30 years ago, Pakistan won a most famous Test victory against India. It was Pakistan’s first Test win against its arch-rivals on Indian soil since 1952. The win also heralded Pakistan’s first-ever Test series win in India.

In January, 1987 an 18-member Pakistan squad arrived in India to play five Tests and six ODIs.

The last two series between the sides had ended in dull draws.

Imran was made captain in 1982 but stepped down in 1984 when a stress fracture in one of his shins failed to heal. He returned to the team in 1985 (under Javed Miandad) and was once again made captain in 1986.

Though the team’s performance before the Indian tour was not as dazzling as it had been during Imran’s first stint as skipper (1982-84), it wasn’t disastrous either.

But Imran was under tremendous pressure when he arrived in India, not only because his team was facing India in its own backyard, but also because Pakistani middle-order batsman, Qasim Umar, had begun to whisper certain awkward things about the Pakistani dressing room (after the ODI tournament in Australia).

Umar had clashed with Imran on a number of occasions in Australia. When Imran refused to select him for the Indian tour, Umar told the press that Imran was a narcissist and exhibited favouritism.

He later went on to add that Imran and most of the players were habitual drug users (hashish) and regularly brought women into their hotel rooms. He also called the players binge drinkers.

Umar was quickly hushed up and then handed a life ban by the Pakistan Cricket Board. The board did not want to attract controversy because it was set to host the 1987 world cup (jointly with India) later in the year.

A section of the Pakistani press was pushing for an inquiry into the matter when an 18-member Pakistan cricket squad landed in India on January 18, 1987.

Pakistan's line-up in the 1987 Test series

• Imran Khan | (Captain) | 34 | Lahore | Right-handed batsman and right-arm-fast

• Javed Miandad | (Vice Captain) | 29 | Karachi | Right-handed batsman

• Rameez Raja | 24 | Lahore | Right-Handed opening batsman

• Shoaib Mohammed | 27 | Karachi | Right-handed opening batsman

• Mudassar Nazar | 30 | Lahore | Right-handed opening batsman

• Saleem Malik | 23 | Lahore | Right-handed batsman

• Rizwan-uz Zaman | 25 | Karachi | Right-handed opening batsman

• Ijaz Ahmed | 18 | Sialkot | Right-handed batsman

• Asif Mujtaba | 19 | Karachi | Left-handed batsman and occasional left-arm leg-spin

• Manzoor Elahi | 23 | Sahiwal | Right-handed batsman and right-arm medium fast

• Saleem Yousuf | 27 | Karachi | Wicketkeeper and right-handed batsman

• Zulqarnain Zaidi | 24 | Lahore | Wicketkeeper and right-handed batsman

• Ijaz Faqih | 30 | Karachi | Right-handed batsman and right-arm off-break

• Abdul Qadir | 31 | Lahore | Right-handed batsman and right-arm leg-break

• Tauseef Ahmed | 28 | Karachi | Right-handed batsman and right-arm off-break

• Wasim Akram | 20 | Lahore | Left-handed batsman and left-arm fast

• Saleem Jaffar | 24 | Karachi | Right-handed batsman and left-arm fast-medium

• Zakir Khan | 23 | Peshawar | Right-handed batsman and right-arm fast-medium

The first four of the five Tests ended in drab draws. The pitches were flat and slow, and both the captains, Imran Khan and Kapil Dev, were not willing to play any positive cricket.

The crowds turned up in huge numbers but by the fourth Test, they began to express their frustration over the dull and slow pace of the matches. The Test in Ahmedabad was marred by constant crowd trouble and twice Imran led his players off the field when his fielders on the boundary were pelted with stones, pebbles, and rotten fruit.

Both captains blamed each other for playing overtly defensive cricket. Both then blamed the dead nature of the pitches.

This and criticism in the Indian media saw a rather curious-looking wicket for the fifth and last match in Bangalore. It looked red and was dusty. Imran and Kapil both believed it would be good for batting and might start to take some turn in the last two days of the game. That’s why Imran immediately chose to bat first after winning the toss.

In his autobiography, Javed Miandad explained that the pitch was under-prepared. He also mentioned how, when Pakistan’s premier leg-spinner, Abdul Qadir, lost his form during the series, India’s former captain and spinner, Bishen Singh Bedi, advised Javed to play a left-arm spinner in the side.

Miandad asked Imran to bring in Pakistan’s discarded slow-left-arm spinner, Iqbal Qasim. But Imran was reluctant. He wanted to persist with Qadir. Miandad persevered and finally managed to make Imran ask the selectors to send Qasim as a reinforcement.

Qasim played in a few drawn games and was set to make way for Qadir in the last Test. But Miandad stepped in again and forced Imran to retain Qasim in the playing IX. Imran was again hesitant, but eventually played Qasim, along with off-spinner Tauseef Ahmad, in the Test.

Pakistan played three pacers: Wasim Akram, Saleem Jaffar, and Imran himself. Then there was also Manzoor Elahi in the IX who was a hard-hitting batsman and a medium-pacer. As we shall see, Imran clearly had no idea how the wicket would play.

When Pakistan came out to bat, ace medium-pacer, Kapil Dev, quickly removed Pakistan’s openers, Rameez Raja and Rizwan-ul-Haq. But as the Pakistani batsmen waited for the pitch to flatten out, they came in for a shock.

The very first ball bowled by Indian left-arm spinner, Maninder Singh, spun prodigiously. Under all that dust on the pitch was an uneven, rough track, turning square right from the word go. Pakistan were shot out for just 116.

Salim Malik top scored with 33. Tail-enders Qasim and Tauseef added 24 for the 8th wicket, helping Pakistan avoid getting out for less than a 100. Singh picked up seven wickets.

It seemed an entirely different pitch when the Indian batsmen came in to bat and notched 68 for the loss of just two wickets at the end of the day’s play. Pakistan were in trouble.

On day two, the Pakistani spinners finally got the hang of the curious pitch and rapidly ran through the Indian batting line-up. Qasim and Tauseef picked five wickets each, ending the Indian innings at 145.

At one point, it seemed Dalip Vengsarkar will manage to take India past 200, but was picked up by Tauseef for 50. Considering the way the pitch was playing, India managed to get a handy 29-run lead.

Miandad, Pakistan’s finest player of spin, was pressed up the order by Imran to open with Rameez. The ploy seemed to be working when both pushed the score to 45 (minus 29, of course, so in reality, just 16).

Miandad fell to Shastri’s slow-left-arm spin. Shastri then sneaked through the defenses of Rizwan. Pakistan 57 for 2. In effect, just 28.

Rameez and Saleem Malik somewhat steadied things before off-spinner Yadev removed Rameez. Pakistan 89 for 3.

In yet another batting reshuffle, Imran and Miandad sent in Iqbal Qasim at number four. Qasim was a tail-ender. He had played a handy knock of 19 in the first innings. According to Miandad, they sent him up because he was left-handed and could at least neutralise the spin Singh was getting from the right-handers’ off-stump area.

Qasim dug in. He added 32 runs with Malik, slowly pushing the score to 121. These were valuable runs. Pakistan were now 92 ahead with seven wickets in hand. Kapil replaced Yadev and came on to bowl himself. With an in-swinger he clean-bowled Malik.

Imran joined Qasim and added another 19 before Qasim was taken out by Yadev for a well-played 26. All-rounder Manzoor Illahi joined Imran and both ended day two with Pakistan 155 for 5. In effect, 126.

The umpiring had been atrocious. There were no neutral umpires those days. Both the Indian umpires seemed to be under tremendous pressure from the massive and entirely partisan crowd.

At one point, the umpire gave Qasim out LBW. The ball had clearly hit his bat before hitting his pad. Qasim loudly protested. Incredibly, the umpire took the decision back!

On day three, Maninder took out Manzoor and Wasim Akram. Akram had tried to hit out against the persistent spinners, smashing a six and a four, before falling LBW. Then Shastri got Imran who had compiled a patient 39. At lunch, Pakistan were 198 for 8. Just 169 ahead.

The pitch had not changed much. It was still turning a lot, but ironically, the turn had somewhat become predictable. It was happening from certain spots on the wicket. Imran knew Pakistan needed at least a lead of 230 to put India’s quality batting line-up under pressure. But he just had two wickets left.

Pakistan wicketkeeper, Salim Yousaf, got together with the number 10, Tauseef.

With a dogged Tauseef on the other end, Yousaf played a gritty innings, peppered with lots of quick singles and four 4s. He posted 41. Tauseef and Yousaf managed to push Pakistan’s lead beyond 200. But quick wickets saw Pakistan all out for 249. India had to chase down 220. Was it enough?

A short, fiery spell by Wasim Akram gave Pakistan two quick wickets. Gavaskar and Vengsarkar steadied the ship and took the score from 15 for 2 to 64. But then Vengsarkar was bowled by Tauseef.

With the score at 80, Tauseef then took out nightwatchman, K.More. At the end of day three, India were 99 for 4, needing 121. It had six wickets in hand and the little master Gavaskar was still at the crease. Game on.

Day four began well for India. Gavaskar and Azharuddin progressively piled on the runs, adding 24 and looking rather comfortable. Pakistan began to worry. India now needed less than 100.

It took an incredible caught-and-bowled by Qasim to get rid of Azhar. Azhar drove at a turning ball only to find Qasim flying to his left and holding on to a blinder. India 123 for 5 at lunch.

Shastri blocked everything as Gavaskar began to score more freely from the other end. Both took the score to 155 before Qasim got into the act again. He dismissed Shastri with another caught-and-bowled. India now required 65. It had four wickets in hand and the plucky Gavaskar was still on the crease.

New batsman, Kapil Dev, did not survive long and was cleaned up by Qasim. But Gavaskar pushed on. With all-rounder Binny, he took the score to 180. 40 needed.

Gavaskar had to go if Pakistan were to win. A number of LBW and close-in catches against him were turned down, some valid appeals, some pure pressure tactics.

Khan and Miandad glared at him. At one point, Miandad gatecrashed a mid-pitch meeting between Gavaskar and Binny, telling Gavaskar he should have been in the dressing room. Gavaskar ignored him.

And then it happened. Gavaskar, solid at 96, was finally sent back by a vicious turner by Qasim. It kicked off the dusty turf, took the upper edge of his bat and flew high to first slip where Rizwan leapt and held the catch. Gavaskar was finally gone.

Five runs later, Tauseef cleaned up Yadev, leaving Binny and the last man Maninder to make the remaining 35 runs. Both pushed the score to 198. 22 needed.

Maninder survived a testing over by Qasim. Binny was back facing Tauseef again. He smashed the off-spinner for a towering six. Just 16 needed. He wanted to hit out the remaining runs. But Imran kept the fielders close to the bat.

Binny tried to smash another big one, trying to pick the ball from off and dispose it into the stands. But the ball kept low and took the outside edge of the bat. Saleem Yousaf did the rest, holding on to a sharp catch. Pakistan had won its first Test in India after 1952 and, with it, its first-ever series against India in India.

On the face of it, very little seems to be in common between Karachi and Rio de Janeiro. But after having visited Rio and Karachi, I realised that the two cities have commonalities. Both the metropolises are coastal cities and invite everyone to visit their beaches and contemplate life.

It's the contemplating gaze at the ocean, its waves, the endless strip of sand, and the sky that's common between Karachi and Rio, between Sea View and Ipanema. This is where they meet, engage and have a conversation.

I have spent a lot of time in Karachi and the beaches here. When I went to Rio and walked by its waters, there were many instances – some fleeting, others a little more lasting – that reminded me of Karachi.

As waves hit the shore and went back into the ocean, there were these flashback moments that hit me as well. I tried to capture them before they also went away.

Sometimes it was a gesture, positioning, pose or just an expression. It's these moments, as well as this poem by Paul Valéry, that inspired me to do this project:

La mer, la mer, toujours recommencée!


O récompense après une pensée
qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux!

Sea, the sea beginning each occasion

to bring such riches in from contemplation:

great settlements of calm the gods inspire.

The blue of the chairs, the blue of her clothes / The orange of the flowers on the umbrella, the orange of her plastic bag.

The purple of the doll's hair, the purple of her clothes / Both identical in how they're standing and looking at the water.

Hands crossed in contemplation.

Arms crossed in contemplation.

The yellow of the football, the yellow of the buckets / Both waiting for customers, they have something to sell. Life at the beach is a source of income.

The orange of his beanie, the orange of the camel's decoration / The grey and white of his blanket, the grey and white of his headscarf

The peak of the mountain, the camel's hump.

Young or old, the same, playful hand gesture

The green of the bottle and red of the light/ The green of her ribbon and the red of the chair

Hand to the head

The purple of her scarf, the purple of her hair

There are balls at every beach

Off to somewhere

Ready for the beach in bright colours

Fixing the hair

Walking along the coast, both in white amidst the sea of waves

All photos by the author.

Have you captured your experiences across lesser-known destinations? Share your journey with us at blog@dawn.com

This article was originally published on October 7, 2015.

As a TV anchor, I'll readily admit that our electronic media neglects covering Pak-Afghan relations. Why? Because it will not bring in ratings.

This is also part of the reason why Pakistan’s biggest TV channels have few to no correspondents in Kabul or other cities in Afghanistan.

In fact, it is not even considered ‘newsworthy’ to report on our neighbour unless either of the two states (always better when both) indulge in a blame game on the security front.

I decided I would address this gap by visiting Kabul myself. I wanted to learn more about the perceptions of Afghan people. I also wanted to meet with politicians and social workers to understand the trust deficit between our two countries.

Landing

First impression: the Kabul International Airport looked like a US air base. I was immediately approached by a member of the airport staff who started conversing in Urdu; this put me instantly at ease. Unfortunately, this welcome was short-lived as I reached the security checkpoint.

I said I was Pakistani. They said I should remove my shoes. My luggage was carefully scrutinised. And there was a very, very long list of questions. This was repeated at all subsequent security checks.

And this was just the start. I stayed in Afghanistan for eight days. My time there consisted mostly of short interviews, off record and on record interactions, and some rather alarming exchanges with sources who requested anonymity, of course.

Each call that I made to coordinate my scheduled interviews carried an often hostile undertone.

‘…I am a Pakistani journalist.

No, I am not an ISI agent.

I am in Afghanistan for work.

