Javed Miandad ran towards Imran Khan, grabbed him by his arm and pulled him for a hug. “Only Miandad can do that to Khan sahab”, said my dad.

The hug was iconic; not because even in absolute ecstasy of winning the World Cup no one else actually had the guts to hug Imran Khan, let alone have the audacity to pull him by his arm. It was momentous because the glory, the jubilation, the tears, the triumph, the prostrations and everything that Pakistan cricket was experiencing that day, in fact, everything that it had in the previous decade had its centre of gravity in these two individuals.

During the 80’s, Pakistanis got accustomed to the ways of this extraordinary duo. They moulded and inspired an entire generation of cricketers, oozing confidence and giving birth to absolute match winners.

We saw Imran lift the trophy and bow out of cricket with all the grace and glamour the sport offered at the time.

Also read: Of highs and lows: How Pakistani cricket changed forever

However, even with the abundance of skill Imran left behind, few could have envisioned that Pakistan cricket had already peaked. Scattered moments of sublime brilliance were to be surrounded by dark times that lay ahead.

Out of the men Imran skippered, nine went on and became Test captains. Javed Miandad, Wasim Akram, Saleem Malik, Waqar Younis, Ramiz Raja, Aamir Sohail, Saeed Anwar, Moin Khan and Inzamam ul Haq, all got a shot. Many had multiple stints. Often, at the expense of their teammates, and usually through an unpleasant transfer of power.

Pakistan cricket saw arguably its most talented generation go down the rabbit hole and lose its path to corruption and politics. The next two decades saw court cases, life bans, drug bans, match fixing, spot fixing, back stabbing teammates, gun shots fired on an international team, a dead coach under suspicious circumstances and finally, national captain and two ace fast bowlers were jailed abroad.

Explore: The rise and fall of Pakistan cricket's young mavericks

2010 brought 35-year-old Misbah-ul-Haq, the most un-Pakistani cricketer and an even more unlikely national captain, a complete antithesis of Imran Khan and his prodigies.

His first assignment as captain was a series against South Africa. Dubai International Cricket stadium was hosting its first Test match as team Misbah laid foundations to their fortress.

South Africa set a 451 run fourth inning target for Pakistan, who were bundled for 248 in the first innings. With four sessions to go, a Pakistan loss seemed inevitable.

Then, Mis|You (Misbah-ul-Haq and Younis Khan) came together and provided what would be a template for Pakistan cricket for the next seven years. They refused to lose. Misbah batted 225 minutes and Younis Khan for 344 minutes. Both remained not out.

Younis, the man of the match, was making a come back after a one and a half year altercation (ban, retirement, fine, no one was quite sure, including Younis himself) with the administration and teammates.

Finally, Younis had a captain who gave him the liberty and respect he demanded, and a man Younis could respect and admire in return.

Mis|You went onto score 3,213 runs in partnership at an average of 68,36 - the highest by any Pakistani pair in Test history. They got a century stand 15 times, that puts them sixth in the all time list and makes them the only Pakistanis in the top 20.

Rahul Dravid and Sachin Tendulkar lead with twenty 100+ partnerships. But Mis|You were more than twice as likely to get a century partnership than the Indian legends.

Most Hundred Run Partnerships

2017, Roseau Dominca, it was the final Test against West Indies with the series on the line, with history on the line. With how Misbah was going to be remembered by many, especially by countrymen who disagree with his ways.

Day 2, Pakistan is 209/3 in 96 overs a friend messaged saying “Do we even want to win this? 1 of 51 balls!” Pakistan’s run-rate was 2.17 and Misbah’s strike rate 1,96. I did not reply to the message, I did not have an answer. At two runs an hour, nobody can.

My generation was raised with Imran’s style of play; we go weak in the knees for tare away fast bowlers and aggressive batsmen. We crave the flare and flamboyance the Pakistani teams have been associated with. Thus for many in Pakistan, Misbah’s gameplay has never hit the right chords.

Day 5, West Indies is 76/5 chasing 304 on a crumbling pitch. Amir is bowling and has one wide slip, gully and cover point. He has more men saving runs than he has men in catching positions. This ought to be a joke that a lot of Pakistanis don’t see the funny side of. A little later Ramiz Raja comments that this is a field someone would set with the scorecard at 300/3 on Day 2.

I get more messages asking why isn’t Misbah attacking? Again, I have no answer. I never truly have, but Misbah’s Test match results say, it has hardly ever mattered.

Further reading: Misbah’s choke lock

Roston Chase and the West Indian tail fight bravely and take the game to the wire.

I get another message from a friend. “Is there a chance or will Chase become Jimmy Adams?” Pakistan fumbles chances and close decisions go against them, 17-year-old wounds seem fresh again.

