Famed Indian politician, Dr Shashi Tharoor, rightly asserted that the British put up the railway system in India in their own interests and benefited immensely from it. While partly agreeing to Dr Tharoor’s assertions, I am willing to forgive the British for giving us this engineering marvel in the shape of treks spread over thousands of miles, rolling stock, steam engines and the beautiful Victorian railway stations all over the country.

Let's not forget the continuing benefits of this exquisite logistical feat. It is fascinating to see how the west was won (partly) by the imperialists of the subcontinent in the later half of the 19th century. This cannot be better explained without appreciating the role of the North Western Railways.

Read more: Putting railways back on track in Pakistan

In the later part of the 19th century, the British had already laid main broad gauge lines (five feet, six inches) across the subcontinent. At the time, North Western Railways had a vast network across present day Punjab and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

One of the main broad gauge lines ended at Mari Indus near Kalabagh on the eastern banks of the River Indus. The British established a large military depot near Mari Indus to provide for the troops stationed across the river in the Wild West in areas such as Bannu, Tank, Kohat and Waziristan. The depot still exists today nearby the Mari Indus station.

To reach the Wild West, the British laid a narrow gauge (two feet, six inches) line from Mari Indus to Bannu passing through Kalabagh, Isakhel, Lakki Marwat and Bannu with a branch line to Tank. From Tank and Bannu, only military lines were allowed to take the cargo into forts in Waziristan. The gates of these forts would open, engulf the whole train and then close.

These trains were primarily meant to address military logistics, but also provided local passenger services. However, they would move so slowly that people would get down to buy a drink and more passengers could get on the train as well.

Another broad gauge line ended at Kohat, connecting the city to the garrison town of Rawalpindi. One can still see the colonial-era stations at Fatehjang, Basal or Jand on the way. These stations still display Gillet and Johnston Croydon wall clocks, although only a few of them are working today.

I also saw the elegant Neale’s ball token system that is still in existence, which was used to avoid collisions on single track lines. While the clocks and token systems may be out of order, the traditional signal lamps are always working, including the postcard platform benches with ‘NWR’ carved on them.

I was also fascinated to see the iron double-decked bridge built in 1905 over River Indus at Khushal Garh with the passage for trains above and vehicles below with massive iron gates to close the bridge in case of any trouble from the west. From Kohat, another narrow gauge line would emerge to connect it with Thal in the west.

There were three narrow gauge lines set up by the British, primarily in western mountainous areas as they allowed better maneuverability for locomotives and wagons. The longest one in the subcontinent was Zhob Valley Railways connecting Bostan near Quetta with Zhob.

The second longest ran from Mari Indus to Bannu line, laid over a 1928 vehicle-cum-railway bridge over the River Indus in Kalabagh. The third was a 100 kilometre narrow gauge line laid to connect Kohat and Hangu with Thal near Parachinar.

The narrow gauge trains finally stopped functioning somewhere in the early nineties after being in service for about a century. There are fascinating accounts written of those fortunate enough to enjoy the train rides by narrow gauge lines in the late eighties. These include accounts from our own railway buff, Salman Rashid.

Explore: All aboard!

Today, the railway stations at Kalabagh, Tank, Bannu, Hangu, Ustarzai and Thal are abandoned while the treks are derelict, misaligned and stolen at places. Traveling from Kalabagh to Bannu or from Kohat to Thal, I couldn't help but notice the rusty, brown coloured railway treks, old fort-like stations and broken bridges. This reminded me of an era when the whistling train would tear across the Wild West, the forgotten backyard of Pakistan till this day.

I was always captivated by the western-most frontier station of North Western Railways in Thal. After the long drive from Kohat to Hangu and finally to Thal, I saw only remainders of the rusted railway treks lying around. It was difficult to imagine how a foreign power could lay these treks a century ago in this hostile territory.

There were around four or five stations from Kohat to Thal including Ustarzai, Raisan, Hangu and Kahi before the railway trek passed through the 1909 Thal fort, currently the Brigade headquarters of the Pakistan Army.

Initially, the railway station may not have been part of the fort but with time it expanded to become part of the station. The old fort-like railway station still has the traditional, maroon water tank of North Western Railways. The railway station has traditional sentry turret at the top with loops to guard against invaders and reinforced iron gates.

The station is now occupied by Christian families from Sialkot, oblivious to the history of the last frontier station of North Western Railways. However, the icing on the cake was finding some long-standing rolling stock.

Read further: A railway station steeped in history

I noticed that the wagons had ‘Thal Safari’ marked on them, which still stand at the very end of the railway line on a small cliff. The train never went any further from this point, although it appears that the British played with ideas to extend the railway line to Parachinar and on to Kabul.

Parachinar town, some 70 kilometres further west, still has a lot of railway properties and a rest house, which was perhaps acquired by the British in anticipation of a grand North Western Railways traversing Koh-i-Sufaid range into Afghanistan.

While Dr Tharoor may be right that the British developed railways in their own interest, it is unfortunate that we didn’t maintain what they left behind.

While it may not make sense to redevelop the narrow gauge lines, Pakistan Railways should at least think about reviving some of the abandoned stations on the pattern of Golra railway station in Islamabad. To add to this, redesigning small sections of narrow gauge trains could also become potential tourist attractions.

All photos by the author.

Have you travelled by train across Pakistan? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

I am Rifee Khan, a trans woman and advocate for transgender rights in Sindh. I have come a long way since the day I ran away from my home.

People advise me to gain a skill and start working instead of dancing or begging; little do they know that I have a double master’s degree.

I belong to a well-educated family from Larkana, but that didn’t stop my parents and siblings from rejecting me on the account of my gender. Fortunately, soon enough, my family realised that I was a part of them and they could not just do away with me.

Also read: Pakistan's transgenders mocked by most, abhorred by many

I had run off to a guru who lived in my neighbourhood. The guru talked to my father and explained to him that the more I was suppressed, the more I was going to rebel.

My parents understood and became more accepting of me; they told me that I can be whoever I want to be, and that I should invest in my education so that I could go on to help the transgender community.

It was not easy going to school. I was treated harshly; I had to dress like a boy and was not allowed to sit with girls. Teachers used to ask me to sing and dance to entertain the class, as if that is what a transgender person was supposed to do.

But the most important thing was that I had the support of my parents, which allowed me to go on and do my master’s in political science and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University in Khairpur.

However, the irony is that the desire to live as I wanted has become the biggest hurdle in my life. I thought that getting an education would solve all my issues.

Explore: 'Our birth is our single biggest regret' — Being transgender in Pakistan

My sisters are professors and my brothers run their own businesses and have government jobs. I am more than 40 years old, have a university education, but I am still struggling to make ends meet. It hurts.

When I moved to Karachi to look for a career, I had high expectations. Everyone wants to move to Karachi and live the city life. I did too. I quickly found out that my hopes were misplaced. Not being able to find a job, I had to resort to dancing and begging.

During this time, I was lucky enough to have found a guru and a transgender community in Karachi. My guru thought that looking for a job was useless – and he had a point – but my friends knew that being an educated person, I should have been doing a lot better. My friends didn’t want me to end up like them.

With guidance, I landed a job as a tax recovery officer. Later, in 2014, I was shifted to run the Karachi Trans Community Centre, which was initiated by the Sindh government under the leadership of the Social Welfare Minister, Rubina Qaimkhani.

Everyone was excited that I was working for the government, but the reality is that very soon I was back on the streets begging. I was promised a monthly salary of Rs 15,000 at the centre, but even that derisory sum stopped coming after a while.

