Ilaaj-e-Zid-Dastyaab Hae

The following is a review published in the 25th May to 31st May edition of The Friday Times.

I hear The Globe performance was much better received than the Lahore one, for which I am very happy. The reasons I can envisage for that are:


1. That Nadia Jamil's inclusion did indeed make a significant difference to the overall quality of the play (since Omair Rana was excellent anyway, their chemistry will hopefully have transformed the master and slave relationship between the two leads to that between two stubborn equals).


2.  That some slight changes in the way the last speech was delivered may have been incorporated (assuming not too humbly, after this critique was published). A friend informs me the last speech was indeed delivered ironically in the London performance.


3. That the sentimental nostalgia that watching a slice of Pakistan at The Globe evokes in the hearts of expatriate Pakistanis is enough to overlook most everything else.

Curtain call

The Set

Above are two pictures I took from the poor quality camera on my iPod Touch.

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Pakistan's contribution to the Globe Theatre's World Shakespeare Festival, an Urdu translation of Taming of the Shrew, has been the subject of much hype in the local press for nearly a year. So, to satiate curious Lahoris and to give themselves a practice run, Theatre Walley staged the play on the 9th of May at Alhamra Hall no. 1 ahead of their 25th of May performance at The Globe.

When I reached the venue at 7pm the audience was being ushered in, to my surprise, without a ticket check at the gate. As it turned out the organizers had waived the entry ticket, blissfully unmindful of those who had paid the Rs. 1500 in advance, because the main lead Nadia Jamil had pulled out due to illness. This conveyed the unfortunate impression that the production prized one television actor's star power above the rest of the team. Add to that the non-functioning air conditioning, and the director's poor form in making an introductory speech, claiming Nadia Jamil's absence had halved the impact of the performance, and the evening started on a sour note, even before a single dialogue had been delivered. I can't be sure if the director's introductory remarks did anything to appease the audience, but I am certain they can't have helped the morale of the replacement leading lady, Maria Khan, or the rest of her cast just as they were about to walk on to the stage.

All this compounded my trepidation at Pakistan staging the most misogynist of Shakespeare's plays. Having suffered through its condensed version at school, I was not quite sure how the production would deal with the play's deep misogyny that George Bernard Shaw once indicted as "altogether disgusting to modern sensibility."

The evening started on a sour note, even before a single dialogue had been delivered

Which beggars the question: how did Pakistan get saddled with Taming of the Shrew? According to the play's director, Susannah Wilson, who attempted to answer this question before the performance began, it was chosen specifically for its 'strong' female lead, perfect for Nadia Jamil. This suggests that participating countries had a say in the decision making process. If true, then Taming of the Shrew is an odd pick against the numerous other options with strong female leads in Shakespeare. Shrew is either considered an aberration in the Shakespeare canon or 'interpreted' as ironic and non-serious. Literary critics, who (much like religious scholars) are adept at explaining away anomalies in revered texts, interpret the world of the play as deliberately unreal. None of these approaches to the play, however, seemed to have made their way to the translators and directors of this particular venture. The 'Induction'- an introductory scene in the original text-is vital to an understanding of the play as heightened fantasy removed from reality. Oddly, this production chose to do away with the Induction, embedding the plot's sexism ever more deeply into the play's texture.

Osman Khalid Butt's antics kept the younger members of the audience particularly entertained

Coming back to the evening. With the director finally off the stage, the curtains parted and revealed an amateurish painting of inner Lahore as backdrop, along with a small cardboard cutout of a truck. This poverty of imagination in production values led me to hope that the minimalism would also manifest itself in more cutting edge ways. But that was not to be. The effect of the captivating beginning, with a slickly choreographed burst of ensemble bhangra, was squandered away for most of the rest of the play. There were nice little flourishes here and there-the incorporation of Indian classical dance movements to narrate certain aspects of Kiran's (Katherina) personality, Mekaal Hasan Band's masterful job with the live score and Osman Khalid Butt's antics that kept the younger members of the audience particularly entertained (their laughs, I suspect, were also owed to memories of Humsafar spoofs).

Omair Rana, seasoned as ever, proved why he is invariably the best bet for a male lead with his stage presence and remarkably authentic Pashto accent, more realistic than veteran actor Salman Shahid's Punjabi one.

All this, however, was not enough to keep a constant stream of people from exiting the hall at various stages during the performance. The removal of the language barrier may have aided in better understanding the plot but it also stripped the play of the lilting rhythms of the iambic pentameter, Shakespeare's sly punning and insights into human nature that elevate his comedies. In the absence of these, the production should have amped up on visual gimmickry or creative direction to stave off the predictability. Unfortunately, it failed to do either.

The last two Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC) productions of Taming of the Shrew, in 1978 and 1995, relied on directorial discretion to make the play more palatable to modern audiences. Without interfering with the original text, and using the Induction to their advantage, the RSC situated the 1978 play in the male lead's dream, thus relegating its misogyny to the male fantasy sphere. Whereas in the 1995 RSC version Katherina's controversial last speech advocating the subjugation of women was delivered non-seriously. However, in Pakistan's 2012 incarnation, Kiran delivers this speech with all the righteousness of a Friday sermon. I cannot imagine Nadia Jamil doing it any differently, given that the tone of such a major soliloquy is determined by script writers and directors, not the actors themselves. I, and most people who left the hall disappointed, expected better from the highly regarded and seasoned team of this production.


The biggest measure of a stage play's success is its impact on the audience, and in this 'Ilaaj-e-zid Dastyaab Hai' turned out to be decidedly underwhelming. One can only hope that Ms. Wilson is right and that Jamil adds a pizzazz to the performance that will lift the whole production out of mediocrity when it is taken to the Globe. Otherwise one can only hope that the fact of it being in Urdu will save the day (and faces) of all those involved.