I am a journalist…’

A specific hatred

The current mood in Kabul is quite anti-Pakistan, or to be more precise, anti-ISI. Most Afghans do not hate Pakistan per se, but the ISI, they staunchly believe, supports the Afghan Taliban and has vested interests in destabilising their country. While the ISI was berated by many, whenever I asked for specifics, I only got half-stories, hearsay and no evidence.

Examine: ISI officer involved in Kabul parliament attack, claims Afghan intelligence

The National Directorate of Security (NDS) and the government of Afghanistan blame Pakistan for almost every security dilemma.

Indian intelligence, on the other hand, has close relations with Afghan intelligence. I learn that being on good terms with the Indian embassy in Kabul can really help you gain the trust of the Afghan interior ministry.

On the condition of anonymity, a senior politician (a jihadi in the past) told me that the national unity government in Afghanistan did not understand the importance of 'good relations' with the ISI. He stressed that Afghanistan needed to prioritise its relations in the region, which just wasn't happening.

In his view, Pakistan was not handling the matter of talks very well either. What they are doing under the table must be stopped, he said cryptically, before adding that the NDS and the government did not trust him and that he openly admitted to being pro-Pakistan.

This politician told me about his private meetings with Afghan President Ashraf Ghani. He said, “Ghani panics a lot,” and that the president could not bear pressure. He further said that the MOU between Afghan and Pakistani intelligence was not impacting the trust deficit between the ISI and the NDS. For him, the solution lay in the policies and decision-making power of the Afghan government; the frequent change in diplomatic and political inclinations was damaging to foreign policy.

The Afghan journalist

I met a few Afghan journalists who wanted to work in Islamabad, but security clearance procedures were proving too troublesome.

A journalist is considered an agent in both states.

Afghan TV channels do not have any bureaus in Islamabad, and proposals for their establishment are lying in the dust. Officials from the Afghan foreign ministry told me that they had thrice requested Pakistan’s Minister for Information, Pervaiz Rasheed that they wanted to work with Pakistan's state TV on positive image-building (an effort which could be extended to private channels), but they have yet to receive a response.

The journalist community in Kabul is of the view that the two countries should build better relations with each other. In their view, miscreants in Afghanistan, Pakistan and India are actively working to prevent this.

I was told that whenever journalists from Pakistan come to work here, they are harassed by the NDS. I believe Afghan journalists must face the same problem in Pakistan.

Explore: At UN, Afghan leader calls on Pakistan to crack down on terror outfits

Security and military reasons aside, I discovered another dimension of Afghanistan's tilt towards India when I learned that over 150 Indian journalists are currently working in Afghanistan. You will hardly find any Pakistani journalists working on important stories.

With this kind of people-to-people contact, no wonder Afghans trust Indians. For my own security, I was suggested not to reveal my nationality while interacting with the local public, though I did not follow that advice.

The Afghan social worker

I also met Afghan women social activists, who wanted bold decisions from their government. They did not believe in enforced brotherhoods and wanted a globalised, progressive and modern Afghanistan. They did however think that a pro-Pakistan attitude was never useful to them and that Pakistan had actually used them.

Fatana Gilani is a famous social activist who has been working for women empowerment for 30 years. She runs more than 50 vocational institutes for women; empowering Afghan women through education.

She said, "I love the women of Pakistan. We share the same culture. We live so close. But what about the role of the Pakistani government? Why does Pakistan support Taliban? Who created the Taliban? My efforts for women will not stop, but at the same time, I cannot ignore the factors which hinder our progress. Pakistan should not support the Taliban."

I even got access to the Afghan Taliban, though it wasn't easy, as they avoid talking to women. The aged man spoke of the Islamic State, the threat it posed, and how Pakistan may resultantly lose its influence on strategic policy in the region.

When I spoke to Afghan government officials, they avoided the camera, and the reason was straightforward: “It won't be right to give an interview to a Pakistani journalist right now.” I got diplomatic (empty) answers to most of my questions.

For the Afghan government, a porous border is not the bone of contention; it is the alleged sanctuaries of Afghan Taliban in Pakistan which are unacceptable. My observation is that they have no solution for border management, and it’s not even a major issue for them.

Dr Rangin Dadfar Spanta, former foreign minister and national security adviser to former Afghan President Hamid Karzai, shared the same sentiments.

“Pakistan is interfering in the internal matters of Afghanistan,” he said, citing a serious concern regarding Afghan Taliban crossing over from Pakistan. The ex-foreign minister further said that he was aware of the operation being carried out by the armed forces of Pakistan, but he believed it was not against the terrorists who attack them.

I asked him if Pakistan was indeed stabbing Afghanistan in the back, how would he explain the millions of Afghan refugees living in Pakistan? To this, he responded with surprising gratitude, thanking the Pakistani nation and the government for keeping and facilitating the refugees.

Take a look: Afghan refugees ‘all praise’ for Pakistan

Meanwhile, responding to Afghan allegations like the above, Pakistani ambassador in Kabul Ibrar Hussain was of the view that Pakistan cannot open so many fronts at the same time, as the country is already busy fighting the internal threat of terrorism in Pakistan.

Pakistan is committed for peace and prosperity in Afghanistan, he said, which is why various landmark projects funded by the Pakistan government, like a hospital (US$60 million) and a boys hostel/school (US$ 10 million), are underway.

Pakistan and Afghanistan are losing valuable time and energy in their altercations against each other. Ufortunately, all this is happening at a policy-making level, and the effect is trickling down to innocent citizens, which in turn fuels widespread suspicion and hatred.

To sum up my sojourn, I would say that the ties between Pakistan and Afghanistan are complex, but can be overcome with rationale rather than emotional responses based on the past. Those in Kabul, and those in Islamabad need to step outside of the bubbles they have decided to live in.

As a thinker in the Marxist tradition, I am interested in labour and fighting for its fair compensation. However, too often, the question of labour within and without the Marxist tradition has focused on male factory or peasant farm labour.

Here, I note some of the labour that animals do. If we accept that animals do labour then shouldn’t we find ways to provide them with labour rights? Let's begin with the story of Raju.

Raju, a beautiful, meditative donkey, was six months old when Saeed Masih spent everything he had to buy him. Saeed, like Raju, was separated from his parents at a young age.

He survived by collecting garbage from bins around Gulberg, Lahore. What he collected he would take to the kabaria to sell. Each day, if he was lucky, brought in a few hundred rupees.

He slept on footpaths, under bus stands, and sometimes headed as far out as Data Darbar. After seven years of working in this form, he saved up enough to pay for Raju, around Rs 30,000 at a discounted rate.

They hit it off straight away. Saeed had never known a family, he had never known companionship. Neither had Raju.

Explore: Animal welfare – a long way from home

I went, one windy and rainy afternoon, to visit them. Raju, now ten years old, was resting under a thatched hut made of reeds and supported by bamboo. He had water in a big container and hay straw laid out for him to rest on.

Next to Raju’s room was Saeed’s house, also made of stray materials – mud, planks of wood, reeds, and bamboo. It had a TV and two kids excitedly running around.

I asked Saeed to tell me more about his life. He's employed by the government as a sweeper, but his main income comes from the work he does with Raju. He told me that he was was able to cover more ground and carry more load once he bought Raju.

Once Saeed gets back from his day job, he goes with Raju from mohalla to mohalla to collect garbage from every house. He also gets tips from the houses and recycles the material.

With the work Saeed does with Raju, he was able to have enough money to start a family. "It's all thanks to Raju," Saeed says.

Saeed teaches his children to be grateful as well. I noted how they pet him and caress Raju with affection. Raju eats before Saeed’s children get to eat – and the kids don’t have a problem with that.

The work that Raju does is to transport goods, people, and keep the streets clean. He also provides companionship for Saeed.

Lali, a water buffalo, lives in a house with her two daughters in the town of Lalyani, Punjab. She shares the house with her owner Goga, who looks after Lali and milks her. Goga’s family includes his wife Zahra and one daughter.

At about five in the morning, Goga wakes up and milks Lali. Then he lets her daughters run over and drink the remainder. He makes sure to leave a sizeable amount of milk in the udder so that the young ones can grow quickly and healthy.

Goga is respectful of Lali and understands that Lali’s milk is for her own children and that he is blessed to get some for her daughter as well. After milking, Goga feeds Lali. What she gets depends on the season. At the time I visited, Lali was eating soft leaves of corn.

At around six, Goga cleans the area where Lali and her daughters spend nights. The dung is kept aside so that later on it can be baked in the sun and used as fuel. Goga then unties Lali and her family, and heads out into his field. Lali excitedly follows, chewing away at stray barks of grass and wheat from the fields as they head to Goga’s two acres of land about 20 minutes away.

Once there, Goga ties the family to polar trees and gives them enough rope so they can each walk around 20 feet in all directions. There is some grass for them to eat and at about 7:30 am, Goga presents Lali and her family with corn leaves that he cuts from his field.

Lali loves water and throws herself into Goga’s irrigation canal and bathes herself. At about five in the evening, they all head back. Gogal milks Lali again and lets the baby buffaloes have their share.

Goga has a holistic approach to his relation with Lali and feels sorry for the cows that are in neighbouring corporate farms. “wo barhi dyna nai the thea” (they don’t get to see the fields), he sighs.

Lali has done a lot for Goga. She has given him two young buffaloes who will also give him milk when they grow up. Lali will also pay for Goga’s daughter's wedding. Goga plans to sell Lali’s children when they are older so that he can raise enough money for the wedding expenses. “ya hi meri inmanat hai,” (this is my treasure) Goga tells me.

Gugu Guevara was born on the side of a tent at a building site in the lush grounds of Forman Christian College, Lahore. Soon after her birth, a labourer, unwilling to share his small tent, decided to put her in a plastic bag on the side of the road.

A professor, who had had too much coffee and could not sleep, decided to cool off in the morning breeze with a walk. As he strolled, caffeine induced, thoughts whizzed in and out of his mind.

What was he going to do about the electricity bill? Would his lover leave him for the smart young guy from Harvard she had been having lunch with? Could he possibly write something as good as Muhammad Hanif? And what of Shah Inayat … was it always fated that revolutionaries would have their heads cut off?

As he wandered, he noticed something dark-brownish crawling on the road. “Is it a rat?” he thought. He was scared, but curious. Slowly, he moved towards the object. A young kid was walking by and the professor asked him if it was a rat. The boy laughed and said that it was a cat.

Read further: Breaking the cycle of animal abuse

Gugu had never opened her eyes, but she knew that the plastic bag wasn’t a safe place and had crawled out. She also sensed a worried thinker around her so she presented herself, but the professor walked back to his house.

Confused, he pondered what to do. “The mother will come for her kitten,” he reasoned. But why is she near a plastic bag? She could suffocate.

As he was contemplating, it began to rain. On the side of the road, the rain was forming a puddle. The kitten, he worried, would drown. He got a shoe box, put his existential problems aside for a moment, and did what he loved about himself the most: he took action. For to think and not act, he thought, was a waste. But he mostly thought and seldom acted. That was ten years ago.

The professor and Gugu Guevara have spend most of those ten years inseparable. He still drinks too much coffee but he has never again been anxious in quite the same way.

His thoughts wander, but when existence bears down on him, Gugu comes and rescues him, jumping on his lap and purring to tell him that it’s OK.

It took a while, but after about eight years, the professor worked it out too. It is about sensuality, he now knows. One has to sense others, reach out to them, join them in pain and in love, in charity, and in revolution. This is what Gugu taught him.

For eight years, Gugu worried about the professor and would have to mind him to make sure he didn’t lapse into depression.

It was a lot of work – she would cuddle, reassure, even poke him out of depths of sorrow. Slowly, she noted, he has gotten better and healed a little.

The work Gugu does is emotional and intellectual labour. Counsellors and therapists charge by the hour, but Gugu is generous.

From production of milk, from transport of goods and people to therapists, animals take on various roles of labour in our world. If we accept that animals perform labour then shouldn’t we look to provide them with labour rights? This would mean a safe work environment, no violence, and medical care and, finally, a safe retirement.

I have always fought alongside human labourers in their campaigns for the above and I hope that we can also extend our battle for labour rights also to include Gugu, Raju and Lali and millions of other animals labouring daily.

Our paths crossed at the arrival hall of the Islamabad airport, next to a baggage conveyor belt. No, we were not arriving passengers, but outgoing passengers whose PIA flight to Kabul had been cancelled virtually at the last minute. The reason given was bad weather, but something else seemed to be in the air.

Relations between the two neighbours were at an all-time low. Land borders had just been reopened after an abrupt weeks-long closure. It seemed that bad blood rather than bad weather was responsible for the inconvenience caused to the dozen or so passengers.

Having got the exit stamps on our passports cancelled, as well as the appropriate flight cancellation papers from the PIA office, we were directed to collect our returned checked-in luggage from the arrivals belt.

It was here that a fellow-traveller asked me why I was going to Afghanistan. Was it business? No, I said, I was going there as a tourist.

Visibly shocked, he advised me against going in the strongest possible terms. When I retorted that he was heading in that direction himself, he let it be known that he was a senior official at the Pakistani embassy there.

Unfortunately, he said, as part of his job, all too often he was called upon to rescue stranded and kidnapped Pakistanis.

With such dire warnings from a Pakistani diplomat, in addition to the well-known dangers of travelling in Afghanistan, with a very heavy heart I almost decided against going.

Related: War tourism in Afghanistan: adventure or reckless hedonism?

It would have been my second failed attempt to visit that country, barely 300 kilometres from Islamabad, where I lived and worked for many years.

For someone who loves travelling more than anything else, this seemed an unacceptable, a rather embarrassing omission on my record.

The first time I had looked at Afghanistan was from the Torkham border, in 1979, shortly after the April 1978 Saur Revolution. The country was under lock-down and there was no question of anyone going in.

A few years ago, I attempted for the second time to go to Afghanistan. I was in Iran, and Afghanistan was my intended next stop before ending a long overland trip through Russia, the Baltics, Eastern Europe and the Balkans.

I had applied for a visa at the Afghan consulate in Istanbul. The diplomat who interviewed me warned me against going because of the inherent dangers. On my persistence, however, he granted me a visa.

As fate would have it, I was taken sick in Tehran, which forced me to cut short my trip. Mission aborted, however reluctantly!

Now, when I was finally ready to board a plane for Kabul, the flight had been cancelled. Our stars, I mean mine and Kabul’s, were apparently not in harmony. To go or not to go, that was the question now.

Heedless to these multiple explicit, unequivocal warnings, I decided to go. So, with a Kam Air ticket in hand for later the same day, I was headed for Afghanistan, no matter what.