Second last over of the day and the same friend messages “Mis|You have clean intentions, maybe there will be a miracle.”

I am praying, so are millions of Pakistanis. But this prayer is not just for our country’s win; it is for the two men who have served Pakistan cricket more selflessly than anyone in a very long time.

10 men fit the frame around the bat as Yasir Shah wins the game. There are celebrations; Misbah hugs his teammates one by one, and then its time to hug Younis. It is the camaraderie of many years, one of highs and lows. And the hug is longer than any other that evening.

It reminded me of Javed and Imran at the MCG in 1992. In Pakistan, no one before, or since, had retired in such style, in any style.

The two duos belong to different eras and cannot truly be compared.

But if Imran and Javed instilled flash and fortitude in Pakistan cricket, Misbah and Younis showed the path of resilience and resolve.

While Imran and Javed were cocky and combative, Misbah and Younis were cool, calm and collected.

Misbah ended up with almost twice more wins than Imran as captain, and Younis with more hundreds than Javed and Imran combined.

In total, Mis|You have 50 Test wins, 26 of them in away tests and 15 of them outside Asia.

Their numbers are staggering, but it is not what defines them, it is not their legacy. To judge what MIS|YOU have done for Pakistan cricket through numbers is like gauging a Rolls Royce by its speed.

A V12 with 500 horses can go fast at will, but it’s the RR suspension that goes over ditches like it is on water. Only those who understand its beauty can appreciate the comfort, class and grace of its ride.

In depth: Herald exclusive: Younis Khan, the man in a glass cage

And if anyone doubts the power behind these engines, Misbah holds the record of the maximum number of sixes hit by any Pakistani batsman ever, 81. And Younis is number two with 70 sixes. No one else even touches 60.

But how do you weigh the respect that Mis|You earned back for Pakistan on English soil?

How do you measure the worth of dignity and honour they brought for Pakistan cricket?

They showed that a bunch of corrupt and divided match winners can win the odd game or two on their own, but it takes a well-knit team to become the world's number one. When unity, faith and discipline meets hard work, it can create its own magic.

How can you quantify integrity? Especially in a place where it has been so scarce!

How can Mis|You ever be replaced?

I have the answer to that.

They cannot!

Who do you think would be able to replace Misbah and Younis? Are you a cricketing enthusiast, player, or trainer? Share your thoughts at blog@dawn.com

A few months ago, I had assigned a task to my students to bring in any poetic verse or prose in Punjabi, or just introduce themselves to the class in that language. The idea was simply to get them interested in a regional language, but it soon turned into a project where we worked on developing our own interpretations of Bulleh Shah's poetry.

It was heartening to see how the teenagers in my class found the verses of a 500-year-old saint relatable with their 21st century life.

Coincidentally, my friend who is the founder of Saraab, an organisation formed to document the hidden variants of Pakistan, invited me on a trip to Kasur where she planned to film a documentary about cultural epicentres. I took this as the perfect opportunity for a field trip and asked my students to accompany us.

As the October day became sunnier, we grew increasingly impatient to begin our journey. As we parked at the corner of a busy street, we contemplated what we wanted to do next. Try the region’s fish which is famous across the province, or attend the hourly sessions of kafis (poems) being sung by mureeds (disciples) at Bulleh Shah's shrine?

The kafis won, and we made our way through the traffic to the tomb of Hazrat Baba Bulleh Shah, arguably the greatest Punjabi poet and mystic this region has birthed to date.

Also read: The Indus raga: From Bulleh Ki Jana Mein Kon to Tarrin Paunda

Our journey began with a stopover at Baba Kamal Chishty’s shrine, where, according to the local folklore, if you could run up the steep stairs on the small hill while holding your breath, whatever wish you made at the top would come true.

After several failed attempts, we wandered through the shrine that was beautifully decorated with white and green tilework. As we weaved our way under the shade of old trees adorned with colourful strips of visitor's wishes, we could hear the qawwals in the distance singing verses of devotion.

After another stopover at the small, but neatly maintained Kasur museum, it was time to pay a long overdue visit to the master of the poetic craft.

Bulleh Shah lived in the era of the great Sindhi poets Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai and Sachal Sarmast. Mir Taqi Mir, too, lived only a few days journey to the east. The subcontinent spanned over a thousand miles, and Bulleh Shah’s voice was one of many that rose from the small towns of the Orient. Those voices still echo, from air-conditioned rooms in concrete jungles to radio sets held together by scotch tape under banyan trees.

