By Hafsa Adil

This article was originally published on November 14, 2014.

Despite the locks and the looks, Aaqib Javed was never the quintessential Pakistani fast bowler. Drafted into a team boasting Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis and captain Imran Khan, he was the man with a thankless job – keeping one end tidy with his fast-medium bowling in order for the Ws to attack from the other. It was with this brief that he landed Down Under with the Pakistan side but left the continent with his life and, indeed, career turned upside down.

After several coaching stints with the Pakistan Cricket Board, Aaqib has now settled into the role of head coach of the United Arab Emirates side, whom he will soon lead to their second ICC World Cup – once again – to Australia and New Zealand. This past Tuesday, as he waited for his part-time cricket team to arrive at the ICC Global Academy grounds in Dubai, Dawn.com caught up with him to deliberate on Pakistan’s chances at the upcoming tournament and for a time-travelling session back to the 1992 World Cup.

Hafsa Adil: Take us back to the time when the squad left for the World Cup. What were the expectations like?

Aaqib Javed: Leaving Pakistan, we were actually quite confident. With a bowling attack comprising Wasim, Waqar, Mushi (Mushtaq Ahmed), me and Imran and batsmen such as Miandad (Javed), Malik (Salim), Aamir (Sohail) – we weren’t feeling too bad.

We reached Australia two weeks before the tournament and put in a great deal of work in our preparations. But just as the tournament was about to get underway, we lost Waqar to injury. When your entire bowling composition is disturbed, it is a major setback. We didn’t know who our third bowler would be. Our seam bowling options suddenly became very limited and when you are in Australia and New Zealand, it is very difficult to compete with just two seamers in the side.

During the first few matches, our concerns were translated into results as playing with two seam bowlers cost us. As the tournament progressed, based on our results, the players began to lose hope of making it to the second round. Slowly, we could see it slipping away from us.

HA: How did it change, then?

AJ: What do they say about fate? That when you’re destined to achieve something, luck favours you. It was after the match against England (which was washed out, resulting in a draw) that our negative frame of mind slowly began to turn around.

We thought, “if we have survived even after the worst of performances (Pakistan were bowled out for 74), maybe we can make it forward if we win the rest of our group matches.”

We then went to Perth for our match against Australia. It was almost impossible for an Asian side to beat Australia at Perth but that was our day. Just before the match, Imran came into the dressing room, spoke for about 20 minutes and turned our psyche around for the rest of the tournament.

He instilled a belief in us. He had this unique quality, a quality that every leader must have: to make people believe in what he is saying.

Personally, whatever cricket I had played before that match or after it, nothing could ever match those three-and-a-half hours. The mental state I was in, I had never experienced it before and never did after.

I can’t describe that feeling. It was...I knew it was our day. I was restless, couldn’t wait for the match to begin. I thought “aaj koi nahin rok sakta mujhe (no one can stop me today)”. I took three slips because I knew I was going to be on the mark. It was the same for everyone else. (Pakistan beat Australia by 48 runs in that match)

We played New Zealand next. They were unbeaten and one of the favourites for the tournament, but still no match for our confidence. Perth was the turning point – we didn’t know what had hit us (humain pata hee nahin chala kay humain hua kya hai). The momentum was such that it took all the pressure off us. Even before the final, we felt zero pressure. We knew only we could win the tournament.

It was the perfect exhibition of how a positive mind-set can change your fortunes overnight. After winning that match we knew – we didn’t expect or hope – we just knew that we’d reach the next round.

So going back to those 20 minutes, that’s when he switched our minds around. Those 20 minutes were the reason we won the World Cup.

HA: The great cricket writer Osman Samiuddin often uses the term “haal” while describing this Pakistani momentum that you keep mentioning. Is there really such a thing as “haal” in cricket?

AJ: See, when you’re playing a team game it is very difficult to have all the players come together to play as one entity and think alike. Even with the best of teams, when they lose they have a side where four players are going in pushing forward and the rest backwards. So in such situations, you need one person to rise, gather everyone, align them in one direction and push them forward.

Even without Waqar we had understood our mechanism: new ball to be shared between me and Wasim, then Mushi, Imran and so on. Limited bowling options but full of confidence.

Your mind gets confused only when there’s a doubt about what you want or how you are feeling. When someone or something clears that doubt – and your mind is free of clutter – your momentum will remain the same.

For us, the momentum from Perth carried on into the England series (following the World Cup) and kept going for a long time. You keep riding that wave for as long as there’s no major setback, for example a change of captaincy or management.

Sourav Ganguly did it for India for so many years, until Greg Chappell came and put such a brake that it took them several years to get back up again with MS Dhoni.

You see, the people running cricket boards or managing teams must have a deep understanding of the game. If the team is doing well consistently, the managers should be able to identify the fulcrum and just let them be. If you mess with it, there is a breakdown from which you can’t recover overnight.

A positive mind-set takes you all the way up to the top. So when you are displaced from the top you keep swirling down and you can’t just get back on top right away. Look at Australia, they were on top for almost a decade but once they came down, they realised how difficult it is to get back up.

The right mental approach is vital. A coach, manager, captain or even any other senior player can be the pivotal person. For us, it was Imran Khan. It was all him. The ‘92 World Cup belonged to him and his mind-set. It was his brainchild. If it weren’t for him there’s no way we could have even thought about winning, let alone reach the final.

HA: What was it that he said?

AJ: He came to the dressing room wearing his cornered tiger t-shirt and said “I have thought long and hard, spent a lot of time on this and now I have figured it out: From here, we will not look back. People are announcing your return flights but I am trying to figure out who we will play in the final. Not for a second should you think that we are going back.

Just think about the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground), the final. I am thinking about it already. From today onward, we will beat these guys and I’m sure nothing and no one can stop us. Everything is coming together for us now.”

What’s that saying about the universe conspiring to make things happen for you? That’s what he meant.

Baat tou saari dunya karti hai, lekin kaun kar raha hai aur keh kya raha...asal cheez woh hai (Look, anyone can speak, give pep talks but what matters is whom it is coming from)

HA:What was your role in the side? Did Imran specify it?

AJ: When it was the three for us, my role was different. We would see which way the wind was blowing and I would just bowl against the wind. I had to bowl tight and be economical in order to create pressure for Wasim and Waqar to strike. You play this game as a team and I was happy doing my bit.

When Waqar left, I realised that I would have to strike now and started thinking differently, like a strike bowler. I guess it worked out okay because even with two bowlers we won the World Cup.

HA: What about Inzamam’s turnaround?

AJ: Once again, you have to give credit to Imran. Whomever he selected, it wasn’t without reason. A complete thought process went behind it. He knew what he could extract from a player. Inzi ran away from the responsibility, he didn’t want to take the pressure but he was forced. Imran said, it doesn’t matter if you don’t score a single run (tu chahe zero kar, chahay hila na jaye...tu bas khel) – just play. Why? He’d say, "You have no idea about your own talent."

Had it not been for Imran, Inzi would have barely survived in the team. That’s what happens here. You come, get your chance in one or two series and if you don’t do well, you’re out. Imran forced Inzi to make use of his talent. People would say, Inzi? What does he (Imran) want from him? But Imran knew what he wanted to do.

On the morning of the semi-final, Inzi tried to bail out. Imran asked us to talk to Inzi so we told him, when the captain is okay with you getting out on zero then what’s your problem? So he played. And how well.

HA: With the turnaround in place, what did Imran say after the Australia game?

AJ:He didn’t really need to talk again. All the boys had their minds set on what he had said earlier. He’d put an idea in front of us, gave us confidence and it worked. From then on, all he would say was: “See? I told you we could do it. Just wait and see what you do next. You will not even let these teams come close to you.”

Whoever you speak with (from the ‘92 side), they will talk about that one meeting at Perth. We weren’t even thinking about winning before that game.

HA: Your catch to dismiss Graham Gooch off Mushtaq’s bowling in the final was one of the best in the tournament. Did you really think you could pull it off in the dramatic manner that you did?

AJ: Players go to the ground and they have several thoughts going through their head: How will we win? What if we lose? With us, it was different. We’d go to the ground to win. We knew it. When you go there to win, you’re searching for opportunities to contribute and make a difference. I was desperately looking for the ball. Your brilliance or skills don’t count for much in such situations. What makes the difference is what you’re thinking.

At times you’re thinking “I hope the ball doesn’t come toward me (yaar yeh ball meri taraf na ajaye)” but in that moment I was thinking, “Come on. How, when, where can I catch the ball?” That’s the difference. It’s all in the head.

HA: How can you think about drawing or losing if, as a sportsman, you're going in to compete?

AJ: If you look at the way Pakistan is playing right now: third Test in a row, Misbah-ul-Haq won the toss, went in to bat and put up a massive total. So if you are New Zealand, how difficult would it be for you to think about winning? When you are stuck in such a situation, you cannot really think about winning. You are barely surviving. These three Tests will now seem like three months to New Zealand given the way Pakistan is playing.

For Pakistan, it will be the opposite. Having won so easily, these matches won't seem like a big deal to them now. Just because of their positive and confident mind-set. The mental aspect is the biggest pawn in cricket.

HA: What do you think about Pakistan’s recent captaincy drama? Should Misbah-ul-Haq lead at the World Cup?

AJ: It’s all a case of poor management. There must be a solid reason to make or remove a captain. If you compare Misbah’s captaincy record with others who criticise him on television on a daily basis, you will see how far he stands out. Mohammad Yousuf is always blabbering against Misbah. Shoaib Akhtar is always swearing at the captain on national television. I don’t understand what they want.

The board management should be very firm on captaincy. Look at his record: Under him Pakistan beat England 3-0, beat Australia 2-0, did well against South Africa. Which other captain has given you such results?

I don’t see anyone being this good at such a difficult time. You don’t have a home series, you keep losing players to controversies and bans, cricket development in the country has slowed down, board management keeps changing every other week. Here’s a man, a genuinely decent man, who has kept everything together and you’re after his life.

Suddenly, there emerges a group that starts clamouring for Shahid Afridi to be made captain and creates a controversy. Has anyone compared his performance with Misbah’s? If you don’t have great options then you don’t need to change anyone. The same goes for Younis Khan’s place in ODIs. If you don’t have anyone good enough to replace him then why remove him? When you’re not ready for a change and you do away with an experienced player, you end up embarrassing yourself.

HA: Is Pakistan’s team composition balanced enough to compete with the best?

AJ: The team is good. Their batting is also coming together and they have found a good wicketkeeper in Sarfraz Ahmed. They just need to slot in a seaming all-rounder like Anwar Ali or Bilawal Bhatti. If Misbah is given a free hand and confidence, there’s every chance of them going all the way.

HA: Will their Test form carry over into ODIs? Especially given the way they lost the ODI series against Australia.

AJ: When the team came here, the board, selectors, management, players – they were all confused. No one knew for sure if Misbah was the captain or not. How do you expect them to give good results? There’s no way a team can succeed if they’re playing under one captain one day and a different one another day. Everyone was going in a different direction. Misbah must be allowed to lead the way he wants to and he’s given a free hand over selection, not bound by requests and parchis.

Everyone, be it Shahid Afridi or anyone else with captaincy aspirations, must be told that firmly that there can only be one captain and there will be only one captain, and if they give such statements again then they shouldn’t ever be allowed near the team again. It’s as simple as that.

HA: Does it really matter if you peak at the right time in a tournament?

AJ: Going into any tournament, you have favourites, minnows and dark horses but the team that clicks at the right time is the one that is crowned champion. This ‘right time’ comes in the middle of the tournament. Some teams start all guns blazing and run out of steam halfway through the tournament or at the knockout stage.

Once again, Misbah should be given so much confidence that even if they lose a couple of matches, his team should have faith in him. And he should have the confidence to tell them it’s ok.

Sometimes you even have to kill the excitement at the start of these big tournaments.

HA: Why can’t Pakistan beat India at the World Cup?

AJ: It’s all psychological. They make the same mistakes: get too emotional, try to do things in a hurry, shut their brain off. The more you try to play an extraordinary game under pressure, the worse the result. As soon as they start feeling pressure, they should just kill the pace and slow things down.

Our mind works the best when it is not pushed too hard. As soon as an India match approaches, they lose their sleep and try to play an extraordinary game. They just need to play as they would against any other team. That’s the only way to deal with such situations. Otherwise panic turns into a stigma and it gets very difficult to get rid of.

Even Indian players are under pressure but because of this trend, they have developed a belief that they can’t lose to Pakistan in a World Cup. Belief and confidence are what matter and help big teams do well. They develop a confidence in their ability to overcome any opposition in any tournament.

HA: How and why do teams choke?

AJ: Due to a lack of emotional control. If you are unable to control your emotions when confronted with a tough situation you get carried away. If you can't let go of your past as a person, a team or a country it becomes impossible.

You can't delete your past, your history unless there's a revolution or major setback, a jolt. Unless that happens you can’t get rid of these tags like chokers, minnows, etc. If you're expected to behave in a certain way as a team or a person, it gets very difficult to let go.

Before Imran, our teams went to big tournaments but couldn't win because as individual players they were all Bradman or Lillee or Sobers but as a team they were zero. He gave us the concept of a team. You need someone to address these situations.

Unless you have someone who can help you get over your history, every time you are in a tough spot you will think back and go over your history and think, “Oh no, we are going to go back into the same situation as before and snap, you spiral down.”

No matter how well Zulfiqar Babar and Yasir Shah bowl here, Pakistan won’t need them in Australia and New Zealand. In case Saeed Ajmal is cleared and is back in the team, then you can have two seamers and a seaming all-rounder.

HA: How do you prepare minnows for a big tournament like the World Cup?

AJ: We set them a target of winning two out the six group games. If we ask them to make it to the next round, they will never be able to pick themselves up after losing their first match. They will stop thinking about winning that one match. But if they know they have six chances of which they have to take two they will have to try every day, in every match.

So even if they lose the first four matches they will know that they can achieve their target in the last two matches. You must keep reasonable, realistic targets.

HA: When should Pakistan reach Australia and New Zealand in order to have the best preparation for the World Cup?

AJ: Two weeks before the tournament. They will also come to the UAE and play here at the ICC Academy, where we have Australian pitches and soil. So they will get a chance to prepare here as well.

HA: Pakistan’s bowling attack, of late, has been heavily reliant on spinners. Will they have to change this for the World Cup?

AJ: With Afridi and Mohammad Hafeez [Hafeez's action has been reported since then] they have enough spin options for the pitches they will get in Australia and New Zealand. They then need three seamers and one seaming all-rounder. Those can be Mohammad Irfan, Junaid Khan and Wahab Riaz. The fourth option can be someone like Anwar Ali or Bilawal Bhatti, who can bat as well. This will allow them to have five batsmen and the wicketkeeper.

No matter how well Zulfiqar Babar and Yasir Shah bowl here, Pakistan won’t need them in Australia and New Zealand. In case Saeed Ajmal is cleared and is back in the team, then you can have two seamers and a seaming all-rounder.

HA: Will Pakistan’s bowlers need to adjust their line and length?

Yorkers are a must, especially in New Zealand as the grounds there are small. If you bowl a length delivery it will land in the aisles. Anyone with a good yorker will survive.

HA: How do you think Mohammad Irfan will fare?

AJ: With two new balls, Irfan can be phenomenal in Australia. He is able to get good bounce, his ball seams so he should be quite threatening for the opposition batsmen in those conditions.

HA: And the batsmen?

AJ: With Hafeez, Shehzad, Younis and Misbah they are left with one slot for Asad Shafiq or Sohaib Maqsood.

They don’t have to worry about pinch hitting. Batting isn’t easy on those pitches so they will need Younis and Misbah. They can’t go to the World Cup without Younis. At number three, you need a player who can play a long innings, someone with experience.

Batsmen will have to change their game drastically when they go to Australia and New Zealand. Almost 60 per cent of their approach must change. They might try to drive and come down the track in the sub-continent but over there they will have to rely on cuts or pulls.

So the game will shift from front foot to back foot. If you don’t have a good cut or pull, you’re stuck.

HA: What would be the average target that Pakistan could defend?

AJ: Matches in New Zealand will be high-scoring ones and even in Australian grounds like Brisbane or Adelaide. But in places like Perth, Sydney and Melbourne it will be difficult to hit big shots.

Pakistan should be able to easily defend 280 or even 250-plus scores. If you compare bowling attacks apart from Pakistan and South Africa, I don’t think any team has a threatening attack.

HA: Going back to the final, what did Imran say after winning the World Cup?

AJ: “What did I tell you guys?”

You can only win when you go into win. He always told us, “don’t go thinking about losing, think about winning and don’t worry if you end up losing in the process.”

It sounds very simple but ask any team how many times all their players are going in with a winning mind-set?

You can talk all about it in press conferences but to actually maintain a winning mind-set is difficult.

Whoever you speak with (from the ‘92 side), they will talk about that one meeting at Perth. We weren’t even thinking about winning before that game. And when you’re not thinking, there’s no way you can do it.