National Anthem 101

News that certain schools in Karachi have done away with the ritual of singing the national anthem every day generated some interesting debate on Twitter--about national pride, the meaning of education, the role of schools and then finally and inevitably the national anthem itself. Predictably the issue of an earlier national anthem by Jagannath Azad was raised. There is something so romantic about the idea of Jinnah assigning the task of writing an anthem for the newly-created Muslim state to a Hindu that I can understand why it has caught on so amongst Pakistan's mostly beleaguered liberals. Add to this Hafeez Jalandhari's (probably well deserved) reputation as a bigoted right winger and there seems to be even more reason to despise the national anthem as yet another manifestation of Pakistan's trenchant religious biases. On the one hand there are the blogs that claim the Jagannath anthem theory to be gospel truth, on the other books have been written to debunk the claim. Till such time as I actually get around to reading the said books, I am obviously in no position to comment, so I shall move on to a tangential topic that arose from 'the anthem debate'--the fact that it is in Persian.

I have heard that one before. Having been born in a house where Urdu is the academic language of the household, it is possible that I find the anthem's Persianized Urdu less difficult than do other kids (or adults), but breaking it down into words and phrases, I feel it can be easily understood by someone with even a moderate command of Urdu. If that excludes those who have studied at English medium schools and have little interaction with formal Urdu for whatever reason, that does not the anthem Persian make.

Many of its words sound Persian because they are poetic words and Urdu poetry's tradition is deeply entrenched in Persian, considering two of its greatest poets (Ghalib and Iqbal) also have whole collections of poetry in Persian. Add to that Urdu's very nature as a language derived from other languages and its ability to easily absorb them, and the claim that the anthem is in Persian becomes even shakier.

So, to the breaking down of the anthem itself. Let's start with the first line:

'Paak sarzameen shaadbaad / Kishwar-e-haseen shaadbaad'

Paak: Commonly used word in Urdu meaning pure.

Sarzameen:  Meaning land. Another fairly commonplace Urdu word.

Shaadbaad: Definitely more Persian-sounding than the others, mostly because of the suffix 'baad', but let's take 'shaad' (meaning happy) first. You might not exactly say 'MayN shaad hooN' while conversing casually with friends, but elders can and do often give duas in this form. 'Beti shaad raho, abaad raho' does not sound linguistically archaic even today (that it ought to become socially archaic in its restricted context of marriage = abaadi is a post for another day). The word shaad, in fact, was quite ubiquitous in pop culture till about a decade ago when people still sat around dholkis to sing songs on mehndis instead of immediately launching into choreographed routines on item numbers. Think 'Hae mubaarak aaj ka din, raat aaee hae suhaani. Shaadmaani ho shaadmaani' to get some idea of the prevalence of the word. In case you were born in the era of the item number, here are Danny Dengzongpa, Tanuja (and that peculiar creature that is is the Bollywood child) proving the point to you:

Having written my house address as C1/10 GOR III, Shadman Colony, Lahore for the better part of my life also makes the word personally familiar for me (and I am assuming many Lahoris). Moving on.

Baad: Like I said, most commonly a Persian suffix but since Urdu is a language influenced by Persian, this suffix is also used in Urdu. Most standard example of this is zindabad, a word any Pakistani even remotely conversant with Urdu would recognize.

Kishwar: Meaning country. Word used regularly in Urdu poetry. Most notable example that immediately jumps to mind is the first shayr of 'Baang-e-Daraa'.

'Ae Himaala ae faseel-e-kishwar-e-Hindustan / Choomta hae teri peshaani ko jhuk kar aasmaan'

The above couplet by Iqbal also highlights another important point in the Urdu/Farsi debate--the Persian (appropriated by Urdu) 'tarqeeb' of joining two words with a zaer to create a compound word, such as kishwar-e-Hindustan, kishwar-e-haseen or azm-e-alishaan. This formation is particularly conducive to poetry, especially poetry that relies heavily on meter and rhythm to create sense and delight (think the ghazal). In the case of the Pakistani national anthem the terseness of this formation allows for the quick marching rhythm that Chagla's tune so handsomely captures.

Also think Ghalib:

Qaed-e-hayaat-o-band-e-gham asl mayN donoN aek hayN / Maut se pehlay aadmi gham se nijaat paae kyoon 

Haseen: Meaning beautiful. Commonly used by Urdu-speakers (as they are called). Less common in Punjab where khoobsoorat is the more everyday usage. Nonetheless, as Urdu as it gets.

Tu nishaan-e-azm-e-alishaan/ Arz-e-Pakistan / Markaz-e-yaqeen shaadbaad

Tu, Nishaan: o_O

Azme-e-Alishaan: Meaning great promise. Beautiful coinage, this. Obviously catchy and meaningful to a whole new generation of Pakistanis as demonstrated in its appropriation by the youth initiative, Azm-e-Alishaan

Arz-e-Pakistan: Arz meaning land. Kurra-e-arz is routine scientific terminology in Urdu today, easily recognizable and understood by anyone who can read a newspaper or watches Urdu news channels.

Markaz-e-yaqeen: Meaning centre of faith.

Markaz = F10 Markaz. Markaz-e-behbood-e-abaadi (don't know why that sprang to mind) and as a Google search revealed even Insaaf Markaz (interestingly doing away with the more Persian coinage Markaz-e-Insaaf which could just have been as easily comprehensible, in my opinion, but may have sounded less awaami). Hence established that to our ears there is a certain formality to the Persian formation and in more homely circumstances most people swap the order of the words for greater ease. That however still allows markaz-e-yaqeen to be as Urdu as it is Persian, just more formal and poetic Urdu.

I like the use of the word 'yaqeen' here, which is more diverse than 'eemaan' (not that eemaan would have fit into the rhythm). Yaqeen can mean religious faith but it can also mean just faith--faith in yourself, in your abilities. So, nice little touch there.

Pak sar zameen ka nizaam / Quwat-e-akhuwat-e-awaam

Nizaam: Meaning system. Easy peasy.

Quwat: Strength

Akhuwat: Unity or brotherhood (slightly tougher one). Still Urdu. Akhuwat and bhaaichaara often used together.

Awaam: Meaning common folk.This word is not just Urdu and Punjabi but I am guessing (hoping) Pashto, Sindhi and Balochi too since its English equivalent common man/commoner is so much less than all the nuances that awaam carries within it.

Combined, this line is a nice little nod to democracy, something ironically the country has always lacked. But the much greater irony is in Hafeez Jalandhari being the writer of these lines, the man who enjoyed a secretary level position in General Ayub Khan's government.