A murshid (spiritual teacher) himself, Bulleh Shah is said to have studied in the famous mohallas of Lahore, with Kasur being his final resting place. The hunt for his tomb involved a drive through bazaars, followed by a short walk while navigating the great Kasuri markets, the scent of fried fish and rubber tyres in the air.

Explore: How to read Bulleh Shah

The tomb is a short five-minute walk from the parking lot. The enclosure holds a praying area — a white and green edifice reflective of Islamic architecture — in the courtyard of the shrine where I saw jewellery sellers and Islamic prayer books.

A short walk away is the entrance where local men, who were selling kasuri methi, made sure that we took our shoes off out of respect before going into the shrine. They had large stacks of pre-packed kasuri methi set at the entryway in case visitors wanted to buy them.

Two graves herald your entrance into the tiled courtyard, said to be the final resting place of Bulleh Shah’s greatest mureeds.

Across the graves in the middle of the large courtyard, for the hopeful, a tree sits next to the immediate sanctuary of Bulleh Shah, where strings and colourful strips of cloth are lifted by the afternoon breeze.

As we walked towards the domed structure, we couldn't help but feel an otherworldly sense of peace. Peeking through the latticed stone, a hint of green and red stares back. It is the double coverlets on Bulleh Shah’s grave, green signifying his ceaseless attachment to Islam, and red a sign of undying strength.

Roses adorn the headstone, and on every side of the great murshid stand people with their hands raised in prayer, silently murmuring hesitant words on their lips. For a minute, it was easy to imagine Bulleh Shah, surrounded by equally devoted listeners, writing the kafis that are still sung.

There is visible life in the enclosure and an inherent sense of peace - not even the scorching sunlight could dull the energy which surrounded his resting place.

Eventually, we settled quietly in the courtyard, eager to hear the kafis of Bulleh Shah being sung by the famous group of qawwals at the shrine. As the men sat up and a crowd began to gather, we watched them transform into passionate devotees.

The men slowly built up a crescendo, the aged and the young alike, and their voices rose with the harmonium. It was only when Tere Ishq Nachaya broke my stupor, I realised how time had flown.

I felt my limbs move, reverently placing a small baqshish - my show of gratitude - where others had placed theirs already. We sat there for a long while, listening to their perfectly stylised rendition of Bulleh Shah's kalams. It was as though we were in a reverie as the voices of the qawwals drifted across the courtyard.

Further reading: Bulleh Shah: Neither am I virtuous nor a sinner

Bulleh Shah was believed to possess healing powers, and people travelled far and wide to come to him for their ailments. Fighting against the prevalent issues of caste, creed, and familial honour in 18th century Punjab, he devoted his life to art, despite initial misgivings from close family members.

More of a nomadic observer than a fighter, he still managed to shake the status quo, spinning out poetic verses to rival several of his famous contemporaries.

As one of his famous verses says:

Oh Bulleh Shah, let's go there
Where everyone is blind
Where no one recognises our caste
And where no one believes in us.

As we silently walked out of the courtyard, I couldn't help but think of Bulleh Shah's undying message and compassion that is still revered today.

All photos by the author.

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

Before moving to Dubai, I was overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of experiencing the glitz and glamour of this world-renowned city. On arrival, I was instantly distracted by the materialistic desires that the city advertised so well on blown-up images.

A part of my subconscious was telling me to look beyond Burj Khalifa, the luxurious shopping malls and hotels. I was determined to find out the story of the city that underwent major transformations within two decades. Every city has a rich past and Dubai is no exception.

As a frequent traveller of the metro, I decided to spend the day as a tourist in the historic Al-Fahidi district. Slinging my camera and another bag packed with essentials on my shoulder, I set off on my personal adventure with mixed feelings of excitement and anticipation.

Walking out of the Fahidi station, I noticed how different the overall environment and architecture was. The old buildings from the days before Dubai’s transformation into a globalised city were clearly preserved.

I noticed that the people were mainly Indians and Pakistanis, as compared to the Arabs and Europeans I would see at the malls. These migrant workers are often employed in construction work since they never had a chance to receive a formal education.

They make the difficult decision of leaving home and are often forced to take loans to be granted a visa. In this locality, I saw them working at stores and sitting at restaurants sipping on their morning chai and eating parathas. The area is congested with offices of travel agencies, Indian clothing stores, grocery stores and hotels.

Explore: For sale in Dubai

The Al-Fahidi district is also known as Souk Al-Kabeer or Old Town since it is close to the textile and spice market. I noticed that most people were travelling on foot and I decided to walk to Bastakiya.

The mud-brick structures had wind towers that were old artefacts from the 18th century when the Bani Yas tribe was the only inhabitants of this trade and fishing village. Wind towers were used for ventilation before air conditioners were introduced. They are remnants of those introduced by the Arab merchants who had moved to Dubai in the mid-1800s as the Iranian government was persecuting the Sunni Muslims.