It’s all very clear in my head. I still remember it perfectly. It’s just one moment … when your life changes.

Hafsa Adil tweets @hafsa_adil

25 years ago, on March 25th 1992, the Pakistan cricket team won the World Cup - the wicket keeper at the time - Moin Khan, reminisces about that great day in Pakistan cricketing history. This interview was conducted by Dawn.com on March 25, 2012 on the 20th anniversary.

Gurudwara Patti Sahib is relatively small, as far as Sikh places of worship go. The single-storey structure is surrounded by a courtyard, next to which there are several rooms.

These were once reserved for pilgrims who would travel from across pre-Partition India to Nankana Sahib to celebrate Guru Nanak Jayanti, the birth anniversary of the first Sikh guru, after whom this Pakistani city is named.

Most of these rooms have now been taken over by Sikh families who moved to Nankana Sahib over the past decade after fleeing Taliban violence in Pakistan’s tribal areas.

It was at this gurudwara that Giani Pratab, a devotee, decided to teach young children the tenets of Sikhism and its holy book, the Adhi Granth.

Till a few years ago, just a handful of Sikh families lived in Nankana Sahib, said to be the birthplace of Guru Nanak. A majority of them migrated to India after Partition; today, the city is home to 200-250 Sikh families.

Giani Pratab had come to Nankana Sahib in the 1960s to pay homage to Guru Nanak. Looking at the condition of its gurudwaras, abandoned since Partition, he decided to stay on and look after them.

Read next: A visit to Gujranwala's Eimanabad throws new light on Babur's legacy

This was years before the Pakistan government started renovating Sikh shrines and Sikh families from tribal areas too had not yet migrated to Nankana Sahib. In a Muslim-dominated city, he was the only Sikh. Starting from the late 1960s, Sikhs slowly started migrating here from India and the process gathered pace with the Talibanisation of Pakistan’s tribal areas.

Pratab, well-versed in the Adhi Granth, started acquainting children with the Gurmukhi script, giving them access to the sacred poetry of Sikh Gurus. Alongside their school education, the children were given religious learning at this gurudwara.

This was essential for the children who, educated in the Pakistani system, would otherwise never have learnt the principles of Gurmukhi and would have been unaware of their religious scriptures.

Years later, Mastan Singh, a prominent member of Nankana Sahib’s Sikh community, established the Guru Nanak High School. It was the only institute that imparted religious learning alongside secular education to students in the city, which led to the makeshift school at Gurudwara Patti Sahib to shut down.

Preserving Punjabi

Patti, in Punjabi, refers to a wooden board on which children learn to write and this gurudwara has a legacy of education.

As Guru Nanak was from the Bedi clan, who were ancient readers of the Vedas, it was imperative for him to learn Sanskrit. After mastering the ancient Indian language, he was taught Arabic and Persian – the two most politically-dominant languages of his time. This is the place where Nanak was taught these languages by Maulana Qutab-ud-din that came to be called Gurudwara Patti Sahib.

Almost five centuries after Nanak, young Sikh children at this very place were taught the alphabets of Gurmukhi, a script created by Nanak’s disciple and spiritual successor, Guru Angad Dev. The second Sikh Guru had sought to develop a new script to teach the message of the founder of Sikhism.

Also read: Sacred geography: Why Hindus, Buddhist, Jains, Sikhs should object to Pakistan being called hell

It was also at this gurudwara that Nanak the poet was born. Having mastered several languages, Nanak fused Arabic, Persian and Sanskrit words with the vernacular Punjabi for his first composition.

New words, phrases and symbols were added to a language which, before Nanak, was not considered worthy of containing serious philosophical knowledge. In this way, Nanak not only contributed to the spiritual development of Punjabi but played an even greater role in its linguistic development.

Punjabi today has acquired the status of a sacred language in institutional Sikhism but when Nanak wrote, it was considered the language of the laypeople, not fit to be used by the educated elite. Literature, history, philosophy and religion were passed on in sacred languages – Sanskrit, Arabic and Persian – not accessible to everyone. This perhaps was one of the most revolutionary steps taken by Nanak.

He took knowledge from the elite, from their scriptures and their languages, and presented it in the vernacular. He democratised philosophy and restored dignity to a language, a people and a culture that had for centuries been culturally subjugated.

Further reading: The tale of Guru Tegh Bahadur and Aurangzeb embodies simplification of Sikh-Mughal history

However, years after Sikhism elevated Punjabi to a sacred language, it has once again been relegated to the sidelines in Nanak’s land. Urdu and English are the languages in which formal education is imparted in Pakistan’s Punjab province, while any references to Punjabi poets, literature and culture are obliterated.

The common sentiment towards Punjabi is that of derision. It is considered to be a language of curses. For instance, last year a private school listed Punjabi as an example of the kinds of “foul language” to be banned on its premises. Although the school claimed that this was a misunderstanding and they meant Punjabi curses, the controversy reiterated the disdain towards the language.

On February 21, the world celebrated International Mother Language Day with a focus on promoting multilingual education. Now more than ever before, there is a need to revisit Nanak’s legacy and the significance of languages – not just in Punjab but across the world, wherever they have been subsumed by purportedly powerful languages.

This article was originally published on Scroll and has been reproduced with permission.

“That constellation is the Big Bear, the one opposite it is the Little Bear. At the tail end of the Little Bear is Polaris, the North Star,” I was told. I was around 15 years old when one clear night up in the Northern Areas my father, a sailor, pointed to the sky and showed me how to use the stars to navigate.

The constellation he showed me, Ursa Minor (Little Bear), has historically been very important for mariners making their way through the deep seas. That’s when I realised that the stars above us aren’t just pretty sparkly things but rather altogether form a map. And much like a book, it can be read.

It would take another 15 years before a group of amateur astronomers would teach a bunch of us how to read parts of that map and the secrets it held. Last weekend, the Karachi Astronomers Society organised one of their much-awaited overnight stargazing trips.

The location: the mud volcanoes in the Hingol National Park in Balochistan. They are a four-hour drive from Karachi on the Makran Coastal Highway. The drive itself is beautiful; there is a moment when you go from having the sea on your left to suddenly being confronted with the small but wild and mostly desolate mountain ranges of Balochistan.

Far from the maddening crowd and ‘light pollution’ of urban settlements, the remote mud volcanoes in Balochistan provide the perfect setting for a night of serious stargazing

[Makran Coastal Highway road trip pro-tip: the best bathrooms are at the checkpoints, not the roadside dhabas.]

The location is remote enough for it to get completely dark so even those stars that aren’t visible from the city can be seen. And with the nearest checkpoint a few hundred metres away, it’s completely safe.

The area looks dry and barren, and has a lunar landscape. And while the last hours of daylight can be spent setting up camp and figuring out the toilet situation (there are none), the location affords you a whole new adventure: climbing one of the mud volcanoes.

It takes about 20 minutes to get to the top, depending on how fit you are, the climb is quite steep and the terrain smooth in places where the clay has hardened. Because the area is popular with Hindu pilgrims for whom the volcanoes are holy, you may find incense sticks on the top and at the foot of the volcano. There may also be some poles stuck throughout the length guiding you to the summit.

We were camped at the foot of the largest volcano, Chandragup. It’s still active. Early in the morning, we could see a trail of fresh muddy clay seeping down one end of it.

At nightfall the astronomers and astro-photographers started setting up their precious telescopes and camera stands. The night was spent stargazing from the naked eye and through the telescopes, listening to lectures by the astronomers, and engaging in heated (and very nerdy) discussions. Yes, this is an event where your typical nerds and science geeks are the heroes. So don’t be afraid to get your geek on.

There was no meteor shower that night, although we spotted quite a few shooting stars — my friend counted 16 that he saw. But that night was still special, according to amateur-astronomer-by-night and computer-programmer-by-day, Abubaker Shekhani, one of the founders of the Karachi Astronomers Society. “The most important thing is the Sagittarius arm of the Milky Way, which is also known as its ‘summer arm’,” he told me. “This is the last opportunity to view it from our skies as it will now be invisible next year.”

What we thought was a very bright star that came out at twilight turned out to be the planet Venus — visible at this time of the year with the naked eye. Through the telescope we were shown Mars and Saturn, its rings a bit blurry but distinct.

I finally observed a ‘nebula’ (a cloud of gas and dust in space) and few were identified to me: Lagoon, Ring and Orion Nebulas. In the constellations we spotted Sagittarius, Taurus, Pegasus, Perseus and, what I thought was, Gemini.

We saw the Andromeda Galaxy, which according to renowned astrophysicist Professor Brian Cox is our “galactic neighbour”, the nearest galaxy to the Earth and visible with the naked eye. As luck would have it, we also got to see the Triangulum Galaxy. Apparently it’s not easy to spot precisely and see through the telescope. It also turns out that the galaxies are all white. They’re not pink, purple and blue as they appear in colour-enhanced photos in textbooks and on the internet.

We saw a few star clusters as well. There was the Double Cluster, the Beehive Cluster, and my favourite, Pleiades or the Seven Sisters. In ancient Greek mythology, the Pleiades were the seven daughters of the titan Atlas and sea-nymph Pleione.

The name of the star cluster Pleiades came before the myth. It derives from the word plein (to sail) because of the cluster’s importance in marking the sailing season in the Mediterranean — the season of navigation begins with their heliacal rising. Heliacal rising is the day a star (or a cluster) is first visible above the eastern horizon for a brief moment just before sunrise.

Eventually, we snuggled into our respective sleeping bags, facing east so as to catch the rising constellations at different parts of the night and the sunrise at dawn.

Looking up at the stars, you can’t help but wonder how small and insignificant you are. These stars are billions of years old, the distances between them in the millions of light years.

We don’t come close to comparing to even a tiny fraction of their very existence. You are confronted by this infinite vastness and it’s a little scary, but also humbling.

“I can’t help but realise how unimportant and silly our problems are,” said my friend, “and how none of them really matter.” I agreed.

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, October 9th, 2016

Have you traveled to any remote locations around the world? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

My usual ride to the university each morning involves surfing through radio channels while I am half asleep. But this last Friday was different. I witnessed a traffic accident that jerked me out of my slumber and onto the road.

We had crossed the Khaliq-uz-Zaman Road ahead of the Pearl Continental signal when I noticed a bottleneck of traffic.

As we drove past it, I saw a bike fallen on the road and a crowd of around 15 to 20 onlookers. Right next to the bike was a middle-aged man lying on his stomach, bleeding from his head.

I felt a rush of adrenaline. I am a medical student, but this was the first time it felt like someone’s life actually depended on my actions. I buttoned up my white lab coat and got out of the car to respond to the motorcyclist who had been in a Road Traffic Accident (RTA).

As soon as I walked into the crowd, the first thing I asked was if anyone had called an ambulance. After two people said that they had made calls, I proceeded towards the casualty. I sat beside him to check if he was conscious and breathing. I called out to him.

He was drowsy but conscious.

I asked the bystanders what happened. According to the crowd, it was a case of hit and run.

The motorcyclist had collided with a car and slipped along with his bike. Unfortunately, like most bikers in this city, he was not wearing a helmet which resulted in the apparent head injury.

Meanwhile, I identified the source of bleeding on the motorcyclist’s head and asked bystanders for a cloth. With the cloth, I applied pressure to the wound to control the bleeding. At the same time, I kept reassuring the gentleman that an ambulance was on its way.

Unaware of his surroundings, he seemed exasperated and tried to get up every few seconds.

I told him he had been in an accident and that he needed to lie straight and not move as it could aggravate the injury. Even though onlookers insisted on turning him around, I decided not to move him, as I feared movement may cause spinal injury.

At the same time, to my surprise, a traffic policeman intervened and started arguing with me to shift the injured man into a rickshaw and take him to the hospital. He was persistent, apparently, because he wanted to manage the traffic better. I stood my ground, insisting on waiting for the ambulance.

Despite my best efforts, the policeman tried to pick up the injured man, until the crowd stopped him. Fortunately, the ambulance arrived within moments, and the man was shifted to the vehicle and taken to a hospital.

The episode made me realise the significance of first aid training and how important it is to apply skills in an emergency situation. This particular event was also a reminder of the absolute need for wearing helmets. Head injuries can be avoided simply by wearing a helmet.

What was most alarming was that the city’s traffic police appeared totally oblivious to first aid and response in RTAs. They need to be aware of the importance of the crucial minutes right after an accident and how their mishandling can aggravate the injury, cause paralysis, if not death, in a casualty. If untrained, they should instead call for help and divert the traffic rather than interfering and worsening the casualty’s condition.

In the United States, a basic hands-on training through Basic Life Support certification or completion of several hours of first aid training, varying from state to state, is a minimal requirement for police and security officers.

As a result of this, on Nov 25, 2016 two New Jersey police officers performed cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) on an unconscious 80-year-old man, and succeeded in reviving him till the paramedics arrived.

In Pakistan, the National Highway and Motorway Police have been trained in this regard. In April 2014, the First Response Initiative of Pakistan conducted a First Responder and Emergency Trauma Care session for 32 police instructors from three police training centres in Sindh. The course material was given to the instructors who were required to replicate the training for all police trainees. A year later, sessions under First Aid Responder Course were held in Islamabad.

However, we are yet to see traffic policemen responding to the emergency situations in the field. According to Pakistan Red Crescent-Sindh, on Oct 6, 2016 Sindh Traffic Police signed a Memorandum of Understanding with them to serve as First Aid Responders in emergency situations.

However, no follow up reports are available on the implementation of these courses. As imperative as it is to learn these basic lifesaving skills, frequent revision and knowledge of the up-to-date techniques is also vital. Thus, review workshops and courses need to be scheduled accordingly after the first basic hands-on training session.

I urge everyone reading this to learn first aid skills. There needs to be training for people on a wide scale, from schools, hospitals, universities to corporations. I would suggest starting at home: ask your family and friends to focus on prevention.

My intervention that day earned me a lot of respect from the crowd but the reality is that the state, which is responsible for public services, should take up its duties.

One way to do that is to equip police officers with these basic skills. They are deputed on the roads day and night and their training in these matters could literally save someone's life.

Are you a medical professional or student and have something to say about the state of public health in Pakistan? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

Recently a minister belonging to one of the island nations which make up the West Indies suggested that the Caribbean people should forget about the declining status of West Indian cricket and concentrate on the other more important things such as commerce and industry.

He added that in the past, West Indian cricket had an important political aim, but since that aim was successfully achieved, there was now no need for cricket to be taken so seriously.

Despite the fact that the minister’s comments sounded harsh, they do contain a very important historical aspect of the region’s cricket.

Rise and fall of West Indian cricket nationalism

The West Indies cricket team is made up of numerous tiny island states in the Caribbean. The populations of these small islands largely consist of people whose ancestors were brought here as slaves from Africa and South Asia by white Western colonialists.

The hold of white overlords remained strong in these islands even when (from the mid-20th century onward) the black and South Asian people of the region were allowed self-rule.

For example, the West Indies gained Test status in the 1920s, but the team did not have a black captain till almost 40 years later! The team’s first black captain was Frank Worrell who was appointed captain in 1960.

Simon Lister in his 2007 book Supercat quotes the most successful West Indian cricket captain, Clive Lloyd (who was made skipper in 1974), as saying that till the early 1970s, "West Indian players played to please white people" and that "black cricketers were seen as something exotic, whose only role was to entertain white audiences."

But in the 1970s, things were changing on the islands. Left-wing unrest, political turmoil and street violence had gripped the region. These were directly inspired by the emergence of radical ‘Black Power’ groups and civil rights movements in the United States in the 1960s.

Hilary Beckles in her detailed study of West Indian cricket wrote that the West Indian nations had begun to search for an identity that was not shaped by their bygone colonial overlords. The nations were also looking to assert a nationalism based on the black culture, which, over the decades, had developed on the islands.

Amidst riots, assassinations, collapsing economies and growing animosity between the islands, cricket became the sport which not only managed to instill a sense of racial unity between the islands, but the sport also became an expression of collective West Indian nationalism.

This happened when the West Indies won cricket’s inaugural world cup in 1975, defeating a strong Australian side in the final.

This new expression of the emerging West Indian nationalism was further strengthened when the West Indies toured England in 1976. Amidst racial violence in London and Birmingham, England captain Tony Greig was quoted in the press as saying that he plans to make the West Indians "grovel." This was taken as a racist slur by the West Indian squad and it galvanised the players to "destroy English cricket."

West Indian batsmen played their shots as if they were physically assaulting English bowlers, and West Indian fast bowlers, especially Michael Holding and Andy Roberts, were given a free hand by Lloyd to aim at the English batsmen’s heads and bodies. The West Indies won the five-Test series 3-0.

During the last Test when England were on their way to losing the game and the series, Tony Grieg stunned the crowd by falling down on his knees and pretending to grovel. He was literally made to eat his own words.

Thus began West Indies ascendancy in world cricket which lasted for almost a decade and a half, during which the team retained its number one ranking in Tests and ODIs till the late 1980s.