I have not been paid a single dime since the past year. I tried to keep the centre alive and buzzing, but we simply weren’t given the funds to do any activity. I no longer go to the centre.

My parents tried their best to educate me, but I am not even able to send them money. I feel ashamed. The government has failed me and my community.

The Supreme Court gave us a 2% quota for government jobs in Karachi, but not even two transgenders have government seats to date. Jobs are advertised for men and women, but there is no mention of transgenders.

Many of us aren’t even registered citizens. Getting identity cards made is a big challenge. Most of us are reluctant to go to NADRA offices because of the obscene abuse we are subjected to by NADRA officials.

Read further: Calls for transgender rights echo in NA budget debate

I help as much as I can. I go with people of my community to NADRA in order to assist them in the process. I worked with the government to get a separate window made at NADRA for transgenders. Thankfully, some NADRA offices now have separate windows for transgenders.

People think that transgenders are nothing more than sex workers; little do they know that if we did sex work, our lives would actually be a lot better than what it is now.

As narrated to Annam Lodhi, who put it together in the form of a blog.

Are you a member of the transgender community or an activist? Tell us your story at blog@dawn.com

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

Ever since the 2011 Arab Spring, the Kingdom of Bahrain has fascinated me and piqued my curiosity. I’ll admit, I didn’t know much about it other then how it is considered by some as the 'Las Vegas of the Gulf region' because of its vibrant nightlife, cheap hotels and tolerant attitude towards alcohol.

The tiny island nation is five times smaller than the entire city of Karachi and has a historical legacy that spans over five millennia. Located in the Arabian Gulf, Bahrain has always been at the centre of a major historical trade route.

This is why it has been conquered, ruled and colonised by many different empires from the Persians, Greeks, Islamic dynasties, to the Portuguese and British conquests – finally ending with their independence from the British in 1971.

Also read: Here is why a trip to Tehran will leave you in wonder

When my friend moved to Bahrain, I decided to go there and explore the country. For starters, the trip didn’t require much planning – reasonably priced flights head out to Bahrain almost daily from Karachi and the visa policy for Pakistani nationals is pretty relaxed. You can easily acquire a seven-day tourist visa through an efficient online visa system. With my ticket in hand, my 48-hour Bahraini adventure had begun.

When I landed, the first thing I noticed was the airport didn’t look like a gaudy, over the top sci-fi movie set, which was a refreshing change from the other Gulf States I had been to. Everyone at the airport from the sweeper to the immigration officer who stamped me into the country were very friendly.

This came as a much welcomed change in a region where airport staff is notorious for being lazy, unhelpful and sometimes even arrogant. I hadn’t even stepped out of the airport and had already fallen for the charms of this country’s people.

By the time I had come out of the airport, it was already midday. Since it was Friday, my friend and I decided to head straight for prayers in Manama, the capital of Bahrain. We went to at the Al Fateh Grand Mosque – the largest house of worship in the country.

At full capacity, the mosque can accommodate around 7,000 people. Built in 1987 by the then Emir of Bahrain, the mosque is named after the founder of the country, Ahmed Al Fateh.

Explore: Shahjahan Mosque: Thatta's timeless splendour

Compared to other mosques I had visited in the Gulf region, there was nothing architecturally spectacular about this one. It was like any other large mosque I had prayed at back home in Karachi. But what made it unique was the beautiful setting along the coastline of Manama against the backdrop of the city’s skyline.

On the way to my friends place, we passed by a large chunk of the Bahraini capital. Being one of the smallest, yet most densely populated nations in the world, the entire country felt like it was a fully inhabited city.

On the surface, it looked like any other stable, wealthy Gulf city with the usual trickle of oddly shaped skyscrapers. But once you start driving through the inner streets, you start noticing the underbelly of the capital.

For starters, you get a feeling that all is not well in the island kingdom because of the noticeable police presence everywhere. According to my friend, the situation in Manama was under control, but it wasn’t unheard of to hear about violent clashes breaking out in the villages outside the capital. If you look closely, you can even spot some anti-establishment graffiti here and there on the walls of the streets– a visible legacy of the recent uprisings.

The majority of Bahrain’s indigenous population (around 75-80%) adheres to Shia Islam, while the ruling political Al Khalifa family adheres to Sunni Islam. For many years, the majority of the population in the country has felt disenfranchised by the minority ruling elite. In 2011, peaceful protests that soon turned violent led to being controversially suppressed by the state’s military apparatus.

With the Arab Spring still in my mind, I asked my friend to show me the infamous Pearl Roundabout – the Tahrir Square of Bahrain and the site where the 2011 demonstrations started. With a sarcastic grin on his face, he told me that the roundabout didn’t exist anymore. Apparently, its demolition was also a part of the state-sponsored crackdown on the protests.

In depth: Graffiti: Street art and the Arab Spring

After grabbing a quick bite to eat at the Manama Souq, we went to explore the nearby marketplace. Unlike the other souqs in the region I had visited, there wasn’t anything particularly Arab about this one – it felt more like Tariq Road or Liberty Market rather than somewhere in the Middle East.

The smell of incense wood was particularly strong in and around the souq area. To my surprise, everything was on sale in the mobile shops, women’s clothing and kitsch souvenir stores. The majority of the salesman working at the souq were from India, which gave the environment a South Asian vibe.

The deeper we walked into the souq, the more multicultural it seemed. I even saw a Hindu temple and an imambargah, both located a stone’s throw away from one another. Unfortunately, I couldn't go into the Sri Krishna temple since prayers were being conducted at the time.

Read further: Secrets of Thar: A Jain temple, a mosque and a 'magical' well

But I did go to the imambargah, locally known as matams or hussainias. I went to the Matam Mada, which was similar to the ones I had been to in Pakistan. The only difference I noticed was the Persian influence in its architecture. The interior and exterior of the building were embellished with beautiful blue tiles.

We were told by locals that there was also a synagogue in the vicinity, but unfortunately we couldn’t find it. Bahrain is the only Gulf State with a remaining indigenous Jewish population of approximately 37 people, including a Jewish representative in the national assembly, Nancy Khedouri.

After spending a few hours at the souq, we made a quick stop at the national museum. Truth be told, I am not a museum person but I would highly recommend a visit to the Bahrain National Museum to understand the history of this small nation.

It was interesting to learn that Bahrain was at the centre of the global pearl trade industry from the mid 1800s to the 1930s. Before the discovery of oil in the early 1900s, Bahrain made the most of its wealth through pearl diving.

However, only a few pearl divers remain in the country today. Outside the museum, I saw a few interesting monuments showcasing the pearl diving history of the country.

In the evening, we drove south towards the town of Sakhir to check out the Bahrain International Circuit – the site of the Bahrain Grand Prix. I was amazed to learn that Bahrain was the first country in the Middle East to host the Formula One (F1) races.

Every Bahraini that I spoke to throughout my trip, even during the plane ride, were very friendly and helpful in terms of recommending places to visit.

I had the chance to meet many locals and realised that Bahrainis stand out from the rest of their neighbours, since they were approachable and easy going. They were also much more culturally aware and to my surprise, many of them spoke conversational level Urdu.

Everyone was suggesting to go to the F1 circuit; it was obvious that they were really proud to have the opportunity of hosting this grand event in their country. It didn’t come as a surprise when I noticed the iconic F1 circuit on the local currency. Within a short span of time, the races had become a part of the nation’s identity.

When we drove back to Manama, we spent the later half of our evening walking around the bohemian neighbourhood of Adliya, which is filled with hip cafes and restaurants.