Qaum, mulk, sultanat / Painda tabinda baad / Shaadbaad manzil-e-muraad

Painda: Meaning long lasting. For the Sohail Rana generation this word is no stranger. Reminds me of Mona's tinkling voice singing Hum zinda qaum hayN paainda qaum hayN / Hum sab ki hae pehchaan, hum sab ka Pakistan, Pakistan, Pakistan/ Hum sab ka Pakistan, during the heyday of propagandist Pakistani milli naghmas--the Zia years.

Tabinda: Roshan. Lit. Lots of girls names in the anthem. I know a Pakistani girl called Tabinda. I know several Kishwars. Many of the words in Urdu are a part of a common heritage that can be traced back to Persian, Arabic, English, even Turkish. All living languages evolve and absorb words from other languages and make those words their own. Once these words get absorbed into a language they become as much a part of the language that has acquired them as they are of the original. That is a basic fact about the evolution of language.

Manzil-e-muraad: Meaning destination of dreams. Lovely.

                    Parcham-e-sitaara-o-hilaal / Rehbar-e-taraqqi-o-kamaal 

Parcham fluttering at Nanga Parbat base camp (taken by Jawad Zakariya) 

If you have never turned on PTV and heard the the phrase 'sabz hilaali parcham' ad nauseum, then, well...what did you ever do as a child? There's also the ruet-e-hilaal committee and the hilaal-e-ahmar which have helped 'hilaal' remain a commonly understood word. In case it still sounds too obscure and...Persian, it means crescent. 

Rehbar: Leader. Guide. Word common enough for TCF to use in its mentoring program for kids. 

Tarjumaan-e-maazi, shaan-e-haal / Jaan-e-istaqbaal / Saaya-e-Khuda-e-Zuljalaal

Tarjumaan: Meaning representative. Standard word in Urdu news. Vazeer-e-azam ke tarjumaan etc.

Maazi: Past

Shaan: Do I need to? A word simple and easily recognizable enough for a major corporation to adopt for its flagship product used by Pakistanis throughout the world. You know, the kinds that speak and understand...Urdu.

Jaan-e-istaqbaal: Ok, now this one is the trickiest. I had always understood it as 'jaan-e-istaqbaal' = istaqbaal karnay ke liye (in order to welcome). Turns out that's not what it is. This actually is the ONE pure accession to Persian in the whole anthem. Istaqbaal, as my father tells me, comes from the root word mustaqbil, so jaan here would mean literally 'the life of the future' or more metaphorically as central to the future.


Saaya-e-khudaa-e-Zuljalaal: Khuda-e-zuljalaal has ended up becoming unintentionally secular thanks to the Persian Khuda having lately been discarded in favour of the Arabic Allah. If Allah is the Muslim God, then Khuda can be understood to be the more neutral term for everybody's God. So, while 'may God's benevolent shadow always stay above our heads' may not be to the liking of the staunchly secularist, by the time this anthem came along the Objectives Resolution had long placed the sovereignty of Allah above all in the Pakistani constitution and so Jalandhari's saying the same in the national anthem is hardly an aberration. By and large, there are nods to faith in the anthem but it neither emphasizes nor blows it out of proportion, and I am grateful for even that much.

So, dislike Jalandhari if you will. He seems a particularly poor hero, particularly placed next to the fiery and romantic Jalib who, in one recording of 'Musheer' rants against the sellout Jalandhari and dedicates his scathing poem to him. But biography and dislike of a person cannot come in the way of objective assessment. And in the objective analysis not only is the Pakistani national anthem in Urdu, it is also a suitably grand one that manages to achieve what all anthems should--the rousing of patriotic sentiment and pride.

Ending with the version I have grown up with and which I never failed to stand up for as a kid. Too jaded to do that now. But despite it all, when I hear the anthem played in a crowd, I still cannot suppress that surge of pride, if at nothing else but at our magnificent poetic heritage.

Addendum: There are a couple of things I want to add. All of the above does not suggest that the anthem's Urdu isn't heavily Persianized, or quite a few words in it difficult enough for many people not to be able to comprehend immediately, especially if they have little grounding in Urdu poetry. But it is to dispel the myth that the intent of the anthem's poet was to write in Persian. Far from it. There is apparently a detailed defense of the anthem against precisely this accusation that Jalandhari himself published in one of the newspapers of the time. I wish it wasn't so hard to scour newspaper archives that old.

Another interesting fact that must have affected choice of words is that Chagla's tune came before the lyrics. Once the tune was approved the Pakistani government ran a nationwide competition for the best lyrics, which Hafeez one. 

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Two corrections made in the above post thanks to @airtiza on Twitter

A poet could not but be gay

On Twitter, the other day, I referred to the flowers outside my window as 'pansies'. Well, that is exactly what they are. All one hundred and twenty seven of them. A friend, however, found my usage quaint and antiquated (why do these words sound like they're related). But from what I know the flower hasn't been given another name yet to clear the confusion between the contemporary usage of the word and its earlier botanic incarnation. Gay, however, seems to have been done away with altogether as a synonym for happy. So much so that you can now no longer spontaneously recite Daffodils on a fine spring day like today without eliciting some giggles from bystanders. Assuming the recitation of poetry isn't itself a giggleworthy enough phenomenon for bystanders.


So, coming back to pansy, the serendipity of encountering the word whose archaic usage had made me a laughing stock of sorts (yes, i am looking at you @akkhan81) in a snazzy, contemporary book of non-fiction was a most lucky coincidence (which is what serendipity happens to be, by the way). The book, 'Guerrilla Gardening' by Richard Reynolds, details attempts by people all over the world to beautify or cultivate neglected public space. On page 55, Reynolds writes:

Paul 1119 has used guerrilla gardening to mark hundreds of memorials in a continuing and powerful art project spread across England and the USA. He began in Manchester, planting pansies to mark where homophobic attacks had taken place ('pansy' being a slang term for a gay man in anglophone countries). 