Between 1976 and 1988, every game by the West Indies was played as if it was an act of war and the players were psyched to believe that the existence of the West Indian nations banked on how the team performed on the field.

By the early 1990s, the politics and economies of the island nations had greatly stabilised and improved. Ironically, this is when West Indian cricket began to decline. It was as if due to the political and economic improvements on the islands, West Indian cricket lost its purpose and meaning. The besieged mindset that had driven West Indian cricket between 1976 and late 1980s had withered away.

From the early 2000s onward, the once mighty and seemingly invincible cricket side was hovering at the bottom of cricket world rankings. A sad decline which is still in the process of further deterioration.

Football wars

West Indian cricket is a prominent example of how a sport is sometimes used as a political/ideological expression by nation-states. But this phenomenon was more common in football, especially in South American countries.

Again, quite like what happened in the West Indies, South American football too retained an ideological and political dimension during a period of political and economic turmoil.

Joshua Nadel, a professor of history and author of Why Soccer Matters in Latin America, wrote that "modern Latin American nations and soccer grew and evolved together. Soccer clubs and stadiums acted as spaces where Latin American societies could grapple with the complexities of nationhood, citizenship, politics, gender and race."

He went on to add that in Brazil football first became a way to iron-out tensions between the country’s Latino and black populations and then to develop a distinctive Brazilian idea of nationhood.

The same happened in various other Latin American countries as well whose football squads developed their own style of playing which was different to the European style. This helped define South American culture in a world (and sport) which was dominated by European ideas.

Brazil witnessed a military coup in 1964. Facing an economic crisis, political chaos and racial polarisation, the military regime began investing heavily in Brazilian football. It constructed 13 new football stadiums and handpicked a manager who could be easily molded to mouth the government’s version of national unity.

The ploy worked when Brazil won the 1970 football world cup. The victory was sweet amidst the continuing economic and political turmoil in Brazil. Predictably, the military regime touted the win as a regenerative expression of Brazilian nationalism and unity.

The trend continued in the 1970s. As sportswriter Jamie Rainbow reminded readers in an excellent 2013 feature in World Soccer, by 1975 the Brazilian football team manager was describing the team as "an infantry unit."

Militaristic terms had begun to describe ‘missions’ of Latin American football teams. In fact, an actual war had already taken place between the armies of two South American nations, El Salvador and Honduras, in 1969 over a football match!

In 1976, a military regime came to power in Argentina. The government that the military had toppled had planned to use the holding of the 1978 football world cup in Argentina to revive Argentinean economy, politics and nationalism. The military regime which came to power was brutal and drew condemnation from various European countries.

The dictatorship decided to use the 1978 world cup to cleanse the regime’s tainted reputation. It not only wanted to just host the event but went to great lengths to make sure that Argentina won the cup.

According to a 2012 media report, when the military dictator of Peru sent some political prisoners to Argentina in 1978 to be interrogated by the notorious Argentinean regime, the Argentinean dictator Jorge Videla told his counterpart that he would only agree to take the prisoners if he forced the Peru team to lose to Argentina in a group game.

Argentina needed to defeat Peru by a margin of four goals to eliminate Brazil and go into the finals. That’s exactly what happened. Argentina then went on to defeat Holland in the finals and the victory was hailed by Videla as a triumph of Argentinian nationalism.

But unlike West Indian cricket nationalism of the 1970s and 1980s, the ideological aspect in South American football was more multidimensional. For example, Jamie Rainbow also alludes to the fact that the idea of nationalism held by the opponents of military regimes in Brazil and Argentina also found a voice in the game.

Rainbow wrote that the flamboyant samba style of playing football in Brazil was developed not only as a protest against European style of playing, but also as a protest against the regimented mindset being imposed by dictators.

Ben Cullimore, writing in These Football Times, mentions that before commercialism entirely took over football, most front-line footballers in South America and Europe were socialists because they came from working-class backgrounds.

In 2010, former Liverpool and England footballer Simon Hattenstone told the Guardian that the ‘socialist legacy’ in Latin American football has instilled the kind of collective ethos in South American teams which helps them win more major events than the England team.

Football also became an expression of nationalism in the Netherlands in the 1970s. The Dutch team developed a style of playing called ‘total football’ (totaalvoetbal) - a tactical theory in which any outfield player could take over the role of any other player in a team.

This helped the Dutch to reach the finals of the 1974 World Cup. In the final against Germany, the Dutch employed the tactic to the fullest. In the Netherlands, the game against Germany was seen a chance to seek Netherlands’ revenge against Nazi Germany’s occupation of Holland during World War II. But the tense game was won by Germany.

The nationalist impulse in sports in Pakistan

Former Pakistan batting legend Hanif Mohammad wrote in his book that Pakistan’s first cricket captain, Abdul Hafeez Kardar, would often make patriotic speeches in front of the players and explain to them that playing cricket for Pakistan was much more than a sporting role; it was a national duty of utmost importance.

Pakistan came into being in 1947. It had scarce economic resources and even when its cricket team was handed Test status by the international cricket authorities, its cricket board could not afford to give the players proper playing kits. Hanif wrote that the players were often loaned money by fans so they could buy bats, gloves, pads and shoes.

Kardar was a staunch nationalist and he especially wanted the team to do well against the region’s former colonial rulers England, and also against India from which Pakistan had been acrimoniously carved as a separate country.

During Pakistan’s first-ever Test series in 1952 (against India in India), Kardar asked the cricket board to hand out Pakistan’s national dress – shirvanee – to the players. The government obliged.

But, curiously, when the team was to be photographed with the Indian president in Delhi, they did turn up in shirvanees – except Kardar, who turned up in a tuxedo! No one knows why.

In 1954 when Pakistan defeated England in a Test during its first tour of England, the Pakistan government became alert to the possibility of using cricket as an expression of nationalist fervour. The victory in England was explained as Pakistan’s resilience and the players were hailed as heroes who had ‘overcome the colonial legacy of the region.’

The successful exploits of Kardar’s team continued to draw attention from the government and more resources were invested in the game. In 1958 when Kardar announced his retirement, Prime Minister Feroz Khan Noon and Governor General Iskander Mirza implored him to carry on. But Kardar decided to remain retired.

In late 1958, Ayub Khan came to power through a military coup. He envisioned Pakistan as a country driven by a robust economy and industrialisation and a nationalism built on the precepts of ‘Muslim modernism’, scientific thinking and a strong military.

But after Kardar, Pakistan cricket had fallen by the wayside. It was unable to express Ayub’s idea of vigorous nationalism. This is when hockey seeped through the cracks emerging between cricket and Pakistan’s changing nationalist ethos.

Pakistan hockey had first made its mark by winning the 1958 Asian Games hockey final. But it was the team’s win against India in the hockey final of the 1960 Olympic Games which galvanised hockey in Pakistan and it became the national sport of the country.

On the other hand, cricket continued to slide. After Pakistan lost 4-0 in a series against England in 1962, the Ayub regime announced that Pakistan was not to play any international cricket until the team upped its standards. Pakistan didn’t play another series till 1964. And again none between 1965 and early 1967. It hardly won a cricket game across the 1960s.

What’s more, some schools in the country, such as Habib School and Cantt Public School in Karachi, debarred students from playing cricket.

Cricket in those days was played by just seven countries. Hockey was a more global sport. Ayub found hockey to be a perfect sporting expression of his idea of progress and nationalism. And unlike South American football or West Indian cricket which would thrive in times of political turmoil, hockey in Pakistan grew during a time of economic growth and political stability (albeit both achieved through authoritarian means).

In 1968, Pakistan won its second Olympic hockey title. Though the Ayub regime which had invested major resources in the game was quick to hail the victory as an expression of the government’s ‘decade of development’, truth was that the regime by was now facing a serious protest movement.

After the 1965 Pakistan-India War, the country’s economy had begun to slide, triggering political turmoil. Ayub resigned in March 1969. By 1971, the country’s armed forces were embroiled in a vicious civil war in its eastern wing (the Bengali-dominated East Pakistan).

In the summer of 1971, some Pakistani cricketers tried to make cricket nationally relevant again. The civil war in East Pakistan had gotten intense when the Pakistan cricket team reached England under the captaincy of Intikhab Alam.

A charity organisation had planned to auction a bat in London, signed by Pakistan and England players. The auction money was then supposed to be handed over to the Red Cross working in East Pakistan during a destructive monsoon there.

Some Pakistan players led by former Marxist-student-leader-turned-cricketer Aftab Gul refused to sign the bat, claiming that the ‘Bengalis were traitors!’ But the government of General Yahya Khan, fearing that this act would be seen by the British press as an exhibition of West Pakistan’s arrogance towards the Bengalis, ordered the team management and the captain to make sure that the players signed the bat. They eventually did. Pakistan lost the series 2-0.

Whereas Gul’s attempt to elevate the nationalist character of Pakistan cricket backfired and the sport in the country continued to sink, hockey once again came forth to achieve a major distinction. Now operating in much more troublesome circumstances (civil war, political turmoil, economic decline), the Pakistan hockey team reached Barcelona in October 1971 to take part in the inaugural Hockey World Cup.

It glided through to the final and beat Spain 1-0 to win the cup. Two months later, East Pakistan broke away and became Bangladesh. Yahya resigned and the chairman of the populist Pakistan People’s Party PPP rose to become the country’s new ruling party.

Under Bhutto and after the East Pakistan debacle, Pakistan’s nationalist narrative began to change. It became more aggressive, mainly driven by illusions of grandeur (pumped in to regenerate a demoralised polity) and a persecution complex which blamed ‘international forces working against Pakistan.’

The nature of the country’s hockey team also changed. Whereas in the 1960s the hockey team was to perform as a reflection and symbol of the Ayub regime’s developmental and modernist nationalist model, the team became more aggressive during the Bhutto regime.

In his autobiography, former Pakistan hockey captain Islauddin wrote that the Pakistan hockey players in the 1970s were trained like soldiers. Passionate patriotic songs were played during training and the players were told that they were the sporting expressions of the country’s post-1971 renewal. The persecution complex which had seeped in the nationalist narrative made its way into the team as well.

For example, after Pakistan lost to Germany in the final of the 1972 hockey Olympic final in Munich, the team management accused the referee of cheating. When the team was being handed their silver medals, the players laughed and casually threw the medals on the ground. No action was taken by the Pakistan government. It too believed the refereeing was flawed.

By the mid-1970s, the Pakistan hockey team had reached the number one spot in hockey world rankings. Just before the hockey final of the 1974 Asian Games in Tehran (between Pakistan and India), PTV ran footage of Pakistani hockey players loudly playing Pakistani nationalist songs so that the songs could be heard by the Indian players who were training nearby. Pakistan won the final 2-0.

In 1976, Pakistan cricket which had been in the doldrums ever since the early 1960s tried to crawl back into contention when Pakistan pulled off a stunning win against Australia in Australia. But it got its best chance yet to make a prominent nationalist statement when in 1978, cricket resumed between Pakistan and India. It had been terminated after the 1965 war.

In July 1977 a reactionary military coup had put General Zia into power. He was facing protests when the Indian cricket team arrived in Pakistan to play three Tests and three ODIs. But months before the series kicked off, the Pakistan hockey team had won its second world cup title, defeating the Netherlands 3-2 in a closely-fought final.

On the team’s return to Pakistan (from Argentina), captain Islauddin and his players were showered with praise by the Zia regime and hockey reached the peak of its popularity in Pakistan. An Astroturf stadium was built in Karachi because international hockey was now to be played on Astroturf.

Months later, cricket rebounded by defeating India 2-0, and the regime declared a holiday to celebrate the win! What’s more, while the Pakistan cricket team was on its way to win a Test against India in Lahore, the hockey team won the inaugural Champions Trophy (also held in Lahore), thus retaining its number one ranking in world hockey.

Cricket had somewhat rebounded as a popular sport, but it continued to play second fiddle to hockey. Ironically, even though Pakistan cricket captain Mushtaq Muhammad had managed to make the board increase the salaries of the players, nothing of the sort happened for the hockey players. They were still being dubbed as ‘soldiers’ who were playing for the country’s national pride rather than money.

Low pay and high nationalist expectations did not halt Pakistan hockey’s continuing rise. It remained to be Pakistan’s most popular sport despite the fact that the Pakistan cricket team scored some major victories in the early 1980s, both under Imran Khan’s captaincy. In 1982-83, it defeated India 3-0 and then swept Australia 3-0.

But the Pakistan hockey team was still the number one-ranked side in the world and by now Pakistan was known in the world (especially in Europe) more for the kind of hockey that it had been producing than anything else. Then, in 1982, the hockey team won its third world cup title.

Thousands of fans, including famous film personalities and ministers, greeted the team at the Lahore Airport when it returned to Pakistan (from India) with the cup. Zia praised the side by also alluding to the ‘Islamisation’ aspect which his regime had added to Pakistan’s post-1971 nationalist narrative. He said that the hockey team had ‘played like mujahids (holy warriors)’. And when he was now thinking of using hockey as a diplomatic tool to ease ties with India, Sharjah happened.

If one was to point out the year from when Pakistan cricket began to overtake hockey as a national sport, it has to be 1986. During a Pakistan-India final in an international cricket tournament in Sharjah in April 1986, India was well-placed to win the game when Pakistan vice-captain and master batsman Javed Miandad played a match-winning innings to help the team grab its first major tournament. Requiring four to win from the last ball of the match, Miandad lifted Indian medium-pacer Cheetan Sharma for a massive six!

The country went wild and Minadad became perhaps Pakistan cricket’s first millionaire! On the other end of 1986, hockey world champions Pakistan were knocked down and out of that year’s Hockey World Cup. In the 12-team-event, Pakistan came 11th. As a consolation, the number two side in the world India came 12th. The great South Asian hockey decline had begun.

In an interview given on a show on PTV, Pakistan’s ace goalkeeper Shahid Ali Khan spilled the beans by informing that hockey players got just Rs26 as daily allowance on tours and less than Rs1,000 per match. He added that whenever the players had asked for a pay raise, they were told that they should be ashamed of themselves for asking money because playing for Pakistan was a ‘selfless national duty.’

Zia now decided to use cricket as a diplomatic tool instead of hockey to better ties with India. He did just that by visiting India to watch a match during Pakistan’s 1987 tour of that country. Pakistan won the Test series 1-0 and the ODI series 5-1.

From the late 1980s onward, Pakistan cricket inherited the nationalist character which the country’s hockey had been carrying ever since the early 1960s. In 1992, the Pakistan cricket team won its first world cup, coming back into the tournament after being almost knocked out.

This win further consolidated cricket’s popularity and national character in Pakistan, even though the hockey team did rebound for a bit by winning its fourth world cup in 1994. But this was Pakistan hockey’s last hurrah. It began to decline rather drastically.

Today, the new generation of Pakistanis have little or no memory or knowledge of what Pakistan hockey was once about. This once giant nationalist-sporting endeavour has simply withered away.

Pakistan cricket’s most recent nationalist endeavour came in 2012 when Misbah-ul-Haq was made captain of a team tainted by scandal and infighting. It reflected the state of the country at the time: polarised, isolated and plagued by terrorism. No foreign team was willing to tour Pakistan. Misbah had to captain all his games abroad.

He gradually repaired the damage and in 2016, when Pakistan won a Test against England at Lords, the team performed push-ups as a salutation to the military men who had given fitness training to the players for the tour. This was Pakistan cricket’s way of acknowledging the shift in the nationalist narrative being shaped by the state and government of Pakistan which now wants to reverse the militaristic narrative instilled in the 1980s.

The push-ups meant that cricket is still well ingrained as the sport which defines Pakistan’s nationalist ethos.

When people ask me if they should visit Marrakech, I quickly reply with an enthusiastic yes, shortly followed by “But it’s not for everyone”. With its dusty roads and confusing alleys, this historical Moroccan city isn’t a postcard of scenic beauty—but it is a place full of character.

The city’s charm lies in the maze-like passages of its old district dotted with colourful, antique doors and in the ubiquitous feeling of traveling back in time.

Arriving in Marrakech with three days ahead of us, our gastronomic journey started from our riad (old houses converted into hotels) in the ancient, walled district of the city, known as the medina.

The first night, we opted for a local three-course meal at the Riad Karmela, featuring an array of flavoursome mezze, a lamb tajine—a staple North African Berber dish—and a dark chocolate cake with poached cinnamon apple.

In contrast to the frantic alleys of the medina, the riads were serene sanctuaries. We would start our day with a delectable breakfast that consisted of different types of cheese and fresh bread, and end our evenings with mint tea and Moroccan sweets.

On our first morning, we walked through the alleys crowded with people, vehicles and horse carriages, and headed outside the medina to the Jardin Majorelle. Painted in a striking blue shade—known as Majorelle blue—the garden hosts a museum, gallery, boutique, and a courtyard café. It was once owned by the famous French designer Yves Saint Laurent, and the road that the garden is located on is named after him.