When my half-empty flight landed at a rather deserted Kabul airport, it was dark. Walking through three eerily empty car park areas, all closed off to traffic, I was able to locate my driver, Muhammad Nabi, sheepishly grinning. He led me to his rather rundown private taxi and drove me to my hotel.

There was no way of knowing if it was a hotel, for there were no signboards. By the looks of it, it could have been a high-security jail. Passing through three iron-clad security doors, I finally arrived in my room.

It was a mid-range hotel arranged by a Pakistani Pushtun who was staying in the same hotel for a ten-day workshop. He had put me in touch with his Afghan Pushtun coordinator, who arranged for my room as well as my transport.

Unusually for any hotel that I have ever known, the room rate included dinner, besides breakfast. And for good reason, too. I was advised not to venture outdoors without an Afghan escort, and certainly not after dark. Like it or not, I had no choice.

For the first two days, I went around Kabul in Muhammad Nabi’s private taxi. I seated myself on the front passenger seat for better views, no matter that the windshield in front of me was partly shattered and there was no seat belt protection either.

The main historical attraction that I wanted to see was an important landmark of Kabul, Darul Aman, conceived and partially constructed by King Amanullah Khan in the 1920s.

Its shattered façade has been publicised for decades to show the damage done to Kabul by Mujahideen infighting after the Russians left.

Unfortunately for me, it was draped in cloth, possibly undergoing some restoration.

The new parliament building with its large bronze dome, a US$ 90 million gift from India, was completely out of sight due to the high security fence. It was the target of a Taliban attack in 2015.

To add to my disappointments, the central district, where the presidential palace, defence ministry and the historical old bazar are situated, was also barricaded totally beyond view.

Every morning, from my window, I could see helicopters flying, apparently on combat missions. Also suspended in air over Kabul (and, as I later discovered, over Jalalabad) was a large reconnaissance balloon, sending aerial photos of any emerging threat.

Despite the obvious dangers, I visited Paghman, about 30 kilometres from the city, and the Bagh-e-Babur in Kabul.

Paghman is a picturesque place where the mountain meets land, with water gushing from the melting ice around, and a great picnic spot for Kabul’s residents.

It is also the site of a mini Arc de Triomphe, an imitation of the original in Paris, conceived and built by King Amanullah Khan after his European tour in 1927-28.

Amanullah was a great westerniser, whose bold steps antagonised the conservatives and led to his forced abdication in 1929. Paghman is now the abode of the rich and famous of Afghanistan.

Also read: Afghanistan`s stunning lakes thirst for tourism

The Bagh-e-Babur was originally conceived by India’s first Mughal emperor himself, who is known for his love of Afghanistan and disdain for everything Indian. Himself from the Ferghana valley in neighbouring Uzbekistan, he had captured Kabul in 1504. Quite fittingly, he is buried in his favourite city.

The park is in a charming setting and, on the weekend I was there, it was full of holiday-makers strolling and having picnic lunches on the grass. Young men, walking around holding hands, probably no more than an exhibition of friendship, is a common sight in those parts.

Having been dropped off by Muhammad Nabi at the gates, I followed the crowd toward the entrance. When stopped by security, who seemed to be checking entry tickets, I murmured something. Upon which it was loudly announced that I was a kharijee (foreigner) and asked to buy my ticket and enter through another gate.

Needless to say, the ticket for kharijees was far costlier than for locals. While my looks and my shalwar kameez had allowed me to pass for a local, my tongue had betrayed my identity.

I had a good time inside the park, walking around, taking photos and asking strangers to take my photo as well. When I emerged from the park, my driver was nowhere to be found; apparently he had been whisked off by the police from where he was parked. I located him only after a desperate search lasting about half an hour.

That was the only inconvenience of my visit to the park. And a very minor one compared to what my Pakistani acquaintance had experienced in the same park on the same day. He had gone there in the company of his two colleagues, all Pakistanis, as well as an Afghan escort.

While he was taking pictures with his phone, a man in civilian clothes approached them, claiming to be an Afghan intelligence officer. He accused them of taking pictures in a prohibited area and seized the phone after returning the sim card.

The three kharijee gentlemen were totally intimidated, complying without a murmur, and their Afghan escort also remained a silent spectator. The impersonator walked away with the phone. In retrospect, I was very lucky, for things easily could have gone horribly wrong.

But nothing could deter me from a road trip to Mazar-e-Sharif, a city in the north, not far from the Uzbekistan border. Famous for the Blue Mosque, claimed by locals to be the burial place of Hazrat Ali, Mazar-e-Sharif has been in the news for the last three decades for all the wrong reasons.

A military base during the Russian occupation (1979-88), it was a stronghold of the Uzbek warlord Abdul Rashid Dostum for about five years until 1997, when a rebellion by one of his generals, namely, Abdul Malik Pahlawan, forced him to flee.

The city was under Taliban rule from 1998 to 2002 and has been the scene of many massacres and brutalities committed by one and all.

Mostly infamously, when Dostum retook control of the city after the Americans drove out the Taliban in 2002, he locked up hundreds of his prisoners in metal shipping containers on the flat plains south of the city, leaving them to slowly bake to death in the searing summer heat. This story of Dostum’s cruelty is captured in a documentary called Afghan Massacre: The Convoy of Death (previously called Massacre at Mazar).

Even more than Mazar-e-Sharif’s infamy, I was drawn to the road that connects it to Kabul, over 400 kilometres away. It is dotted with numerous places associated with events from recent Afghan history: Charikar, Bagram, Shomali plains, Panjsher valley, Pol-e-Khomri and many more.

Above all, there is the famous Salang Tunnel, built by the Russians in 1964, enabling the only direct link between northern and southern Afghanistan.

At 3,400 metres high, it was the highest road tunnel until 1979, when it was overtaken by a margin of just one metre by the Eisenhower Tunnel on the I-70 in the US.

It was not without some trepidation, though, that I decided to take the Salang route, rather than fly to Mazar-e-Sharif. Some 2.67 kilometres long, the Salang tunnel was the scene of a catastrophic inferno in 1982, caused by an accident involving two Soviet military convoys.

Read next: From warzone to sports tourism, an Afghan dream

It resulted in the death of over 2,000 people, reportedly including 700 Soviet troops. More recently, in 2010, a series of avalanches at both ends of the tunnel resulted in the deaths of 172 persons.

With such statistics at the back of my mind, I was a bit anxious, to say the least. On entering the tunnel, however, I found it terrifying, for it wasn’t even a road, just a rocky surface, wet and slippery from melting ice, and choked with convoys of large fuel trucks. A mechanical breakdown or a minor accident could lead to very catastrophic results.

Then there were the hairpin bends and perhaps two dozen small and big semi-tunnels on either side of the main tunnel. Broken down trucks and trucks with flat tires littered the road. Needless to say, traffic moved at a snail’s pace, prolonging the terror.

The landscape changed throughout the journey, starting with the Shomali plains, then rising, snow-clad mountains, followed by lush green valleys with bare mountains on either side, finally culminating in the flat plains on the approaches to Mazar-e-Sharif. From beginning to end, however, the scenery was just stunning.

When we passed Pol-i-Khomri, about 200 kilometres south of Mazar-e-Sharif, my driver, Ismail Agha, a Pushtun from Kunduz, warned me that the next 100 kilometres or so was a dangerous area, with a looming Taliban threat. But the journey to Mazar-e-Sharif was eventless, although the sight of numerous Humvees and army or police checkpoints were evidence of potential dangers.

On the way back the next day, however, the situation had changed. When Ismail called up his local contacts to check up on the security situation on the road ahead, I sensed trouble from his side of the conversation.

Ismail’s demeanour changed completely. A father of nine, he looked visibly worried. Without saying a word, he made a sharp u-turn and parked the car at the nearest police checkpost, about a kilometre away.

I needed no explaining but Ismail explained to me nevertheless that there was danger ahead and we needed to wait. Fortunately, less than an hour and a few phone calls later, he felt confident enough to resume the journey.

On the same topic: Splendour falls on palace walls

Barely had we covered a kilometre than I saw Humvees on the move and heard the sound of firing. In trying to drive away fast, our car got sandwiched in a column of three Humvees, with their guns scanning the area.

I asked Ismail to break out and get ahead of the column, but our attempt to escape from a dangerous situation landed us in an even more perilous location – we now got sandwiched between two large oil tankers! Any hit on a tanker could result in an explosion and an inferno.

I again asked Ismail to overtake the tankers, which he did. The firing died down and we made it to Pol-i-Khomri in good shape. And thence to Kabul.

The following day, I made a day-trip to Jalalabad, not far from the Torkham border with Pakistan and the main Pushtun city of Afghanistan, besides Kandahar further south.

It is where both King Amanullah Khan and Khudai Khidmatgar leader Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, also known as the Frontier Gandhi, are buried. Jalalabad is also the hometown of a large portion of the Afghan cricket team.

Along the road is the Sarobi Gorge, where the road rises, twists and turns, providing some very spectacular views.

Sarobi I knew as the place where the Taliban inflicted a crushing defeat on Hekmatyar’s forces in the final phase of their near-total victory over the former Mujahideen. When they were over and done with, only Ahmad Shah Masood held out in a small enclave in the north.

Visible from the road, on the outskirts of Kabul, is situated the infamous Pul-e-Charkhi prison. It is a massive, high security jail extending a few kilometres along the Kabul-Jalalabad highway, known for extreme brutality inflicted on its inmates ever since it was constructed in the early 1980s.

I avoided talking politics with my two drivers, with whom I spent many hours and was tempted to get their views on recent events in Afghanistan.

But to my straightforward question as to who, in their opinion, had been the best ruler of their country – and I named every one starting from King Zahir Shah, through Sardar Daoud, Nur Mohammad Taraki, Hafizullah Amin, Babrak Karmal, Najibullah, Ahmad Karzai, down to the incumbent Ashraf Ghani – I got the same answer from both, one a Tajik and the other a Pushtun.

Their favourite leader was Dr Mohammad Najibullah, who was President from 1987 to 1992, following the departure of Russian troops. Najibullah was a strongman from the Pushtun Ahmadzai tribe who ruled independently of any foreign influence or control.

Explore: Saving artefacts in Afghanistan

Contrary to widespread expectation of the imminent collapse of his regime after the Russian withdrawal in 1988, Najib kept the ship of state afloat and the Mujahideen at bay, until he was betrayed by his ally, none other than Abdul Rashid Dostum, in 1992, when he sought refuge in a UN compound.

A brave man he was, for when Ahmad Shah Massoud decided to withdraw his forces from Kabul to his stronghold in the north fearing an imminent Taliban takeover of the city, he offered to take Najibullah with him, but the latter refused to go. When the Taliban captured Kabul in 1996, they seized and killed him with great brutality.

Sadly, I was unable go to either Herat or to Bamyan, for my Afghan visa only allowed me a maximum stay of ten days. But the time I spent in the country, I was glad I finally got to visit Afghanistan.

All photos by the author.

Have you travelled to places that are not commonly visited by tourists? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

Future founder of Pakistan, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, on the April 1946 cover of TIME. He is shown in the midst of a geopolitical struggle in British India.

Cover of a press release sent to newspapers on the first Independence Day of Pakistan in 1948.

A 1950 promotional card displaying new uniforms of the air hostesses of Pakistan’s first airline, Orient Airways.

The original bottle of Pakistan’s first soft-drink brand, Pakola. It was launched on Pakistan’s third Independence Day in 1950.

1950 launch poster of the country’s first 5-star hotel, The Metropole, in Karachi. The hotel was inaugurated by the Shah of Iran, thus the (Romanised) Persian copy.

An ad announcing the introduction of traffic signals in Pakistan. They were first introduced in Karachi in the 1950s.

The diary page on which poet Hafeez Jalandhari penned the country’s national anthem. The music for the anthem was composed by Ahmad G. Chagla in 1949. The words were written in 1952 and adopted by the government in 1954.

List of holidays in Pakistan in 1953. Many of these are not holidays anymore.

Pakistan Tobacco Company’s launch ad for the Three Castles cigarette brand in the 1950s. The ad uses a quote from fictional Spanish romantic and libertine Don Juan in the copy.

A 1956 handbill of Pakistan’s first ‘beauty cream’ brand, Tibet Snow. The pack and bottle design of the cream have remained exactly the same ever since.

Fast bowler Fazal Mahmood was the first Pakistani cricketer to be used as a model by a commercial brand. He appeared in a Brylcreem ad in 1955.

Cover of the pamphlet Iqbal Aur Mullah authored by Islamic scholar Dr. K. A. Hakeem in 1953. The pamphlet differentiated between the ‘progressive faith’ of poet and philosopher Muhammad Iqbal and the ‘dogmatic’ and ‘retrogressive’ faith of the clerics. The pamphlet was distributed by the Pakistan military during its action against rioters during the 1953 anti-Ahmadiyya movement on Punjab.

A 1955 promotional picture of an air hostess of the Pakistan International Airline (PIA). PIA was launched in 1955 after the government nationalised Orient Airways.

A 1956 ad of Pakistani soft-drink brand, Rogers. Rogers was owned by a Zoroastrian family and was most famous for its lemon drink and soda water. The brand folded in the early 1980s.

Poster of 1956 Hollywood film, Bhowani Junction. The film was mostly shot in Lahore.

Cover of the famous 1957 Urdu novel Khuda Ki Basti by Shaukat Siddique. The novel depicts life of crime, economic exploitation and social strife in the refugee camps of Karachi which had turned into shanty towns.

1959 cover of LIFE magazine showing US President Eisenhower travelling on a horse carriage with Pakistani president, Ayub Khan, on the streets of Karachi.

Article in an Ohio magazine on Pakistan’s squad at the 1959 Olympic Games in Australia.

Egyptian belly dancing comes to Karachi in 1960.

A 1962 Pakistan tourist brochure.

A 1962 East Pakistan tourism brochure for the jungles of Sunderban.

A 1964 Johnnie Walker ad in a Pakistani newspaper.

Front page of Dawn during the 1965 Pakistan-India War. The war ended in a stalemate.

1966 promotional picture of the new uniforms of PIA’s air hostesses. The new uniform was designed by the famous French fashion designer, Pierre Cardin.

A 1966 tourism poster for Lahore.

An ad highlighting the Ayub regime’s Decade of Progress. The economy and industrialisation witnessed rapid growth between 1958 and 1968. But, paradoxically, the growth also created wide gaps between classes. Ayub resigned in 1969.