Using police records of where  both verbal and physical attacks had occured, Paul planted the pansies along pavements, in crevices beneath trees, at the foot of walls and to plug gaps in flowerbeds. He took a photo of each one and named the image after the particular abuse that had occurred there. 'Faggots!...Poofs!...Queers!' is a beautiful burgundy pansy on Oxford Road outside Sainsbury's supermarket; 'It's about time we went gay-bashing again, isn't it?' is a pale peachy one that is timidly growing through some melting snow on Grosvenor Street. The Pansy Project went legal when Paul sought and won the support of cultural institutions in North America and Britain, and it now has its own website (ThePansyProject.com).

In March 2007 Paul was given funding by the London Lesbian and Gay Film Festival to plant along Queen's Walk on the South Bank to mark the murder in 2004 of David Morley, which was widely perceived to have been motivated by homophobia. As well as filling empty tree pits and flowerbeds, pansies were stuffed into ribbons of soggy black stockings and bin liners to be wrapped temporarily around the bases of bins and bollards.

Paul asked me to help clear away this temporary part of the exhibition and transplant the pansies somewhere permanent. And so I spent an evening with Claire 1971, Lyla 1046 and Gavin 2881 crawling around the South Bank prising out pansies and perplexing the rowdy al fresco drinkers who favoured us with some light horticultural abuse.

I loved how these people combined the two uses of 'pansy' to make a statement.

However, even more strangely, I came upon the word pansy again in a book I picked up the very next day. 'Fun Home' by Alison Bechdel also puns upon its two meanings to illustrate her younger self's understanding (and judgement) of her father. Here it is:

So, glad to know the original meaning of pansy is still very much in use, even as it is supplemented by its modern slang usage, a pejorative whose own meaning is being redefined by those it has been hurled at as an insult.

A new golden age of Pakistani drama? Think not

A Pakistani drama serial has brought the nation together once again, reminding people of the ‘80’s when ‘Waaris’ and ‘Tanhaiyaan’ are fabled to have left the streets of Lahore deserted.

Pakistani drama had been witnessing a revival for a couple of years now, but not until Humsafar did that scattered babble converge to a deafening roar; confronting the unsuspecting on every corner regardless of consent. It is the kind of all-encompassing popularity that legends are made of, and who but the shallowest snob would begrudge such a culturally defining moment?
So, to bring myself up to speed, I decided to spend one weekend on YouTube catching up on the Pakistani zeitgeist. Closing the dozen or so windows that are usually open on my Chrome at any given time to allow my computer optimum performance and speed, I settled down to plug into the pop-culture rhythm of modern Pakistan.

It didn’t begin very promisingly. The principal characters were immediately defined through tired old tropes of class —poor girl with chadar equal to good and chaste; rich girl in jeans, spoilt and forward. Add to that the poverty-stricken but upright mother on her death bed and (the soon to turn into) evil NGO-aunty mother-in-law, and every tired old cliché in the Pakistani moral universe begins to gnaw at whatever little substance the play had to begin with. These said characters then proceeded to act in the way the middle class writer’s imagination perceives poor people act, or equally rich ones. The women orbitting in their pre-determined paths around the intense and manly object of desire whose taut face and pregnant pauses helped drive the contrived ‘plot’.
While the female characters are painted through a Nazeer Ahmed-esque moral lens of angelic goodness and devilish design, the man’s agreeableness remains superfluous to his desirability, perhaps even detrimental to it; his unreasonable suspicions proof of his virile masculinity.

Sarah, who in the first fifteen minutes is presented as the demure sidekick in Asher’s business, suddenly discovers a histrionic streak that would put Malka-e-Jazbaat, Bahaar to shame.

That there are women who might choose to behave like Sara when they find out that the love of their life is betrothed to another is not under doubt, neither is the fact that there are women like Khirad who could be led into marrying a stranger because they have no other option; the problematic bit is that all Pakistani plays across the board depict most ‘lovable’ female characters in this light. This is their idea of what people want, and with the unprecedented success of ‘Humsafar’, it seems like they’ve got it right. 

The play’s popularity amongst the well-to-do, private school educated classes is the most fascinating aspect of this phenomenon. It is possible that the main reason for it is the charisma of Fawad Khan and the dewy faced Mahira, at least if my class full of 15-year-old girls is any proof, but our perverse obsession with suffering is also another plausible reason for its success. Suffering women in particular seem to be placed on a pedestal; by men because they are the ultimate romantic symbols of womanly sacrifice, by women because it is nice to be validated on screen for life choices that have them personally unfulfilled but socially approved.

Humsafar’s popularity is sad evidence of the systemic erosion of Pakistan’s social consciousness since the enforced piety of Zia’s days. If Haseena Moin was the benchmark of mass popularity back then, then Humsafar in as indicator of our endemic regressiveness. The sad irony is that Haseena’s heroines challenged the status quo by being their bubbly, independent, if hopelessly romantic selves; in comparison, the Khirads and Sarahs of today are a firm step backward. Those earlier women had time to be just women, with humour, grace and tenacity that lent texture and authenticity to their characters. Today’s specimens perpetually shuffle from one tear-jerker to another; their whole lives one long, painful dirge on the hazards of being a woman in a patriarchal world they have no interest in challenging or shaping. Sassy, single women of the 'repressed' 80’s (think Badar Khalil in Tanhaiyan) had the wherewithal to support two grown-up, orphaned nieces without any of them being played for the ‘bechaari’ sentiment that drives most depiction of women today. Besides, female friendship was celebrated, whether amongst college friends, sisters or between aunts and nieces. The Sarah and Khirad model inevitably pits them against one another, rendering them useless without the pivotal man in the middle.

Today’s plays, including Humsafar, are much like Razia Butt novels, just having shifted mediums from the inside pages of a women’s weekly to the 8 o’clock slot on television. Only through this switch the impact of their regressive mindset has widened considerably, entrenching our society’s stereotypes ever more solidly into our consciousness.


First published here on Dawn.com

MayN tau DekhooN Ga

A fellow-volunteer at TCF (The Citizens Foundation) asked me yesterday if I was going to the PTI rally. My first reaction was to laugh, and then wonder, 'Women go to political rallies?' Perhaps what I really thought was 'Do women like us go to political rallies?' 'Us' being 'shareef' and middle class, belonging to families who may have acquired almost-elite status over time, but whose middle class values dictate that the arena for women's political participation be the family's television lounge, not the uncertain grounds of Minar-e-Pakistan.

