Zoned out of quiet
The first sound is usually a cheer. Sharp, sudden, and oddly out of place. Then comes the steady thud of padel balls hitting turf, the squeak of rubber soles sliding across court floors, and the low hum of conversation that builds into a chorus of hoots and shouts. It is mid-morning in Clifton’s Block 5, and a steady stream of players enters through a side gate. There are bright lights fixed on tall poles, a registration desk set up beneath a tent, and a chain-link fence that cuts through what used to be open parkland. This is not a purpose-built sports complex or a commercial plaza. This is a public park, once meant for community walks and children's play, now turned into a private padel court operating at a hefty hourly fee.
“This was our only green space,” said one resident who has lived in the area for over two decades. “Now it feels like a commercial venture in my front yard. The noise doesn’t stop, even past midnight.”
But this is just one scene from one neighborhood. Across Karachi, similar patterns are emerging. From PECHS to Gulshan and parts of DHA, the same story is unfolding. Residential plots are being repurposed for businesses. Public parks are being enclosed and leased. Clinics, salons, tuition centers, and now recreational facilities are appearing in homes and on plots once zoned for peace and greenery. What was once a quiet neighborhood lane can, without notice, become the site of daily traffic jams and late-night noise.
Much of this change traces back to recent amendments introduced by the Sindh Building Control Authority (SBCA). For a time, the authority permitted commercial activities in residential zones. The justification offered was flexibility, growth, and modern urban demands. But the result was a wave of unregulated development that blurred the lines between what is residential and what is not. Even amenity plots, those few spaces protected for public use, were not spared. Many have quietly shifted hands or purposes, morphing into private enterprises that now limit access, raise noise, and charge fees for something that was once free.
A pattern across the city
As said earlier, Clifton is not alone. From the quieter streets of PECHS to the wider lanes of Gulshan, areas of Malir, and parts of DHA, the same transformation is underway. Homes are being retrofitted into tuition centers and beauty salons. Corner houses now host cafés with delivery bikes lined up outside. Small clinics with banners taped over windows operate without formal signage or designated parking. Residential plots which were stranded for a long time now are serving as indoor sports activities that gets active in the evening and runs all night. In some neighborhoods, what used to be a family’s driveway now serves as a customer waiting area.
Until recently, much of this activity operated in a legal grey area. Then, earlier this year, the SBCA introduced a set of amendments to the Karachi Building and Town Planning Regulations 2002. These changes allowed for a list of commercial activities, including schools, clinics, restaurants, and recreational centers, to function out of residential units. The rules applied across various parts of the city and were implemented without widespread public consultation.
For many residents, the news came not through official channels, but through noise, traffic, and encroachment outside their gates. “Nobody asks for any approval. It’s all arbitrary,” said a resident in Clifton Block 5. “The government doesn’t believe in asking the residents.” Another added, “If the mayor wants to do something for the city, then at least issue a public notice of intent. That’s the system abroad, people are invited to raise objections. Here, no one even informs us.”
The absence of engagement has left many feeling sidelined in decisions that directly impact their homes. “It’s not just about noise. It’s about the right to live with dignity,” said another resident. “We wake up to men hooting and cheering outside at 2 a.m. How is that acceptable in any residential area?”
“The absurdity of it is that tomorrow your neighbor could open a restaurant or a beauty parlor and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it,” read a statement shared by the Public Interest Law Association of Pakistan (PILAP), one of the groups now challenging the changes in court. “This goes against every principle of urban planning and public interest.”
The backlash was swift. Civil society groups like PILAP and Shehri filed a petition in the Supreme Court, arguing that the amendments violated the original zoning intent of these neighborhoods and placed undue burden on residents. Following growing criticism and media attention, the SBCA officially withdrew the notification in May, informing the SHC that the order permitting commercial use in residential plots had been rescinded.