An American cloth brand called Karachi.

A 1968 coaster of Pakistan’s beer brand, Murree.

A newspaper feature in a Karachi tabloid on a 1971 pop festival in Karachi.

Pakistan president, Yahya Khan, and Indian PM, Indira Gandhi, during the 1971 civil war in East Pakistan and subsequent war between Pakistan and India. East Pakistan broke away to become Bangladesh.

A 1972 pack of Pakistani cigarette brand K-2. K-2 was known as a working-class cigarette brand. It was upgraded in the 1980s and phased out in the 2000s.

An election poster showing ZA Bhutto as the Salauddin of Asia. Bhutto’s socialist PPP came to power in December 1971.

One of the first copies of the 1973 Constitution.

National ID cards were introduced in Pakistan in 1973. The first ID card made was of PM Bhutto.

A page from a 1973 tourism book on Karachi’s nightlife and list of the city’s nightclubs.

A PIA ad welcoming the many Muslim heads of states who arrived in Lahore to attend the 1974 Muslim Summit.

A 1973 poster in New York publicising a Pakistani classical dance performance.

Urdu poster of 1973’s horror film, The Exorcist. The film was a huge hit in Pakistani cinemas.

A 1971 ad of Intercontinental Hotels in Pakistan.

Ad of the famous Pakistani concentrated fruit drink brand Rooh Afza, which claimed that westerners loved the drink too.

A 1975 ad urging Pakistanis to know their country’s rich heritage.

Shop-board of a hashish store (International Hashish House) in Pakistan’s Dir District in 1976.

1977 promotional image of the new uniform of PIA hostesses.

A 1977 poster in Europe of the visiting Pakistani Sufi qawaali group, the Sabri Brothers.

A January 1977 cover of a magazine showing leaders of the right-wing anti-Bhutto electoral alliance, the PNA. Bhutto was toppled in a reactionary military coup in July 1977.

1978 stamps that were issued to mark the centenary of Karachi’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

February 1978 cover of The Herald.

Promotional poster of Pakistani pop singer Nazia Hassan’s first album, Disco Deewane. The album was released in 1980.

In 1980, international tennis star Ilie Nastase visited Pakistan to play a series of matches with Pakistani tennis champion, Saeed Meer.

A 1981 poster to attract recruits to fight Soviet forces in Afghanistan. Such posters were mostly printed in the US and distributed in Pakistan.

Stamps which were issued to celebrate Pakistan’s Hockey World Cup win in 1982. This was Pakistan’s third hockey world title.

List of the 31 international flights arriving at the Karachi Airport on 26 October, 1982. Such lists were published daily.

A 1982 Indian Airlines ad announcing the addition of extra flights between Bombay and Karachi.

1986 promotional image of the new uniform of PIA air hostesses.

Label of a 1987 Pink Floyd t-shirt made in Pakistan.

A Coke poster for the 1987 Cricket World Cup which was held jointly by Pakistan and India.

August, 1988. Zia dies in a crash. Sabotage was suspected.

A 1989 newspaper report on a suit filed against a pop concert/show on PTV.

A 1988 promo picture of Pakistani pop band, the Vital Signs. The band became the leading pop act of the country across the 1990s.

A Servis Shoes ad featuring the new international squash champion, Jahansher Khan. He replaced fellow Pakistani, Jahangir Khan, from the top slot.

Introductory brochure of the 1990 Hockey World Cup which was hosted by Pakistan.

A magazine cover showing Pakistan’s first woman Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto, with her son Bilawal in 1990.

Front page of Dawn the morning after Pakistan won its first Cricket World Cup in 1992.

Logo of the 1996 Cricket World Cup which was jointly held by India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka.

Poster of the 1998 film on the life of Pakistan’s founder, Muhammad Ali Jinnah.

A 2001 poster of Saudi militant, Osama Bin Laden, which was illegally printed and sold in Peshawar.

2004 promotional picture of PIA’s new uniforms.

Cover of the September 2007 National Geographic. The magazine carried a detailed story on the rise of extremist violence in the country.

A 2015 sticker of Zarb-e-Azab – Pakistan military’s operation against extremists.

The streets of Rawalpindi's Banni Chowk sight a chaos at one o'clock in the afternoon.

The area once identified for enticing edifices and captivating designs is now tarnished with unfettered traffic and illegal encroachment. Dingy streets and scruffy construction makes it tricky for outsiders to locate a place.

Setting course from Kartarpura market in downtown Rawalpindi, and passing through the flower and spice market, it took us half an hour to map out Saidpuri gate and get directions for Haveli Sujan Singh.

Rawalpindi once had gates but they have perished with time. However, Saidpuri gate remains a memento. A bustling, small bazaar at start, the historic sheshon wali masjid bordering the striking-red haveli with colonial-style balconies gives a riveting glimpse of the monumental past.

Once inside the gate, arrangement of narrow streets leads to early 19th century houses. Skillfully crafted wooden doors and corridors leading to enclosed yards, most of these British-era houses are two and three-storied with delicate interior, painted tiles and ceilings.

While one is awestruck by this architectural splendour, a narrow turn leads to a fairly spacious courtyard. There, one witnesses the enchanting façade of the Haveli Sujan Singh, a mesmerising structure of its time.

Once an astounding haveli, interior intricately adorned with gold, ivory and fine wood work, the wreck still accounts the alluring past, power, and prestige. Built in 1893 by Rai Bahadur Sujan Singh, a wealthy businessman and uncle to the famous Indian writer Khushwant Singh, it is a key pull for history and architecture enthusiasts.

With every step in the alley, ravished old houses unearth their beauty like a marvel in the sunshine.

We are finally in Bhabra Bazaar, the architecturally charismatic, and the wealthiest neighbourhoods of its time.

The locality now comprises of more than 18,000 people living in numerous havelis and houses.

Other attractions include the centuries-old imambargah Shah Chan Charagh and the Sarafa Bazaar, where one still observes the traditional practices of engraving and casting.

The word ‘Bhabra’ derives from Sanskrit, indicating a merchant community belonging to Jain religion.

Bhabras were traders and goldsmiths working in today’s Sarafa Bazaar and Moti Bazaar. The affluence is replicated in their havelis and temples. The jharokhas (an overhanging enclosed balcony), carved balconies and decorated façades are its remnants.

Partition wreaked havoc to millions. Like Sikhs and Hindus of Rawalpindi, Bhabras had to leave their settlements in no time. However, like various neighbourhoods, the name endured after the migration of the community.

They were replaced by refugees from Ludhiana, Delhi, and Ferozepur who brought along their own culture. Today, Bhabra Bazaar can be termed as Little Ludhiana because of the large community of settlers from Ludhiana.

While roaming the streets of the old mohallah, one easily notices the Om symbols and the Jain greeting Jai Jinendra on many of the buildings.

Local resident Abdul Sattar, whose parents are from Ambala, recently furnished his old house.

To his surprise, he found out that Jai Jinendra was embossed right on the top of the gate. “I think that it’s our heritage and we should protect it,” he tells me.

He says that Sikh and Hindu families who migrated to India still visit the mohallah. “We sit in our house and cherish the times of our elders. They tell us about Ludhiana, Ambala and Delhi, and we show them the place their ancestors grew up in.”

Architecture is not the only attraction here. Bhabra Bazaar is also a place where one finds some of the most authentic South Asian cuisines in the city.

The Amritsari and Kashmiri kulchay, chaat that will give you a taste of Old Delhi, the kheer and mithai of Ambala, and the soft halwa puri and kachori – the food here can beat the best of Lahore.

Just the fresh dahi bhallay and chana chaat with sweet yogurt and chatni from Lajawab Dahi Ballay Centre for RS 80 is good enough a reason to visit the bazaar.


 The areas adjacent to Bhabra Bazaar are no less steeped in history. The streets exhibit architectural richness and ooze traditions that still endure.

All old buildings have tharas (floor raised above the ground for sitting) for residents to sit and talk. The thara culture adds to the vibrancy of the neighbourhoods.

The historical charm, however, is threatened by rising population, commercialism, and state neglect. Some of the old houses have been demolished to make way for new construction.

Jaun Elia’s verse comes to mind:

Shehre-dil mein ajab mohallay thay
Un mein aksar naheen rahay abad 


All photos by the author.

Have you visited any lesser-known heritage sites across Pakistan? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com.

Saif Tahir is a researcher by profession and photographer by passion, the writer is former faculty and trainer at Bahria University and Pakistan Navy War College.

This article was originally published on October 3, 2016.

Some stories from my past are still clearly etched in my memory.

In 1955, I travelled to Bombay as an accompanying child on my mother’s passport to visit my ailing grandfather. The following year, I went again to attend my uncle’s wedding.

But when I went in 1964, it was a different story. I was a 22-year-old MA student who had a passport of his own by then.

In those days, two types of passports were issued to Pakistanis, one exclusively for travelling to India, and the other an international passport to travel to other countries.

It was not easy to get the international passport. When you did finally possess one, you discovered that it had a list of countries, rubber stamped manually, to which you could travel to.

On my preceding two trips to Bombay, we sailed on board the steamship SS Sabarmati.

Also read: 7 things that make a Pakistani feel at home in India

When I travelled on my own in 1964, I decided to do something different. I took the Lahore-Amritsar train this time, which was later given the name Samjhota Express. I was excited for the long ride and the adventures that were in store for me.

I went by train from Karachi to Lahore and then to Amritsar. From Amritsar, I took the Howrah Mail to Lucknow, from where I took another train to Allahabad. Finally from there, I got onto an express train to Bombay.

In those days, one could buy a return train ticket for any destination in India from Lahore. For Indians, a return ticket to any place in Pakistan was available at the Amritsar station.

But I bought a one-way train ticket because I wanted to sail back from Bombay to Karachi by the good old Sabarmati.

Back in the day, getting a visa was easy; whoever applied for it was granted one.

However, the visa fee was high. It was Rs15, which was a third of a one-way journey by ship between Karachi and Bombay.

Visitors from both countries now pay Rs100, which is perhaps the only fair aspect of the tit-for-tat relations between the two states.

Passports and visas used to be handwritten.

My 1964 passport had one mistake.

The clerk-cum-calligrapher, who filled every entry neatly with a felt pen, had forgotten to add the letter ‘i’ at the end of my surname, Noorani.

I protested but the man at the counter told me the changes could only be made if I paid an additional Rs10.

What made matters worse was that it would take two days to get the job done since the assigned person had a lot on his plate.

But one of the agents who ‘liaised’ between the applicants and the passport office staff overheard my argument.

He informed me that the correction could be done for Rs2.

I readily agreed to it since it was much less than the sum I was told to pay initially.

My passport was taken to the relevant clerk who used the same pen to add the missing letter. The arrangement suited all three of us.

The trip from Karachi to Lahore was uneventful, which was in contrast to what was to come on my train ride to India.

Explore: 6 surprises that greet a Pakistani in India

After going through immigration and customs, I boarded the Amritsar-bound train.

Before the train started moving, a woman stepped into the compartment, escorting her father who walked by the help of a stick.

She said that he had to go to Shahjahanpur in Uttar Pradesh because her eldest sister was gravely ill.

The worried, young woman was looking for someone to take care of her father since his escort changed his travel plans at the last minute.

I agreed to escort him since I was going in the same direction.

The train to India moved slowly.

It briefly stopped at the Wagah platform, where the Pakistan Railway police exited the train.

The borders were not marked by barbed wires nor was there a gate on either side of the railway line.

I could see birds flying over the border. There was a stray dog going from Pakistan to India.

Slabs fixed quarter of a mile from each other marked the border.

It was only when passengers saw Sikh farmers working in fields that they realised they had entered the neighbouring country.

Soon after, the train stopped at Attari, the first Indian railway station when you’re coming from Pakistan.

Further reading: Crossing borders: Why every Indian should visit Pakistan

At Attari, the Indian Railway policemen boarded the train. Their uniforms were strikingly similar to the ones worn by the policemen we had left behind ten minutes earlier.

The red uniform of coolies at the station in Amritsar was no different either, nor the call of tea stall bearers.

They chanted ‘chai garam’ the same way. There was, however, one difference: their tea was served in disposable clay cups.

As the train halted, I saw people rushing towards the immigration counters. I couldn’t because I had to help the old man on his feet.

I was compelled to walk slowly. In those days the concept of senior citizens’ privileges did not exist.

With so many passengers on the train, just three counters for everyone arriving at the station were not enough. The only concession I was able to get was to let the old man sit on a bench, while I stood in the line holding two passports in my hand.

But by the time the entry visa was stamped on our passports, the Howrah Mail had steamed out of the Amritsar station already.

But I was reassured we could travel on any train with the ticket we had bought from Lahore.

That was a relief, though a short-lived one.

Going through customs was another ordeal. As the jovial Sikh officer took out all my stuff from my suitcase and enquired about the contents of the book Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot, the Sealdah Express had also left.

I was at my wits’ end but our coolie sympathetically told me that the Kalka Mail would take us to Ambala, from where we could catch another express train.

The Kalka Mail departed late and made an inordinately long stop at Ludhiana. The name was not entirely unknown to me since it was the hometown of one of my favourite Urdu poets, Sahir Ludhianvi.

We missed our train yet again by the time we reached Ambala.

But there was another twist, this time for the better. A coolie at the Ambala station told me that the Howrah Mail, which had left Amritsar without us, was delayed because of engine failure. It was to reach Ambala in ten minutes.

Much to my surprise, the train was overflowing with passengers when it arrived. There was no way I could board it with the old man and our baggage.

But coolies always know the shortcuts. Ours took us to the Attendant’s Compartment, which was a legacy from the colonial days when servants were accommodated in a special compartment, while their sahibs and memsahibs travelled in first class.

With the exception of three police officers, there was no one in the compartment.

The coolie struck a deal. We paid Rs10 for the two of us and the elderly gentleman was given a berth, while I spread out myself on the one opposite his. That made my fellow traveller feel more secure and comfortable.

Take a look: My visits to India made me realise how easy it is to be friends

As soon as the guard whistled and showed a green flag to the engine driver, three college students entered the compartment, much to the annoyance of the policemen.

One of them introduced himself as the son of a deputy superintendent of the railway police.

I had a strong feeling that he was taking the constables for a ride. The trick worked and the policemen were cowed down.