As many tourists do, we kept the evening for the Jemaa el-Fna square, where you can hear, see and feel the pulsating vibe of the ancient city. You’ll find hawkers, street performers, snake charmers, and even witch doctors at Marrakech’s main square. A moment’s curiosity comes at the price of a tip, so keep that in mind before pausing in front of any performers.

As the sun sets, Jemaa el-Fna transforms into a food court with every vendor vying for your attention, yelling “Good food, no diarrhoea.” A carnivore’s dream come true: the food stalls offer all sorts of meat, kebabs, and even sheep’s head.

We took a seat at one of the busy stalls and ordered a mixed meat barbeque platter that was served with bread and a spicy sauce. Not the most glamorous, this is one of the most authentic dining experiences one can enjoy in the city.

Jemaa el-Fna is surrounded by entrances to the famous souks of Marrakech that are filled with antiques, Berber jewellery, furniture, carpets, ceramics, coveted pure argan oil, spices, and everything else you can think of.

Although the starting prices might seem like a steal owing to the currency rate, you’d be surprised at how low they go if you have strong bargaining skills—just know that you’ll be up against seasoned shopkeepers.

The salmon pink walls of the old district house a number of historical sites—Medersa Ben Youssef, Koutoubia Mosque, Bahia Palace, Saadian Tombs—which we visited over the next two days. Exemplary models of Islamic and Moorish architecture, the landmarks feature colourful zelij (tiles), intricate Arabic calligraphy, and ornate carvings.

During the walk (factor in some time for getting lost in the winding alleys) from one site to the other, we came across museums and small entrances to some of the best cafés and restaurants. The one that caught our eye was Nomad, a minimally decorated, modern Moroccan restaurant. It was packed at lunchtime, but luckily we found a table on the rooftop where they also provide straw hats for shade from the sun.

We ordered chicken brochette, couscous, and spiced lamb burger with harissa (red chilli paste) mayonnaise, a condiment integral to Moroccan cuisine. Nomad is a model example of how the local culinary scene is melding contemporary cooking techniques with traditional recipes and ingredients.

Another such eatery was the Atay Café, which had three terraces. Lounging on the sofas on the rooftops, we could take in the rugged landscape of the medina against the Atlas Mountains as French music played in the background.

The menu had all the staples—tajines, sandwiches, pasta, salads, brochette—but the most delicious part of the meal was, once again, harissa. You can even buy some at the souk to take back home with you.

In the midst of sightseeing, shopping, and getting accustomed to the local cuisine, we squeezed in a few hours of pampering at the stylish spa in La Sultana Hotel. Think calming argan oil aroma, an exceptionally attentive staff, and a gorgeous property highlighting the unique characteristics of Moroccan architecture.

Once we finished getting our treatments, we went to the rooftop of the spa to watch the sun set over the Kasbah Mosque. Regardless of whether a spa day is on your list, go to the restaurant in La Sultana for the dark chocolate ravioli in a Nutella and walnut sauce—it really is as divine as it sounds.

You’ll come across more known and bigger eateries, such as the Hotel Restaurant Café de France and Café des Epices during your time in the old district.

But if you’re willing to find an oasis of lush, jungle palms in a narrow street, then keep Le Jardin in mind—the lamb tajine at its café is worth coming back for.

Otherwise, you can always take back some street food (I recommend the Msemen flatbread) to the riad and have it with Moroccan tea under the orange trees.

Have you had a memorable culinary experience in different parts of the world? Share it with us at blog@dawn.com

This article was originally published on June 3, 2015.

One of my colleagues asked me some time ago:

‘Can you believe that Hindus and Muslims can pray at the same place simultaneously?’

‘Well, of course not, at least not in Pakistan,’ I swiftly retorted.

He smiled and responded mysteriously, ‘There is a place not far from here where they do.’

It was the curiosity to confirm this statement that led me to the shrine of Jhulay Lal. Interestingly, contrary to the popular conceptions of the puritanical and narrow confines of religion, there still exist certain elements in our society that are a manifestation of our centuries’ old traditions of religious coexistence.

The shrine of Saint Jhulay Lal is one of these examples.

We visited the shrine on a hot April day, though the cool breeze made it somewhat bearable. The town of Udero Lal, where the shrine is situated, lies almost 40 kilometers away from the Sanghar district. It is a small sleepy town with the shrine of a saint at its epicenter.

We arrived to see vendors selling edible items as people sipped tea in dhaba-styled hotels, with radio waves sailing through the air around us, piercing it with Sindhi folk music. The houses were small and the streets congested. But we had no difficulty reaching the shrine, for everyone we met knew the directions like the back of their hands.

The white domes of the shrine could be seen on the horizon from a distance. We entered the shrine and found it spick-and-span, painted spotless white with its battlements and bastions, reminiscent of an old fortress.

The inner sanctum, which is comparatively new, is a beautiful structure with ornate doors and exquisite woodwork. An Urs and fair commemorating the disappearance of the saint is held annually, where a large number of devotees from across Pakistan and abroad come and pay homage.

There is an adjoining room where a pair of sandals is kept, reportedly belonging to the saint.

Jhulay Lal is related to the River Indus and sometimes revered as an incarnation of the River God Varuna in Sindh.

Most Muslims call the saint Khwaja Khizar, who is believed to guide people travelling through water courses and on voyages. The muhanas or mallah (as the fishermen are called in Sindh), held the saint in high esteem. Jhulay Lal is also called Zinda Pir, Sheikh Tahir, Khawaja Khizar, Udero Lal and Amar Lal.

According to various historical and colonial accounts, Jhulay Lal is said to have lived in the 17th century. Mirkh Shah, the despotic ruler of Thatta, tried to forcibly convert his Hindu subjects to Islam. On hearing this, the Hindus went to the bank of the Indus, fasted and prayed to the River to liberate them from this ordeal.

As a result, an image appeared from the depths of the River and told them that a child would be born to an aged couple living at Nasarpur, who would help them.

The child was named Udero Lal and also given the title 'Jhulay Lal', as his cradle was said to swing on its own. This child grew up into a valiant man and argued with Mirkh Shah, who realised his mistake and let the Hindus peacefully live in his domains.

We entered the complex to the welcome of an eternal peace, enveloping everything around us. The tiled floor felt wonderfully cool, so we sat down in silence for some time. Inside the shrine, the air was laden with fragrance as the oil lamps were cast shadows over the walls; filling the room with a light yellowish glow.

Jhulay Lal is often depicted as sitting on a Palla fish (an indigenous species of the Indus) or riding on his horse. It is believed that he and his horse disappeared into a well mysteriously; his shrine now erected at the same place.

From that day on, the shrine has been a centre of attraction for thousands of Hindus and Muslims alike. The shrine, located in Udero Lal, houses a Hindu temple alongside a Muslim-style tomb, and the caretakers include both Hindus and Muslims. In the evenings, Hindus perform pooja and aaarti while Muslims too, offer prayers at the tomb .

In the courtyard, people tied colourful threads and cloths on a tree, as tokens of prayers which would only be removed once the problem was resolved. Then, they would bring offerings to the saint, especially miniature swings and cradles.

Before we left, we prayed to the saint of The River Indus too, silently wishing that we may revert to our old values of peace and harmony.

This shrine stands as perhaps one of the few remaining strongholds of the eclectic elements of the Sindhi society, which are now being threatened by fundamentalism. The heritage of our mystic traditions should be promoted at state level, so that we may revive the love of humanity and co-existence which has always been part of our quintessential values.

—All photos by author

Related:

• Bhit Shah: After the dhamaal
  
• The enchanting beauty of Sachal Sarmast's shrine
  
• Abdullah Shah Ghazi: 'The saint that keeps cyclones at bay'
  

February is Black History Month in the United States. It originated in 1926 with the efforts of the Association for the Study of African-American Life and History, founded by historian Carter G. Woodson and the minister Jesse E. Moorland.

Black History Month started as a week-long commemoration of the history of and accomplishments by African-Americans and peoples of African descent. It was held during the second week of February to coincide with the birthdays of Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln.

This week-long commemoration evolved into a full month, and in 1976, President Gerald Ford officially recognised Black History Month, telling the public “to seize the opportunity to honour the too-often neglected accomplishments of black Americans in every area of endeavour throughout our history.”

South Asians have a lot to learn from African-American history, including during Black History Month. The history of African-Americans in the United States has directly impacted the lives, struggles, and resistance of South Asian-Americans. Moreover, South Asian and African-American communities have meaningfully collaborated and allied with one another to fight oppression.

Despite this history of collaboration, the reality remains that South Asians continue to perpetuate anti-Black racism (also called anti-blackness) against African-Americans and peoples of African descent, both in the United States and in South Asia.

Black History Month and African-American history more broadly are relevant to South Asian communities. The racism that both communities suffer has a common origin: white supremacy.

South Asian-Americans and African-Americans both live in a country that was founded on preserving white supremacy, through the attempted genocide of indigenous peoples, slavery, racial segregation, and restrictions on immigration and xenophobic policies. Furthermore, South Asians and peoples of African descent have both suffered through colonialism.

In the United States, African-Americans have long been perceived as being more criminal or dangerous than other people.After the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, South Asian-Americans have also come under suspicion and are treated as criminals even when they have not committed any crimes.

The intersection between the treatment of African-Americans and South Asian-Americans was highlighted in the case of Sureshbhai Patel. Mr. Patel, an Indian grandfather, was brutally assaulted by two police officers in an Alabama suburb in 2016. He was walking outside his son’s home, when a neighbour thought he looked suspicious and called the police.

The police officers arrived on the scene and later claimed that Mr. Patel would not answer their questions although Mr. Patel claimed that he had told them he did not speak English. The police officers then assaulted Mr. Patel resulting in him being seriously injured.

At first, this incident seems like a straightforward case of anti-South Asian racism. However, it was later revealed that the neighbour who called the police did so because he thought Mr. Patel was a Black man.

The incident reflects not only anti-South Asian racism but also anti-Black racism. It reinforces the fact that African-Americans are immediately considered suspicious and criminal, even when the person in question is simply walking down the street.

But the incident emphasises something else: Mr. Patel could not speak English and was considered uncommunicative by the police officers, which led them to assault him.

His status as a non-English speaking immigrant intersected with the fact that the neighbour who called the police thought he was African-American.

The result was that he was brutally assaulted. In this way, the oppression that African-Americans and South Asians face is often not only similar but also can be part of the same incident.

Black History Month is also relevant to South Asians because many South Asians are Muslim, just like many African-Americans. In fact, the history of Islam in the United States can be traced through the history of African-Americans Muslims.

African Muslims were in North America at least as far back as the 1500s. In 1522, a group of people including enslaved West African Muslims led a revolt against Christopher Columbus’s son, Diego.

Throughout American history, many slaves in the United States were Muslim. Even after slavery was abolished, Black Muslims continued to shape US history and participate in American life.

For example, in the 1920s, P. Nathaniel Johnson, who changed his name to Ahmad Din, was the leader of an integrated mosque in St. Louis. And of course, figures like Malcolm X and organisations like the Nation of Islam significantly shaped the Civil Rights Movement.

For South Asian Muslims, this aspect of Black History is also our history as Muslims. Non-African-American Muslims in this country can live and thrive here largely due to the efforts of Black Muslims, who were the earliest Muslims in America and who have continued being active and vocal in support of Islam, human rights, and civil rights.

South Asians, Muslim or not, should also care about Black History and about standing in solidarity with African-Americans because that is a part of our history. African-American and South Asian collaboration and solidarity has existed for a long time.

For example, African-American figures in the United States provided assistance during India’s fight against colonialism and for independence. In 1942, the African-American press covered resistance movements in India. Moreover, the famous American civil rights leader Bayard Rustin organised the Fellowship of Reconciliation’s Free India Committee in 1945, and he even visited South Asia during this time.

South Asians showed solidarity to African-Americans as well. For example, Ram Manohar Lohia, an Indian political leader, spoke out against Jim Crow laws and went to jail in Mississippi after participating in civil disobedience to oppose segregation.

These examples of solidarity between African-Americans and South Asians are very important. But it is equally important to remember that South Asians have perpetuated anti-blackness in our communities for a long time.

The colourism that is endemic in our cultures is reflected through our fear of dark skin and our attempts to lighten our skin as much as possible, through the use of creams like Fair and Lovely.

Many South Asians both in the United States and in South Asia use terms like “kala” to derogatorily refer to African-Americans and peoples of African descent. We perpetuate false and racist beliefs about African-Americans being more likely to be criminals.

Many South Asians use the n-word and other racist terms. South Asians also co-opt aspects of Black culture, including music, dress, and African-American Vernacular English, without giving any credit to African-Americans or without reflecting on their own co-optation and cultural appropriation.

During this Black History Month (as well as every other month), South Asians should reflect on their own contributions to anti-Black racism and should take concrete actions to combat such racism in our communities.

We should remember the rich history of solidarity that we have with African-Americans and the importance of the accomplishments of African-Americans to the history of the United States. We should also strive to fight the oppression that African-Americans face and stand in solidarity with them without co-opting or appropriating their struggles.

In order to do so, we must have difficult conversations with our family members and friends about their anti-blackness and stereotypical beliefs. We should take the time to learn more about Black history and educate others in our communities.

We should also attend meetings and protests and provide financial resources to the extent that it is possible to African-American-led organisations that are standing against human rights violations of African-Americans. This month, let us all commit to combating our own anti-blackness and supporting African-Americans in their struggles for justice.

We don’t realise how terrorist attacks affect our children indirectly. Have we ever stopped to think how it is changing our younger generation’s behaviour pattern?

I will never forget the conversation I had with my ten-year-old cousin when he came home from school a day after the attack on Lal Shahbaz Qalandar’s shrine. It was on this occasion that I understood the long-term impacts that these attacks have on children.

I couldn’t believe when he excitedly said to me, "Zawarah baji, you know what happened today? Two suicide bombers came into my friend’s brother’s school. All the children hid under the desks and Ayyan’s brother lay down on the floor pretending to be dead so that terrorists wouldn’t kill him. Then, the police came and took the terrorists away."

What he did not know was that this was a mock operation conducted by security forces to prepare and train children on how to react in case of an actual terrorist attack.

Read next: How to defuse a bomb, and other security training for Pakistani students

His naive enthusiasm transported me back to 2015 when he had returned from school on the day that marked the one-month anniversary of the tragic Army Public School massacre. I remember how proudly he told me, "You know what? Our teachers now have an app in their phones and if they tap it four times, the police will come in two minutes." Intrigued, I asked him to tell me more.

"Oh and before this, we had only four guards and now we have nine. Oh and you know what, before this we only had cameras inside the school but now we have cameras outside as well. The best part is that our windows are now bullet-proof and will only shatter if a bomb explodes. Our teacher told us that when we hear an alarm, we all have to duck and hide under our desks till our principal gives us more instructions using her special microphone."

I kept listening, till I finally gathered the courage to ask, "Why do you keep saying ‘before this’? Before what?" And then came his reply: "You don’t know what happened on 16th December? "No, what happened?" I asked him. "Terrorists killed so many innocent children in a school."

I wondered how a seven-year-old child knew all this since we have always tried to keep him away from television. Our news channels fail to understand the basic ethics of reporting and keep showing gruesome footage from different incidents, not taking into account how it affects the families of the victims as well as children who are exposed to such images.

He then continued telling me that terrorists did this. "Who is a terrorist?" I asked him. "Don’t you know? Terrorists are mad men. They are monsters. They are not Muslims or Christians, they are not even humans. They kill people for no reason because they are crazy," he angrily told me.

"Why did they attack children?" I asked him next. "Because, they strike for little meat first before targeting the big meat", was his unconventional reply.

Related: Tackling implications of enhanced security on schoolchildren

I was still marveling at his response when he added, "When I grow up, I will join the army and kill all these terrorists." "I thought you just said killing someone is a bad thing. If you kill them, wouldn’t that make you a bad person as well?"

That was the moment when he lost his calm and started arguing with me. "If I don’t kill these terrorists, they will kill more of us. They will strike our families. Do you want them to come after your family? Do you want them to kill all of us?" It took me a good five minutes and a chocolate bar to calm him down and change the subject.

Later after our conversation had ended, I sat down thinking about what had become of our country.

More than two years since the massacre in Peshawar, Pakistan is still in shambles. Instead of care-free morning assemblies, our younger generation has emergency drills.

The only thing I had to worry about when I was in school was whether my mother had packed Super Crisps and Frost juice or French toast for lunch.

Having French toast for lunch was my worst nightmare. But today, our kids face a different reality. Their worst nightmare is a terrorist attack. It breaks my heart.

We are a resilient nation, but how long will we keep suffering? I hope I live to see the day when we stop losing our people to war and terrorism.

Have your children or family members been affected by terrorist attacks in the country? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

As a doctor who has worked at sites of suicide bombings, I have realised that Pakistan is in a far more deplorable state in terms of emergency medical assistance than I had thought. Countless lives can be saved if we improve pre-hospital care in the country.