It was really interesting to see funky street art in the area. In the middle of the block, there was a small public space where people had gathered for live music and performances.

The next morning, we went on a short drive to the neighbouring town of Muharraq to check out the “Bahrain Pearling trail”, a UNESCO world heritage site. The trail is a 3.5 kilometre long pedestrian pathway that passes through the alleyways of Muharraq, which links together several heritage sites.

Although Muharraq is a short drive across the bridge from Manama, it can easily be mistaken for being in a completely different country. Compared to Manama, the vibe in this part of the country is very Arab.

Also see: Living the good life in Alaçatı, Turkey’s chic seaside town

While walking through the Muharraq souq, you start to notice the small differences; the smell of incense wood is replaced by the overpowering aroma from the Arabian Oud store, more men seem to be dressed in local garb rather than western clothing and the stores playing popular Bollywood songs were replaced by subdued Arabic songs. Even before I had fully began to explore the souq, I was already in love with it.

While aimlessly roaming around the souq, we randomly came on to the pearling trail by accidentally stumbling across one of the heritage sites.

The entire pathway consists of around 17 restored buildings, three oyster beds located out at sea, a part of the coast and a fort that was located in the southern tip of Muharraq.

With my time in Bahrain almost coming to an end, we headed back towards Manama to check out the final site on my travel list - the Qalat al Bahrain (the Bahrain Fort).

Located on a hill overlooking the sea, the fort comprises of seven stratified layers. Each layer is occupied by a different occupant – that includes the Kassites, Persians and finally the Portuguese in the 16th century AD.

Seeing the fort lit up at night in all its glory, I couldn’t help but think how it is a microcosmic representation of the Bahraini identity – open minded, multicultural and a link between the east and west.

Before coming to Bahrain, I was only interested in ticking off another place on my bucket list. But once I began to explore, I realised it is a country that has a raw soul – from the bohemian artistic quarter of Adilya, the Arabian vibes of Muharraq to the subcontinental charms of the Bab Al Bahrain souq.

In a region that is competing for world records, Bahrain doesn’t even need to try. There is nothing pretentious about Bahrain – from its people, souqs, rustic dhows (traditional boats) and coastline – it is genuine. I think that is what makes Bahrain unique and beautiful from every other country in the Gulf.

All photos by the author.

Have you explored any lesser-known destinations across the world? Share your journey with us at blog@dawn.com

M Bilal Hassan is a doctor by profession who loves to travel off the beaten track.

You can follow him on Instagram here. And reach him by e-mail at bilalhassan4688@gmail.com.

My earliest memory of Aamir Zaki is foggy. But this much I remember: He came to my school when I was very, very young.

He sang Mera Pyaar on an acoustic guitar and I immediately knew what I wanted. I wanted a guitar and I wanted to play like him. How ignorant of me.

Many years later, in 2009-10, I was part of a blues-rock band called Spoonful in college. Someone told us Zaki was looking for some guys to play with. He wanted to start performing again. And that person had told him about my band.

Zaki graciously agreed to come jam with us. He brought a small Roland amp with him, too small to cut through the drums and the large amps we'd piled up in a rather small room at my friend's house.

But Zaki didn't need a large amplifier. He didn't even need any pedals or processors. He just plugged his strat into the small Roland contraption and blew our minds.

In consequent jam sessions, we arranged for a bigger Fender amplifier for him. He would gleefully turn it all the way up. We all probably lost a bit of our hearing in those jams. Just as well. We may never ever hear something like that again. I will certainly never hear another guitar player like him.

There's so much that will be written about him in the coming days. About his ability to serve the song, to let it rip when he wanted to. He was Pakistan's greatest guitar hero, our Jimi Hendrix, our Stevie Ray, our troubled, enigmatic rockstar.

My band and I saw his demons too. We knew he was a misplaced genius. He refused to compromise on his music and self even when he fell on hard times.

We could tell that his famous friends were wary of his eccentricities. They wanted someone reliable, someone who fit the mould of the corporate-sponsored cupcake that mainstream music had become.

I’m glad he eventually featured in Coke Studio. But when I saw him sitting there playing a humbucker guitar as opposed to the shrieking single-coil strat he loved, poker-faced, unsmiling, I knew he wasn’t really there. He didn’t deserve to be either.

He deserved to tour the world, to record dozens of incredible albums like Signature. I knew he had these songs in him that he couldn’t wait for the world to hear. We were privileged to hear them, unaffected by the glam of the stage, at my friend’s house.

We would be in awe of his ability, even when he would be lecturing us on the lack of our own. But he never really put us down. He never told me how bad a player I was. On the contrary, he gave me one of his guitars. Just like that.

We were driving back home from a gig and he asked me if I liked the guitar. I told him I thought it was great and he just handed it to me. "Keep it". He later joked how he would not sign it because I’d sell it for a fortune after he died. How ignorant of him.

What is your memory of Aamir Zaki? Tell us at blog@dawn.com

The writer is a desk editor at Herald.

In 1586, the Mughal imperial army finally entered the valley of Kashmir, after being defeated twice by Kashmiri forces. The Kashmiri emperor, Sultan Yusuf Chak, had already been taken prisoner by Akbar and exiled to what’s now the Indian state of Bihar.

As the Mughal empire consolidated itself in Srinagar, it was met with local resistance during its rule. Noted Kashmiri poet and historian, Zareef Ahmad Zareef, says that this was the first time young Kashmiris started throwing stones at foreign rulers.

He notes that “the resistance was such that the Mughals had to build a wall known as Kalai around their administrative capital called Nagar Nagari in Srinagar.” The stone throwing boys were known as dilawars, bravehearts, who also coined slogans that are still popular in current resistance against the Indian rule.

Former Azad Jammu Kashmir Chief Justice, Mohammad Yousuf Saraf, writes in his Kashmiris Fight for Freedom that the Sikh ruler, Ranjit Singh, banned stone pelting even as a sport due to the fear that it might encourage resistance against the Sikh rulers in Kashmir.

Singh had also barred prayers at Srinagar's Jamia Masjid and turned it into a horse stable for 20 years. Later, Dogra rulers also continued the ban, as they believed that a congregation of Muslims would be detrimental to their brutal rule over the Kashmiris.

In 1865, a labour revolt was instigated by shawl weavers Zaldagar, Srinagar. They demanded an end to the exploitative tax system. The Dogras gunned down the protesters.

Traveler Baron von Schonberg described Kashmir under the Dogra rule in the following terms: “I have been in many lands but nowhere the conditions of human beings present a more saddening spectacle than in Kashmir.”

British missionary Cecil Earl Tyndale-Biscoe wrote that “if we Britishers had to undergo what the Kashmiris have suffered, we might also have lost our manhood.”

During a public gathering in Srinagar in 1931, organised by the Reading Room Party that comprised of Kashmiri graduates of Aligarh Muslim University and Lahore University, one participant pointed toward the Dogra-era Shergarhi Palace with a stone in his hand and exhorted his fellows to "demolish this edifice of injustice, cruelty and subjugation." He was arrested and when people gathered outside the Srinagar Central Jail to demand his release, 22 of them were shot dead by the Dogra soldiers.

Since Partition, Kashmiris who find themselves on the eastern side of the Line of Control, have had to deal with the Indian government. Despite unimaginable state violence, they have not relented on their pursuit of self-determination.

The new generation of Kashmiris has taken the struggle to a whole new level. With their voices choked and democratic space restricted – if not abolished – the young and the educated have taken to social media.

They don't only provide evidence of Indian army's brutality, but today's dilawars are not afraid to openly talk about their ordeal, condemn the atrocities, and demand freedom.