I did not want to reveal my nationality, but suddenly the old man asked, “What time did we leave Lahore?”

“Oh, so you have come from Pakistan!” one of the boys said with a tinge of aggression in his tone.

“You must have celebrated Panditji’s death,” he presumed.

The Indian prime minister Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had died a month or two earlier.

“Well, we don’t celebrate anyone’s death, not even our enemy’s. As for Panditji, we admire him for many of his qualities. I have read all his books avidly,” I replied coolly, though I was nervous inside.

We could have easily been thrown out of the moving train, with or without the consent of the policemen.

“What books did Panditji write?” they asked each other. Like most of their counterparts in Pakistan, these students were ignorant about books.

When I gave them details about The Discovery of India and Glimpses of World History, they looked at me in awe.

I became much more relaxed at this point.

Soon, one of them reminded me, “You haven’t answered Chachaji’s question yet”. I told the elderly gentleman that we had left Lahore at noon.

I was then showered with a barrage of questions about Pakistan, which were just plain queries.

The malice had melted and had given way to the mellowtone they had throughout our conversation thereafter. They even ordered dinner and shared it with me.

The old man needed to use the bathroom but before I could come to his support, our new friends rushed to help him.

The next morning at the Shahjahanpur station, they helped him disembark from the train and got a coolie to pick up his luggage.

His son-in-law was there to receive him and to give the good news that his ailing daughter was in much better health.

He gave me a warm hug and shook hands with the other men. We jumped back into the train and it started moving again.

Little did I know that a fresh problem was in store for me.

A new batch of railway policemen had replaced the old one.

They were told by the ones who had departed that they could ask me for money for travelling in the compartment.

I turned down their demand and didn’t have much problem dealing with them because my new friends jumped to my defence.

“He is a guest from Pakistan and this is not the way to treat a guest. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said the young man, who repeated that his father held a high position in the railway police.

“He will come to receive me and then you’ll have had it,” he threatened the officers. The trick worked and peaceful coexistence, a term much often used in those Cold War days, ensued.

The officers were interested to know the salary structure of their counterparts in Pakistan but were disappointed when I told them that I was not sufficiently equipped to answer about their pays and perks.

“All I know is that their uniforms are the same as yours,” I said, which didn’t seem to interest them.

“I hope they are less corrupt than our cops?” one of the young men said.

It was not a query; he merely wanted to tease the men in uniform.

As the Howrah Mail steamed into Lucknow’s Charbagh Station, I was given a warm farewell by the young men. They had also bought breakfast from an earlier station for me but not for the policemen.

Surprisingly, the policemen became friendly too.

They helped me find a coolie and warned him not to charge more than the rate etched on his metallic armband.

The boys took down my postal address and promised to write to me.

But even the warmest relationships built during train journeys don’t last.

No letters were exchanged.

But certainly the memories remain, at least for me.

Most mornings, I am served coffee in bed. Often, the coffee is made by my mother. After drinking it, I continue to recline in bed until I am served breakfast – again, most often, made by my mother.

I eat breakfast almost in a haze – quickly and with a seriousness that suggests that I took it as an unpleasant task which merely needed doing away with. Men, in front of womenfolk in private, eat like this.

Normally, also in the house is our maid, Noor. She comes around 10:30 am and leaves around 3 pm. She begins by taking her shoes off at the entrance and putting on her work shoes.

She moves into the kitchen to wash all the dishes stacked up from the previous day. She then mops the floor, cleans the cat litter, washes the balconies and, with my mother, washes my clothes, among other chores.

While the housework is going on and I have had coffee and breakfast, I act busy. I walk upright and move around the house trying to look alert, lest it seem I have nothing to do.

But when I am in my room and out of sight of my mother and Noor, I lunge back, relax my shoulders, and log onto Facebook to 'keep up with important developments'. As I do not have to clean, cook, or wash my clothes, I have plenty of time for Facebook polemics, and in polemics, then, I spend my time.

Biological essentialism

Here, briefly, I want to explain the nature of the work that goes on in my house.

I find Aristotle useful as a starting point. He argued that being the ‘political animals’ that men are, they 'need' women and slaves to work so that free men can engage in the polis (city).

For as it is 'natural' for men to be politically involved as civic agents in the life of a city-state, it is 'natural' for women to bear children and look after the house, and for slaves to labour under both free men and women.

Is this not what is going on in my house? In all our houses?

Aristotle wrote before the Declaration of the Rights of Man, the Haitian Revolution, feminist and decolonisation movements.

His are antiquated views which operate on a biological essentialism long refuted by science and philosophy.

Yet, Aristotle’s views are the same that govern our most intimate and political space: the house.

Also read: Cook, clean and vote for men

Let’s return to my house. My mother married my father at the young age of 18. She moved into his family's house and then later to London.

She bore three children, cooked, cleaned, and supported her husband emotionally as he went on to become a successful banker.

My father hosted dinners for the political, feudal, and industrial elite of Pakistan; my mother laboured so that the food and the atmosphere worked for the business deals and networks that were being built.

After my father died at the young age of 46, my mother transferred her caring work to me and my two siblings. Her labour got my father success in his community and career, it has gotten me and my siblings pretty far as well.

Yet, her labour remains in the house and will die without recognition and compensation (like a state pension, unemployment benefits, or wages). In this, my mother shares a fate with Noor.

Work doesn't end when you go home

Noor is 48 and has two children of working age. Her husband recently died. For as long as she can remember, she has worked – mostly cleaning other people's houses, sometimes working as an assistant in a girls hostel or a mess.

These days, besides my house, she works in two other places. I ask her daily routine:

“My day begins at seven in the morning when I get up to clean my house and finish chores left over from the previous night. I then prepare my children’s clothes and their breakfast. After this, my son drops me to the bus stop on his way to work.

I start my first job at eight at the colonel’s house. I wash the dishes, wash and iron his clothes, and keep his house clean which means dusting and hoovering mainly. After that, I walk about 20 minutes to come here. You know what work I do here.

Then at three, I walk to another house about 15 minutes away. There, again, I am asked to clean. When I am done with work between 5-6 pm, I either take the bus home or sometimes my son picks me up on his motorbike.”

I interrupt her: “So, your work is then over?” She smiles and says, “No.” She continues:

“Once home, I rest a little and then start to clean my house and cook for the children. They try to help but are too tired from work. My work isn’t finished before 10 pm. I have done this for nearly 35 years. I am very tired and my body aches most days. But what can I do? I have to make a living.”

The nature of domestic work

The work women like my mother and Noor do is reproductive labour. They are not producing a visible product (‘goods’ that labourers working in factories produce such as cars) but they are reproducing everyone’s labour power.

Take only my example. With the help of my mother and Noor, I am able to reenergise since I don’t do any of the domestic chores. The energy I have comes from the labour they do. That is, I take their energy to reproduce mine.

Reproductive labour does not form part of the calculation of our country's Gross Domestic Product; the GDP only counts productive labour, that is the labour that produces a product.

For her work in my house, Noor gets Rs 12,000 per month. But were she to stop working, I would lose a lot more. If I were to do my own labour, I would not have the energy to write, read, and lecture. Losing that, I lose my whole income.

Noor isn’t just re-creating my energy; she is reproducing the labour of four households and more than 12 people on a daily basis. But while women like Noor get compensated with a low wage, my mother doesn’t even get that since, being a mother and wife, she is expected to do the work out of 'duty' and 'love.'

Produce the labouring class

When I started following my father's example of hosting dinners to build networks, I invited activists Selma James and her partner Nina Lopez – both of the Global Women’s Strike – to my mother’s house in North London for Sindhi food (Again, my mother made the food and I, being the male, played the host).

Selma taught me something profound. Let me explain what she argues and why, for it is far more sophisticated than Aristotle’s philosophy. What women do, she notes, is “produce the whole labouring class.” She elaborates:

“First it [labouring class] must be nine months in the womb, must be fed, clothed, trained. Then when it works, its bed must be made, its floors swept, its lunchbox prepared, its sexuality not gratified but quietened, its dinner ready when it gets home … This is how labour is produced and reproduced when it is daily consumed in the factory or office. To describe its basic production and reproduction is to describe women’s work.”

Explore: Asia's unsung workforce – undervalued, underpaid women labourers


The reward for this labour is shocking. A United National Development Program report from the 1970s notes that “women do ⅔ of the world's work, receive five percent of the world's income and own one percent of the world's assets.” These figures might be dated but they certainly reflect my house: Noor does ⅔ of the work, gets about five percent of my house’s income if not less. My mother gets no income.

The right to compensation

Selma and other feminists demand that women’s reproductive labour be counted in the GDP, compensated by the state, and that they be given all the benefits other labourers get such as unemployment benefit and pension.

As the dinner ended and the plates were put away for me to wash (for once), my mother and Selma exchanged recipes for pumpkin soup and my mother suggested that she would translate the demands of the International Women’s Strike into Sindhi.

My house – divided into hierarchies – is an example of the exploitation of domestic and women's labour. It is time, we as men, began to recognise the labour of women and stopped justifying the exploitation as ‘nature’ or ‘duty’ or ‘love’. We have to demand the state to compensate all labour that goes into producing our wealth.

Are you a housewife who believes your due labour rights should be recognised? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

The only time I met the late Om Puri was in 2004, when he came to participate in the Kara Film Festival in Karachi. That was his first visit to Pakistan. I was introduced to him at a dinner hosted by Sultana Siddiqi, chairperson of Hum TV, in honour of the visiting delegates at her spacious Bath Island residence.

“I was warned by people back home that it would not be safe for me to come here. Tell me where have you hidden the enemy?” he asked in chaste Urdu.

“Maloom hota hai aap se dar ke bhag gaya,” (It seems he ran away because he must have been scared of you) I quipped.

Om had a hearty laugh before he shook hands with someone else waiting for his turn to meet the Indian celebrity.

The brief meeting strengthened my feeling that lack of contact between Pakistanis and Indians within the subcontinent gives birth to misunderstandings. Outside South Asia, they make best of friends normally.

Read: Pakistan-India peace: A good idea that nobody wants

During my childhood, when I heard a lot of one-sided stories of Sikhs killing Muslims during Partition, I became mortally afraid of the bearded and turbaned community, until I met Khushwant Singh whose writings I admired. Our paths crossed in 1976, when he was editing the popular journal The Illustrated Weekly of India.

I was introduced to him by his assistant editor, Raju Bharatan, who was also my guru as far as his knowledge of film music was concerned. Khushwant greeted me with a loud and disarming Assalam-o-Alaikum, as he showed me a poster he had gotten designed in support of the release of Pakistani prisoners of war in 1972.

The lesson that I learnt was that one should greet people with their own customary salutations. I found Sardarjis particularly pleased whenever I greeted them with Sat Shri Akal.

Interestingly enough, the most hospitable hosts I met were the Delhi-based Pami Singh, a nephew of Khushwant, and his sister Geeta. Pami was, pleasantly enough, a far cry from the fierce image of Sikhs that had been created in my mind due to Partition stories.

Also read: 7 things that make a Pakistani feel at home in India

I am happy to divulge that now I have a good number of Sikh friends.The youngest of them all is Aman Jaspal, a turban-less Sikh, who is married to a comely young lady from New Zealand.

Aman (whose name means peace) divides his time between Chandigarh and Attari. He runs Sarhad, a restaurant-cum-museum about a kilometre from the Wagah border.

On the way back home, some of those who attend the senseless flag-lowering ceremony on the Indian side, try either the vegetarian food served on what is known as Amritsar thali or the non-veg fare termed Lahore thali. They get to see a small museum that has architectural, culinary and cultural artefacts from pre-Partition Punjab and visit the souvenir store selling Pakistani ladies dresses.

The grass, as they say, is greener on the other side of the fence, so the ladies garments imported from Lahore by Jaspal attracts the fashion-conscious amongst his clients.

Further reading: Crossing borders: Why every Indian should visit Pakistan

Aman is an avid cricket fan, but when India is playing against New Zealand, he doesn’t at least openly root for his own team. This reminds me of Sunil Gavaskar, who supported Pakistan in his commentary during the 1992 World Cup matches.

When I interviewed Sunil at the Bombay Gymkhana and referred to his tilt in favour of the Pakistani cricket team, he said “I will always support Pakistan, except in matches they play against India.”

Sunil is a fair-minded person. He came to the rescue of a Muslim family, which was surrounded by militant Hindus during the 1993 Bombay riots in the wake of the demolition of Babri mosque. He saw the gruesome sight from his balcony and raced down the staircase to convince the rioters in Marathi to let the helpless family proceed in their car.

He came to Karachi and Lahore not too long ago to grace the charity dinners that were hosted to raise funds for the Shaukat Khanum Memorial Hospital.

See: Germany to India: 'Pakistan and India are more alike than different'

Another distinguished Indian visitor at the fund-raising dinners for the same institution was the thespian Dilip Kumar. His itinerary included Islamabad, where he had been invited to be decorated with the coveted Nishan-e-Imtiaz.

That was his second trip to Pakistan. He had come here earlier when he visited the country’s capital and provincial capitals to raise funds for Fatimid Foundation, which is a blood bank for the needy and community at large.

Literature festivals in Pakistan and India invite a good number of literary figures from the opposite side of the Wagah border. They normally draw larger crowds than the delegates from other countries.

Sadly, many people from across the border don’t have the chance to attend due to visa restrictions. I was to go to India and had been granted a one year multiple entry visa in October 2015, but the organisers of the second edition of the Kumaon Literary Festival developed cold feet and politely withdrew the invitation. I don’t blame them because they would have otherwise been victimised by extremists in India who were opposed to Pakistani participation at such festivals.

Also read: Arriving in Pakistan on August 15, an Indian recounts his visit

Peaceniks are looked at with suspicion by both sides. In 1997 when I was interviewing the then Indian prime minister Inder Kumar Gujral, I casually mentioned that I was being called an ‘Indian agent’ by some Pakistanis, while in India I was constantly being tailed by the police.

“That’s just to make sure you don’t feel lonely,” he commented lightly. By the way, during the rest of my stay in India, I was ‘left alone’.

A few years later, the noted Indian journalist M.J Akbar was a state guest and was granted an interview with President Pervez Musharraf. At the end of his trip, when my friend dropped him at the Karachi airport, a couple of plain-clothed men confronted Akbar and asked him why he had come to Pakistan.

“That’s a question you should ask your President who invited me,” retorted Akbar. Clearly, the persons who were tailing the Indian journo had not been properly briefed.