Some of them managed to escape on foot, and while migrating, they would take breaks and say “basta” meaning “Stop here.” Eventually, the Arabs said “basta” for the last time when they reached Dubai in the 1920s after seeking refuge from the founding father Sheikh Maktoum who provided the merchants with a plot of land they named Bastakiya.

As I walked through the narrow pathways, I felt a sense of peace in the calm, quiet neighbourhood.

I noticed a brown, palm frond structure with a traditional, brass handled wooden door that was ajar. Above it was inscribed ‘Coin Museum’. Built at the end of the 19th century, the museum has several rooms where ancient coins dating back to the early days of the UAE in the 1800s are housed in glass cupboards.

As I was leaving, the guard asked me to sign the guest book along with my comments. He told me that he was a Pakistani and had moved to Dubai several years ago. I commented on how the modern side of Dubai was so radically different compared to the older areas of the city.

His response amazed me: “I have never been to the new side because I don’t need to. My duty is here, and this area reminds me of home.”

What he said made me realise how predictable it was to see desis doing such jobs even while living outside the country. The South Asian labour force, which makes up 53 percent of the population, not only receives low wages but also live in difficult conditions.

Their camps are usually far from the city and sharing a room with many others is not an ideal situation. But they make the sacrifice because they have no choice. They are the only source of support for their families back home.

Also read: The imperfect lives of Dubai’s ‘blue men’

As I walked ahead, I reached the Dubai Creek where I saw many traditional boats — known as abra — passing by, packed with tourists and workers. While walking towards the dock, I noticed a few stores lined in front of the port.

I walked into an Indian clothing store that was filled with material for saris and shalwar kameez. The shopkeeper, who looked as ancient as his surroundings, was sipping his evening tea. He told me he was Indian, then immediately guessed I was Pakistani. He had witnessed the major transformation the city had undergone while living here for more than 30 years, working in the clothing trade business since he moved.

From Dubai Creek station, I took a ride in the rickety, wooden abra; the journey surprisingly cost only one dirham. The abra was introduced in the early days when the creek was the main hub of commercial activity in the city.

It is still a common mode of transportation carrying 15,000 passengers every day, as it is the easiest way to travel to various points of the long, outstretched creek. I could feel the wind surrounding me during the ride, and for a moment I closed my eyes and imagined the workers who knew nothing else but travelling by boat. I felt a tinge not of sympathy, but jealousy.

After the boat ride, I walked ahead to the spice souk, also known as Souk Al Kabeer. There are countless stores selling spices, souvenirs, foodstuff, Indian and Pakistani traditional clothing and shoe stores. Stopping for a break at a juice centre, I noticed that the sellers in all the stores were Pakistanis and Indians.

This suddenly made me realise that I had not seen a single Emirati during my entire trip. As shop sellers and tourists walked past me, I continued to scan the area for the sight of a local, but failed to spot any. Perhaps they prefer to live outside of Dubai, which is heavily populated with foreigners that make up a staggering 90 percent of the population.

As I walked out of the souk, I approached a long stretch that was a continuation of the creek, where I saw an unloading and loading dock. The creek passes through the heart of the city towards the trading port that leads up to the Ras Al Khor Wildlife Sanctuary.

In depth: Asian workers face harsh realities in Dubai

The port dates back to the late 1930s when the pearl industry was the main source of income, which was eventually affected by the higher quality pearls found in Japan. The general traders and local tribes, Bani Yas and Al Bu Muhair, had an economic slump as a result of this and eventually began seeking an alternative source of income.

As I looked towards the port, I saw Indian and Pakistani workers unloading cargo from multi-coloured vintage boats that lined the dock. As I stopped to take photographs, I approached them and they immediately asked me, “Do you like Dubai or Pakistan better?” I told them I preferred my home country, to which they agreed and said they missed being back home but circumstances made them come here to provide for their families.

I was amazed by such camaraderie between Pakistanis and Indians and how they were living in peaceful coexistence. I thought how unfortunate it is that people back home aren’t accepting of our neighbouring country.

As I gazed beyond the glistening waters of the creek, the sun started to set. The horizon dipping over the Burj Khalifa in the distance was the only hint that I was still in the modern city of Dubai.

Published in Dawn, EOS, May 21st, 2017

All photos by the author.

Have you been to lesser-known historical sites across the world? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

Ayesha Islam is currently working at the blogs desk at Dawn.com and she is passionate about traveling, writing, and photography.

Follow her at @ayeshaziaislam

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

All photos by Reuters.