The recent video of Farooq Ahmad Dar being used as human shield by the Indian army is an example of how Indian actions are broadcasted directly to the outside world for all to see.

Threatened by these new dynamics, last week the Indian state banned social media websites in Kashmir on the pretext that ‘mischievous elements’ were vitiating the ‘peaceful’ atmosphere.

Yet, this is the same social media where Indian army officers, cricketers, film stars, politicians, journalists and trolls threaten Kashmiris and cheer on Indian policies. No action has even been taken against these elements.

India must understand that it has, militarily and politically, failed to control Kashmir. It has certainly not won any hearts and minds among Kashmiris. Being the resilient and resourceful people they are, Kashmiris are using Virtual Private Networks (VPNs) to side step the ban and break the media blackout. They will not stay silent.

It is time to start moving toward a tripartite peace process aimed at finding a lasting resolution to the conflict. Ignoring the issue will not make it go away. It is a dispute that can be easily resolved by talks rather than waging a lost war against the people of Kashmir.

Struggling to retain control of the streets and college campuses here, Jammu and Kashmir Chief Minister Mehbooba Mufti went to meet Prime Minister Narendra Modi last week. Something had to be done to bring back ‘calm’ to the Valley.

The first thing Mufti did upon her return from New Delhi was to impose a one-month ban on 22 social media websites and messenger applications.

This was done to stop the circulation of what the government believes are “unverified, objectionable and inflammatory material/content through the medium of these social networking sites and internet messaging services without any accountability, thereby endangering public life and property and causing unrest/disharmony in the state.”

High-speed internet, 3G and 4G, have also been blocked, but 2G is still working.

The social media ban is a sign that India is incapable of maintaining its hold over Kashmiris through violence. The killing of Burhan Wani, mass blinding of civilians by the use of pellet guns, arrests and police beatings have failed to have the desired effect. As Kashmiris refuse to stay silent, the Indian state has no choice but to completely muzzle their voices.

Further reading: Dispatch from Srinagar: Our nights are becoming longer and darker

Earlier, successive governments used to crack down on any assembly of people, whether it was pro-freedom parties organising meetings or civilians holding regular book launches. Student politics were also banned. Space for mobilisation was non-existent. However, the advent of social media provided people with a new tool.

Pro-India political parties use social media to propagate their politics as well, but they are easily outnumbered by those who are critical of the Indian state. The fact is that India is losing out in the virtual space just as it is in the streets. Whether you pelt stones or tweet, you scare those in power.

The state is scared of a Facebook post. It’s scared of a poem. It’s scared of a video. India is simply scared of the truth.

Thanks to social media, Indian atrocities can be broadcasted directly to the outside world. But while the news might be new for foreign audiences, violence is something Kashmiris know intimately well. Violence is the only language the Indian state converses in with the people of Kashmir.

It’s through coercion that pro-India parties win elections in Kashmir. Indian soldiers go from house to house and force people to vote. Indian media might spin these votes as ‘votes for India,’ that Kashmiris ‘came out willingly to vote,’ but we all know what measures the ‘world’s largest democracy’ resorts to in order to survive here.

The Indian security establishment, the mushrooming think-tanks with their ‘Kashmir experts’, and a host of Indian journalists foolishly believe that India will be able to pacify Kashmir with this ban. Apologists argue that the social media ban will help the government prevent violence and stone-pelting.

What they don’t understand is that, in their own strategic parlance, they haven't won the hearts and minds of the people. Alas, it is wishful thinking, for the only thing in the hearts and minds of Kashmiris is azadi. As I type this article, stone-pelting has started in Chowkbal Kupwor, some 170 kilometres from Srinagar.

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

More than 29 heads of nations came together in Beijing on Sunday to officially launch China’s massive One Belt One Road initiative, an effort that some have described as the biggest overseas development push in history. But despite the enormity of the project, which will include investments estimated at $900 billion to develop new land and maritime trade routes between China and Europe, Beijing’s most populous neighbour was conspicuous by its absence.

Explaining its decision to stay away, the Indian government released a statement saying it is concerned about China’s attitude towards territorial sovereignty and financial responsibility.

“We are of firm belief that connectivity initiatives must be based on universally recognised international norms, good governance, rule of law, openness, transparency and equality... Connectivity projects must be pursued in a manner that respects sovereignty and territorial integrity.

...Guided by our principled position in the matter, we have been urging China to engage in a meaningful dialogue on its connectivity initiative, ‘One Belt, One Road’ which was later renamed as ‘Belt and Road Initiative’. We are awaiting a positive response from the Chinese side.” — Ministry of External Affairs

The Times of India condensed this to a simple phrase that would easily resonate with Indians, saying New Delhi’s strongly worded statement suggested that the Belt and Road project “is little more than a colonial enterprise, leaving debt and broken communities in its wake”.

China-Pakistan corridor

India’s statement is generally being read as a direct response to the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor, a $62 billion package of infrastructure projects considered one of the flagship parts of the Belt and Road initiative.

The CPEC connects China’s western Xinjiang province with Gwadar port, while also giving Pakistan access to other Central Asian nations. But a significant portion of the corridor runs through what New Delhi calls Pakistan-occupied Kashmir.

This has constantly caused heartburn in relations between New Delhi and Beijing. Prime Minister Narendra Modi made a reference to the CPEC at the Raisina Dialogue in January, saying “only by respecting the sovereignty of countries involved, can regional connectivity corridors fulfill their promise and avoid differences and discord.”

Saturday’s statement from the Ministry of External Affairs about the Belt and Road Initiative reiterated this.

“Regarding the so-called ‘China-Pakistan Economic Corridor’, which is being projected as the flagship project of the BRI/OBOR, the international community is well aware of India’s position. No country can accept a project that ignores its core concerns on sovereignty and territorial integrity.”

Colonial China

While the references to CPEC and sovereignty are to be expected, Saturday’s statement included objections that go beyond questions of territory.

“Connectivity initiatives must follow principles of financial responsibility to avoid projects that would create unsustainable debt burden for communities; balanced ecological and environmental protection and preservation standards; transparent assessment of project costs; and skill and technology transfer to help long term running and maintenance of the assets created by local communities.”

India has always insisted on referring to OBOR as a “unilateral” or “national” project of China’s rather than a regional, multilateral one. Indian Foreign Secretary S Jaishankar said in 2015 that OBOR is a “national initiative devised with national interests,” and that if China wanted India to buy into it, they would “need to have larger discussions and those haven’t happened.”

References to financial responsibility, environmental protection, transparency and technology transfer now expand on this idea with a more specific critique.

With the CPEC, India wanted China to know that it is miffed about the initiative intruding on disputed territory. With the new references, it seems like it is trying to convince countries that are party to OBOR that getting close to China might be a bad idea.

Debt diplomacy

This is not new. Analysts have for some time warned that Beijing’s massive initiative is essentially aimed at helping China transition from a manufacturing nation into a consumer economy, get rid of excess capacity, reduce the disparity between its western and eastern provinces and, most importantly, project Chinese geostrategic power throughout the neighbourhood and beyond.

Foreign policy analyst Brahma Chellaney called the OBOR China’s “debt-trap diplomacy”, arguing that it intentionally puts partner countries in debt to increase Beijing’s leverage.

Ratings agency Fitch warned in a report earlier this year that OBOR does not address the most pressing infrastructure needs of partner countries and could easily result in unviable projects and smaller nations saddled with large debts.