On February 13, 2017, a suicide bomber targeted a protest in Lahore, killing 13 people and injuring many more. A chilling video made by one of the eye-witnesses seconds after the blast shows bodies strewn across the road. The person recording the video focuses momentarily on a victim lying in a pool of blood with a visible neck wound.

The victim seems to be breathing and you can hear someone shout at the bystanders to help stop the bleeding. Someone does try to get close, but then suddenly everyone runs away from the scene.

We do not know whether the victim survived or not. But if his bleeding was controlled, his chances of survival and recovery would have increased.

In-depth: Six degrees of trauma

It is hard to filter the gut-wrenching and gory images from my mind, but it is imperative to share this example. With basic knowledge and training, we have the potential to help victims of trauma in the future.

As part of the an orthopedic surgery team, my colleagues and I analysed data from trauma victims over the last few years. We published the study in the Journal of Pakistan Medical Association, and also presented it to one of Pakistan's largest public sector Accident and Emergency Units (A&E), the Jinnah Postgraduate Medical Center in Karachi.

The Advanced Trauma Life Support guidelines, developed by the American College of Surgeons, prioritise trauma recognition and prompt resuscitation. But in Pakistan, our most recent data shows that victims of trauma hardly ever receive pre-hospital care during transport.

Many critical injuries that compromise the vital airway passage and shut off oxygen reaching the brain are actually treatable with simple to complex manoeuvres that should be attempted during transport of these victims to prevent death and disability. Lack of oxygen results in permanent loss of brain cell activity in as much as five to six minutes.

A few years ago, a young man, Sarfaraz Shah, was shot by a member of the paramilitary force in Karachi. The chilling video shows the victim awake, alert and sitting uncomfortably holding his injured thigh.

The haemorrhage, which was most likely from his femoral artery, eventually killed him. His death could have been prevented had some pressure been applied or a tourniquet tied to stop the bleeding before transferring him to the hospital.

In 2014, our group published an academic paper on the pattern of injuries sustained by police commandos attacked by an improvised explosive device in Razzakabad, Karachi.

Read more: Chitral quake survivors recover from trauma through online clinics

The most concerning details of the attack was the time taken for the first casualty to get medical attention. It was 35 minutes.

A victim of polytrauma due to road traffic accident, bomb blast or fall, has been shown by data to have what is called the 'golden hour' during which early detection and prompt resuscitation prevents death.

In the tragic event that took place at the Shah Noorani shrine last year, victims suffered for hours without medical assistance as there are no functioning hospitals in the area. Many victims must have succumbed to their injuries, some of which were treatable had they been attended to by trained paramedics or aware citizens who can play the role of first responders in such events.

Karachi, a city of over 20 million people, has no universal emergency number that citizens can dial for help. In the United States and other developed countries, a universal number like 911 routes all emergency calls to the Emergency Dispatch Operator. This operator stays on the phone and asks a series of questions (6 Ws: Who, What, Where, When, Why and Weapon) and activates the appropriate emergency response while staying on the phone and guiding the victim.

We have a number of ambulance networks with their individual emergency helplines but unfortunately, most of these ambulances are ill-equipped with medically untrained personnel.

Having responded to a suicide bombing in Karachi in 2010, I have personally witnessed the chaos that takes place at the site of disaster. Victims do not get medical attention at the site. Instead of resuscitating the victims on the spot, there are fights and scuffles as to which ambulance network will take the casualty to the hospital.

A collective approach needs to be taken by the government, who has the largest resources, authority and platform to bring all the charity-run organisations under one roof with a single emergency number accessible through phone, radio or internet.

Also read: doctHERs: Remote patient care with female doctors at the fore

The research we conducted showed more than twice the level of mortality in mass casualty events in Karachi as compared to the 7/7 bombings in London and the Madrid train bombings of 2004. A team of 14 British Medical Association doctors responded to the London bombings and saved many lives by intervening on site.

In the recent shootings in Quebec, swift response from doctors meant victims with serious injuries were in surgery inside 45 minutes, which prevented the death toll from rising above six.

The overall mortality in the London bombings was 7.2% compared to the 18.6% at the Police bus bombing in Razzakabad. This underlies the importance of on-site and in-transport trauma management and resuscitation, especially when the trauma centre is located several minutes away.

We have a habit of not preparing, mitigating and planning for disasters and their aftermath. We rarely conduct debriefings sessions and gather feedback to alter our response plans.

Although there are some organisations that have trained paramedics who respond to disasters, the country’s health care policy has neglected the importance of paramedics in the trauma-response system.

On the same topic: Need for effective emergency response again highlighted

At the First Response Initiative of Pakistan, we believe that training the general population in basic trauma care and life support can significantly reduce morbidity and mortality caused by trauma.

Training people in simple manoeuvres like applying pressure to bleeding wounds and using a tourniquet in severely injured or amputated limbs, which are common in blast injuries, can save lives before emergency medical help arrives.

All that is needed is government support and intervention.

Have you or someone you know suffered at the site of a disaster or bomb blast due to the negligence of pre-hospital care? Share it with us at blog@dawn.com

Wife: Puppu pass hogaya.

Husband: Really?

Yes. Please congratulate him when he comes back from school.

How do you know that?

Know what?

Pappu pass hogaya.

I have his report card. Here, see.

Hmm. Are you sure it’s his report card?

What you mean? Of course, it’s his. His name is on it. And his teacher gave it to me.

Hmm. Are you sure it was his teacher?

Of course she was his teacher!

Hmm. I was looking at his school’s logo. If you look close enough you can make out an eye bordered by a triangle. See.

All I can see is a pen, a hand and a flower.

Look closely.

I did. Can’t see any eye or triangle.

Has Puppu been behaving strangely?

No. He is behaving just like any eight-year-old kid would.

He’s eight?

Yes! You ought to know. You’re his father!

I am?

Oh, for heaven’s sake. At least stop being a nutcase about your own son!

Truth-seekers and speakers are often labeled as nuts in the beginning. But …

Truth-seekers don’t seek the truth by watching silly documentaries on YouTube.

You are always putting me down. No wonder you can’t notice the eye and the triangle in the school’s logo.

There’s no eye or triangle. And even if there were, so what?

Aha! So you do see them!

No I don’t.

Aha! Now you are contradicting yourself.

I just said even if there were, so what?

Aha!

Shut up.

See. Always putting me down.

I don’t care if there’s an eye, triangle or a flying rat’s backside in the logo. It’s a good school.

Hmm. How do you know it’s a school?

What?

I mean, it could just be a place where they brainwash children to hate their country, faith and culture.

You put him there.

I did?

Actually, no, the Illuminati did.

Aha!

Now that you have heard what you wanted to, can you get off Twitter and Facebook for a moment and go pick up your son from the brainwashing centre. He must be hungry.

We must put him in a proper school. But are there any proper schools left?

Please tell me you are joking.

Life is not a joke.

That was very profound. What school did you go to?

Thank you. You know which school I went to.

Yes. The same as your son is in. The one with the eye and the octagon in its logo.

Triangle.

Yes, that one. Were you brainwashed?

No. In those days it was a proper school. It began to change when the Americans started to fund it.

They are funding it?

Of course! Didn’t you notice how his teacher has used American English in his report card?

No. Actually, it’s British English that they use. I know, because I help him do his homework.

British English is even worse!

So, what English should they use?

None!

Oh, so you want him to be taught in his mother tongue?

Yes. Arabic.

That’s not our language!

That’s what we have been led to believe.

No we haven’t. Urdu is our national language. Then we have regional languages and then English. One can learn Arabic if they want to, but …

Ahlan wa sahlan marhaba, marhaba …!

Excuse me?

It’s our mother tongue.

I see. What does it mean?

I was saying ‘revolution is coming to destroy the eye and the triangle.’

Hmm. How does one say, ‘please pick your son up from school?’

Ahlan wa sahlan marhaba, marhaba …!

You are repeating yourself.

See. Always putting me down. Always running away from the truth.

Well, it seems I will have to go pick him up myself.

Yes, please. I have a lot of work to do.

Like what? Sit here and post rants on Twitter and Facebook? Then visit various stupid TV channels as a guest and talk nonsense?

It’s not nonsense. I am a warner. I warn my countrymen of all the conspiracies that are afoot to destroy our motherland.

But you don’t get paid for it!

Have you seen the ‘likes’ my videos get on YouTube?

‘Likes’? Likes didn’t pay for that computer. I got it from my savings. Even your clothes, the rent of this apartment, school fee …

Enough! Ahlan wa sahlan marhaba, marhaba …!

What the heck is wrong with you? You have really lost it.

Smack!

What the …? Why did you slap me? What are you doing …? Hey, don’t throw my computer out … stop! Stop!

Smash!

What have you done? What will I do now?

Frankly, my dear, Ahlan wa sahlan marhaba, marhaba …!

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

Wars have a way of creating false or incomplete histories. The tales of heroes and victories often obscure the plight of the common person caught in the war zone.

The suffering of those living in Umerkot, Sindh during the 1965 and the 1971 wars fought between India and Pakistan finds no mention in the history books taught in our schools. I learnt about these unwritten stories by word of mouth during a recent visit to this small, dusty town.

Umerkot is located in the east of Sindh, about 60 kilometres from the Indian border. It is famous for the Umerkot Fort that dates back to the 11th century. Mughal emperor Akbar was born at the Fort in 1542, after the Hindu Raja Rana Parasad gave refuge to his father Humayun, who was fleeing the armies of Sher Shah Suri. The Fort is also the setting of the famous Sindhi tragic romance of Umar Marvi.

I, and a group of friends, had travelled to Umerkot to record Shafi Faqir, a very fine singer of Sufi poetry. We were all set to record the singer in the morning when we got the news that he was going to be late since a relative of his had passed away and he had to be at the funeral. He requested a friend of his, Mohammed Jumman, to attend to us while we were waiting.

This sad and unexpected situation turned out to be a blessing in disguise for us as we found out, much to our delight, that Mohammed Jumman, who was about 70 years old, was a wonderful Sindhi poet and a scholar of the area's history. He had been close to the famous Sindhi intellectual and nationalist, the late G.M. Syed.

Recounting the recent history of Umerkot, Jumman told us that in 1965, Umerkot’s population was 80% Hindu and 20% Muslim. Most of the large landowners of the area, known as Thakurs, were high-caste Hindus.

The Thakurs employed tradesmen like shoemakers, carpenters, and musicians. They provided housing, education, and health care for these tradesmen as well. Faqir’s family was also in the employ of a Thakur.

Then came the 1965 war and a major upheaval took place in the lives of the residents. Fearing reprisals by Muslims, most Hindus crossed over to India. The majority of those who left Pakistan were the rich Thakurs.

The lower-caste Hindus — Bheels, Kolhis and Meghwars — stayed back as they were poor and discriminated against on both sides of the borders. It did not matter to them whether they earned their living in India or Pakistan.

The migration of the Thakurs left their employees without a place to live or any source of income. Faqir's father and Jumman had to move to larger towns and take up jobs as tea boys or truck cleaners to survive. Jumman told us that the period between 1965 and 1968 were the worst in his life.

The war came to haunt the residents of Umerkot again in 1971, when the Indian army crossed the border and occupied parts of Tharparkar. This is something that is not common knowledge in Pakistan.

Many fled Umerkot to its adjoining areas as fear of the advancing Indian army grew. They left their houses and cattle behind as they rushed out of the war zone.

When the ceasefire came into effect and the Indian army retreated, the residents came back to find a lot of their houses destroyed and their cattle stolen. This meant another struggle to rebuild their lives.

The religious composition of Umerkot has now changed and the majority of the population is Muslim. Jumman told me that while generally there is peace between the two communities, the relations are on an edge and a small incident can trigger violence.

He also lamented that before the wars, it was very easy to cross the border to meet relatives. All that was needed was a small tip to the border guards. Now, it is not possible to do so without taking the risk of being shot.

It is telling that Jumman's nom de plume is Dar Badar (of no fixed abode). There could not have been a more appropriate word for the displacements he had been forced to endure.

The sadness of this history was alleviated somewhat when Faqir arrived and sang the songs of love of the native soil, of peace, and of the impermanence of all things worldly.

All photos and video are by the author.

Have you ever visited any historical or unexplored places in Pakistan? Share it with us at blog@dawn.com

Vaqar Ahmed is an engineer turned part-time journalist who likes to hang out at unfashionable places like shrines, railway stations and bus stops.

This article was originally published on March 13, 2015.

An Italian national flew 5,157 kilometers to Pakistan, travelled 234 miles north to Gilgit-Baltistan, trekked through the mountainous terrain to a secluded wildlife conservatory near the Pak-China border, and paid $8000 to fatally shoot a sheep.

Verily, man’s place at the top of the food chain is finally secure.

Making rounds on social media, is news of the record set by Boieti Gian Carlo for hunting a blue sheep with 32-inch horns – the largest in Pakistan, and the second-largest in the world.

I admit that my snark-laden review of this incident is clearly tainted by my bias against the general concept of hunting animals for sport. I wouldn’t want to single out any hunter in my tirade against the greater culture of hunting, and glorification of men and women who partake in this “sport”.

I believe the significance of elaborate hunts such as these cannot be overstated in limning what’s become the grand philosophy of the human species. From the highest mountain to the deepest ocean, wherever our noble relatives of the animal kingdom may hide; with the unfaltering determination of Liam Neeson, we will find them, and we will kill them.

Why? Just ‘cause.

In fact, as this blog is being penned, I’m receiving word of a raiding party en route to the Mariana’s Trench, to search and destroy that last non-human species rumored to have been spared by poachers, man-made climate change, floating islands of ocean garbage, and our voracious appetite for meat.

It was different when our ancestors went spear-hunting to acquire resources necessary to sustain life. To some degree, I can even understand (though not happily condone) the animal deaths caused either directly for meat and fur, or through negligence in the pursuit of some other human goal.

What I’m particularly intrigued by, is the psychology behind killing an animal to savour the act of killing itself.

There is no real resource to be acquired, but rather, a staggering amount of resource to be spent on attaining the satisfaction of shooting a harmless beast as it insouciantly grazes grass atop a serene mountain. The only physical prize to come out of it is a severed part of its anatomy to be mounted on the wall, as a reminder of the blissful day one shot something dead.

When I say there’s resource to be spent, I mean it. The prized markhor – a rare wild goat with majestic spiral horns – costs a hunter a whopping $62,000 to shoot at.

And note that according to the rules, the hunting license is valid for a single shot only.

Saudi royals have been known to spend lavishly on Pakistani conservatories and affiliated towns to curry favour with locals, for their love of hunting houbara bustards.

Also read: Saudi Royal on Houbara Bustard hunting spree in Balochistan

There’s dark humor to be found in the fact that 80 per cent of the money made from selling hunting licenses, goes back into preserving biodiversity and maintaining our conservatories.

I wonder, if this utilitarian approach can be applied to impoverished human communities; to allow wealthy hunters to fire non-lethal darts at the Congolese people as they innocently work on their farms. But not to worry! The money from this cruel exercise would go back to providing food and clean-water to the good people of Congo.

Jeremy Bentham famously argued that it’s not a creature’s identicalness to the human species which determines the morality of harming it; it’s a matter of whether that animal can suffer.

The activities we enjoy and applaud make a statement about who we are, just as it did for the ancient Romans who cheered on grizzly, deathly combats at the Coliseum.

For those of us who venerate the sport of killing animals, that statement isn’t very comforting.

Correction: The article erroneously stated that 20 per cent of the money made from selling hunting licenses went to wildlife development. The correct figure is 80 per cent. The error is regretted and has been fixed.

50 years ago, 4th March, 1967 marked a watershed event in the post-Partition history of Sindh. It was the day when 207 students were arrested en masse at the G.M. Barrage between Jamshoro and Hyderabad as they staged a rally against the One Unit scheme that had been in place in the country since 1955.

The protests were a culmination of the unrest among Sindhi students that had been simmering beneath the surface for a long time against One Unit. Its causes went deep into the humiliations suffered by Sindh and its people on cultural, political, administrative and economic levels.

Sindhi, a 2,500 year-old language, had no official status in what became the province of West Pakistan. It was stripped of all its rights as a medium of instruction, except in primary schools in the rural areas of Sindh. Sindhis were thus deprived of all opportunities of promoting their culture and language.

Politically and administratively, One Unit meant that Sindh disappeared as an entity and was reduced to looking to the capital Lahore for the pettiest matters.

On the economic level – and this situation continues to this day – it had to concede much of the lands rendered cultivable by the construction of barrages to the higher bureaucracy and military.

Last but not the least, the demographic changes due to Partition, which saw mass influx of Muslim migrants from India and an outflow of Sindhi Hindus, meant that the major cities of the province, including Karachi, became virtual no-go areas for Sindhis as far as jobs and economic opportunities were concerned.