By the morning the momentum was clearly palpable on my Twitter timeline. I have always been ambivalent about Khan's politics but I am also a sucker for a 'mela' and this was promising to be a carnival like no other. Despite trepidation at braving such crowds on my own, I went out driving alone and joined the PTI caravan at Kalma Chowk, buoyed by the hope that harassment of women might figure low on the agenda of willing attendees of a rally for change. The optimism wasn't misplaced, for the most part. The Lawyer's Movement had brought the burger crowd to the streets before, but this felt different. For many of those following the caravan from Defence and Model Town, just going to Minar-e-Pakistan was an act of immersion and solidarity with the general populace, and a form of political awakening. Jeans and maila kurtas all powering forth in one direction.

Encroaching on PPP territory?

It was certain by this time that the gathering was going to be huge. People around me made victory signs atop buses belonging to private local colleges. Cars played Amanat Ali Khan's 'Ae Watan Pyaare Watan' but the most ubiquitous song remained 'Jazba Junoon', blared constantly from the leading truck in the procession. I wondered if other political rallies ever use music from a Pakistani rock band, and whether I was imbuing this act with too much meaning. But to children of Zia's era even small signs of 'progressiveness' are cause for some celebration and relief. This pop music motif continued till the end, an obviously deliberate attempt to soften the 'Taliban Khan' image and to keep PTI's strong youth base harnessed.

Not exactly voting age

I saw many of my Aitchison students along the way, most of whom will turn 18 next year. This means none of them is a potential voter because they are not eligible for vote registration yet. They couldn't have formed even one percent of the total number in the rally, but their presence did reinforce the Zohair Toru stereotype in my mind, possibly because I knew most of them personally. A democracy, however, for good or for bad, does not differentiate between a Zohair Toru and an Ardeshir Cowasjee

Aitchison's most illustrious son?

Upon reaching Oriental College, Punjab University, I parked my car inside (privileges of being the ex-Principal's daughter) and joined some friends in theirs. It was their first time at such a rally and the three middle-aged sisters had much of the well-intentioned, wide-eyed political naivette that seems to be the hallmark of the PTI supporter. Traffic was so choked by the time we reached Karbala Gamay Shah that we had to walk the last mile to Minar-e-Pakistan, carried along by the crowd's thrust. Some boys in front of me made suggestive thumkas and burst into raucous laughter at their own cleverness. On the other side men danced and marched to the beat of dhols while we weaved our way through the crowd amidst shouts of 'Let the ladies pass!'

Marching on to Minar-e-Pakistan

Once we reached the ground and had squeezed our way through to a decent position, it became impossible to see a panoramic view of the crowd, so it was not possible to make any kind of guess as to crowd numbers or even to take it all in in one sweep. One could only tell that there were thousands of chanting people on every side and Manto Park was so full that it was not possible for anyone to try and squeeze their way out of the stadium.

The crowd around me was impatient with the speeches of 'irrelevant' PTI leaders and its only interest lay in hearing Imran Khan, constantly chanting his name to urge him along. While this one-man-show has often been touted as a major drawback in Imran Khan's chances, I don't see it as a particular hurdle in a country where the politics of personality cult ensures people vote for Bhutto even thirty years after his death. Where the populace does not know the names of the candidates but votes for 'teer' or 'sher'.

Strings came on for one song to boost sagging morales. Half-way through 'Mayn tau dekhooN ga' I fished for the PTI flag someone had thrust in my hand earlier and I had promptly discarded under my chair, and waved it in thumping rhythm to Strings' lyrics; for that moment one with the crowd and just as starry-eyed and hopeful as them. For who so hard-hearted that can resist the adrenaline-pumped optimism of thousands of people singing along to 'Woh din phir aae ga jab aisa ho ga Pakistan', 'jab roti sasti ho gi aur mehngi ho gi jaan', 'jo duur gae thay bhoolay se, lotayN ge phir watan ko aek shaam' (this last one particularly makes me misty-eyed).

Here's my rather dizzying capture of the above with an extremely basic digital camera. If you make it to the end please also pardon my out of tune singing along.

Imran Khan finally took to the stage at around 7 in the evening by which time the crowd was getting increasingly agitated and several women and children were trying to unsuccessfully make their way out. The crowd, however, was too thick to allow anyone to pass through. Imran took the mike amid a deafening roar. His cricket analogies prompted gleeful high fives from the boys in front of me while those at my back chanted 'Jab tak sooraj chaand rahay ga / DJ Butt tera naam rahay ga' upon Imran's mentions of DJ Butt--again I suspect, a deliberate attempt to identify with a youthful, pop-oriented figure. Sound strategy, I feel, of juxtaposing Islamic rhetoric with identifiably popular elements of youth culture.

Mehmood-o-Ayaz

The speech was full of feel-good optimism as was expected and required. Talk of corruption, delivering rights to the poorest in the society and anti-Zardari sentiment elicited the most visible roars of approval. Personally speaking, I was disappointed at his resorting to lies about Hussain Haqqani's nationality but heartened by his passing mention of minority and women's rights.

The Lit Minar

I came away feeling that Imran's never-say-die philosophy seems to be paying off once again. I made yet another mental note to get my vote registered the next day. If I manage that, I will be voting in the next elections for the first time in my 33 years. And that right there is a victory for Imran Khan.


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The Faces

ET bloggers?

Aunties still have it for him

What's a third world anti-Imperialist revolution without its own Che?

Could that be the enigmatic @Kaalakawaa in a Stanford tee?

The new poster-boy for PTI
(Our dear @TheRealYLH turns lota)

Also published at the Express Tribune blogs

Room to Read

The summer often takes me back to my annual ritual of raiding all the bookshops down Lahore’s Mall Road. It meant many things to my child’s heart — quality time spent with my father, going home in our Beetle instead of the school van, a couple of hours in the cool confines of imposing colonial buildings and the promised indulgence of all my escapist instincts within the pages of the next ‘Malory Towers’.