There have already been examples of this. In Sri Lanka, China helped build a large port and airport near Hambantota but with little economic activity emerging from either project, the loans are mounting and that debt is turning into equity, giving Beijing more control over key assets on the island country. Analysts in Cambodia have raised red flags suggesting the same thing might happen there.

Seema Sirohi, writing in the Economic Times, goes further, calling OBOR “not globalisation 2.0 but dominance 3.0”. New Delhi now appears to be taking this line too.

Too little too late

Yet it is important to also note that almost every large country in the world, apart from India, was already at the table in Beijing. Even the United States of America, which initially planned to snub Beijing, sent representatives after China said it would open its market to American beef. The same applied to India’s neighbourhood. Every one of India’s neighbours, barring Bhutan, had a delegation at the Belt and Road Forum.

Never mind questions about what India’s own connectivity efforts have amounted to, whether it is the Spice Route or Project Mausam, the Indian Ocean-focused SAGAR or New Delhi’s inability to keep even Bhutan in a road project connecting the neighbourhood.

The last-minute statement from MEA suggests negotiations for India to turn up at the Belt and Road Forum failed, as have most other attempts to connect with Beijing recently – whether it is keeping India out of the Nuclear Suppliers Group or in preventing Masood Azhar from being declared a global terrorist.

India might be attempting a face-saver in bringing up questions of finances and transparency with OBOR, but it is unlikely to convince anyone beyond a domestic audience, at least for the moment.

But MEA seems to have finally made its position on OBOR clear. What will snubbing China, India’s largest trading partner, mean for events in a region that is already tense?

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

Hi. I’m a 29-year-old Pakistani girl who grew up in Karachi. I am gori with brown eyes, moderately tall and not too fat. What taints these idyllic criteria for a rishta, however, is that I’m a divorcee. And horror of all horrors, I was the one who initiated it.

You probably just rolled your eyes at the first two sentences, thinking: ‘Dear Lord. Here goes yet another post vilifying a man, and how feminism is the new wave of liberation. Yada yada yada.’

However, there is nothing sensational about why I left my ex-husband. Disappointingly boring spoiler alert — there was simply no emotional or mental compatibility. Gasp.

Yes, there was no other woman, no torrid affair, no horrible saas and no, he was definitely not gay. No sordid details. I was a hard core corporate working woman, whereas his idea of marital bliss was to devour the wife’s home-cooked food all day.

Also read: Till divorce do us part: Separate lives

I was married for two and a half years to my first cousin. We had rarely ever interacted before that since he lived in the US and didn't visit often. In a Bollywood-like twist of fate, we ended up getting to know each other when he came to Karachi for a family wedding.

With love and nuptials in the air, it was of no surprise that we started considering each other as a potential spouse. He was (still is) a tall, good looking man with hazel eyes and an impish smile. And for some insane reason, he found me ‘delightfully enchanting’.

In an awkward conversation, we professed how much we liked each other and our interest of getting married. Both sets of parents realised that love was in the air, and they were overjoyed at the prospect of cementing their rishtedari.

The charm and romance evaporated not long after we got married and moved to the US. Minor disagreements over household chores escalated to full-fledged shouting matches over our lack of mutuality.

Explore: 'The US is making Pakistani wives divorce their husbands'

I was alone and miserable in a foreign country with no friends or family, smack in the middle of a desi mohalla of haw-haying aunties. Not only that, we were emotionally moving further apart at an alarming rate. Sometimes, weeks would pass without either of us speaking to each other.

More fights, and a miscarriage later, I found myself agitatedly praying. I was fumbling in the dark, looking for a divine sign for what to do with my life. After a very ugly and devastating argument, an odd sense of calm replaced the turmoil in my heart. It was time. Now or never. And if I did not walk away then, I would have never been able to muster all that courage.

Finally, we parted amicably. Amicable being relative here since there were no kids, and no distribution of property or finances to be dealt with in the aftermath.

I came back to Karachi in 2014, bearing the vilayati gifts of incredible insomnia, extreme pallor and a rib cage that hurt when people hugged me. I quickly took stock of what I had — I was young, had no kids, no financial responsibilities and hadn’t spent long being married. Surely I would be able to turn my life round? But boy, I could not have been more wrong.

My family did not support me, in particular my father. As a single parent, he has seen a myriad of hardships over the years. While he did not adhere to the antiquated notion of me being a disgrace to the family name, he did take it as a personal failure. Both his and mine.

I was reminded extensively — and still am to this day — that I should thank my lucky stars that I was ‘accepted’ back in the house, how my life was ruined, and I should now be ready to ‘compromise’ in my second marriage.

Initially, I rolled my eyes and blocked the barrage of insults. But sooner or later, it cracked my armour and I found my insomniac nights punctuated by sobbing and relentless crying.

Socio-economic privilege enabled me to find a good job. Alhamdulillah I was able to bridge the two-year work gap by impressing my new employers and admit with smug satisfaction that I currently earn more than my peers in the industry. If I didn’t even have that, or a Platinum Credit Card with my name emblazoned on it, I would have lost myself for sure.

A girl I know faced something much worse. Financial and physical abuse, emotional trauma, the works. She was sensible enough to go to university abroad, and in a wondrously Cinderella-esque way, found the man of her dreams.

In depth: These women stayed in abusive marriages because Pakistan failed them

I follow her Instagram pictures and updates with a curious and achingly jealous heart, celebrating the win for feminism and desi divorced girls the world over. But a hissing, serpentine voice in my head keeps on muttering, "It’s not fair. Of all the people, I deserved that to have happened to me."

The biggest fallacy that I made was to assume that my life’s biggest hurdle had been jumped over. But guess what? In spite of my class privilege, I had a few unpleasant experiences where guys assumed that I would be ready for casual hookups. Because hey, I had already popped my cherry. What else was there to lose?

I’m also quite ashamed to admit what finally unraveled me — a friend who showed interest in marrying me pleaded that I give him time until he dealt with some financial responsibilities. I was slapped rudely by reality when his mom, a twice divorced woman with a divorced daughter of her own, deemed her son to be 'too good' to marry a fallen woman like me. The mummy daddy that he was, he ghosted me in the blink of an eye.

With nothing in my life except for my career, I crumbled fast. General anxiety spilled into work anxiety. I started feeling extremely lonely, and felt guilty about reaching out to my friends. Many also told me that ‘no one has sympathies for a victim, just suck it up and move on.’ But I couldn’t. I was stuck in a rut, one that took forever to climb out of.

So guess what, this divorced girl is not riding off into the sunset. I am fighting my own demons day in, day out. What is helping me apart from faith is, frankly speaking, my own money. It keeps my parents from calling me a financial burden, helps me save for education, and pays the therapist’s exorbitant fees. Not to mention the anxiety medication that have to be taken daily, maybe for life.

I shudder when I think about the many other girls who do not have the financial or intellectual resources to fend for themselves.

So, folks. In order to navigate turbulent desi waters, a divorced girl needs only one thing. A golden ticket. Or rather, a Platinum credit card.

Are you a divorcee or single parent who wants to share how your past relationship has affected you? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

Misbah-ul-Haq’s cricketing story is quite remarkable. It almost reads like a plot of what would certainly make an engrossing film, or at least a TV series.

Today, sports writers from around the world are not only dishing out article upon article about him, publishers are also lining up to be the first to put out a Misbah biography.

Yet, it is only from 2015 onward that his story began to be told by these cricket pundits.

One reason why so many journalists and writers came this late to the party is that unlike most known cricketers who often cultivate and maintain ties with their favourite sets of journalists, the media folk found Misbah to be elusive and detached.