But residents remain skeptical. Many believe the rollback came too late, and in some areas, commercial operations continue to thrive despite the reversal. “It’s already happening in broad daylight. You reverse the notification, but the padel court is still running, the tuition center is still operating, and no one’s stopping them,” said a resident whose street now sees daily footfall from non-residential traffic.
Another added, “Once you compromise the amenity, the domino effect begins. Within ten or twenty years, these won’t be homes anymore.” The damage, they argue, is not just structural. It is cultural, environmental, and deeply personal. “This was a peaceful area. Now it feels like a wedding hall every night,” said a long-time resident. “I didn’t buy this house to live in a marketplace.”
Non-commercial plots under siege
What was once meant to be a space for rest and reflection is now echoing with the sound of rented rackets. In several parts of Karachi, public parks, designated as amenity plots for communal greenery, are quietly being turned into private sports complexes. In Clifton’s Block 5, a public park that once served as a rare patch of green for apartment dwellers now houses a fenced-in padel court. Floodlights tower overhead, racket bags line the walkway, and a printed banner lists the hourly rental: Rs 7,500 for a session.
“This isn’t just about sport,” said one resident living opposite the park. “It’s about the way something public, something that belonged to all of us, was fenced off for profit without so much as a conversation.” Near the same plot, raw sewage often overflows from a nearby gutter, pooling near the court’s entrance. “They built toilets for players, but the sewer line here is already overburdened. Our entire street smells now,” another resident added.
Within the premises, makeshift shower areas have also been constructed to accommodate paying players. Plastic cubicles, running water lines, and drainage systems have been added to what was once open green space. “First it was fencing, then floodlights, now showers. This is no longer a park, it’s a club,” a resident said. “And we never agreed to live next to a club.”
The Viva Padel facility is not an isolated case. Over the past year, Karachi has seen a sharp rise in padel courts being built not just in parks, but directly within residential areas, many of them on converted private plots. More than two dozen courts now operate across the city, tucked inside otherwise quiet neighborhoods. Among the most active names are Viva Padel, Smash X, Padelverse, Court X, and several smaller operators that continue to appear every month. What they all have in common is that they function without dedicated parking, often stretch into the late hours of the night, and bring unfamiliar traffic and noise into once-private streets.
“I didn’t even know what padel was until the floodlights were installed,” said a resident of PECHS. “Now it’s a racket. Literally. It starts in the afternoon and doesn’t stop until 2 or 3 a.m.” Another remarked, “The cheering, the hooting, the car horns, it's like a match is happening outside our window every night.”
For those living nearby, the issue is not the sport, but the creeping commercialization of their environment. Parks, once seen as the last standing buffer between residents and unregulated construction, are now vulnerable.
“It starts with a court, then a canteen, then parking arrangements. Before you know it, you’ve lost your home’s peace and half its value,” said one long-time resident. “The noise doesn’t just travel through walls, it travels through time. Once the precedent is set, it’s almost impossible to reverse.”
In some areas, the situation has already begun to spiral. Houses next to padel facilities are being quietly converted into cafés or rental accommodations for visiting players. Residents who once thought they would retire in the same house are now considering selling, not out of choice, but necessity.
There is also a deeper fear, a loss that goes beyond noise and traffic. As one resident put it, “When you lose the right to quiet, you lose more than comfort. You lose the meaning of home.”
The loopholes in the system
For many residents fighting to preserve the character of their neighborhoods, the frustration isn’t just directed at those opening padel courts or tuition centers, it is rooted in the silence of those meant to regulate them. Institutions like the SBCA and KDA are tasked with safeguarding the zoning integrity of the city, yet their oversight often seems to arrive too late, if at all.
Repeated attempts were made to contact the Director General of SBCA to understand the authority’s stance on the mushrooming of commercial activity in residential areas. Queries were sent regarding the current status of enforcement following the reversal of the controversial amendment earlier this year. At the time of filing this report, no response had been received.