My favourite amongst these bookshops — Kingson — a small treasury of Enid Blytons stashed from ceiling to floor, has long closed shop while Ferozsons has succumbed fully to the air of decay that had begun to creep into it even then.

It is not often that I find myself on that side of Lahore now, so the other day on my way to Oriental College, I scrambled out of my car for a quick shot of the Ferozsons store front, something I have now been meaning to do for years. I am not sure when it was that I first noticed the windows had something written on them, but I have been grateful for that discovery ever since.

The words, painted in both English and Urdu, inform all who enter that a printing and publishing house is more than just a business concern. It is a bastion of freedom of speech, the upholder of truth, a sanctuary of the arts and a symbol of national pride, even its commercial aspect — a means to benefiting society as a whole (sanat-o-tijaarit ki taraqqi ka zaamin).

Its Urdu version is spine-tingling in a way only earnest passion can be. ‘Azaadi-e-fiqr ka muhaafiz’ (guardian of freedom of thought) — the irony of these words still standing not too far from the Governor’s House is searing.

Reflect on the passion in these windows alone and the factory-churned Ferozsons in Defence and Gulberg paint a mournful contrast.

However, one cannot dismiss Lahore’s more newly sprung but well-stocked bookshops. Thanks to those the city still has a handful of good book-buying options but there is an increasing dearth of places like the old Ferozsons, where salespeople didn’t just act as mere cash collectors but also informed and interested guides.

What Lahore has never had, though, is a bookshop that would double as a reading space. I was so used to being frowned upon at attempting to surreptitiously thumb through a book before buying it, that US bookshops came as quite a culture shock to me; nobody stopped me from going through books for hours at the Barnes & Noble neighbouring my brother’s apartment yet I would sheepishly stash away my book each time a salesperson would walk by, just in case. Many people would pick up a book and read it in the coffee shop inside the store and never be harassed or guilted into buying anything. I hadn’t ever even been to a library that relaxed and comfortable in Pakistan.

The library scene in Pakistan is, in fact, even more abysmal than the bookshop one. The better libraries belong to private institutions or public universities where the unconnected person cannot just walk in and partake of the resources available. Imagine a readily accessible space with requisite tools (books, wi-fi, comfortable seating and lighting) to get on with some work and you will likely draw a blank.

The red-tapism around getting a membership card for government libraries, like the Quaid-e-Azam Library, ensures that most people feel too fazed by the process to even try. The Punjab University library (off-limits to non-students to begin with) has a stale physical ambience in step with its refusal to house more contemporary authors. The dust-covered environs of our government libraries seem to have relegated books to a pre-historic past already and there is nothing to suggest there are any plans to incorporate reading’s new digital frontiers.

There aren’t any private libraries or collections filling this vacuum either. Nairang Art Gallery is an attempt, but one that is marred by its shady overtones. Couples crouching in dark corners, with red lighting right out of the villain’s den of a ‘70s Amitabh starrer, does not a conducive library environment make.

And so Lahore plods on. It’s crumbling edifice propped by restaurants and malls alone and its people satisfied with platitudes like ‘Lahore Lahore ae’ to lull themselves into the illusion that this city still has the grand cultural sweep it once did.


Published in Dawn Blogs 

Back to the '80s

Last night I was to attend a Sufi Music Festival organized by the good people of the Rafi-Peer group. I didn’t. Why? It didn’t take place. That seems to be the story of Lahori cultural life of late. To one who came into her teens in the Post-Zia Pakistan of the early ‘90s, this country was an almost-happening place to be in.  In 1989 PTV tentatively shed its mandatory dupatta as a live concert aired on state television featuring Pakistan’s premier pop/rock bands with young people dancing next to the cat-walk style stage. A whole generation of kids watched fascinated as Pakistan’s television ethos became bolder, though not necessarily better, almost overnight. Young people tried to come to grips with a new-found freedom that altered their lifestyles through mixed live concerts. Now going out on a Saturday night did not just mean dining at a staid ‘family restaurant’ or cruising aimlessly on city roads to catch a glimpse of women out shopping in Liberty Market. It could also mean going to the grand brick structure of the Alhamra amphitheatre and seeing Pakistan’s premier bands perform live. These concerts weren’t without their problems, often fights would break out, women had to go with a group of men for fear of being harassed and these things were still by and large testosterone driven.

The Rafi-Peer Theatre Festival single-handedly changed all that. Its combination of puppetry, dance, theatre and music lured families and younger, hipper crowds alike in an atmosphere of cultured festivity. Perhaps by then, a few years of checkered democracy and relative freedom had calmed down young people enough to be able to take cultural public events in stride. The festival’s stellar line-up of local and international groups and its impeccable but unintrusive security also helped, of course. The International Rafi Peer festivals began in 1996 and ran till 2008 till they were abruptly brought to a halt with what was called a ‘cracker’ bomb.

I distinctly remember the night it happened. An almost-full amphitheatre, dotted with men and women sitting on colourful floor cushions, anticipated a leisurely evening of music under the sky in the pleasant November air. A relatively unknown pre-Coke Studio Arieb Azhar had just begun singing when an explosion was heard above the music. It was loud enough for everyone to sit up and take notice but the band kept playing. The second explosion, however, sent the audience in a panic and immediate evacuation was announced by the organizers. I knew on that eerie night as we rushed fearfully to the parking lot that this was possibly the foreseeable end of any International cultural event in Pakistan. This prediction surpassed expectations. It also proved to be the end of large scale Pakistani concerts. The subsequent year also sounded the death knell to International sporting fixtures as the Sri Lankan cricket team was attacked right in the heart of Lahore (not far from the Alhamra amphitheatre) in broad daylight thanks to the utter negligence of authorities concerned.

This essentially means, that apart from a sporadic play or two imported from Karachi, I can’t recall a large scale public event that can qualify as entertainment since nearly three years. Faiz’s centenary in February this year did provide a bit of respite, but its invitation only format assured entry only to the well connected, or to corporate customers of sponsoring banks (chew on that irony for a Faiz event).   The announcement for the Rafi-Peer Sufi Music Festival, thus, was greeted with much delight and anticipation. But this is the post war-on-terror Pakistan. Murphy’s laws hold truer here than anywhere else. The raid on Osama Bin Laden’s compound in Abbotabad resulted in the festival being cancelled due to security fears and fundamentalist backlash. 