Throughout his career, he never had a pal or two in the media whom he could call to action if his chips were down or his image needed a boost.

Secondly, his story, now being repeated over and over again and further added upon, hardly ever came from him. It was mostly compiled from the words of those who played with and under him; or the bits and pieces he (painstakingly) allowed himself to reveal during the few interviews he agreed to give.

Considering he had become Pakistan’s most successful Test captain back in 2014, the interviews are few and far between.

Misbah became an ‘icon’ not too long ago. He wasn’t considered one when he was the captain, and not even when he went past the record number of wins once jointly-held by two former greats, Imran Khan and Javed Miandad. Piling on the runs and almost single-handedly keeping intact a brittle batting line-up from falling apart — a task he was greatly aided in by another veteran, Younis Khan — also did not seem to be good enough.

Also read: Misbah: A great player. A leader of cricketers. A maker of men.

The fact that within six and a half years he gradually rose from being perhaps the most criticised (and misunderstood) Pakistan cricket captain to becoming one of the country’s most respected and loved sports icons is what makes his story so extraordinary.

Even more remarkable is how he managed to accomplish these feats after two discourteous ousters from the side, a long span in wilderness, and two comebacks — the last one as captain at the age of 36.

When Misbah made his Test debut in 2001 (against New Zealand) under Moin Khan’s captaincy, I thought his batting style was very 1980s. Those who played quality club cricket in that era like I did, would agree that most young batting aspirants of the 1980s, from Salim Malik and Rameez Raja to those who were playing for local clubs across Karachi and Lahore, were all trying to shape their batting styles in the manner of men such as Viv Richards, Javed Miandad and Majid Khan.

I was greatly impressed by Misbah when I first saw him as a Test player. I had no clue who he was, but he looked good. His defence was solid and yet, when he wanted to, he could strike the ball with immense power.

He had risen through the ranks in domestic cricket and was given five Tests between 2001 and 2003. He didn’t impress much, even though he did relatively well in the handful of ODIs which he played during his first two years as a member of the Pakistan team.

During a tri-nation ODI tournament in Kenya in 2002 (which included Australia, Pakistan and the hosts), Misbah smashed 139 runs in three games at an average of 69.50. The great fast bowler, Waqar Younis, who had replaced Moin as captain, was very impressed.

I remember, speaking to the press at the end of that tournament, Waqar had described Misbah as one for the future and a possible member of the squad which was to travel to South Africa for the 2003 World Cup.

During the 2002-3 series against Australia in which the mighty Aussies demolished Waqar’s side, Misbah was one of the many batting causalities. Then, in an ODI tournament in Sri Lanka just before the 2003 World Cup, he stroked a rapid 47 in the only innings he was required to bat, yet, he failed to make his way into the World Cup squad.

As usual, the media went about its business of asking why so-and-so was (or wasn’t) in the squad, but not once was Misbah’s name mentioned. This had surprised me. I thought he was rather good — at least in the ODI format. And then I forgot about him as well.

In January 2014, when I interviewed him for Dawn.com in Dubai, I had no memory of the fact that after Pakistan’s disastrous 2003 World Cup campaign, Misbah had actually returned to the side for Pakistan’s first series after the World Cup debacle.

Misbah had reminded me that he had played one Test and two ODIs against the visiting Bangladesh side in 2004, and one ODI against Zimbabwe the same year — before vanishing once again.

Sports journalist Hassan Cheema in a recent piece on Misbah’s ‘wilderness years’ (for ESPNCricinfo) wrote that age was one of the main reasons why Misbah was discarded. He had turned 30 in 2004 and Pakistan was looking for younger players after the 2003 World Cup catastrophe and the retirement of some its established stars.

This made sense, and yet Misbah never mentioned this in the long interview which he gave to me back in early 2014. But he did say (and what Cheema also states in his excellent article), that even after the retirements, the Pakistan team had managed to construct a very strong middle-order, especially under Inzamam-ul-Haq's captaincy. There was just no room for a struggling and inexperienced 30-year-old middle-order batsman.

But Misbah continued to play domestic cricket as Inzamam and coach, Bob Woolmer, went about reconstructing the Pakistan side, also changing the team’s cultural complexion by introducing a large dose of religiosity.

The current chairman of the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) Shahryar Khan in his 2013 book, The Cricket Cauldron, openly alludes that Inzamam — who was not very educated and did not come from Pakistan cricket’s two main urban centres, Karachi and Lahore — did this as a way to reign-in the traditionally capricious and chaotic nature of the Pakistan cricket team and impose some sense of order in the dressing room.

In a 2005 news report in the country’s largest Urdu daily, Jang, the reporter quoted former ‘bad boy’ of Pakistan cricket, Shahid Afridi, as saying that he (Afridi) had decided to ‘mend his ways’ and that now no Pakistani player goes to nightclubs.

Those days are over, Afridi had told the Jang reporter. He then added: Instead, we now spend more time praying together.

Apparently, Woolmer backed Inzi’s policies, and former Pakistan cricket captain and current TV commentator, Rameez Raja, often remarked that Inzi’s idea of gaining respect and infusing discipline through religious ritualism was working.

The same 2005 Jang article also briefly mentioned that all this was keeping players such as Misbah and Saeed Ajmal out. The article did not elaborate exactly how.

Nevertheless, I remember when I read that piece I was surprised to learn that Misbah was still around. It was only recently through Cheema’s piece that I learned that at the time of the team’s ‘spiritual reformation’, Misbah was quietly leading the second-string Pakistan A side.

In his book, Shahyar Khan also claimed that even though Misbah had continued to nudge the selectors through some good performances in the domestic tournaments, Inzamam had blocked his entry. This was because he (Inzamam) was never likely to let in "a highly educated and urbane man" into the side who could eventually end up challenging Inzamam’s mandate as captain.

During my 2014 interview with Misbah, I had asked him whether Inzamam’s insecurities in this respect were a reason he (Misbah) was kept out from the side between 2004 and 2007.

Misbah had gone quiet for about 30 seconds or so when he heard this question. Then after managing half-a-smile, he told me that he can never imagine a captain would deliberately keep a good player out of his team due to personal reasons. He then explained that the Pakistan middle-order was just too full and strong at the time and it was this that kept him out.

After the interview (and off the record), I asked him if this really was the only reason behind his ouster. This time, he smiled widely and said: "At least, this is how I saw it and still see it. There may be other reasons, but they do not matter anymore."

But in January 2014, they did matter. The interview took place just before the start of the 3rd Test of Pakistan’s 2013-14 series against Sri Lanka. Pakistan were 1-down in the series and Misbah was continuously being lambasted for being ‘too defensive’ and ‘unimaginative’ by the usual talking heads on TV.

He was constantly being compared to the more attacking and flamboyant former captains, such as Imran Khan and Wasim Akram, and the street-smart Javed Miandad.

What’s more, some so-called experts had also claimed that he was behind the declining careers of the Inzi-era players, such as Abdul Razzaq and the stylish batting genius, Mohammad Yousuf.

He wasn’t, of course. They had lost their form, and instead of going back to the basics to regain it by playing domestic cricket (like Misbah had done), they had spent more time talking on TV, especially Yousuf.

Just a few metres away from us sat Uzma, Misbah’s wife. It was as if she was closely (but subtly) monitoring the situation. After all, till even after almost three years he was made captain, Misbah had given just a handful of interviews; in fact, he was hardly ever asked for one. So at the time, him being interviewed in detail was still something fairly new (for both).

Misbah spoke about how he was able to ignore all the incessant criticism, but what had hurt him the most was the manner in which it upset the two most important people in his life: His mother and his wife.