Further reading: 6 surprises that greet a Pakistani in India

I felt sorry for the ‘follower’ who would wait for me at the taxi stand below the flat of the PIA manager Sultan Arshad, with whom I was staying in Mumbai. The mole had hired a taxi and had instructed the driver to follow my cab.

A few days later, I tried to tell him that he might as well travel in the same vehicle as I did.

“We will both gain by splitting the fare!” I suggested, but the man ignored me.

Four or five days later, I drove to the Churchgate local train station because I had to go to the suburbs. I bought a ticket, but the mole didn’t need one. The train started moving when both of us were at the platform. We ran. He boarded a compartment, I couldn’t.

The poor fellow could not get down because by the time he realised I was not on the train, he could not jump because the train had gathered speed. Obviously, his life was more precious to him than his job.

That was also the last time I saw him. For a man who visited people like poet and lyricist Javed Akhtar and Raju Bharatan just by following me around, I hope it sparked in him some interest in literature and cross-border friendship at least.

Do you visit friends or family across the border and want to share your story? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

On Friday, April 7, an Uzbek suspect hijacked a delivery truck and rammed the vehicle into the Åhlens City department store on Drottninggatan, a busy, crowded, partially pedestrian street in Stockholm, Sweden. Four people died and 15 were injured.

One of the pedestrian segments is lined by lion sculptures on either side. When my siblings and their children came over to Stockholm not long ago, one of my nephews stopped by each sculpture since he loved the lions so much.

We walked up the street to a cafe. As you look up from there, the street goes straight as far as you can see. That’s the way the attacker came from.

He hijacked a brewery’s truck that was making a delivery to a nearby restaurant. On his way, he crossed Kungsgatan (King’s Street) and passed by the office of my oldest client. I have spent several mornings and afternoons at that office, looking over Drottninggatan.

A witness was buying flowers at Hötorget (a square at the centre of the city) where I once used to work. Coincidentally, my office was right above one of the entrances to the Hötorget metro station, and my desk used to look over a flower shop from the first floor. Was it the same flower shop? I don’t know.

The witness reported people running and screaming, not knowing where they were going. Another witness at Sveavägen (another major street nearby) reported that the police told everyone to go to the other side of the street (away from the attacker).

Stockholm School of Economics, where I went to study, is on this street. Like every other student, I often walked between there and the location of the attack. Since the day I came to Stockholm, these are the streets I have frequented the most.

Swedish Prime Minister Stefan Löfven said “Sweden is under attack” and that may not be inaccurate. The last time Sweden had an attempted terrorist attack, it was also close to Drottninggatan but the attacker managed to kill himself only in a rather anti-climactic fashion.

The country has been at peace for more than 200 years and stayed neutral in both world wars. It was one of the pioneers when it comes to social equality, gender equality, clinical research, healthcare, innovation, technology, sustainability and more. It opposed the Iraq war and remains a generous host to a rather large number of refugees compared to the size of its own population.

I have lived here since 2010 and during these years, Sweden has won my love and affection. It is one of those places where you find the most beautiful people and characters. They are the kind of people who want sunshine, but not the kind you get from a warming planet. They are the kind of people who do not measure how wide their arms can stretch, but choose instead to figure it out in the course of the embrace.

I received a Master’s degree without paying a single dime in tuition fees because Sweden believed education should be free, even for non-citizens (the policy for international students has since changed).

I studied abroad across Europe after my first year in university, and could sustain myself well because my part-time employer allowed me to work remotely after only a few months of working there.

Upon my return and subsequent graduation, on the sincere recommendation of one of my closest friends, I was interviewed and later employed by a technology start-up. Most of the employees were Swedes, with a handful of foreigners, but it was one of the most openhearted and welcoming group of people.

I cannot remember ever feeling left out for not speaking Swedish. Instead, we had Swedish lessons over lunch, taught by a charming old Swedish woman named Bibi. When I had visas issues, the same client whose office looks over Drottninggatan stood by me and remained supportive throughout.

Sweden did not just give me Master’s education; the country has been my teacher, my mentor, my friend.

The Sweden that I know and love may be under attack, but it has not been overpowered. Despite the shock and fear from a mad man’s actions, local law enforcement came in full swing, already well-prepared for the scenario.

Swedish people, too, have been measured and calm. After the incidents in London, Brussels and Paris in recent memory, they seem prepared, especially to prevent any opportunistic resort to anti-immigrant fear mongering.

The attack triggered a campaign of misinformation on social media led by the Sweden Democrats, a nationalist anti-immigrant political party. But local newspapers were quick to debunk such attempts. In conversations with my colleagues in Stockholm, it became clear to me that the fact that such attacks are ideal breeding grounds for venomous political rhetoric was not lost in Sweden.

Finally, thousands gathered in central Stockholm on April 9, not just to stand in solidarity with the victims but also to stand up against fear. In the words of one of my close friends and former colleagues, “we all know what fear can do to a society”.

All photos by the author.

Do you live in a western city that has been a victim of terrorist attacks? How have the people of your city shown resilience? Tell us at blog@dawn.com

I wonder which comes first: Does a bigoted society influence the government and the state; or does a bigoted state and government influence a society?

Some experts suggest that (in a democracy) no matter how tolerant and enlightened a government wants to behave, it will always be a hostage to the whims of certain not very enlightened constituencies which are not seen as bigoted men and women, but as potential votes.

A 23-year-old student of Mardan University was mercilessly beaten and then shot to death for allegedly posting ‘blasphemous content’ on social media. No such content has been found. And the fact is, even a murderer is granted a trial before a judgment is delivered.

If mobs and vigilantes are so casually and rather haplessly allowed to become judge, jury and executioners, why have a government at all?

What’s more, as we have seen over and over again, governments and the state have actually reinforced the perception that one is free to become judge, jury and executioner in matters of faith.

Mad mobs have been used to gain cheap political mileage and ‘strategic’ gains - until the mob mindset begins to threaten the state itself. It has happened repeatedly.

Another question which began being asked after the student’s killing was, ‘how can young men from a university behave in such a beastly manner?’ They are supposed to be ‘educated,’ and ‘rational’, no? Aren’t such mobs often made up of uneducated and uncouth men driven by economic and social frustrations and falling upon a scapegoat as some psychotic act of catharsis?

According to a recent feature in Scientific American, the US Homeland Department has dished out $12 million to a research facility which investigates the origins, dynamics and psychological impact of terrorism.

The facility, staffed by more than 30 experienced scientists, is called Study of Terrorism & Response to Terrorism (START).

According to Scientific American: “Whereas earlier researchers focused on the political roots of terrorism, many of today’s investigators are probing the psychological factors that drive adherents to commit deadly deeds …”

START is now concentrating on trying to figure out the minds of persons who are willing to cause indiscriminate carnage and maximum deaths (including their own) for what they believe is a cause close to their faith. Such a person does not see it as an act of terror, but, rather, an expression of their theological conviction.

In the past, a majority of studies in this context have been more inclined to treat such men and women as consequences of systematic brainwashing, economic disparities and even mental illness.

Recent studies suggest that terrorist outfits usually tend to screen out mentally unstable recruits and volunteers because their instability is likely to compromise the mission and expose their handlers.

Even though these two factors are still being investigated, the most recent studies on the issue emanating from research facilities such as START suggest that most of the terrorists might actually be mentally stable; even rational.

Summarising the results of the recent studies, Scientific American informs that “the vast majority of terrorists are not mentally ill but are essentially rational people who weigh the costs and benefits of terrorist acts, concluding that terrorism is profitable.”

By profitable they mean an act of terror which, in addition to being financially favourable to the perpetrator (or to his or her family which gets looked after if the person is killed); is also an act which is perceived by the person to be beneficial to his or her sense and perception of their spiritual disposition.

As has been reported on numerous occasions in Pakistan (and now even in India), there is the possibility of gaining or safeguarding some economic and political benefit behind attacks perpetrated in the name of religion.

The studies also propose that even though economic disadvantages do play a role in pushing a person to join a terror outfit out of anger or desperation, this is not always the case.

Forensic psychiatrist Marc Sageman of the University of Pennsylvania, carried out an extensive survey of media reports and court records on 400 ‘extremists.’ He determined that “these individuals were far from being brainwashed, socially isolated, hopeless fighters; 90 per cent of them actually came from caring, intact families; and 63 per cent of these had gone to college.”

There is another interesting query that the researchers are trying to investigate: why were terrorists during the Cold War more constrained in their acts than the ones which emerged after the end of that conflict?

Studies suggest that a majority of significant terror groups during the Cold War were driven by nationalistic or communist impulses. Modern religious terrorism largely emerged from the 1990s onward.

Interestingly, despite the fact that Cold War terrorists did not hesitate to kill perceived enemies, they were, however, overtly conscious of how their acts would be perceived by popular opinion and the media.

For example, militant left-wing outfits in Europe, and even some factions of Palestinian guerrilla organisations (in the late 1960s and 1970s), would often abort attacks in which they feared casualties of innocent bystanders could mount.

This is not the case anymore. It seems, today, the old concern of being perceived as an indiscriminately brutal outfit has actually become the purpose. Terrorists now actually want to be perceived in this manner.

This changing mindset reminds me of a man who once ran a small roadside tea stall a few streets away from the offices of an English weekly I used to work for as a reporter in the early 1990s.

People called him Anju Bhai and he was in his 40s. He was famous for his doodh pati which he used to serve in transparent teacups. But there was something else about him which was far more intriguing.

Long before some young Pakistanis began to pour into Afghanistan to fight in the 1980s, and before men began travelling to Syria, only to return and wanting to destroy the whole concept of society as we know it. Anju Bhai travelled to Egypt to fight in a war against Israel.

Travelling across Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and Algeria, he made his way to Egypt on buses. This was during the 1967 Arab-Israel War. Anju Bhai was just 20 and had quit college to go fight against the Israelis.

Anju was a passionate admirer of Egyptian leader Gamal Abdel Nasser, and also equally passionate about the Palestinian cause.

Arab Nationalism was all the rage in those days — a fusion of nationalism, anti-imperialism and socialism. It was also vehemently opposed to conservative Arab monarchies. Nasser was one of its main architects.

The war lasted for just six days. Egypt was decimated and so was the charm and influence of Arab Nationalism. Anju lost four of his fingers when a grenade exploded in his right hand. He was part of a rag-tag brigade mostly made up of Syrian, Algerian and Palestinian volunteers.

A month after the war, Anju joined Yasser Arafat’s PLO. He travelled to a PLO camp in Jordan and got trained in guerrilla warfare. In early 1968, he was selected to join a group of four Palestinians and two Syrians in Beirut.

The group was to attack an Israeli military convoy on a road near the Lebanon-Israel border. But suddenly, three members of the group changed the plan and decided to attack a bus carrying Israeli labourers on the same road. The rest of the group, including Anju, refused, saying they would not target civilians.

Anju told me this split was symptomatic of the major split that would divide Arafat’s PLO in 1974 between Arafat’s faction and the faction headed by the notorious Abu Nidal.

Anju returned to Pakistan in late 1968 — broken and bitter. His father, a cashier at a bank, refused to talk to him. Anju could not complete his education. In 1974, he found employment as a copy-maker at the PPP-backed progressive Urdu monthly, Al-Fatah.

He was still there when the ZA Bhutto regime was overthrown in the 1977 reactionary coup. Anju remained unemployed till 1980 when one day he borrowed 2,500 rupees from a friend and set up a small tea stall on I.I. Chundrigar Road.

The stall kept him afloat and he got married in 1987. I last met him in 1998. A few years ago I went looking for him again, but was told he had folded his stall in 2001 and had moved to Bahrain with his wife and kids.

Nevertheless, in the context of this piece, I must relate here what he said when once I asked him a pointed question. Being an ‘angry young man’ myself in those days, I had asked him, wasn’t he angry and vengeful towards a society that had rejected him twice and turned his life upside-down?

After listening to my question, a wry smile had cut across his aging face and he just said: “Scene ulta tha, chotay bhai (It was the other way round, little brother). Society ko mein ne reject kiya tha (It was I who had rejected society) …”

This piece was first published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, August 7th, 2016. It has now been updated with a new introduction.

Curiosity can be a powerful driving force; the need to constantly seek and discover. The one thing that travel does is keep your senses sharpened — you are constantly exposed to new stimuli. With every step, you are seeing, breathing and experiencing something new. And with every journey, you grow. No wonder then that some find travel to be highly addictive.

“I’m not afraid,” says photographer Sohaib Roomi talking about his proclivity to simply get behind the wheel and let the road guide him to newer adventures. “I just don’t feel any fear when I go anywhere,” he adds.

It was on a visit to a site that he and a group of like-minded individuals (together they call themselves khanabadosh or gypsies), ‘discovered’ Moola Chotook sometime in March last year. Photos of green waters among scalding hot rocks of Khuzdar, in Balochistan, appeared on all the major travel groups in Pakistan resulting in one unfortunate, but unpreventable, consequence: Moola Chotook became one of the ‘must-visit’ places on this side of the country.

As the weather cooled, ‘independent’ tour operators offered trips and this ‘secret’ place no longer remained a secret. On his last visit there, Sohaib noticed all the litter that the tourists had left behind — an unfortunate consequence to the rising tourism industry in Pakistan.

Nestled in the dry, rocky and barren terrain of southern Balochistan is a stunning oasis

It is not easy to get there. The drive from Karachi to Khuzdar takes five hours. Going a little further and you come across an off-road track which is so rocky that no car can be driven on it. The only option is to switch to a 4x4.

“The Jhal Magsi racing track goes through the Moola River,” relates Sohaib. It takes another 35-40km to finally reach Moola Chotook. “It took us six hours of off-road driving to get there,” says Sohaib, “You have to cross the river, rocks and climb small hills. At times your vehicle will be climbing angled at 45 degrees.”

However, if he thought Moola Chotook was beautiful, he was in for a surprise. A local man who often acted as Sohaib’s guide told him of a place that was far more magnificent. “You have to see this place,” the man said about Chota Chotook.

“It is two hours from Moola,” relates Sohaib. “There is a route to get there that the locals know of. We didn’t know we had to climb. We were in our slippers but they made us climb these massive rocks and boulders.”

“At first it seems like there is nothing there. You don’t see anything. Then you climb for about 20 minutes and turn and suddenly you see the first pool and such greenery, and a waterfall. We weren’t expecting anything like that at all. It was like a hidden oasis,” Sohaib recalls.