He swept the ball towards square leg and in that instant, he knew it was a boundary. But he knew more than that. When Saeed Anwar played that shot, he knew he had done what no man in 13 years could.

It was a full-length delivery by Sachin Tendulkar who tirelessly bowled to rid India of its nightmare. With no effort at all, Anwar swept it for four to wind up at 190 - the highest score by any batsman in One-Day cricket.

Arms risen in acknowledgement, he advanced towards Inzamam-ul-Haq, the non-striker, who lightly kissed his forehead. The crowd roared deafeningly and for that brief sensational moment, there was no India or Pakistan, just a hysterical subcontinent.

The city was Chennai and the year was 1997. It was the sixth game of the Pepsi Independence Cup between arch rivals India and Pakistan, on May 21. Opting to bat first, Pakistan suffered an early blow as Afridi fell in the second over.

Anwar looked comfortable from the start, hitting gloriously in the gaps. India's benevolent batting wicket paved way for a solid second wicket partnership (89) between Saeed Anwar and Rameez Raja. Abey Kuruvilla and Robin Singh were getting some bounce, but couldn't seem to work it to their advantage.

Skipper Tendulkar turned to Anil Kumble for help, who at the time was at his finest. The hosts began attacking and the crowd screamed louder in a combined effort to heap up pressure on Pakistan. But Anwar had other plans.

Also read: When Anwar surpassed the 'King'

Under the scorching Chennai sun, it was a contest of temperament and resilience. Despite frequent panting and apparent dehydration, Anwar continued determinedly, securing handy partnerships with Ijaz Ahmed (116) and Inzamam-ul-Haq (84).

No field changes or bowling shifts seemed to get through to the left-hander. In the 19th over, Afridi rejoined Anwar down on the pitch, this time as his runner.

With his eyes on the ball and heart on his sleeve, Anwar crafted an innings that perfectly reflected his calculated aggression in one-day cricket. He scored 194 off 146 balls, hitting 22 fours and five sixes (the runner was a mere formality).

This colossal knock - which was accelerating towards the 200 mark - was finally put to an end by Tendulkar in the 47th over, a top-edge flying to the fielder at short-fine leg.

Running backwards for the catch, Ganguly roughly hurt his head as he landed on the ground. Poetically enough, even as Anwar walked off the field, he had done India damage.

Pakistan defended the total by 35 runs and Aqib Javed clenched a 5-for. Anwar, however, was the prime architect of the victory and went home with a deserving Man of the Match title.

Explore: I played in Pakistan’s best-ever side: Saeed Anwar

Anwar represented Pakistan in 247 ODIs from 1989 to 2003, scoring 8824 runs at an average of 39.21. Over his illustrious ODI career, the gifted opener from Karachi stacked 20 centuries and 43 fifties under his name. He has, till date, the most number of runs (12,113) as an opener for Pakistan across all formats.

In retrospect, the essence of this majestic three-hour knock lies not just in the record aspect of it, but also in Anwar's ability to time and place the ball with gifted finesse.

Throughout his career, Anwar remained caught in an undisguised love affair with the off-side. He batted with unshakeable grit, displaying a mix of minimal footwork and poised hitting.

Coming down the track was not his style; Anwar waited for the ball to come in before stylishly driving it through cover. No loose delivery would be spared in Anwar's arena and anything pitching outside-off would be flogged straight over mid-wicket.

May 21 marked the 20th anniversary of this Chennai spectacle, perhaps one of the most monumental batting performances in one-day history. The previous highest score - Vivian Richards' 189* against England in 1984 - remained unbeaten for 13 years, till this stalwart opener from Pakistan altered the record books.

Anwar's feat was paralleled 12 years later by Zimbabwe's Charles Coventry, who scored 194* against Bangladesh. The following year, Tendulkar walked off the field unbeaten at 200.

At his peak, he was inarguably the world's most formidable left-arm opener. This glorious knock further cemented Saeed Anwar's name among the 90s batting elite.

In the same year, he was deservedly named one of Wisden's Cricketers of The Year. His last one-day hundred came against India in 2003, the year he retired from international cricket.

Read further: Saeed Anwar bids farewell to international cricket

20 years on, Pakistan is yet to produce an opener capable of constructing solid starts as well as Saeed Anwar did. Consistency remains a common deficiency among modern batsmen, and the craft of conversion seems lost.

Saeed Anwar was blessed with this and more. His batting resembled an art form; one that many could pore over but few could master.

So nonpareil, and so charismatic, was his natural game.

Are you a cricketing enthusiast, player, or trainer? Tell us your story at blog@dawn.com

This article was originally published on June 17, 2015.