Final straw

The movement itself was sparked when the Vice Chancellor of Sindh University, Hasan Ali Abdur Rehman, was dismissed in February 1967 by the Governor of West Pakistan, Nawab Amir Mohammad Khan Kalabagh.

Rehman, the first Sindhi Vice Chancellor of the university, was dismissed for his efforts for facilitating the admission of Sindhi students in professional colleges by allotting quotas for the far-flung districts of Sindh. The students agitated and demanded Rehman to be reinstated.

On March 4, a general-body meeting of students of Sindh University, Liaquat Medical College, and Engineering College was planned in Sindh University’s City Campus in Hyderabad. Students were proceeding to the venue in university buses when the police encircled them near the G.M. Barrage. The students were beaten up and all 207 of them were arrested.

The police brutality resulted in mass protests all over the province. Although the dismissal order against the Vice Chancellor was not taken back, this moment, which came to be known as the 4th March Movement and is commemorated every year, gave rise to wide-scale political awakening in Sindh.

My contribution

I was a first-year student at the university's Hyderabad campus. I remember it was another pleasant evening when the news of the mass arrest spread.

This development was grave not only because students had been targeted, but because the authorities had been trying to divide the students on linguistic basis. In order to counter the unrest against the dismissal of the Vice Chancellor, the Commissioner of Hyderabad, Masroor Ahsan, had attempted to rally those who were regarded as leaders of Urdu-speaking students behind him.

The outrage felt by the students against the victimisation of the first Sindhi Vice Chancellor of Sindh University, who had dared resist the attempts by the West Pakistan government to undermine the autonomy of the university, was given a parochial colour.

Given that most Urdu-speaking students seemed to be supportive of government action, a few of us decided that something had to be done, even symbolically, to prevent the cleavage between the students on parochial lines. This could only be done by showing solidarity with the arrested students. A minimum would be to write slogans on walls against the police action.

So me and my comrade Inayat Kashmiri took up a brush to paint slogans against the police and the Ayub dictatorship in the area around Tilak Charri, where most of the education institutions of Hyderabad were located at the time.

While writing on the walls, we had our eyes fixed on the on-coming traffic on the one-way road, ready to slip into the side streets if a police van came. We were too naïve to know that police in this country does not observe basic traffic rules.

A police van came full-speed from the opposite direction and before we could do anything, we received the full brunt of lathis on our backs, were lifted up and thrown inside the van. Direction: Market Thana. There ensued salvos of invectives in Punjabi centred on one's lower anatomy.

We were handcuffed and remained tied between two chairs in the SHO’s office for four days and nights. This made of us far greater rebels than the books we had lately become fond of: Maxim Gorky’s Mother and, of course, the Communist Manifesto.

Market Thana was located just near the red light area of Chakla. A large part of police activity in this thana consisted of rounding up prostitutes from the bazaar and bringing them in for extortion and entertainment.

The language of communication in the thana was Punjabi – not its Heer of Waris Shah variant but an outpouring of its filthiest variety. This made us understand all the more the resentment in Sindh against One Unit, the suppression of the smaller provinces and their merger into West Pakistan with its capital in Lahore.

During this time, we were hardly given any food and we avoided drinking water as we did not want to beg our unworldly hosts to take us to toilet. After four days, Hafeez Qureshi, one of the leading advocates of Hyderabad and a nationalist leader, came looking for us. He asked the SHO for a copy of the FIR so that he could engage legal procedures for our release. But an FIR there was none.

Apparently the SHO hadn’t even cared to inform his higher authorities of our arrest. He panicked and handed us over to the lawyer and even excused himself, saying that if he knew we were students, he would have let us go after admonition. Luckily for us, it was not yet the era of missing persons and kill and dump.

The discovery of Sindh

This small act of solidarity earned us lot of recognition and friends in the university. I already knew Jam Saqi, the great Sindhi nationalist leader whom I held in awe for his dedication and selflessness. He came from a far-off village in Tharparkar. I was a frequent visitor to his small kholi in a building on Tilak Charri.

He used to cook his only meal of the day late in the evening on a small stove. Even then, he used to insist on sharing it with me. I had never come across such a man in my family environment. I realised that life was much deeper and vaster than what family confines could offer. The real human beings were found where I was taught not to look for inspiration.

4th March served me as initiation into the soul of the province that had offered refuge to thousands of Urdu-speaking families like mine when they migrated to this country after Partition. With time, on becoming proficient in Sindhi language and going to the various cities and rural areas of Sindh as an activist, I impregnated myself with the deeply humanistic substrate of the Sindhi civilisation. With Jam Saqi, I came to meet luminaries like Hyder Bakhsh Jatoi, Ibrahim Joyo, Sobho Gianchandani, Usman Diplai and others.

What struck me the most in these people was their simplicity and total absence of pretension of any kind. I became more and more repulsed by the type of hostility that the great majority of educated Urdu-speakers maintained against the people of Sindh at the time.

The importance of 4th March

It will not be wrong to say that 4th March crystallised the defiance of the people of Sindh against the treatment meted out to them by the dominant players of the country. Ground was prepared for it first of all by an unprecedented flourishing of Sindhi literature in all of its genres, especially poetry. Poets like Shaikh Ayaz felt and mirrored the pain of Sindh in their poetry.

No wonder that after 4th March, a recurrent event Sindhi Sham became the main form of assertion of Sindhi identity and pride. Behind an innocuous cultural façade, Sindhi Sham was a forum for voicing dissent against the unjust policies perpetrated in the name of one nation.

Countless literary periodicals burgeoned in Sindh after 4th March. To this day, the most vibrant daily press of the country, closest to the ordinary citizens, is the Sindhi press.

Unfortunately, most historians and political specialists in and outside Pakistani, with some honourable exceptions like Dr Tanvir Ahmed who wrote the Political Dynamics of Sindh, have failed to take due account of the landmark nature of the 4th March Movement.

The Movement was an important component of the overall democratic upsurge in Pakistan that led to the falling of Ayub Khan’s dictatorship and dismemberment of One Unit. Even the books written on student movements in Pakistan seem to overlook the fact that Sindh, after having been wiped out from the country’s map by virtue of One Unit, struck back hard and reentered the political frame due to the defiance and courage of its students.

It is 50 years since that fateful evening of 4th March, 1967. It is long ago but so near that it is impossible to forget it. Time has not erased the deep pride I have always felt in making a very small contribution to that great event.

I will finish with a prayer by the inimitable Latif Sain:

Saim sadaein karein mathan Sindh Sukar
Dost mitha dildar Alam sub abad karein

My Lord keep Sindh always on top
Dear Friend also make prosperous the entire world

Have you been part of student movements in Pakistan? Tell us about your contributions at blog@dawn.com

The Indus is a mainstay of the Indian civilisation. For the people of Sindh especially, its mythical status penetrates each and every aspect of Sindhi life. The mention of River Indus, or Sindhu, goes as far back as we can go in recorded history.

K.R. Malkani, a Sindhi Hindu who had to leave his homeland during the mayhem of Partition, notes in his book The Sindh Story:

In the beginning was the word. The first recorded word was the Veda. And Veda is just ecstatic about Sindhu, the cradle of Indian civilisation:

"Sindhu in might surpasses all the streams that flow,
His roar is lifted upto heaven above the earth."

It is on the banks of this mighty river that rishis and sages have spent endless time contemplating the secrets of life and the universe.

Gradually, a cult of river worship developed in some of the areas where the Indus flows. The devotees personified their beliefs: Muslims would call him Khawaja Khizar, Zinda Pir, and Sheikh Tahir, while Hindus would evoke him by the names like Uderolal, Amar Lal, Uday Chand, and Jhulay Lal.

The people who follow the cult of river Indus are called Daryapanthis and their main centre is at Uderolal city, some 30km away from Hyderabad. The axis of the city is the shrine-temple complex; wherever you may go, it forms a skyline and reassuringly looms over the horizon. It embodies the spirit of Sindhudesh: the sharing of everything that is sacred, be it a Sufi shrine, a Sikh gurdwara, a Hindu temple, or a river deity.

The principle ritual is Chaiti Chand, which is both the birthday of Jhulay Lal and the celebration of the Hindu New Year. Chait is the first month of the Hindu calendar.

It sets in when the winter has gone and spring has also come to an end but the hot, gusty winds have not yet arrived. It is the time when wheat is harvested and fields are being prepared for cotton or paddy crop in the south of Sindh.

Even though most of Sindh's Hindus have migrated to India, Chaiti Chand is still celebrated with religious fervour and a growing spirit of community. In fact, after Partition, when Sindhis in India became a de-territorialised community, Sindhi singer Ram Panjwani tried to bind them together in a sense of Sindhiyyat by projecting the image of Uderolal as the patron saint or Ishtdev of Sindhi Hindus.

The main rituals commence in the evening and a stage is set for people to participate. The mela starts with jyot jagayan, or lighting the sacred lamp.

The proceedings continue with a pooja just before sunset, performed at the sacred well of Balanbho sahib. Its water is believed to have healing properties. After the prayer, chhando is performed in which the water is sprinkled on the face. It is supposed to enlighten the spirit.

An integral part of the mela is the behrano parwan karan, or floating the behrano. Behrano is a huge brass plate that is decorated with flour, sweets, dried fruits, lamps, and rose petals. It is an offering to the river and the Daryapanthis believe that fish and other aquatic organisms eat the behrano and bestow blessings upon the devotees.

People bring the behrano to Uderolal from various cities like Mirpurkhas, Shahdadapur, Sanghar, Nawabshah, Sakrand and others. Traditionally, the behrano was floated into the Indus, but now it is offered to any water body or canal because whatever water there is in Sindh, it comes from the Indus.

Another ritual that takes place during the mela is called pallao payan. It is when devotees hold the hems of their shirts or dupattas and pray to Uderolal to solve their problems and deliver them from the ordeals of the world.

The proceedings end with the chhej dance performed by energetic men wielding dandia. The swaying movements resemble the waves of the Indus. The chhej starts with a low rhythm and gradually moves to a frantic pace.

As time passes, the air gets thick with the fragrance of rose petals and incense, and the men passionately chant:

Ayo ayo, jhulay lal
Jeko chawando jhulay lal, tehnja theenda bera paar

Jhulay Lal has arrived
One who would say Jhulay Lal's name, his boat will safely reach the shores

It is followed by Jiay jhulay lal chants from the crowd.

For someone who knows that spaces for such activities are shrinking, the sight is at once exhilarating and a poignant reminder that perhaps all is not lost – at least not yet.

All photos are by the author.

What is the most grand festival or place of religious significance that you have visited? What did it teach you? Share it with us at blog@dawn.com

I quickly got up from my chair as I heard a loud thud and a door slamming shut across the hallway from my apartment. I looked out and saw my neighbour sitting in the corridor, bursting into tears.

As she clenched her fists and rolled up into a foetal position, it looked like she was ready to pass out any second. It was obvious that her boyfriend had assaulted her.

“Why don’t you give her some water? Make her feel like someone cares. Everyone is so selfish in Dubai as you know!” my husband suggested to me.

My hands shaking, I reached the shelf for a glass and hurriedly filled it with water. I hesitantly opened the door of the apartment just a crack, carefully trying not to make my neighbour feel as though I was intruding.

“Are you alright, do you need something?” I asked her. She shook her head as I motioned at her to drink some water. As I shut the door of my apartment, I noticed her boyfriend come out and pull her up by her arm, forcing her to leave the building even though she could barely walk.

I vividly remember the conversation I had after the nerve-wracking incident with my husband, who I had married only a few months ago. We were both concerned and couldn’t believe what we had just witnessed.

“How can anyone do something like this to their partner and intentionally inflict harm upon them?” He nodded in agreement and the rest of our night carried on quite uncomfortably since we were both worried about the fate of our neighbour.

Little did I know that the man I had married was going to do something much worse to me.

What she had gone through was physical abuse, which is apparent. Everyone can see it. But what I was about to go through was emotional abuse, which is much more subtle. I didn’t even realise what was happening until much later.

We all think we are hopelessly in love at the beginning of a relationship and nothing in the world can stop us from being together. But as time went by, it became clear to me that my ex-husband had extreme narcissistic personality traits.

The worst part is that he didn’t and will most likely never realise what he did wrong.

Idealise, devalue, discard. These are the three most common traits that a narcissist has. And that’s exactly what my ex-husband did in an extremely twisted, clever way.

When we first met in my last year of university, things were very different. He impressed me with how intelligent but down to earth he was. After I graduated, he proposed. Things were shaky at first since my parents weren’t welcoming to the idea of meeting someone I had chosen to be my partner. They were reacting like many Pakistani parents would.

They reluctantly agreed to meet him, and eventually things went smoothly. Both families were happy and on good terms. My parents were eager for me to get married as early as possible, as typical Pakistani parents prefer.

Right after the wedding, we flew to Dubai where he was living. The small, studio apartment wasn’t what I had dreamed of, but I shoved that thought aside. The most important thing for me was having an understanding with my husband and a supportive relationship in every possible way.

Things were fairytale-like in the beginning, as the ‘honeymoon’ phase usually is. But a few months later, they started to go downhill.

Suddenly, his interest in me began to fade. Our physical relationship and even the slightest things like the conversations we used to have began to take a sharp turn. Some days would pass by normally but most were nightmares.

The biggest problem was that he had an explanation for everything. For instance, I would ask him why he would frequently go on walks alone, sometimes late at night. He would give me long explanations as to how all intelligent people like Einstein, Newton, and even prophets used to spend solitary time to think about the world and why we are here.

I used to think it was a Pakistani norm that having alone time after marriage is considered odd and every single activity has to be done together, so I would just nod in agreement to his answers.

Since his passion for photography suddenly reignited, I encouraged him to pursue it. But I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he would spend weekends meeting random women who he was in contact with online to photograph them for free.

His answer was that photography was his passion and he wanted to continue pursuing it, even without being compensated. He would say that it was just to get him back on track since he felt he had lost the skill. “Why are you only photographing women who are barely wearing anything?” I asked him. Because he didn't know how to photograph men, he would tell me. Once again, I let it go.

He even had an excuse ready for why our physical relationship was in shambles. He claimed that he used to be alone as an only child. It was challenging for him to even share the same bathroom as someone else.

Being private with his phone and laptop came with another set of answers. These gadgets were the siblings he never had and felt a close attachment with since there was nobody else to hang out with during the long, lonely days at home in Karachi.

That’s how I was sucked into his manipulative world.

He even managed to convince the therapist I somehow talked him into going to. When I talked to her individually, it seemed that she understood my situation perfectly. But after a one-on-one session with him, she concluded that things would be fine and seemed very satisfied with how he is as a person.

And that is the most odd thing about people like him. They are so convincing and likeable that if you only know them superficially, you can never pinpoint exactly what is wrong. People around them don’t realise they have a problem because of how well they carry themselves in front of others. And this is a lot more common than one would think.

When I first met him, I saw a confident, dedicated and passionate individual. But now I feel I had actually confused his superiority complex and self-obsession with healthy confidence.

His obsession with being successful and undermining others were warning signs that our relationship won't be very different. Another red flag was that there was a serious problem with how he responded to criticism of his work. For him, his work in communication design and photography was sublime.

One day, I merely pointed out that one of his photographs was excessively saturated and the editing could have been better. He blew up on me, saying I didn’t know what I was talking about since I was not a professional in the field.

He had strung me along the entire time till I realised what was going on. It took me some excessive stalking through Instagram – not surprisingly the same platform we had first connected on – to realise he was being flirtatious with other women and even seriously involved with one of them.

When I started realising what was going on and questioned him, he started to lose interest in me. An entire week went by with us living apart because I was suddenly not willing to listen to his excuses. After a major fight, he told me to leave, which I did. He refused to allow me back into what was our home because he needed “time to process everything”.

The game was over for him since I wouldn’t consent to or entertain his control over me. So, he went out to fulfill his ego with a new victim who he had started seeing while we were still married. The pictures and videos I found of him with his girlfriend were proof enough for me.

When I confronted him, he had yet another list of excuses ready.

That’s when I decided to leave him because I knew the situation would only get worse. But it didn’t go according to how I had planned. Instead, he forced me to leave because he thought we needed a “break from our relationship.” It was just another trick out of his mind-games playbook.

I had to debate a thousand times in my mind if I wanted to leave him or not. I was still too scared to take this step because a part of me still loved him. As difficult as it was, I knew in my heart that I had to do it. No matter what opinions the rest of the world had, they would never fully understand the misery I was being put through and the constant conflicts going through my mind on a daily basis. I finally decided I didn't have a future with this man.

While he was at work, I packed all my things and walked out the door without ever looking back. It was the most rattling, nerve-wracking and stomach-wrenching decision I have ever taken in my entire life. But it had to be done because I knew my life would only get worse had I stayed in this marriage.

I had fully trusted my ex-husband with my entire being and I couldn't comprehend why he would lie and manipulate me. It took me a long time to process what had happened and why. I would constantly be questioning why he had gotten married to me if he only wanted to play these mind games.