I think the country that has most changed in fundamental ways (for the negative) ever since the war on terror moved fully to these shores is Pakistan. Fear and bombings in Lahore have taken us back to the days when the only options for entertainment were food and aimless cruising. Only now I mainly aimlessly cruise online. I hear the LHC is planning to take that privilege away from me soon.

A version of this post was published in the Express Tribune blogs. I would like to add I prefer this version :)

On Moin Akhtar

For those of us who remember the 80s well, there was a lot of brilliance on Pakistan television. In the days of censorship and fear, PTV (especially its Karachi centre) always found ways of subverting the system and managing to poke fun at the dictator and his lackeys. Anwar Maqsood, Bushra Ansari and Moin Akhtar were the mainstay of satire in the days when things had to be said subtly to pass through censor, managing to get away with a lot more than anyone else could, and much more than is retrospectively appreciated.

In a really twisted bit of irony PTV's golden days of comedy died with Zia. Anwar Maqsood and Moin Akhtar's later attempts to reignite the magic always seemed lacklustre in comparison to the greatness of their heydays. Loose Talk was no match for Show Time or Studio 2 1/2. To me even Rozee is a character from the declining days of the great comedian. What I will remember Moin Akhtar most for is his debonair presence as the host of many stage shows. His flawless Urdu delivery and confident baritone reached straight into the hearts of millions of Pakistanis who all watched the same television channel each night. This collective partaking of just one source of news and entertainment created a unique Pakistani cultural identity more real for the post-partition generation than the two-nation theory. Moin Akhtar was a huge part of that sense of cultural belonging.

His death today felt like the death of another piece of my childhood. As a Pakistani I had an inevitably politically aware and cerebral childhood, thanks to satire of such subtlety and wit being a part of our everyday existence.

My fondest recollection of Moin Akhtar is from the 1985 6th PTV Awards, undoubtedly the best live ceremony ever conducted by PTV. Shoaib Mansoor's script and Moin Akhtar's deadpan delivery of some ageless gems made it an unforgettable evening for all of Pakistan--one whose star appeal, grandeur and unparalleled entertainment value has never been matched since.

The first three and a half minutes of the following video are vintage Moin Akhtar, no doubt aided beautifully by the writing genius of Shoaib Mansoor, but no comic can carry off lines this well if he doesn't have his own ability to improvise. The crowd's thunderous applause at being made fun of is also quite remarkable--to have Moin Akhtar acknowledge you from that grand PTV stage was enough cause for glee, even if you were the target of that fun.

But the video that strikes me in an entirely different manner is a more recent one, of a rather grave and tired looking Moin Akhtar. He talks with the sageness of a man who has seen much in life. Yet, he is Moin Akhtar, he still has the ability to subvert and surprise. He completely turns the table on a question by the host regarding 'Pakistani youth'--she is probably expecting as run of the mill an answer as her question. Akhtar, however, unlike many of our 80s and 90s heroes who have either turned Tableeghi or Sufi or live in other shades of denial, chooses to answer with refreshing honesty and heartfelt depth. That his anger is born out of love is evident in the way he speaks. Along with the many hours of laughter he has provided me with, this act of plain speaking endeared Moin Akhtar even more to me.  Dear sir, thank you for your humanity. Rest in peace.

A version of this post was published in the Express Tribune blogs. 

May the Best Team Win!

As Indians and Pakistanis all over the world gear up for the 'mother of all finals', shrieking intensity on both sides is at fever pitch. While the Indian media is generating hysteria in the way only it knows how, the Pakistani Twitter and Blogosphere haven't been far behind. Any of those daring to question the validity of fringe lunatic behaviour regarding the match are promptly shouted down, called names and ostracized in a way that only new media knows how to do, with its little 'elite' cliques and coteries all linking to each other and patting each other on the back. Dissent in such a case is not an easy task. Some brave souls have still been attempting it, though.

It is remarkable how people who otherwise present themselves as 'liberals' see no dichotomy in indulging in near war-like rhetoric on Twitter, spinning themselves into a frenzy over their bottles of vodka in the hope that Pakistan will win this match. Make no mistake, I too would love for Pakistan to win but my love for the team and the desire for its triumph is not mutually exclusive with my ability to think straight. Most of all, as a cricket fan, and as a fan of two sports (cricket and tennis) that are more than big hulks pushing each other to the ground, I will appreciate all that the game has to offer me as a game itself.

As for the Aman ki Asha people and supporters, all this posturing is anathema to their cause so they will obviously try and push their ideas more aggressively when they watch them dissipating in a wave of mass hysteria.  It is understandable that their concern is with the larger implications of this game--the possibility of people to people exchange it affords, the cricket diplomacy that could potentially prove to be a thaw in Indo-Pak relations at the highest level and an opportunity to further the idea of sport as glue rather than divider.

In that light it is strange that one of my favourite blogs Cafe Pyala pokes rather mean-ish fun at those with a less jingoistic bent to this game, claiming that those behaving like spoilsports and talking of South Asia being the winner don't know anything about the game itself or Naoozubillah may not be eternally, irrevocably and undyingly in love with the Pakistan team, you know the kind of love that urges you to show your understanding of the game by posting a thousand pictures of the 'hot' team captain on your blog. Or that makes you excuse cheating cricketers because they are cute or young or talented. In the words of one such blogger 'Our team is 'badass'. Learn to live with it.' It is this excusing of 'badassery' in the name of winning at all costs that is the underlying problem in all Win-or-Bust rhetoric.

There is another blog called Clear Cricket that has come up with a list of 'etiquettes' for the match. They state that this match will NOT defeat terrorism. Huh? Of course it will not, nobody was deranged enough to suggest so, but your absurd reactionism can and will give legitimacy to men who play a different kind of sport--the Kasabs of this world--whose consciousness will be informed by your divisive, 'honour'-based rhetoric while infiltrating cities of the big, bad, evil India that needs to be defeated at all cost. Your posturing, chest-beating, fervent prayers, sledging, suggestive talk of the rape of Sheila and Munni will all have an effect that goes beyond the immediate. The haq-o-baatil ki jang backdrop in which you insist such matches be played makes you no better than the GEO anchors you love to otherwise deride.