As Pakistanis prepare for the holy month, filling their refrigerators with Seher and Iftar essentials, and go lengths to ensure that their Eid dresses are ready on time, they are all fixated on one question:

“Yaar, chaand kab hai?” (When will the moon be sighted?)

Thanks to the ill-informed reporting of our media and the myth-believing nature of Pakistanis, we grow up blaming the Central Ruet-i-Hilal Committee (the official body for moon sighting and the authority which declares the official start of Islamic months) for its inability to see the moon.

To further fuel the controversy, there is Masjid Qasim Ali Khan in Peshawar, which dissents every other year (save last year), and announces the start and end of Ramazan asynchronously with the rest of the country.

Some blame the Masjid, some blame the Ruet-i-Hilal Committee, and most live in ignorance of the matter at hand. If one takes out the time to understand this moon business, they will learn that modern scientific tools can help us resolve the issue, which is not an issue at all, if you ask me.

The Sun-Earth-Moon geometry

The rotation of the moon around the Earth drives the Lunar Calendar, which is also the Islamic or Hijri Calendar. The time between two full moons is 29.5 days. When the moon comes exactly between the Sun and the Earth, it is called the “Conjunction” and it is said that a new moon is “born”.

At the conjunction point, all of the Sun’s radiation is reflected back by the moon and none reaches the Earth. Therefore, the moon is completely black to us earthlings and is thus invisible.

The time passed after the moment of conjunction is called the age of the moon.

After the conjunction, the moon continues proceeding in its orbit and the angle between the moon and Sun as seen by an observer on Earth (elongation) increases. It happens at different rates during different months, because its orbit is elliptical, and hence, its speed varies. As the angle increases gradually from 0 degrees, the crescent moon starts to form.

According to Syed Khalid Shaukat, an expert on moon sighting who has decades of experience at his disposal, the minimum angle between the Sun and moon for the moon to be visible through naked eye is 10.5 degrees. Reaching this elongation can take anywhere from 17 to 24 hours after conjunction. Thus, age is not the primary factor for moon’s visibility – the elongation is.

The conflict

A section of Islamic scholars believe that seeing the moon with the naked eye should be the criterion for declaring the start of a new month. A smaller section advocates that we can rely solely on the calculations, and there is no need to visually see the moon.

Without endorsing one view over the other, I will simply point out that as far as sighting the moon goes, we could acquire great deal of help from science.

We could use calculations and modern simulations for knowing where and when to look for the moon, how high it will be in the sky, and what are the chances of its visibility. It is now possible to calculate the exact window of the moon’s visibility after sunset and even generate simulated images of the moon beforehand.

The official and unofficial moon sighting committees ask people to testify if they have seen the moon. This is where these simulated images can be used: anyone who claims to have seen the moon can be asked questions like what time they saw it, how high it was, whether it was near or close to the sun, whether the cusps were upward or sideways, whether it was on the left side or right side of the moon, etc.

These questions are enough to filter out false claims of sighting.

This rejection is attributed to genuine misjudgment, which does not diminish the person’s uprightness and acceptability as a witness. Numerous renowned as well as recent and contemporary scholars support this view.

That is how the Central Ruet-i-Hilal Committee filters out testimonies, but the Masjid Qasim Ali Khan gives no value to these calculations, and relies solely on the piousness of a person as evidence of correct sighting.

The Ruet-i-Hilal Committee has borne the brunt of a history of misconceptions and badmouthing, but in fact, the committee makes very scientific decisions, give or take occasional errors, which are very rare.

Their decision is almost always in accordance with scientific calculations, while those by Masjid Qasim Ali Khan are often found mathematically impossible. Outside of science, it is indeed very hard to establish the sighting of the moon to a credible degree, and so Masjid Qasim's claims will be doubtful at best.

In 2011, the Masjid announced that the moon had been sighted and that Ramazan would commence from August 1, whereas the visibility wasn’t possible from Peshawar and surrounding areas at all.

On the other hand, the Central Ruet-i-Hilal Committee made the correct decision.

Explaining the 'fat' crescent

Another misconception of Pakistanis is that if the crescent is fat, it could not possibly be the first sighting of the lunar month.

Wrong. It may not be the first date of the lunar month, but it can certainly be the first sighting.

The reason for that is, if the moon's 'age' is less than 17 hours on a given day, it will set without becoming visible to the naked eye. So technically, there was a crescent, it just never got the chance to be seen from Earth. The next day at the same time, it will be 17+24=41 hours of age, and will definitely look fatter and more visible.

Blaming the Ruet-i-Hilal Committee for not spotting the young crescent on its first day is foolish – blame nature, rather.