Misbah married Uzma in 2004. She is a cousin of his and like him, she too has a master’s degree. She is also a painting enthusiast and paints rather well. In his piece, Cheema quotes her as saying that between 2004 and 2007, they lived very self-effacingly.

Misbah earned rather moderate sums playing domestic cricket. He also managed to bag a position in the state-owned gas company the SNGPL mainly as a player in the organisation’s first-class cricket side. He often thought about giving up cricket for good and of finally making use of his MBA degree to bag a job in a multinational corporation.

But as Misbah mentioned in his speech at the end of his dramatic farewell Test on May 14, 2017, it was Uzma who encouraged him to stick to his dream of one day making it back into the Pakistan side.

As Misbah was travelling around Pakistan representing SNGPL in drab domestic tournaments, Uzma was commuting between home and the university where she was a master’s student.

When after two years of their marriage Misbah was still unable to break back into the side, Uzma told Cheema that she believed she was unlucky for him. Unlike the reserved and subtle Misbah, Uzma is more of an extrovert; more expressive and emotional and yet, as resolute and insightful as him.

In 2007, Misbah told Uzma to give him six more months; if he could not break back in to the Pakistan side (during this period), he will quit cricket and get a regular (and better paying) job. At the time, the couple had just Rs17,000 in their bank account.

The year before, a tiny window had opened for him to sneak back into the side when Inzamam was handed a one-match suspension (for forfeiting a Test in England). The side’s Vice-Captain, Younis Khan, was asked to lead the side at an ODI tournament in India (Champions Trophy).

In a May 12, 2017 article which Younis wrote, he revealed that when the team for the 2006 tournament was being picked, he had asked the selectors to include Misbah as Inzi’s replacement. Though it was to be a stop-gap arrangement, it would have at least given Misbah the chance to prove that he was still good enough to be in the senior side. But the selectors thought otherwise. Misbah was 33 and thus (they believed) too old for the ODI format. Younis, a mercurial character, was livid. He refused to lead the team saying he didn’t want to be a ‘dummy captain.’

Well, Inzamam returned and Misbah was again forgotten. But Inzamam, one of the finest stroke-makers the country has produced had to bow out in the most heart-wrenching manner when Pakistan were knocked out of the 2007 World Cup in the West Indies. Pakistan lost its first two games including one against cricket minnows, Ireland.

Even sadder was the sudden demise of the team’s much respected coach, Bob Woolmer. The team was devastated. Inzamam immediately announced his retirement, despite the fact that he was still good enough to play for at least another two years or so. It was a sad end to a rather fruitful and memorable career.

Contrary to what had been portrayed by Ramiz and some other experts about the wonders of Inzamam’s new order, all had not been well in the team. Reports penned by team manager, Talat Ali, and the squad’s media manager during the 2007 World Cup, PJ Mir, were leaked.

In the leaked portions of the reports the managers (and later Shahryar Khan in his book), lamented that the team’s top two batsmen, Inzamam and Mohammad Yousuf and bowling coach, Mushtaq Ahmad, seemed more interested in going on preaching sprees (looking for possible converts) than in spending time in the nets and planning ahead for the matches.

Till 2006, Woolmer was quoted as saying that the infusion of religiosity in the side has helped a lot of players perform well. But in the leaked reports, he was being quoted as complaining that the team’s senior players were too preoccupied with religiosity and were not paying due attention to cricket.

The young all-rounder, Shoaib Malik, replaced Inzi as captain. After a series against Sri Lanka in Pakistan, Shoaib dropped a bomb just ahead of the inaugural 2007 T20 World Cup in South Africa. He asked the selectors to drop the veteran Mohammad Yousuf and bring in the 33-year-old (and long-discarded) Misbah-ul-Haq.

The selectors were dumbfounded. They had thought Misbah wasn’t good enough for ODIs, let alone for the frantic new T20 format. But Shoaib was clever. He knew the selectors and the cricket board could not afford another bust-up with a captain after what had happened in the West Indies. They reluctantly agreed to include Misbah in the squad.

Read further: Misbah’s choke lock

Eight years later in 2015, Malik told a reporter that even though the selectors were finding it difficult to justify Misbah’s inclusion to the media, he had played with him in local matches and knew well about his abilities to smash huge sixes.

Misbah celebrated his return in the most emphatic manner. Under pressure to justify his inclusion (at the expense of Yousuf’s exclusion), Misbah smashed 218 runs in seven games at an average of 54.50.

He helped Pakistan reach the final (against India); and then when it seemed the Indians had pushed Pakistan completely out of the game, he almost turned the tables by smacking some towering sixes to suddenly bring Pakistan within a stroke of victory.

But, alas, though he had constructed his innings by playing innovative strokes, he tried yet another such stroke (the scoop) to seal the game, only to be caught. Pakistan lost the match by just five runs. It was a bitter sweet return.

But a return it was. Soon Misbah also found his way back in the Test and ODI squads. He prospered with the bat in all formats and became a Pakistan regular, until two years later when he began suffering a gradual slump in form during the 2009 series against New Zealand. By the end of 2009-10 series against Australia, the form was gone.

The slump in Misbah’s form began during the series in which the visiting Sri Lankan side was attacked by terrorists in Lahore. The last Test was abandoned half-way and from then on no international team would be willing to tour Pakistan. The country had been completely engulfed by terrorism and political chaos.

Misbah lost his place in the side again.

He was at home contemplating taking out and dusting his MBA degree again when the country’s cricket starkly began to reflect the chaos that had erupted in Pakistan.

Malik had huffed out in 2008 and was replaced by Younis, who, despite leading Pakistan to victory in the 2009 T20 World Cup, also burst out the door, complaining that his players were losing games on purpose.

Afridi was made skipper, but he buckled, saying he was only interested in captaining the ODI and T20 sides. He retired from Test cricket.

Salman Butt became captain, but during the 2010 series in England, he enticed 18-year-old fast bowling prodigy, Muhmmad Aamir, and swing bowler, Mohammad Asif, to accept money from shady bookmakers. All three were caught and thrown in jail.

In a 2016 article that Misbah penned for the Cricket Australia website, he wrote that just before the 2010-11 Test series against South Africa in the UAE, the then chairman of the PCB, Ijaz Hussain, arranged a "secret meeting" with Misbah in a clerk’s office.

Misbah at the time was not even in the team. The squad was being torn apart by spot-fixing scandals and severe in-fighting between players. Also, cricket teams had stopped touring Pakistan as incidents of terrorism continued to rupture everyday life and Pakistan had to look to playing ‘home series’ in other countries.

Ijaz offered him the captaincy in total secrecy and asked him to keep the offer to himself, which he did, not even telling Uzma.

Related: I was offered captaincy in clerk’s room: Misbah-ul-Haq

Suddenly he was back in the side at age 36, and this time as captain. And thus began the more fabled portion of his story. By the end of 2011, he had also became the ODI and T20 captain.

But some critics hated him. He was too thoughtful and calm for their liking, it seemed. Pakistan teams had always largely depended on flamboyant batsmen and fiery fast bowlers to win matches. Misbah turned this tradition on its head.

He used a new string of quick bowlers to give him economic spells; he nourished and retained batsmen who had discipline and were able to exhaust the opponents with long, slow innings. He turned spinners into his main bowling weapons, beginning with his friend, Saeed Ajmal, who he first coupled with Abdul Rehman, and then with Zulfikar Babar. And when Ajmal was suspended for questionable bowling action, Misbah pushed in the once obscure Yasir Shah, who eventually became even more impactful than Ajmal.