Once I realised who he truly was, I felt as though I was going through a roller-coaster ride of emotions. I went through phases of anger, hurt, and resentment. Eventually, I had to accept that this is how he was as a person and it wasn't going to change.

For the women who are in abusive relationships, just know that it’s never too late to end it. You are entitled to your own happiness, and nobody else is in charge of that or can understand it better than yourself.

We live in a patriarchal society that doesn’t accept divorce with open arms. People also tend to think there isn’t an actual issue if there is no physical abuse involved. Emotional abuse is not taken seriously enough. So many women out there are living in misery because they are either afraid to confront the situation or their families refuse to see the abuse.

But really, ask yourself: is it worth suffering your entire life because log kya kehngay? I don't think so.

Were you or are you in an abusive relationship and want to share how it has affected you? Tell us at blog@dawn.com

Gaddafi Stadium

City: Lahore (Punjab)

Constructed: 1959

First Test Match: 1959 (Pakistan vs. Australia)

Original Name: Lahore Stadium. Changed to Gaddafi Stadium in 1974.

Seating Capacity: 27,000

Home Ground of Lahore Qalandars; Lahore Eagles; Lahore Lions.

• The headquarters of the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) and cricket’s main training academy in the country are both situated at Gaddafi Stadium.

• A Test match here against England was affected by rioting in 1968. In 1977 another Test (also against England) witnessed a riot between police and spectators.

• Three matches were held at Gaddafi Stadium during the 1987 Cricket World Cup in India and Pakistan. This included one of the tournament’s semi-finals.

• The stadium was expanded and renovated just before the 1996 Cricket World Cup. It held three matches during the event, including the 1996 World Cup final.

• The last Test match to be played in Pakistan was at Gaddafi Stadium in 2009. It was abandoned midway after the bus carrying the visiting Sri Lankan squad was attacked by terrorists.

• Pitches at the stadium have largely been batting-friendly, except during a Test match against India in 1978 and a Test (also against India) in 2004 when green-top tracks were prepared to help fast bowlers.

• The first ODI was played here in 1978 against England.

• The first T-20 international was played here in 2015 against Zimbabwe.

• The final of the second edition of Pakistan’s premier cricket tournament, the Pakistan Super League (PSL) was held at the Gaddafi Stadium in March, 2017.

National Stadium

City: Karachi (Sindh)

Constructed: 1955

First Test Match: 1955 (Pakistan vs. India)

Seating Capacity: 40,000

Home Ground of Karachi Kings; Karachi Dolphins; Karachi Zebras.

• The National Stadium is Pakistan’s largest cricket stadium.

• The first Test match at the stadium was played in 1955 (Pakistan vs. India).

• The first ODI here was played in 1980.

• Pakistan has played more than half of its Tests in Pakistan on this ground. It has lost just two. Once the National Stadium was known as ‘Pakistan’s cricket fortress.’

• The stadium has witnessed some of the most thrilling Tests and ODIs played in Pakistan.

• Despite National Stadium being the most successful home ground of the Pakistan cricket team, and famous for producing some of the most exciting Tests and ODIs, it also has a history of experiencing the largest number of riots and disturbances during matches.

• Tests here were badly affected by rioting in 1968 (against England) and 1969 (against New Zealand). Rioting also took place here during a Test (against West Indies) in 1981 and an ODI (against Australia) in 1983. The ODI was eventually abandoned. Things began to improve from the late 1980s onward.

• The stadium was expanded for the 1987 Cricket World Cup. It hosted three games during the tournament.

• Further improvements were made for the 1996 World Cup. The National Stadium hosted three matches during the 1996 tournament.

• The National Stadium had a matting wicket (jute) between 1955 and late 1950s which helped seam bowling. Its pitches were flat and batting-friendly after matting was removed. They remained this way till the mid-1970s. The groundsmen then began to prepare square turners, but from 1982, the pitches at the stadium became more sporting. They would offer seam and bounce to fast bowlers at the start of the Test, become stable in the middle, and offer some spin at the tail-end of the match. ODI strips remained batting-friendly, though.

• National Stadium is also famous for offering swing to quick bowlers. Experts believe this is due to the steady sea-breeze which often blows across the stadium.

• The last international match to be played here was in 2009.

Iqbal Stadium

City: Faisalabad (Punjab)

Constructed: 1970s

First Test Match: 1978 (Pakistan vs. India)

Seating Capacity: 18,000

Home Ground of Faisalabad Wolves.

• Once known as Layallpur Stadium (the old name of Faisalabad), Iqbal Stadium was renovated and given the status of a frontline cricket stadium in 1978.

• Traditionally, Iqbal Stadium pitches have been flat. Out of the 24 Tests held here, 14 have ended in a draw.

• It was at this stadium that the infamous spat between former England captain Mike Getting, and Pakistani umpire, Shakoor Rana, took place in 1988. The incident became a diplomatic nightmare for the governments of both the countries.

• The last Test held at this stadium was in 2006. The last ODI played here was in 2008.

Rawalpindi Cricket Stadium

City: Rawalpindi/Islamabad

Constructed: 1992

First Test Match: 1993 (Pakistan vs. Zimbabwe)

Seating Capacity: 25,000

Home Ground of Islamabad United; Rawalpindi Rams; Islamabad Leopards.

• Situated in the suburbs of Rawalpindi and very close to Pakistan’s capital city, Islamabad, the stadium first emerged as a Test venue in 1993.

• It was a busy venue during the 1996 Cricket World Cup.

• It was a regular Test venue till early 2000s.

• The pitches here have been largely sporting.

• The last Test played here was in 2004.

Arbab Niaz Stadium

City: Peshawar (Khyber Pakhtunkhwa)

Constructed: 1984

First Test Match: 1995 (Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka)

Seating Capacity: 20,000

Home Ground of Peshawar Zalmi and Peshawar Panthers.

• Arbab Niaz Stadium emerged as a frontline cricket ground in the early 1980s, but it did not host a Test match till 1995. It was mostly used for ODI games.

• The pitches here have largely aided spinners.

• The last Test played here was in 2003.

Multan Cricket Stadium

City: Multan (Punjab)

Last Test Played Here: 2001 (Pakistan vs. Bangladesh)

Seating Capacity: 35,000

Home Ground of Multan Tigers

• The Multan Cricket Stadium hosted its first Test in 1981 and last in 2006.

• The pitch here has traditionally aided seam bowlers.

• During a Pakistan-West Indies Test here in 1981, West Indian fast bowler, Sylvester Clarke, hurled a brick in the stands at a spectator who was throwing oranges at him. The brick hit the spectator on the head and he was hospitalised.

• Pakistan downed a strong England side here in 2005 after England had defeated Australia in that year’s Ashes series.

Jinnah Stadium Sialkot

City: Sialkot (Punjab)

Constructed: 1920s.

First Test Match: 1985 (Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka)

Seating Capacity: 18,000

Home Ground of Sialkot Stallions

• This stadium was first constructed in the 1920s by the British. In the 1950s it was named Jinnah Park. In 1979 it was upgraded and renamed Jinnah Stadium.

• The first Test here was played in 1985 and the last in 1995.

• Pakistan played its first ever ODI at home on this ground in 1976. It was against New Zealand. It was also New Zealand’s first ODI against Pakistan.

• Jinnah Stadium is known for its green-top pitches that help fast bowlers.

• A 1984 Pakistan-India ODI here was stopped midway and abandoned after news of the assassination of the then Indian PM, Indira Gandhi, reached the ground. India were batting.

Niaz Stadium

City: Hyderabad (Sindh)

Constructed: 1962.

First Test Match: 1973 (Pakistan vs. England)

Seating Capacity: 15,000

Home Ground of Hyderabad Hawks

• The world’s 1000th Test match was played at Niaz Stadium (Pakistan vs. New Zealand) in 1984.

• Swing bowler, Jalaluddin, took the first hat-trick for Pakistan in ODIs. He did it during an ODI against Australia in 1983 at Niaz Stadium.

• The last time a Test was played here was in 1984, even though Niaz Stadium continued to host ODIs till 2008.

• The Niaz Stadium pitch has traditionally been placid and batting-friendly.

Gujranwala Jinnah Stadium

City: Gujranwala (Punjab)

First Test Match: 1991 (Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka)

Seating Capacity: 20,000

• The first (and only) Test match held here was in 1991.

• The last ODI played at the stadium was in 2000.

• One match was held here during the 1987 Cricket World Cup (West Indies vs. England).

• The current World number one umpire, Pakistan’s Aleem Dar, made his international umpiring debut at this stadium during a Pakistan-Sri Lanka ODI in 2000.

Sheikhupura Stadium

City: Sheikhupura (Punjab)

Construction: 1995

First Test Match: 1996 (Pakistan vs. Zimbabwe)

Seating Capacity: 15,000

• The Stadium has hosted two Tests and two ODIs.

Zaffar Ali Stadium

City: Sahiwal (Punjab)

Construction: 1955

Seating Capacity: 35,000

• Only two ODIs have been held at this stadium. One (against England) in 1977; and the other (against India) in 1978.

• The ground is best known for the ODI match which India voluntarily forfeited to Pakistan in 1978 when Pakistan fast bowlers, Sarfaraz Nawaz and Imran Khan, began bowling bouncers hurled specifically to injure the batsman. There were no laws against such bowling in ODIs in those days.

Ayub National Stadium

City: Quetta (Balochistan)

Seating Capacity: 20,000

Home Ground of Quetta Gladiators and Quetta Bears.

• Though just two ODIs (and no Tests) have been played here, Ayub Stadium is best known for holding the first-ever ODI between Pakistan and India (1978).

Bagh-e-Jinnah

City: Lahore

Constructed: 1885

Capacity: 8,000

First Test: 1954 (Pakistan vs. India)

• Bagh-e-Jinnah is located within Lahore’s vast Lawrence Garden. It was built by the British.

• It was Pakistan’s first international cricket venue.

• It stopped being a Test venue after the construction of Gaddafi Stadium in 1959.

• It is now mostly used for club cricket games.

• It has Pakistan’s only cricket museum.

DHA Cricket Stadium

City: Karachi

Capacity: 8,000

First (and only) Test: 1993 (Pakistan vs. Zimbabwe)

This article was originally published on January 22, 2016.

This piece consists of snippets chronicling gender roles on the streets of Karachi through a male gaze, and also tells part of the story behind Girls at Dhabas — a group that consists of men, women, and every gender in between.

"LADIES HAI, LADIES HAI! Ruk!" [It's ladies! Stop!] yells the bus conductor. The bus driver screeches to a complete halt. This isn’t a usual event for the SUPER HASAN ZAI public coach in Karachi, unless a woman waits at the bus stop.

A woman donned in a simple shalwar kameez and a dupatta wrapped around her head makes her way inside. She briskly settles down on a seat in the ladies' section. The men occupying the ladies' section adjust to make room for her: they are being ‘respectable’ gentlemen.

In 15 years of traveling of buses, I have never seen men do that for other men. I often wonder if it is an action grounded in respectability, or one of misguided protection.

I instantly think back to the time my friend, S and I went to a dhaba. Out of concern and 'respect', the dhaba wala offered my friend a special spot: "Bibi," he had said, "Aap family area mein beth jayein." The family area was a table situated at the back of the room, draped with a curtain, where my friend would be out sight from the rest of the male customers.

On the surface, it might seem like a thoughtful act on the dhaba wala's part. But like the action of making room for a woman on the bus (while on other days 'accidentally' pinching her), these actions are rooted in misogyny: men in this country are not so much concerned with giving women their space, but rather defining it for them.

Even seemingly well-meaning acts of kindness, when analysed, betray the power dynamics that rule any male-female relationship in Karachi's public space. In fact, there are myriads of ways us men police women’s behaviour in public daily: when we tell them to wait inside cars while we go run an errand, when we tell our girl friends not to smoke in public, when we hear about our female friends hanging out at dhabas, and say: ‘That’s no place for a woman.’

2:30pm, Ziauddin Ahmed Road

I'm standing with Rafi the makai wala right outside the university gate. He's cooking corn for the kids from the neighboring schools; the square is occupied with a spectrum of individuals. Rickshaw drivers hoping to get a ride, kids in line waiting for junk they can put in their stomachs, a circle of men smoking surrounded by a larger circle of men who seem to have found comfort under the tree’s shade.

Looking around, I think about the male to female ratio in Pakistan, which is almost 1:1. But there isn’t a woman in sight.

A girl interrupts the scene, walking by in skinny jeans, a low cut top, and hair neatly parted to her side. I recognise her from my class. As she walks towards Rafi’s cart, I notice the heads of the rickshaw walas (men), passersby (men) and loiterers (men) turn, their gaze following her walk, much like my own.

I shift my eyes and look elsewhere.

6:30pm, Badar Commercial

It's nearly dusk. I'm at a dhaba with my friend, killing time. She's buried writing something in her journal, a cigarette (that needs to be ashed) in her other hand. As usual, I notice heads turning towards us.

A girl with a cigarette at a dhaba is entertainment for everyone; I’ve smoked countless cigarettes over cups and cups of tea at dhabas with my male friends, no one turns their head around. But with her, I have become used to winning staring competitions with other customers.

A masseuse walks across the parking lot filled with chairs and the smell of chai, the clink of his oil bottles echoing through the street. My friend asks me to call out to him: she wants a massage.

“Are you working right now?” “I am,” he replies, placing his oil on the table before me. He positions himself behind me, rolling his sleeves up.

“I don’t want a massage. Baji wants one."

He stares at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and ‘Are you joking?'. We tell him we are serious.

He moves behind my friend, placing his hand around her neck. She lets it down immediately, and the massage begins. Then men sitting around us are visibly uncomfortable. We overhear some of them gossiping. ‘A girl – getting a massage!’ It is absurd. Why isn’t it equally absurd when men get massages in public?

4:00pm, Sindhi Muslim

Needing a break from studying, I walk outside for fresh air: the cigarette/pan cabin at the end of my galli is a familiar spot. I light a cigarette as the traffic of people and cars pass by. A woman from my street – I recognise her – is walking with a heavy load of groceries in her hand. Some man offers to help. She abruptly refuses his offer, No thank you, and he cluelessly walks away.

Standing there, I notice the hordes of men all around the corner, where the woman had to make her way through. I can’t blame her for being edgy. No man has to walk around with the kind of constant paranoia women do in this city.

8:00pm, at home with my father

I tell my father how I’ve been frequenting dhabas with my friend – a girl. He thinks it's cool.

“It portrays our city as if it's not women friendly though,” he insists. In another breath, he doesn’t allow my sisters to walk till the corner of our street to fetch groceries.

He thinks the city’s security condition is to blame for the ratio of men and women out on the roads. “If a girl goes to a dhaba, there’s a 90 per cent chance something bad will happen to her,” he adds.

1:30am, late night thoughts

Whatever ‘security conditions’ there might be, my friend and I have started sitting at dhabas every day.

Harassment, so far, has been limited to the extent of stares. Some are curious. Some disapproving. Our culture claims to be welcoming and respectful towards women, but we have gotten used to its hypocrisies.

I think about how the common culprit is almost always a man, but it’s the women who has to make the difficult choices. Some are forced to live under the umbrella of misplaced, self-righteous ‘concern’ leveled by men who claim they know what is best for their wives, sisters and daughters.

Other men and women alike have become so conditioned that they continue protecting this system of thoughts: we say ‘men will be men’, we discourage women from being – just being – in public, and any time someone fights back, we shut them up, calling them unrealistic.

9:00pm, outside Shireen Jinnah Colony

Normally, my friend and I would not drive to Shireen Jinnah Colony at 9pm, but today we are feeling braver than usual. Nearing Khyaban-e-Bedil, I call Naeem who I am supposed to meet for a smoking session.

He instructs me to turn into a street without lights. Forcing paranoia to drift out the window, I drive in. Naeem is waiting for us when we reach.

“Naeem, this is my friend. She is very close to my heart. I hope she is welcome here,” I greet him.

“Ali bhai, your friend is my friend. Let’s go in the tanker parking lot. We have a seating arrangement there.”

I drive deeper into Shireen Jinnah, calm as the summer sea, and park where Naeem asks me to. We get out of the car and place ourselves in the car seats set out on the ground. It is pitch-black and I feel just as safe as I do in any other part of Karachi.

My friend lights a smoke, and Naeem responds with shock. But he doesn’t say anything. He simply smiles, and hands her some matches.

10:30pm, Cantt

After leaving Naeem, we impulsively decide to stop at a dhaba near the Cantt Station. We order some daal and roti, and of course, chai to wash it all down. As usual, her head is buried in her journal with the same unashed cigarette pose. I use her phone to browse through Instagram.

“I wish other girls came to dhabas too. It would really tone down the whole staring game,” I said.