There wasn’t just one waterfall or one pool — there were several smaller ones. Follow the rocky path around them and you come across the biggest one — it towers over you. “The water was clearer than at Moola Chotook,” says Sohaib. “This place is crazy beautiful. It’s hard to describe in words.”

How do you even find a place like this? “The only way you can get to places like this is by talking to the locals,” comes the response.

The saint at Pir Chattal and his ‘holy’ fish

Somewhere in the area, Sohaib came across another pool, albeit one reinforced artificially by the caretakers of the shrine that was built next to it. “The shrine belongs to the saint of Pir Chattal — the biggest of all saints in Balochistan,” relates Sohaib.

“This pool is actually very big. They have routed fish away from it, to protect them. Some of the locals say that, ‘The fish are baba’s bhains (buffaloes) and that if anyone eats one, it comes out of them alive’,” he chuckles. “No one can touch the fish, but people do go to feed them.”

Published in Dawn, EOS, February 19th, 2017

All photos by Sohaib Roomi

Earlier this year, I went to Laki, which is about 18 kilometres from Sehwan. Laki is famous for its natural streams, but once I got there, I also realised how important Hinduism has been to Sindh and how embedded the religion is with the geography of the region.

In his magnum opus, Sindh Revisited, 19th century British scholar and traveller Richard Burton describes Laki as a place of pilgrimage for Hindus. The devotees called the streams dharan tirtha, which means “constant flow of the earth in a holy place.”

I saw men, women and children climbing the hills to visit a cave dedicated to the saint, dharan pir. I followed them and on the way up, I noticed a tree where people had tied multi-coloured cotton threads. It was a ‘wish tree’ and the threads are only removed when a person’s prayer has been answered.

The cave was tiny and dimly lit. There was a raised platform where women were bowing and presenting flowers, candies and other offerings. After coming out of the cave, I went on a bridge that led to a flight of steep, rough-hewn stairs.

As I went up the stairs and reached the top of the hill, a subtle feeling of elation and adrenaline took hold of me. I took in the splendour of the Laki mountains with beautiful green streams below. There was silence and I could feel my heart throbbing.

Although the landscape was arid, the multi-coloured and heavily-embroidered dresses of the local women added a beautiful contrast. The pale, green ponds run along the entire site and gave off a pungent odour. The bathing rituals are still practiced by the pilgrims, not to wash off sins but mainly to get rid of skin diseases.

Centuries ago, Laki was also considered the favourite spot for ascetics who wanted to commit ritual suicide. Ascetics would ascend to the nearby hills and after ablution, prayer and meditation, they would spend the night on the edge of a hill. If terror gripped their hearts, it was a sign that they were not ready. But if they were able to sleep peacefully, the next morning they would take their own lives.

Laki used to be of special significance for worshippers of Shiva as well. French researcher Michel Boivin, in his book Sindh Through History and Representations, notes that Laki “is one of the most important places of the Shivaite cult in Sindh and a stopover for pilgrims going on the journey to Hinglaj Mata temple to celebrate yatra [pilgrimage] in Balochistan.”

But today, there are only a handful of shivalas or temples in Laki. Once majestic, they now wear a deserted look since there is no one to take care of them anymore. This is a far cry from the past when the area was dotted with shivalas and Hindu monastic establishments. Scholar and traveller Hiuen Tsang visited Sindh in the seventh century and described that there were 273 Hindu temples here, out of which 235 belonged to Pashupata Shivaites, which is another order of Shivaism.

I don’t know in what context it was written, but this poem by the great Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai perfectly captures the pain I felt after seeing Hinduism disappear from the land where it once flourished:

God-seeker’s voice today I miss

The courtyard now is desolate

The sight of empty places here

Kills me, so tortuous it is

Who to the soul gave life and bliss?

The selfless ones, departed are

Today, the yogis disappeared

Remembering them, I wept whole night

Those whom I searched and so revered

Are vanished, never to return

All photos by the author

Have you visited any lesser-known historical and religious sites? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

A mob lynched Mashal Khan last week at the premises of his university on the allegation of blasphemy. Factually, the statement is accurate, but reducing the incident to newspeak is simplistic and incomplete, for it fails to capture what Mashal's life story was.

Mashal was cousin to a friend of mine. I talked to him the day after Mashal was killed, and what he told me shattered me into pieces.

Mashal's father, Iqbal Shayar, didn't have a stable source of income but he was always ready to do any kind of work in order to put food on the table for his family. He is also a poet. A man of letters, he never let poverty be an affront to his family's dignity and instilled in his children the love for reading and critical thinking.

On the same topic: I've known Salman Haider for 14 years and he is not anti-Islam

It was hard for the father to pay for his son's formal schooling, but it was a struggle he undertook with pride. Mashal went to the Institute of Computer and Management Sciences on a scholarship and got the best marks in F.Sc at his college. He then secured a partial scholarship to study engineering in Moscow but unfortunately had to return to Pakistan after just one year since his family was unable to pay for the rest of his degree.

After coming back, Mashal didn't follow the conventions and look for a job. He had other convictions. He believed that he would be more useful to society if he went into civil services, so he enrolled into Abdul Wali Khan University Mardan to do a Master’s in mass media and journalism and prepare for his civil services exams.

Mashal’s father supported his son’s decision. Given the financial hardships, it would have made more sense for Mashal to work and support his family financially. Yet, his father didn’t stand in the way of his son’s noble desire to continue studying. This is what enlightened people do; they prefer idealism, public service and social betterment over material gains.

But the mob that killed him had a different vision. Mobs don’t appear out of a vacuum and public violence is never apolitical. Rather, mobs are products of a long process of social engineering. They are conditioned into self-righteousness by a constant of stream of villainous ideas and statements, whereby a beautiful soul like Mashal is dehumanised to the point that his lynching became a necessity and a celebration.

Read more: Khurram Zaki - The voice that spoke for the dead

Mobs go on rampage to silence those who dissent. Their goal is to publically reinforce the boundaries of what’s ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. A mob can become active at a moment’s notice. It doesn’t wait for or need proof; if it smells blood, it unleashes itself.

After Mashal’s death, I wondered if it was just a matter of him being at the wrong place at the wrong time. The answer was ‘no.’ Mobs are products of a society that wants conformity; an inquisitive and humanistic person like Mashal was always in danger of facing its wrath no matter where and when.

Mob violence is also a collective loss – last week it was Mashal, before him there have been many others, and next week it can be any of us who is killed on mere suspicion of blasphemy.

As if exploitation of blasphemy laws by mobs wasn’t enough, instrumentalisation of this law by the state to silence dissent and criticism has added to its misuse. As long as the state thinks that it’s justified in regulating people’s opinions by using the blasphemy card, lives of people like Mashal will continue to be the collateral damage of this policy.

Mashal’s father has kept his composure. When I listen to him, I’m amazed by his strength and perseverance. He insists that his son did no wrong and that he educated him, despite all the hardships, to make him a useful member of the society. Being a poet that he is, he reinforces his words by reciting Pashtu and Urdu verses. One phrase that he said about Mashal is still ringing in my ears: “sunrays can’t be chained.”

How has Mashal Khan's killing effected you? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

I remember the moment I was sitting on a partially-broken wooden batila (small boat) at Sindh’s Kalankar lake earlier this year. Local fisherman and boat captain Mir Hassan Mallah pointed toward the sand dunes surrounding the lake. Taking the last puff of his cigarette, he commented, “This lake is as thirsty as us villagers.”

The beautiful lake is spread over both Sanghar and Umerkot districts. It starts from Sanghar near Ghulam Nabi Shah town where barrage and desert lands meet and ends at Umerkot district.

To reach Kalankar, I embarked on a one-hour journey from my hometown Umerkot to Dhoronaro, a rural town 30 kilometres away. I met two locals who happily agreed to guide me to the lake, which was another eight kilometres away in Haji Khamiso Rajar village.

Kalankar lake connects seven other lakes: Modhakar, Kharor, Loon Khann, Ghurjee, Bando, Sunahro, and Bhorurr. It receives water from two sources: either the used water from adjoining farms owned by big landlords or through rainfall.

Since freshwater has become scarce over the years, the water in the lake has become brackish and salty, which is not conducive for the fish population to grow. With tearful eyes, Mir Hassan told me how the lake needs freshwater so that there can be more fish.

The amount of fish caught from the lake is too little for the fishermen to make a decent living. At most, they earn Rs 200 a day by selling their catch in the market.

There is a freshwater canal nearby that can feed the lake, but the government has yet to pay heed and connect the canal to the lake.

The villagers’ plights doesn’t end here. I could see the sadness in Mir Hassan’s eyes when he told me that drinking water is also scarce. The underground water used for drinking has become brackish as well.

People have no choice but to drink stagnant and contaminated water. A hand pump was installed by an NGO but it's not enough and installing more pumps is too expensive for the villagers.

Two decades ago, life at Kalankar was thriving, not just due to the vast availability of fish, but also because of access to sweet drinking water from wells (locally known as tuss).

Today, around 120 families have moved out from the surrounding villages. More and more villagers are thinking of leaving their ancestral lands, but they don’t know where to go.

One of the villagers, Ghulam Nabi Mallah, told me that the Minister of Culture, Tourism and Antiquities in Sindh visited earlier this year to look into the potential site in the village to create a tourist point.

If tourist infrastructure is developed, influx of visitors could contribute to improving the dwindling fortunes of the villages that depend on Kalankar lake.

But instead of making provisions for the service economy, the government should instead focus on rehabilitating the lake, for it’s an integral part of the area’s ecology and a more sustainable source of livelihood for the people. And above all, if the lake loses its charm, what good will a tourist spot do?

All photos by the author.

Are you part of a community in Pakistan that is suffering due to lack of basic resources? Share your story with us at blog@dawn.com

A festive rally was taken out in the capital of Panama after the court ruling on the Panama Leaks case in Pakistan was finally announced.

The rejoicing people hoped that maybe now their country’s name will not be mentioned by the Pakistani media more than it is by the citizens of Panama.

Apart from concerts, the rally also held contests in which people who could tell where Pakistan was, were given prizes. Only two people won.

US President Donald Trump hailed the court ruling, saying that it will go a long way in reducing the influx of refugees from Syria and migrants from Mexico.

When he was reminded that the verdict had nothing whatsoever to do with refugees or migrants, Trump is reported to have said, "then why am I even talking about it?"

An Easter Bunny was arrested on the spot and his Twitter account blocked for misinforming the President.

Soon after the court verdict, a group of North Koreans in Pyongyang pleaded with the country’s leader, Kim Jong-un, to allow the airing of Pakistani TV talk shows in North Korea. Smiling benevolently, Kim got them all shot by a firing squad.

Indian PM, Narendra Modi, reacted to the SC verdict in a strange manner. When asked about it at a press conference, Modi responded by exhibiting his favorite yoga position.

He told reporters that he begins to perform yoga every time he hears the word Pakistan. This helps him control his temper.

He added that if it wasn’t for yoga he would have already crushed Pakistan by unleashing a devastating cow-stampede.

Visibly angry, Modi changed the subject and began to talk about his favourite topic: Bio-gas. "It soothes me," he said.

Some ministers of the ruling PML-N celebrate after the ruling announced that the PM will not be dismissed. The ministers shouted "Marhabba! Marhabba!"

They then left for Qatar for a well-deserved vacation.

PTI members demonstrate their anger at verdict. They were disappointed that the courts did not dismiss the PM.

However, soon PTI members settled down and claimed that the verdict was a moral victory for PTI.

PPP members claimed that had the PM been a Sindhi, he would have been dismissed. But since he was an honourary Arab, he was spared. The PPP members then all left for an emergency meeting. In Dubai.

The PPP offered help to PTI for gathering even more evidence against the PM for future cases. For this it will use the new garbage trucks that its government in Sindh just imported from China.

The JUI watched the news of the verdict on TV over a sumptuous lunch. However, the party was too full to give any immediate statement.

JI members were seen leaving the court in disappointment.

Understandably, the media’s reaction was the most pronounced.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, R2-D2 transmits the news of the verdict to Luke Skywalker and C3-P0.

Disclaimer: This piece is categorised as satire.

On the lawns of Aitchison College, a game of schoolboy cricket is developing. Saeed is batting at number four. His proud parents casually watch on, grazing on fruits while engaging in idle chit-chat with some other respectful middle class couple.

“Saeed hits his cover drive like Brian Lara.”

“Your son reminds me of Sachin when he hits straight.”

“That hook shot reminded me of a young Ricky Ponting.”

Finally Saeed succumbs to the realities of an infant technique facing a swinging ball.

The most successful captain in the history of Pakistan cricket has announced his retirement. How will he be remembered?

“Oh dear. He leaves the ball like Virat. We better work on that with him.”

Like at most places with high expectations, the young men are pigeon-holed. That swing bowler will be the next James Anderson. The left arm version is Wasim. Everyone in Pakistan wants to be Wasim.

The match continues. Saeed watches on from the sidelines as the wicketkeeper puts down a sitter. The parents giggle as they compare the gloved child to Kamran Akmal.

Yet no one is compared to Misbah.

Misbah doesn’t have a shot. Misbah doesn’t have a signature swing of the bat. Misbah doesn’t have a slower ball. There is no relationship scandal. There is no stench of corruption.

No child wears Misbah’s number on their back. They wouldn’t even know what number he wears. He has made the most ODI runs of any player never to have made an ODI century. Both a massive success and a massive failure.

No child wants to be Misbah.

However, it matters little for what Misbah lacks, for he has what many others do not.

The gift of leadership.

The most boring of all the cricket traits. The most important of all the cricket traits.

Like the wind, you can’t touch it. But you can feel it and witness its dramatic impacts.

A gift not necessarily held by the team’s best player, but a gift held by its most important.

Courage. Honesty. Doing what’s right. Owning the moment. Enthusing your men.

These are Misbah’s hooks and cover drives. They are more powerful and longer lasting than any blow to cow corner.

Misbah doesn’t have a shot. Misbah doesn’t have a signature swing of the bat. Misbah doesn’t have a slower ball. There is no relationship scandal. There is no stench of corruption. No child wears Misbah’s number on their back. They wouldn’t even know what number he wears. He has made the most ODI runs of any player to have never made an ODI century. Both a massive success and a massive failure. No child wants to be Misbah. However, it matters little for what Misbah lacks, for he has what many others do not. The gift of leadership

August 2016.