Today, astronomy can accurately establish the time of birth of the new moon with the accuracy of seconds, and its likelihood of being visible. So, what is the harm in using this astronomical basis to reject a claimed sighting which could not possibly be correct?

As chief minister of Gujarat, Narendra Modi was a highly polarising figure. Due to the 2002 anti-Muslim riots that took place on his watch, Modi was anathema to leftists, liberals and even to a section on the right. After the riots, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, the Bharatiya Janata Party prime minister at that time, himself wanted Modi sacked as chief minister.

Yet, as the general election of 2014 approached, Modi’s base expanded. As the prime ministerial candidate, Modi ran a powerful campaign that focused on economic growth, limited government and liberalisation. The communal polarisation that had kept him in power in Gujarat was rarely addressed. Coming after the moribund United Progressive Alliance-II government, Modi presented an attractive economic pitch to many right-wing liberals.

The utilitarian approach

The mood of many right-wing liberals was captured by a much-discussed Gurcharan Das piece that was published in April, 2014, a few weeks before the election results were due. In his piece, Das, former CEO of Procter & Gamble, India, and an author and columnist, juxtaposed Modi’s communalism versus his promise of reform thus:

“There is a clear risk in voting for Modi — he is polarising, sectarian and authoritarian. There is a greater risk, however, in not voting for him. It is to not create jobs for 8-10 million youth that enter the market each year…There will always be a trade-off in values at the ballot box and those who place secularism above demographic dividend are wrong and elitist.”

As a thesis, this was utilitarian in the extreme. Das was not absolving Modi of the communal stain. He was simply saying it was outweighed by the benefits Modi would bring as an economic reformer. Three years down the line, how well has this bargain worked?

One end of the bargain

Novelist and political commentator Aatish Taseer said that his initial assessment of Modi was off the mark. “In 2014, I expected a mixture of economic vitality and chauvinism with Modi, but I was wrong,” said Taseer. “What India got was only chauvinism – and now we’re in an even deeper malaise”.

Taseer’s point is backed by data. In 2014, Das was clear that job creation was a moral imperative that outweighed ideals such as secularism. However, this argument is under severe strain three years later, given that job creation has ground to a halt under the Modi administration.

India’s unemployment rate has actually increased since the Bharatiya Janata Party-led government took office. The number of jobs added by the Modi government in its three years in office is just 50% of the jobs added by the previous Manmohan Singh government in its final three years.

Even as the Modi government is unable to live up to its promise on increasing employment, it has also slipped on its promise of small government.

In 2014, Modi ran for prime minister with the slogan “maximum governance, minimum government” – a thrilling prospect for India’s economic liberals, given how rare the concept is in India.

Yet, as right-wing commentator Rupa Subramanya pointed out in a piece last month, the Modi-led Union government is “starting to slip back into the old command and control mode and away from the promise of good governance”.

Religious identity politics

Even as the vast majority of India’s population stagnates economically, religious identity has emerged as the main axis of Indian politics. For the past three years, politics around the cow has taken centre stage, with vigilante groups attacking Muslims and Dalits across the country on the suspicion of cattle smuggling and slaughter.

Political columnist Tavleen Singh supported Modi in 2014. Yet, on May 7, Singh wrote,

“It is hard to understand why a Prime Minister so passionate about making India a modern, digital, prosperous country has seemingly not noticed that hunting and killing Muslims on the pretext of cows and love jihad does not sit well with modernity.”

Speaking to Scroll.in, Singh said, “I think I misjudged him. I thought he was a liberaliser.”

In Swarajya, a magazine that describes itself as “a big tent for liberal right of centre discourse”, senior journalist Seetha argued that right-wing liberals are “disappointed at his [Modi’s] inability to get the BJP-ruled state governments to rein in the hardline/fringe elements and vigilante groups”.

Seetha specifically called out the appointment of the far right Adityanath as the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh in March to buttress her point.

Hobson’s choice

Gurcharan Das, though, is still sticking to his 2014 analysis. “Jobs are plummeting all over the world,” argued Das, defending Modi’s poor job-creation record. “This is due to automation. I am not sure what other policies could have been pursued to make it better.”

Das is also sanguine about the BJP’s record on law and order. “Yes, there have been stray events such as gau rakshak attacks,” he said. “There has been no sort of state-planned murder or anything.”

Das is disappointed with the fact that Modi has been unable to raise India’s ease of doing business ranking but said, overall, he would still support the BJP were he given a chance to turn back the clock to 2014. “There is nobody else,” explained Das.

The TINA or “there is no alternative” argument, however, is something that punctuates most critiques of Modi from his right-wing liberal supporters.