“So let’s figure out a way to,” she replies. We cackle and snigger, scheming ways to fix the dismal gender-ratio at dhabas and public spaces in Pakistan. She suggests putting up a photo of herself on social media as an experiment first. We discuss if we should hashtag it. #SAtDhabas, I suggest, and she turns it down immediately.

“Wait. I know what we should do,” I reply, running off with the phone. I snap a picture of her (knowing she will hate it) and give it a more inclusive hashtag: #GirlsAtDhabas.

Perween Rahman, Director of the Orangi Pilot Project, was killed on this day in 2013.

She was a selfless and dedicated activist, a dear friend, a close comrade, a loving daughter and my younger sister.

Below is an account - largely imaginary, but also including factual details - of the chain of events leading to the moment Perween was shot.

That morning, she was up, as usual, at 7:30, greeted by birds chirping in her garden on bushes of red and yellow ixora, hibiscus flowers, swaying palms, clay figurines of ducks and elephants, vines and flowers, and butterflies and bees, for her bed was right alongside the window to the garden and the curtains were never drawn.

The cats who slept on her bed, one at her feet, the other by her head, began their call for food. She told them to be patient until she had washed her face and brushed her teeth. Telling them this was a complete waste of time for they never ever relented, so with her hair flowing, in her red linen nightgown, admonishing the cats, she headed to the kitchen to dole out their food. Added to the two permanent feline members of the family were three black kittens she had picked up on her way from office.

After feeding the cats, she made breakfast for Ammi and herself – one poached egg for herself, two toasts with butter for Ammi, and tea for both. They sat at the dining table in direct visual line with the dining room window which was abound with red, pink, and white fragrant jhumka flowers, yellow flowers of the radhachura, and trailing vines with heart-shaped leaves.

The table was surrounded by blue, rust and yellow pottery, vase, pitchers and plates, on the floor, on the sideboard, on the shelf with plants growing in bottles, brought from the numerous trips to towns and cities of Sindh and Punjab where she would go to meet her partners.

She was to go to Dadu in a couple of days to supervise the shelter program for those affected by the floods that submerged large swathes of Sindh and Punjab. She had told Anwar Rashid that they had to make time to go to Bhitshah to celebrate spring later in the month.

They had been there, as was their tradition, on new year's eve to pay homage to Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai whose songs to the seven queens of Sindh – Moomal, Sassui, Heer, Lila, Saroth, Marvi, and Sohni – spoke of their beauty and purity of heart through the ragas that bore their name. Anwar Rashid joked that if Perween had lived in the days of Bhitai Shah there would surely have been a raga for her, probably called sur muskurahat or the song of smiles!

Each time she went to the mazaar complex, she blithely climbed the steps to the main building of the blue and white floral embellished mausoleum. On the way, stopping by every vendor, sometimes to ask them how they were and always to buy something or the other from them, a ring, a set of glass bangles, discovered, as if for the first time, with accompanying trills of laughter, buying the umpteenth ring, the hundredth bangle, the thousandth cat figurine – all to be given to friends, team members and nieces.

This was her custom too in the bazaars of Uch Sharif, the lanes of Thatta, the bazaar in Bahawalpur, Thailand, Bandung, Sri Lanka, Nepal, India, Switzerland, Japan and everywhere else she went to talk about the model of people-government partnership through which sanitation, housing, education, and health for the poor could be obtained.

Breakfast over her sola singaar or beauty ritual, as she called it, commenced. Massaging her neck and forehead with Oil of Ulay, combing and tucking in her hair with a a clip at the back, putting on her stone-encrusted silver rings and bangles, her looped earrings, her small, bead pendants, she carried on a running set of instructions for Ammi's caretaker, Mussarat.

“Give her Brufen. Her knees are painful today. Make her kebabs for lunch. Take her for a walk in the evening even if she protests…”

She wore a white chikan kurta and white shalwar with a maroon ajrak chadar over her shoulders and kohlapuri slippers on her slender feet.

“You look fresh today Baji,” Mussarat remarked, “At last you are wearing summer clothes…”

“I really feel colder than all of you especially in Orangi. The wind seems to tunnel there.”

That morning, her silver tiffin box in hand, bottle of water tucked under her arms, her turquoise and yellow cloth bag that she had recently purchased from Khaadi slung over her shoulders, she gave Ammi a kiss on the forehead, bent to pet Acchu who was waiting at the door, and got into the waiting car, sitting as usual on the back seat to the left. She rolled down the window and blew a kiss to the trio of Ammi, Musarrat and Acchu still lingering outside the door. They went in only when she was out of sight.

“Madam, today I could not get CNG for the car as the government has closed stations for the day. I bought some petrol instead,” Wali Dad told her as they set off.

“What can we do about this Wali Dad? It’s okay. Just that it will cost us a lot more. But, we will see …”

While talking to Wali Dad she was rummaging through her bag looking for her mobile phone.

“Wali Dad, I seem to have forgotten my phone at home. Can we turn back?”

By now, morning had unfurled itself upon the city. In the strong, generous sunlight, the city landscape looked like a field of houses, with diverse shapes, the sad roads reaching out to the commercial part of town not yet filled with the noisy bustle that fills it during the day. They had turned right onto Abul Hasan Ispahani Road, flanked on both sides by tall apartment buildings and had already crossed the back gates of the NED Engineering University.

“You never forget your phone Madam, what happened?”

“Today I was getting so many calls and I asked Ammi to put it off…she must have put it somewhere and I forgot to pick it up.”

“I was also wondering why you had not started calling. You do that every day…answer all your missed calls…We will lose at least 30 minutes in turning back…do you want to do it Madam?”

“Yes! Please let us hurry…”

They reached the house and entered the gate. The guards were surprised.

“How is it that you are back so soon? Is there trouble on the way?”

“No…no I forgot my phone…”

She rang the doorbell three times in her characteristic manner to signal that it was her.

“Baji, what happened…?

“Nothing, Mussarrat I just left my phone...Where is it?”

“I just finished dusting the lounge. I did not find it. Look again in your bag, Baji. Maybe it is in the side pocket.”

She looked again and found the phone.

“Oho! If I had looked carefully, I would not have to turn back…Everyone must be waiting for me at the office…”

“Maybe it was so I could hug you again, my sweety…” Ammi embraced her.

She gave Ammi a tight hug and kissed her cheeks.

“I will be back early today, I promise…”

Ammi went up to the door to bid her a second goodbye and lingered at the door long after she had gone.

Along her route to the office, the city had taken on the aspect of its people who for the past year had become fearful, gaunt, and furtive. Karachi had always been a vast field in perpetual turmoil from a storm of interests beneath which whirled along a crop of human beings, more often than not, reaped by death and mayhem.

This city seemed to sit on the coals of the earth, at the mouth of hell, with smoke and fire where everything gleams, crackles, evaporates, dies out, then lights up again, with shooting sparks, and is consumed. Life had never been more ardent or acute, throwing up fire and flame from its eternal crater.

That Wednesday morning, on March 13th, she decided to ask her mapping team to start mapping a particular Goth in Gadap. With land value becoming high in Karachi, the city's development was fast expanding into peripheral towns, so the Goths in Gadap, Bin Qasim and Kemari were threatened with eviction. Eviction from their homes is something she knew about.

The walls that give shelter are brutally demolished and become heaps of rubble and everything is thrown to the mercy of the the open sky…just like she had been in February 1972 in Bangladesh. The soldiers of the newly-independent country had dispossessed her parents and three siblings and taken them to a field to be sorted out – the men sent to prison, the women to a camp way down the river Sitalakhya. Perhaps this is what made her react so strongly to any news of dispossession.

As usual, the first thing she did in her office was to discuss with her joint-Director, who sat in the same room as her, the progress of ongoing work and future plans.

“Did someone go to check out that hydrant outside Beach Luxury Hotel? I saw it when we left after the KLF. We were in the car driving out from the hotel when I saw it under a large old banyan tree.”

“How do you manage to spot these things?”

"It's uncanny, is it not? Also send someone to the one on the road to Malir Cantt…”

“How did you spot that? You never take that road…”

“We were trying to get to Apa's house through the way behind Safoora Goth as the roads were blocked by protestors demanding justice for the killings of Hazara Shias in Quetta…that was such a cruel, barbaric thing to do…”

“I know. Ashraf went to the one near Beach Luxury, but was spotted trying to photograph and he left…You know it is becoming riskier and riskier to document these illegal hydrants…”

“I know, especially after Kamran Khan aired his programme on our research. But he did not take our name, so maybe it is not so bad that people have become aware of the magnitude of the water problem and that it can be solved by stopping this illegal sale of water. It is incredible that this sale generates 50 crore rupees for the mafia while the budget of the water and sewerage board who own the water have a budget of five crore rupees…”

“Don't you think these people can find out who was behind the research…and now that militants have begun to take a share from the tankers supplied to the industries in Site and Baldia, it is even more dangerous…they are right outside our gate, you know…”

“Okay, let's just add the two hydrants to our list and not send the team to stake it out. You are right, we should become more discreet…”

“I think we should not document any more of the hydrants and concentrate on our housing program for the Goths…I was approached by the Goth elder to also map his village…”

“This is so great …we have secured housing for so many people… 1,000 villages have gotten their lease now…this will change the perception that these are empty tracts of land for anyone to lay claim on and sell for profit…”

“But the elders might want to sell it to people…”

“That is okay…it is their right to sell their land rather than be thrown out. At least they will get a good price for it. And you know how much money these land grabbers have. They seem to be the only ones with so much money.”

“Do you think they get it from selling drugs?”

“Yes, and also from extortion over the Nato trucks and the Afghan transit trade…all these are a continuation of the war economy. Anyway, let’s see what our latest figures on our secure housing program…you know, I am so proud that we were able to help so many people…”

“We will meet over lunch today, will we not?”

“Yes, yes…I told Musarrat to make extra vegetables today. We might have a couple of people joining us…”

If Mussarat asked Perween what she would like for lunch, Ammi would answer, “Why are you asking her, you know if she has her way she would only eat daal. Make her some bhindi bhaaji.”

“Baji, why don't you eat some chicken or kababs. I can quickly fry you some kababs.”

“No, no, don't do that. You know I don't eat meat. So stop trying!”

“Your mobile has been ringing constantly. Whoever is trying to contact you is getting desperate,” Ammi had said that morning.

“I saw the number…it is a strange one. Seems to be from a pay phone.”

“Why don't you answer?”

“I will if the person calls again once I am on my way…”

Her conversation with her joint-Director over, she pushed back the cane and wood chair that she had used as her office chair since she joined Orangi Pilot Project in 1982 first as an unpaid intern, within a year to becoming joint-Director and then Director, and picked up her beige and orange cloth bound notebook, took a gulp of water, and headed to the accounts section.

The accounts had to be meticulously handled and every rupee accounted for. After instructing the accounts officer to send funds to their partners in Shahdadkot for the shelter project, she crossed the sunny corridor again to the mapping rooms.

On the way, she stopped for a few minutes to look at the plants in the quadrangle in the centre of the building. This space with steps all around had been used in the past to put up plays and soirees where women and children of the community were invited to participate. There had not been an event for years now for fear of the extremists.

The mapping room always gave her spirits a special lift. As she stepped into that room, she looked, with great satisfaction, at the maps that plastered the walls of the room and rolled-up cartridges of maps, the drawing boards, the young man and woman at work. While presenting the mapping programme in Bangkok on the 26th of February, she had said that they were the Ninja Turtles of mapping.

“Really Madam, you actually said that.”

“Yes”

“Madam, ever since you got the Google map software for us, our work is so much easier.”

“Show me the last map you made for the flood areas….you did take into record the livestock did you not? This will help us with our village development project…”

“Are you going to link with Rashid bhai's partners who give credit to women for livestock?”

“Yes, that is our plan. Hope it works out. Ever since the floods, I feel that we have to do something for the uplift of the villages. Their misery is beyond acceptable…”

“Madam, please come and sit with us…” the portly Naheed popped into the mapping room and called out.

“You look so fresh today,” Naheed complimented her when she joined them.

“Spring is here and I love the smell in the air. Come to think of it, I do feel like new today...must be the white I am wearing…”

“Oh! We do love the clothes you wear, always so ethnic, beautiful, and so modern…”

“I have a private fashion consultant, you know…”

“We know, we know…your niece, but it cannot be just that. You have always worn such attractive clothes and always khadi and cotton. Maybe you got it from Doctor Saheb…the khadi I mean…”

“Maybe, but I am not so austere. I love colours and patterns and look, this chadar is made of the natural dyes that are traditionally used for ajrak.”

“It really suits you.”

After lunch, tea in ceramic cups was served from the small kitchen. Team members and staff used the kitchen to warm their food, and sometimes the girls from the health team cooked khichri for their lunch. Generally, everyone brought food from home.

“Madam, come and take a few bites with us.”

She got up and went over to the adjoining table and took a piece of naan and dipped it in the curry.

“Very tasty, Ashraf. Did your wife make it?”

“No Madam, she is in her mother's house for delivery…”

"Wow! Ashraf, I can't believe you are to become a father…hope everything goes well. Don't forget to bring chamchams for us when the baby arrives…”

“As if you eat sweets, Madam…”

“I will…for sure.”

On her way home that evening perhaps, she had contemplated as it deserves to be contemplated – the deserted street, a street that was full of people and yet deserted. Perhaps she felt the car slowing down to go over the bumps.

Perhaps, she looked over her shoulder as her blue Corolla entered the narrow lane outside her office to be sure no one was following her. It was time for dusk to cast its shadows on the streets of Orangi.

Perhaps, she saw the young man, sitting in the platform at the tea stall, with long curly black hair under a grey cap, free flowing beard, short, dark-grey qameez, and voluminous shalwar. Perhaps she saw him take his mobile phone from the pocket of his waistcoat and click on the buttons to make a call.

Perhaps, she heard him say, “The bird has left the nest…” Perhaps she thought “Why is he talking about birds?” and then perhaps she thought of the bulbul pair that nested in her garden of fragrant blossoms and wondered if Acchu, her black cat, had not upset them too much.

Perhaps, she saw the birds that flock at dusk before darkness seals their way and gazed at the few clouds already scattered by the wind that had come to carry off the day.

The lane was not well lit, and silhouettes of the leafless trees against the sky, lit by lines and specks of shades of orange of the setting sun seemed ghostly, but nothing appeared to be threatening. Not to her.

“It's late. Wali Dad,” she said to her driver, “Ammi will be angry…”

“Madam, she is used to your timings. When do you ever go home early…times are not good…I keep telling you to leave before dark…but you do not listen…”

“I know, Wali Dad, but we have to work and I could not leave those women who came from Badin before helping with their work…they have to go back tomorrow...besides, Anwar Rashid also works late and never leaves me alone in the office…did you get the vegetables Ammi told you to get?”

“Yes I did…”

Directly in front were the Manghopir hills that bound her city, her Karachi, to the west. This was a city to which she had come as a teenager, thrown out from East Pakistan, the land of her birth, when the great Partition was undone, and Bangladesh emerged from its ashes!

On the hills the buildings, rooted in granite, raised up upon steep slopes, an avalanche of houses heaped indiscriminately together, woven together by years of forced migration, a refuge from within and outside the country. The colours in the haphazard houses, out of sight of the sun, gradually took on their grey tones. There was something cold about that diversity of grays. A mild unease slumbered in the streets.

Then, perhaps, she leaned back on the seat and closed her eyes. She was tired. The day had been long. Just ahead on the corner, the yard selling timber for construction work was deserted. It was filled with echoes. The car turned left onto the main road. High up in the lonely night, an unknown lamp shone behind a window.

Everything else in the city was dark except where feeble rays from the streetlamps hesitantly rose and, here and there, resembled the palest earthly moonlight. In the black of the night, the different colours and tones of the houses were barely distinguishable, only vague, abstract, making up the irregularities of the unruly whole.

Of late, this road had deteriorated with large potholes and the stormwater drain that divided the two sides of the road had filled with plastic, silt and garbage. They were heading towards Banaras Chowk, which was one of the two entry points to Orangi. The Pirabad area lay ahead. Anwar Rashid's white Corolla was just ahead.

Perhaps she saw the man pillion-riding a motorcycle, his face hidden by the triangular-folded scarf tied in a knot at the back of his head, take out a pistol. Perhaps she heard the four shots and the sound of glass shattering.

Perhaps she felt the searing pain in her delicate neck, perhaps she remembered her Ammi was waiting for her, as the spewing blood stained red her white, delicately embroidered qameez.

There was no way to judge the depth of silence that followed that shot. Perhaps, it was as if the earth existed in a vacuum. There was no sound, not even of her own breathing or the beating of her heart, as if the very sound of consciousness had been stilled. Perhaps, just when the pause ended, she knew in that instant that she had been eliminated.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…the dark shadow of a city, the declining light on the edge of dusk ebbed away into those unexpected evenings, to the sound of motorcycles and vans fenced in by the melancholy of the surrounding streets, and above, the high branches of the tree, vaulted by the ancient sky in which the stars were just beginning to reappear.