Just like the former great Pakistan captain Imran Khan’s performances had bloomed after he was made captain, so did Misbah’s. He became the mainstay and backbone of a brittle batting line-up, scoring at a healthy average of over 54 as skipper.

When I met him in January 2014, he wasn’t an ‘icon’ yet. Till then he had captained 25 Tests, won 10 and lost seven. His journey towards being hailed as an icon, I believe, began when he went all-out to square the 2014 series against Sri Lanka, throwing caution to the wind (a very non-Misbah thing to do, mind you), by chasing over 302 runs in less than 60 overs on the last day of the 3rd Test of the series in Sharjah.

Though he failed to win a World Cup, his iconic status finally reached fruition and achieved widespread recognition when in 2015 Pakistan came back 2-1 down against a strong England side (in England), and squared the series 2-2. Misbah’s century at Lords during this series was one of his most sublime, made at the age of 41.

With his down-to-earth attitude, thoughtful disposition, subtle humour, reserved demeanour and batting consistency, he had truly become the elder statesman of Pakistan cricket. If he had an ego, he never showed it. Or at least never let it come in the way during his interactions with his players and the cricket board.

And the cricket board, especially under Shahryar Khan and veteran journalist and publisher, Najam Sethi, continued to recognise these qualities even when he was being battered in the media.

Being men of experience, they knew in a country which has been torn asunder by violent tragedies, scandals, isolation and instability, having a thoughtful, dependable and diplomatic cricketer as captain was exactly what its top sport needed.

Pakistan’s internal problems and external image are now far better than what they were when Misbah took over captaincy in late 2010. It is thus sad, that despite becoming one of the most successful cricket captains in Asia (26 Test wins), he was never able to lead the side at home.

He was to cricket what Mr Spock was to Star Trek. A creature of calm and reason in a chaotic universe. Adios, skipper.

This article was originally published on February 2, 2016.

Sufi music and architecture has always fascinated me. Consequently, I have taken it upon myself to explore the tribal areas of North Pakistan and the remote areas of Sindh to learn as much as I can about the Sufi culture.

During recent travels, I happened upon the shrine of renowned Sufi saint Hazrat Mian Mir of the Qadariyyah Sufi order in Lahore.

The shrine is situated in what T.S Eliot calls, “streets that follow like a tedious argument”.

The saint’s life history, however, contains clear messages of peace. His times were soon to be followed by cultural degradation and “insidious intents”.

Surrounded by a populated area, the shrine is home to many poor people to whom it provides free shelter, and food on Thursdays.

“Thursday evening is considered to be a Mubarak day for Sufis,” explained Ghulam Fareed, a Qawwal vocalist. Him, along with other Qawwals, have been regular visitors at this shrine. He sings here because he feels the act gives him a sense of belonging.

“This shrine has given us an identity.”

Singing qawwalis here also helps them make a living. After interacting with a few Qawwals, I realised that it’s not just mere appreciation and money; these Qawwals spoke with a sense of purpose as well.

To them, Sufi singing is a way to spread the message of unity and harmony, and they take immense pride in it.

Here, every Thursday, Qawwals sing in the courtyard of the shrine, while men and women clap and sway to the rhythm. Some men dance in ecstasy, some sing along, while others pay their tributes to the saint by bowing in front of his grave.

The air is filled with the mixed scent of roses and locally-made incense. Salvers of sweets and other food items are distributed among the crowd, both inside and outside of the shrine.

There are certain food items that are specific to the Sufi shrines in Lahore and can be found around Mian Mir; for instance, Qatlaammay (desi pizza) and Doodh Badam (milk with nuts).

On the outskirts of the shrine, vendors swarm the place. They sell dahi baray, chaat, sharbat and samosas to the visitors.

One of the samosa vendors, Akbar Shakir feels he doesn't belong in the posh areas of Lahore, only here in the street next to the shrine.

“Quality is not ensured at these rairrhis but is it ensured at the hotels?” questioned Aleem Khan, a visitor to the darbar. “After seeing what's going on in expensive food chains that people dine in, I think we are better off over here,” he added, pointing to the samosa carts close by.

Women constitute a huge number of devotees here.

“I was sick for the last two years,” said Sakeena, 32. “I went to many doctors and hakeems but no one knew what my problem was. I took medicines but nothing worked. Then one day, my mother asked me to go to the shrine and pray for myself. I am much better since then. I believe that Awlia (friends of God) have the power to make things work for you,” she added thoughtfully.

Historically, I learned, Mughal royals and nobility would frequent the Shrine of Mian Mir religiously.

According to local and British historians, Dara Shikoh had given orders to build the mausoleum of Mian Mir Shikoh. He was a Mughal prince with Sufi and mystical inclinations. He strongly believed in social harmony and a peaceful co-existence.

Shikoh authored several books on Sufism, and wrote a treatise on Bhagavad Gita (a sacred book on Hinduism). His book Sakinatul Aulia is dedicated to the life and works of Mian Mir.

Shikoh’s intellectual pursuits made him strive for a heterogeneous culture and harmony in the subcontinent — an important ingredient that was much needed in the 17th century as much as it is required now.

Students of history, who are proponents of a pluralistic society, mourn the execution of this philosopher prince who was killed by his puritan brother Aurangzeb Alamgir. Many modern-day historians are of the view that Shikoh was the bearer of the legacy of King Akbar whose stance was Sulh-e-Kul (Peace with all) — a stance that Sufis, too, have taken.

On my most recent visit to the shrine, I met many Sikh yatris who had come to pay homage to this great saint. Many of them were from Pakistan, while some had come from India. Mostly Sikh Yatris come here during the birthday celebration of Guru Nanak.

What makes the Sikhs visit the Shrine of Mian Mir? I was curious to know. I met a group of Sikhs and asked them.

“To us, Mian Mir Sahab is as divine as the saints of Sikhism,” replied Diljeet, who came to visit the shrine from Ferozepur, India.

Sufis and Gurus, and their message, transcends geographical and cultural boundaries. "They are the beacons of light," added Gursavek, another devotee.

Mian Mir was an icon of unity, tolerance and love during and after the Mughal era. According to Sufi as well as Sikh traditions, Mian Mir laid the foundation of, what is now known as, the Golden Temple Amritsar, also known as Harminder Sahib.

Mian Mir is said to have travelled from Lahore to Amritsar on the invitation of Guru Arjun Dev, the fifth Guru of Sikhs, who asked Mian Mir for his blessings.

Take a look: Can Sufism save Sindh?

The story goes that Mian Mir was revered by Guru Arjun Dev. Both were divine figures of their respective religions, had mutual respect for each other and also had a similar notion: respect for humanity.

The goal of human life, according to Sufis, is to realise the divinity within; irrespective of cast, creed and religion. Harminder Sahib, in this sense, is more of a cultural hub for the people of Punjab; it is a place where self-actualisation is promoted. It is also marked as a Gurdawar — literally meaning Lord’s door or the door of the Guru.

On these grounds. Mian Mir laid the foundation of a worship place of a nascent religion.

It is noteworthy that Garanth Sahab, the holy book of the Sikh faith, includes the kalaam (poetry/works) of renowned Sufis like Baba Fareed of the Chishtiyyah Sufi order.

And hence, aptly, the kalaam of popular Sikh poet Ravidas jee resounds at the Shrine of Mian Mir in Lahore today as a reminder of humanity and tolerance, echoed by this shrine's existence.

In today’s era of chaos and war, such places of religious and ethnic harmony always manage to leave the heart at peace, if only for a little while.