided along political lines is well known but the stronger grid lines are formed along economic status. Area-based discrimination is rampant in the city by the sea. Class-consciousness plays a pivotal role in everyday life here: residential areas have names and traits associated with them. For example, a ‘Nazimabadiya’ is presumably someone living on the other side of the bridge — unpolished, speaking Urdu with a Dilli accent and slurping on nihari and haleem. Generalisation is the name of the game. A maila or ‘bun-kabab’ are people who live outside Defence and Clifton, areas that pride themselves on hosting the so-called sophisticated herd of Pakistanis. Defence is what South Mumbai areas are to Mumbai or South Delhi is to Delhi; it is perfectly alright to prefer certain areas for their security or infrastructure, but must we become insensitive towards others who maybe struggling to survive in the city? There are two Karachis, each totally disconnected from the other. Spaces such as Karimabad, Bufferzone, North Karachi etc are taboo words for Defence-walas who, if they had a chance, would import their oxygen for breathing as well. I once stood behind a quarrelling father in a food court line-up; he only wanted an imported can of Coca Cola for his son to go with his subway sandwich. He simply did not trust the quality of Pakistani Coke or Pepsi, and argued that a locally made beverage would harm his munna (baby) who has only been exposed to the finest of things. People also take pride in throwing names around here; association with politicians and industrialists mean their peers will respect them more. Nobody says, “Hey, I know a compounder who possesses a great character; I think we should hang out with him more.” There would be no benefit in such an association, and you would surely be downgrading yourself to maila class on this Karachi-bound flight. I have also observed that the secret social code in Karachi is minimum words exchanged with anyone below your class. And if someone does indulge in friendly banter with the ‘lowly’, they are allowed to walk around all day as if they did something for humanity! The city is in a pitiable state morally, but let’s not exclusively blame the elite for the collapse. It is also the ambitious folks in the middle somewhere who cannot stop labelling people. Their sense of inferiority is apparent in stories of exaggerated wealth, in hesitating when speaking Urdu at posh places or even dissing Bollywood. Yes, apparently only the maila watches and discusses Hindi films, but funnily, it is the non-mailas who die for a meet-and-greet when even a relatively small celebrity from India arrives in Karachi. In my case, I prefer eating rice with my hands, have often taken a rickshaw to the Dolmen Mall and love dissecting Bollywood, unapologetically. So I am a maila, alright. And who are we kidding? In a family wedding, we all have relatives belonging to different social classes so we all know a maila and a burger quite closely, and no one is exempt from this. There is a bigger mafia at work in Karachi, more terrifying than the mobile snatchers, which lurks around at every corner and must be dealt with urgently: dignity snatchers are robbing people in broad daylight. Humility has been kidnapped and taken to an unknown location, away from our hearts. The tailor down the street may turn out to be a great source of wisdom, be a hero to his children, and may have contributed more to your personal world than the lame politician who is nothing more than a pebble pretending to be a gemstone. Willing to accept that friend request from your tailor on social media? If the thought makes you uncomfortable, pause and think about the mailapan (dirt) and where it really resides. The writer is a freelance columnist with a degree in Cultural Studies and a passion for social observation, especially all things South Asian. She tweets @chainacoffeemug