Excessive celebration or depression disproportionate to the event only shows your lack of a life. ENJOY the game, that is what it was meant for. If a loss will leave you comatose or abusive for the rest of the week, you have obviously lost the plot. If your life's happiness is dependent upon this game, get a life. Which reminds me of Haali who muses on the characteristics of men (people) of character.

Shaadmaani mayn guzartay apnay aapay se naheen
Gham mayn rehtay hayn shagufta shaadmaanon ki tarah

(Men of character do not cross bounds in either celebration or grief)

I am a cricket fan and what I look forward to is a close contest, not a dead one-sided game, either way. The thrill of cricket lies in the twists and turns, an even contest between the bat and the ball, in the spirit in which the game is played. It is not a place for your cheap war fantasies where Haq demolishes Baatil completely because God is so obviously on the side of Haq. Crowds that are respected all over the world are not partisan ones who don't have the sense or sporting spirit to applaud another team's good play, who throw stones at their team bus or burn down stadiums because their side is losing. If you are so drowning in your patriotic juices then prove yourself better by showing restraint and a grasp of cricket's grand traditions and subtlety. This is not football, full of hooliganism and violence. Understand the difference.

I am all geared up for the match and can't wait for the 30th to arrive. Watching the game with my cricket-loving 9 year old and my 70 year-old cricket fanatic father is a treat in its own right. But if we lose, I know what I will tell my son, 'Cheer up, it's just a game!'

Let the Taliban take over

I just returned from a protest outside the Lahore Press Club against the assassination of Pakistani Minorities Minister Shahbaz Bhatti. He was killed today in Islamabad by what are believed to be members of the Tehreek-e-Taliban, Pakistan. There have been reports that pamphlets were strewn around his body defending the blasphemy law, a colonial era law often misused in Pakistan, but defended vociferously by most of its population.

I reached the protest at exactly 3 O'Clock so there weren't a whole lot of protesters there then. Just about 50 odd. At first glance most protesters seemed to belong to the Christian minority, an understandable fact, since the slain minister was not only a defender of minority rights in Pakistan, he was a Christian himself. Many carried long red crosses above their heads and a few women in white uniform stood at the front, probably students from some missionary institution in Lahore.

Just standing in the middle of a busy road holding aloft crosses seems a fairly bold thing to do these days. But not too long ago in this country very middle class, conservative parents sent their children to Christian missionary schools without pondering too much over its 'effects', more concerned with the upward social mobility that these schools provided at a low cost than with fear of Christian indoctrination. The polarization between religions was, at least apparently, not as visible or divisive as it is today. I cannot recall a single girl in my whole school with the Arabic-looking headscarf that is in vogue these days, if you covered your head, a plain dupatta was considered sufficient. Anti India sentiment was rampant but it had yet not manifested itself in a fixation with the Arabization of everything. 'Allah Hafiz' 'Jazaak Allah' and other such phrases had still not been forced into everyday langauge to make the speaker sound pious and holy. Although, even back then, deep seated ideas about class and superiority made the Muslim kids silently condescend to the Christian ones for having darker complexions and less flashy possessions. But despite it being a so-called Christian school, its Muslim majority environment had the Christian kids firmly placed at the bottom of the social hierarchy. But the silent discourse of exclusion at that time was less about religion and more about 'class'. Other kids like me with unbranded surnames and hardworking professors as parents were, if not equally, then at least nearly, as much part of the struggle for acceptance.

Today we have separate 'Islamic' schools where the head scarf is a part of the uniform and my 5 year-old cousin's daughter says 'Alhamdulillah' each time she skips down a step. There may seem nothing wrong in that to cultural relativists who may accuse me of being ashamed of my own religious heritage, but as far as I know that is not my heritage to begin with. My naani who was certainly a Muslim, that too from a small Punjabi village, usually just wore a chiffon dupatta on her head and did not feel the need to make any greater show of her piety. But my born again Muslim cousin lets out a deep guttural sigh each time she talks of her grandmother, and prays for her 'maghfirat' (forgiveness of her souls) with fervent smugness.

At the recent TEDx Kinnaird a Christian girl, Elaine Alam, spoke about the trials and tribulations of being a Pakistani Christian. The immediate reaction of a typically defensive Muslim Pakistani friend behind me was 'What is she talking about? She is from my school, The Convent of Jesus and Mary. What discrimination could she face at a Christian school?' Apart from the fact that Elaine never once mentioned her school and talked mainly about her neighbourhood, this complete blindness to what kind of discrimination a Christian faces in a missionary school is emblematic of the apathy that the 'silent majority' is part of. I am sure this girl considers herself a 'moderate', but is completely oblivious to the role she is playing in perpetuating oppression, by refusing to even acknowledge its existence. Despite the silence in the hall i turned around and chided her, trying to explain with gestures and loud whispers that what she was saying was utterly wrong and tantamount to condoning bigotry and oppression. Needless to say, it wasn't really possible to get one's point across in those circumstances.

This girl's reaction was not unique, my students also routinely react this way when I first broach the subject of minorities in Pakistan. Many of them give examples of how well Christians are 'treated' in the country, the usage itself automatically placing them above the minority, creating a discourse of a kind master and a grateful servant

I severely doubt Shahbaz Bhatti's death will have any profound impact on people who choose to delude themselves in this manner. They will continue saying that Christians and other minorities in Pakistan are 'treated well', or else that they should not be so bold as to assert themselves and 'blaspheme'. They will continue feeling that a Christian man had no right to be made the head of a committee comprised to discuss the Blasphemy Law. They will continue radicalizing the country till such time as this becomes worse than Afghanistan. And for the long term interests of this region, I say let that happen. Until and unless we don't actually get to live under the tyranny of such men our romantic notions about this 'Muslim' state will never die. Once people are whipped for 50 years and taken back to the stone age is when a real revolution will take place around here. For any true change to come these religious forces will have to take over and break the idealism of both middle class conservatives and elite apologists. Only then can this nation rise from its ashes and build something anew.