In the absence of clear boundaries and proactive enforcement, a growing number of homes across Karachi are quietly being converted into commercial enterprises. In some streets, former living rooms have become classrooms. Elsewhere, driveways have been turned into outdoor seating for cafés. A restaurant operating out of a corner plot in Defence uses residential alleyways for valet parking, while a bakery in Gulshan continues its daily operations in what was once a family home, complete with its original boundary wall.
“There’s no clarity. Is it legal? Is it tolerated? Or are people simply doing it because no one is stopping them?” asked a resident of North Nazimabad, whose street now houses a restaurant, a Montessori, and a clinic, none of which existed five years ago.
Even where zoning rules exist, enforcement is inconsistent. In some cases, notices are issued. In others, illegal structures are sealed only to be quietly unsealed days later. Residents say the process feels selective and heavily influenced by connections or commercial clout. “There’s a pattern now,” said a resident of Phase 6 DHA. “They start small, like an office or a studio. Within months it becomes a business, then an event space.”
This absence of public consultation has become one of the most common complaints across affected neighborhoods. While the reversal of the earlier SBCA notification provided temporary relief, it also revealed just how vulnerable residential areas are to piecemeal decisions made without community input. The lack of a transparent system for objections, public hearings, or even visible signage for proposed conversions has left many feeling powerless.
In the end, what worries residents most is the sense that no one is watching. Or worse, that everyone is looking away.
The residents’ struggle
Across Karachi, the pushback is slowly growing. From the manicured lanes of Clifton to the narrower streets of Gulistan-e-Johar and Shah Faisal Colony, residents are waking up, often literally, to a city that no longer sleeps. The culprits vary by neighborhood. In some, it's padel courts, in others, it's schools operating in bungalows with no drop-off zones or eateries using residential kitchens to serve commercial crowds.
In Johar Block 13, a woman who has lived in the area for 27 years said her lane now feels like a sports complex. “The indoor court opens in the evening, and by midnight, there are still people playing, laughing, cheering. Sometimes even at 3 or 4am. We have school-going kids and elderly parents. How are we supposed to live like this?”
The experience is similar in Shah Faisal, where a resident described what used to be a quiet neighborhood turning into a round-the-clock operation. “There’s a club now where there used to be a park. It was never announced, never discussed. One day the trees were gone, the next day the turf was laid. Now it’s rented out in shifts, with players arriving as late as 1am. You can’t even open your windows anymore.”
In Malir, a tuition center operating out of a converted double-storey home has led to persistent traffic, littering, and a noticeable rise in strangers loitering outside. “No one objects because they think it’s temporary. But it’s been two years. They even host mock exams late into the night now,” said one resident. “The peace is gone.”
Clifton residents, who were among the first to raise organized objections, say that while the problem may have started in high-profile neighborhoods, it has now firmly taken root elsewhere. “What people don’t realise is that once this kind of activity becomes normalized in one area, it spreads quietly to others,” said a resident. Residents are contributing to legal funds from their own savings. Meetings are held in living rooms and over late-night calls. Screenshots of construction, screenshots of signboards, videos of cars parked across gates, everything is being archived. Not as protest, but as evidence.
“This is not a one-day fight,” said a resident from Phase 2 Extension in DHA. “They want us to get tired. But we won’t. Because once you give up your street, you’ve given up your city.”
For now, many continue their lives amid a kind of ambient unrest. Morning routines begin after sleepless nights. Children are learning to block out crowd noise during homework. Elderly residents take their evening walks around cones and concrete slabs, once meant to guard flower beds, now standing guard outside courts and cafés.
What remains of quiet
For now, the noise continues. The cheer of late-night games, the revving of delivery bikes, the distant bass of celebratory music somewhere it was never meant to be. In cities like Karachi, change often arrives unannounced, sometimes disguised as progress, sometimes as convenience. But for those who still believe in the meaning of residential life, in the right to peace, sleep, and green space, the question remains painfully simple: if everything can be sold, what exactly is left to belong?
The struggle continues, not just to save a neighborhood, but to remember what it used to feel like to live in one. Residents aren’t asking for silence. They’re asking to be heard.