The turf at Lord’s is experiencing a 40-year-old man doing push-ups on it during a Test match.

It has never been seen before. It’s possible that these push-ups are the most meaningful and iconic statement made in cricket in the last 20 years.

A century just made at the Home of Cricket. In itself, nothing remarkable. Top order Test batsmen are designed to make hundreds.

A leader can mark his influence by a vast array of methods. In this instance, the sound of creaking, aging pectoral muscles is louder than anything his men have heard before. The message is clear.

‘Let them come and challenge us. We can beat them. No matter what they say.’

Pakistan cricket is a monster that can never be tamed. But it can be herded. Only for short periods of time. And only by magicians.

Imran demonstrated his sorcery in 1992.

Misbah proved he was a cricketing wizard in 2016. A wizard who casts his spells by doing push-ups.

That he guided this team to a series draw in England is no small achievement. Both countries were playing to be the number one ranked team in the world. England didn’t necessarily choke. Misbah’s team didn’t necessarily dominate. But it didn’t lose the series either. Under Misbah, Pakistan rarely lost.

For his efforts during this series, Wisden was concluding that both he and his partner in crime, Younis Khan, would be recipients of the coveted Wisden Cricketer of the Year award.

Misbah-ul-Younis.

Not since Greenidge and Haynes has there been a more iconic batting partnership. One that defined the spirit of a nation.

Had Younis been born in Australia, we would be comparing him to Ponting. If he had been born in England, he would have no historical peer.

Yet, no one compares Misbah to anyone. His deeds with the bat were good. But it is his deeds as a leader of men that were of greater significance.

Unfortunately, there are no statistics for leadership.

A few days after the English series ended and after some rain in the West Indies, Pakistan became number one. It united a country like no event before.

Misbah had taken a rabble and moulded them into conquerors of the world.

There are people who hate Misbah. These people probably gain pleasure from drowning puppies.

A man who hasn’t been able to play at home since 2009. A man who overcame the egos of Afridi, Malik and multiple Akmals to gel a team. A man who formed one half of the all powerful Younis-ul-Haq dynamic batting duo.

A man with values. One who stood up against the reintegration of spot-fixers — a stance that after the recent Pakistan Super League appears to have been the right one.

A man who made the hundreds when he had to.

A man who has decided to leave the game while on the other side of the world. Compare that with Sachin, who had schedules manipulated so he could retire in a place that would stroke his ego.

While cricketers can be labelled great players or even legends because of their play, Misbah is an immortal based purely on his leadership. Not because of what he did with a piece of willow in his hand, but because of the man he is.

It doesn’t matter what happens in Misbah’s final Test series.

He may make more runs than ever before. He may fail like the majority of batsmen do. Whatever comes, it doesn’t matter.

History has written Misbah’s opus. His story is not of batting accomplishments or trophies won.

It is about making young men into better men. It is about goodness and values and family and trust. A fable about leadership through adversity and of a great human gently stroking a beard.

But Misbah won’t tell you about it. His grandchildren will not hear about his legend from their grandfather. This is not who Misbah is.

Pakistan will miss Misbah. Cricket will bemoan the loss of Misbah.

Saeed and his parents are enjoying a post-match meal.

“Father, I want to be like Misbah.”

This father smiles with pride. A mother realises her son is attracted to the right values. The world has just gained a better man.

This is Misbah’s legacy.

A great player. A leader of cricketers.

A maker of men.

Dennis Freedman is a cricket writer and host of Can’t Bowl Can’t Throw Cricket Show heard on Australian radio and globally via iTunes. Find him at DennisDoesCricket.com or @DennisCricket_

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 16th, 2017

"I was young and stranded and had left my job as a mechanic. I did not know what to do, but a quiet voice was always whispering to me, 'Whatever you do, make sure it is grand.'" —Moin Akhtar

September 6, 1966: A young, skinny boy steps up onstage for the very first time to participate in a variety show amidst incessant heckling. Surrounded by students screaming insults, his face does not twitch. He calmly approaches the microphone and requests the audience to give him 10 minutes to showcase his talent, and that if they did not enjoy his act, he will step down. He acts with confidence and people see it. In the audience, the 60-year-old is laughing just as hard as the 8-year-old. He ends up performing a 45 minute stand-up routine. He exits the auditorium amid loud applause.

March 11, 2011: That boy, now a man at the peak of his career, graces the stage for the very last time, to thunderous applause. He is there to spend an evening with his fans, an event titled, “An Evening with The Legend.” He informs the audience he will perform for only 10 minutes but at the end of his performance, the audience chants “Encore!” and ensures he stays on stage for a total of 45 minutes.

Every now and again, an individual with the power to transform everything around him, enters this world; spectators too, realise that in the presence of this person, they are bound to witness greatness.

So was the case with my father, Moin Akhtar.

The literal translation of the name “Moin Akhtar” is “A Helpful Star.” And his life proved just how well he lived up to his name. The world knows my father as Pakistan’s finest artist, however, I know him as a giver.

It has been nothing short of a privilege to have grown up watching his utterly sincere and selfless contribution to humanity. For anyone in need, he was the silent helper, but I will choose to keep intact the veil over his many unknown acts of kindnesses, to honour his wishes.

I will point out, however, how highly skilled he was at walking in other people’s shoes, empathising with them, understanding their sorrows like they were his own; and playing his part in easing their burdens.

It is difficult to do justice to his charismatic, larger-than-life presence with mere words. Moin Akhtar the extroverted performer, was extravagant, exuberant, highly social, and enjoyed the finer things in life. Moin Akhtar the introvert, was humble, silent, preferred solitude, and was deeply satisfied by the simpler things in life.

Also read: Moin Akhtar: The star still shines

I recall vividly the chaos our home would be in every time he left the house. That chaos, perhaps, was the residue of the remarkable transformation of Moin Akhtar, the simple soul to Moin Akhtar, the star performer.

To witness that transition again and again, of a quiet and serious man, donning an unironed shalwar kameez and eating daal chaawal; to an entertainer loved by millions, and who was as conscious of his style and surroundings as of the standards he set, was simply awe-inspiring.

Everything from his posture to the way he conversed would change. Suits would not be worn if matching socks did not accompany them. When he would finally step out of the house, it would not be as Abbu but as Moin Akhtar, the artist.

Even though I resided in the room right next to his, and would see him every day, there was always a mystifying aura around him. At home, like on stage, he commanded attention.

We take great pride as his family when every day brings a new stranger from a new corner of the world, telling us how my father touched their lives and changed them forever. It humbles me to have witnessed his greatness firsthand.

Also read: Moin Akhtar: in our hearts and minds

Though the intoxicating fragrance of his presence has long faded from our home, his aura remains. The sound of his laughter still echoes here, bringing comfort in the most trying of situations.

It takes a lot of courage, hard work, and many sacrifices to reach the pinnacle. My father was not an exception to this rule; his story truly did come full circle.

My grandfather, Muhammad Ebrahim, once beat my father with a belt upon discovering that his son was pursuing a career in acting. It was quite common back then, to regard the profession as a disgrace.

Thirty-five years later, when my father was getting ready for a show that would have the President of the country, General Pervez Musharraf, in its audience. My grandfather asked him if he, too, could join.

My father replied, “Baba, there is a security protocol. The President’s security detail needs to be informed weeks in advance for such an arrangement. I do not know whether it will be possible.”

My grandfather said, “Tumhe kaun rokega?” (“Who will stop you?”)

My grandfather accompanied my father to the show and I can only imagine what the moment must have been like when the President stood up to meet him and told my grandfather, “Your son is an asset to this nation.”

From going to a fundraising show for children with cancer just 20 days after his own heart surgery; to selling his car to ensure his colleagues got their due payments; to borrowing from others to help strangers he had never met before; to spending many a night out on the roof talking to the stars, to downplaying his legacy so new faces could be elevated; to replacing burning tears with uncontrollable laughter, Moin Akhtar’s is a grand story.

Also read: Missing Moin

When I was asked if I would be willing to write this blog on him, I initially considered exploring my own relationship with him. Then it dawned on me, I already share that story every single time I smile.

The fact that he lives on in people’s smiles, and not just my own, is the true legacy of an irreplaceable parent and human being.

Today is the sixth death anniversary of Moin Akhtar.

This article was originally published last year.

This article was originally published on April 23, 2016.

Born 1974. Flown, but never forgotten

It’s now a year to the day when I got that call. Sitting at lunch, family visiting, and a single, awful sentence: you were gone. In this past week, time has been slowing and stretching out into packets, paused moments.

There was hail here this past week, there were thunderstorms and I even heard lightening strike. But today, magically, the sun is out — and we'll be celebrating you with music and memories."

I’ve been thinking back to the day you and your friends took me on an adventure, a dawn breakfast in Saddar  —  the thrill of walking past Grammar School at 6am with no uniform on, no fear, no traffic, no noise, and no people.

Of how we took secret photos to Instagram later, while we snaked through Empress Market and ended up in a room so vast, so tall, so beautifully lit with smoke rising and greasy plates, I almost cried. We laughed that morning, a lot. I’ll never forget the blackbirds outside when we left, circling  —  the colour of that sky. Morning had broken.

Did I understand it was a signal? Did I understand what was coming? I don’t think I did at all.

Beanz, my kids’ Bean Khala, Sabs, my childhood confidant, mentor and firecracker of a friend. Jobs-ian, protaganist in a Hobbesian life, (oh, we always liked to play with words).

I remember the first time you and I hung out  —  class 8? Invited to your home for an afternoon visit, meeting Nana and Nani, eating Aunty’s potato salad. That house was close to the sea. While our home remained the same, over the years, yours moved, as your life shifted and changed.

In each new room, new home, we’d spent so much time talking. About start-ups, social enterprise, philosophy, privilege, drawing rooms, politics, dancing, The Boss.

Most recently, it was about 40, why 40 mattered, and what to do next. You had so many new dreams, greater and even more ambitious than the ones you already grew.

Though we lived on opposite sides of the world, we met again in person  —  was it just around this time of year?  —  taking a bit of a mad, epic roadtrip to Virginia Beach, to see our childhood hero, Springsteen. I drove, and distinctly remember we reached this one point where road gave way to a large expanse of water.

It felt strange, a country I had never seen. We screamed at every song like we were still 12. It was your early birthday present since we weren’t sure of schedules and where in the world we’d be by June.

My sister gave Sabeen this brave haircut, she cut it short and it looked so fabulous. Usually unconcerned about looks, she did every once in a while, have a small moment where she, too, preened.

Considering that in her book, I spent rather too much time on social niceties and blow-dries, I was thrilled to see that tiny-teeny moment of vanity.

How I miss you, Sabeen.

At fourteen, while I fell for literature and began to flirt with words and theories of relativity, you fell for computers. From this defining moment you blazed an amazing path to international fame in social enterprise, national awards and unspeakable compassion and love for those neglected and rejected by your city, Karachi.

Yet with every award (“haan yaar — something from Davos people, not sure if I’ll go’. “Asia society” “Written up in MIT Journal”) was not nearly as important as keeping the vision of PeaceNiche and T2F growing and serving the young creatives, hackers, and philosophers of Karachi.

Most likely, you are just as unconcerned about the new awards, Sabs. (‘Liberty Humans Rights’, Herald ‘Person of the Year’ ‘100 Most Influential People in Foreign Policy’)

#SabeenMahmud, just shy of forty, resident of Karachi, Pakistan, left an indelible impression on a city of more than 20 million — and perhaps our world.

For Sabeen, life was all part of her experiment with McLuhan’s idea that the medium is the message. She owned a dog-eared copy of his book.

She would show me paragraphs, underlined. She always took notes. I would sit back, listen, a little in awe, amazed. New online languages, emoticons — that came much later  —  but in the beginning, it was McLuhan, and of course Apple and Steve Jobs.

When we were all grown up, she entered the T2F decade with the birth of her perfect little space for creativity and youth  —  a space for spreading art, culture and science  —  part of a greater vision for change she called PeacheNiche.

Despite losing its leader to assassination for nothing more than celebrating the idea of love, T2F bravely still stands, and serves the city that gave Sabeen her life, and then, her untimely passing.

For college, you went to Lahore, in love with Apple and music, coding, never ceding from your countrymen. I went to Hanover.

My mother tells me that in cleaning my room, there was clear evidence how loyal a friend you were. She told me,

"Sabeen is the one who always wrote you letters, Aassia."

Sabs — Where are you now?

It’s getting late here in Dallas as I write this, it’s thundering again. The silver lining is that Sabeen's city will spend this weekend celebrating the principles by which Sabeen lived, with the Creative Karachi Festival. #CKF16 is timed in her honour.

Musicians, artists, artisans are coming together April 23 and 24 at the Alliance Francaise to give an embattled city that amazing high that comes from creating and sharing something beautiful.

I didn’t know anyone more selfless than you, Sabeen. However hurt, trodden-down, temporarily broke, and Nietzschean you were, you continually gave of yourself to others.

How speechless I was when you told me you flew to Peshawar after the APS tragedy and went door to door. You were gripped by the idea of counseling, gripped by exploring the psyche, gripped by helping  —  it was a topic you needed to learn more about.

You dared to knock on a mother’s door who had lost her child. How brave can one girl be? How close to the flame? Did it hurt to see the loss in that mother’s eyes?

Today I think about Mimi Aunty, my darling and brave friend’s mother, who endures, who survived  —  and who carries forward, with a small circle of the closest ones, the flame that is Sabeen.

Thank you Mimi Aunty for raising Sabeen. Her legacy is with us still. And thank you to all of those tirelessly upholding it. You know who you are.

I hope that one day, Apple will plant a tree on its campus for its biggest ambassador, like you will plant one in Karachi on April 24, Mimi Aunty. I just know Sabeen’s probably pitching Steve about it right now.

This coming weekend, at events in London, Washington DC, Chicago, and around the world, Sabeen will be remembered with music and laughter and in the private reflections of her classmates, colleagues and friends. I hope the efforts to grow her legacy via crowdfunding flourish.

Please take a moment to know or remember the brave girl and fearless woman that was Sabeen Mahmud, on April 24. If you do, write on her wall so her mother knows it; share a photo, video or thought with her.

Mimi Aunty, you taught Sabeen to speak her mind, and to fight for the world she wanted to see, with more than armchair words. For that, I thank you.

"Only the good die young"

(Sorry Sabs, I thought about a #Springsteen line, forgive me for picking Billy).