“Modi and the BJP is still the best option,” said Tavleen Singh. “Compare him with Nitish [Kumar], Lalu [Yadav] or Rahul Gandhi. That is why he wins; because the voter can see he is the best option.”

Liberal irrelevance

In the end, the fact that Modi can coolly ignore his right-wing liberal supporters and still end up being backed by them might serve to illustrate how increasingly irrelevant India’s tiny liberal elite – both right and left – are becoming to the political discourse.

Maybe nothing captures this better than the Union government’s demonetisation of Rs 500 and Rs 1,000 banknotes late last year. The move went against every liberal principle of limited government and had few economic benefits. Sadanand Dhume, a Wall Street Journal columnist and a prominent supporter of Modi during the 2014 elections called the move a “debacle”.

Yet, Modi simply brushed aside this criticism and converted what was an economic disaster into a political windfall. Months after demonetisation was announced, the BJP won a landslide victory in India’s most populous state, Uttar Pradesh.

If 2014 saw a provisional alliance between right-wing liberals and Hindutva groups, three years since, it is clear that right-wing liberals are getting increasingly marginalised. For the last two years of the Modi administration’s term, it seems the Hindutva right will call the shots within the BJP.

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

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.

“Pakistan ka mutlab kyaa? Laa ilaha ila Allah. Naraye Taqbeer, Allah ho Akbar! Pakistan Zindabad”. The typical Pakistani cricket chants got louder as the match progressed. There were a few of us Pakistanis watching the game at a hotel in Bur Dubai, surrounded by Indians in the fall of 2009.

Shoaib Malik was in his usual elements against India and Mohammad Yousuf was showing his class as Pakistan secured a rare victory against India in an ICC hosted competition.

At the time, the score was 4 -1 in India’s favour. India had won all four World Cup games while Pakistan had triumphed in the previous Champions Trophy bout.

Explore: After the 17-year-itch: The historic 1978 Indo-Pak cricket series

To date, Pakistan has lost seven out of the nine ODIs played against India in ICC held tournaments. India is 6-nil up in World Cup matches, while Pakistan is 2-1 up in ICC Champions Trophy games.

Win the toss. Win the match: the team that has won the toss has won eight out of nine games.

Win the toss. Bat first: seven out of nine times the team that has won the toss have batted first. India asked Pakistan to bat once on a rainy English summer morning and won on Duckworth Lewis method in a game that was reduced to 22 overs.

While Pakistan has gotten the short end of the stick in ICC tournaments against India, overall Pakistan’s ODI numbers look pretty good. Pakistan has won 41% more games against India than India has against Pakistan. The score is 72 – 51 in Pakistan’s favour.

While Pakistan was perhaps a stronger team through the first four decades of ODI cricket, India has been the more dominant team in world cricket in the last seven years. It is the only period in the rivalry where India leads the head to head. However, very little cricket has been played between the two neighbours in the current decade.

The Indian team of the recent past presented an ideal opportunity for India to close the gap with their neighbours. But due to political tensions between the two nations and the stance from the Indian Cricket Board, in particular, denied India this chance to catch up.

While history can be an indicator, the current rankings present a more accurate assessment of where the two teams stand at the moment.

India is ranked number 3 in the top half of the table, and Pakistan lingers right at the bottom at number 8, just under Bangladesh.

Pakistan had to postpone a series to make sure that they could qualify for the ongoing Champions Trophy, while direct qualification for the 2018 World Cup is still under threat.

In these circumstances, India will go in as clear favourites.

However, in a game between India and Pakistan, pressure acts as the great equaliser. The history, the rankings, the numbers, the odds, everything else will seize to matter once the teams set foot on the ground. What will be of utmost importance is how the two young teams handle the burden of over one billion people that will have their eyes on them.

This subcontinent cricket rivalry provides the chance for players to become heroes, and runs the risk of them becoming villains. This mother of all encounters makes them into a Javed Miandad, or turns them into an Aamir Sohail. You become Shahid Afridi overnight or turn into Misbah –ul- Haq forever. Either way, these performances are etched on the minds of those who watch them unfold.

Pakistan will hope that young batting talent Babar Azam will come to the party and raise his hand when it counts most. It will be interesting to see what number he bats at. In a short career, Babar’s batting position has already floated around a bit.

Also read: Should there be no Indian cricket fans in Pakistan?

India has multiple match winners and any of them clicking will make it difficult for Pakistan to compete. Pakistan will have to come out all guns blazing if they are to stand a chance.

The recent record of Edgbaston suggests that the track will be a belter and a run fest is expected to entertain a full house crowd.

The weather during the English summer is always unpredictable and there are showers expected through the weekend in Birmingham. The toss could again be crucial in this regard.

By the time the 2009 India vs Pakistan Champions Trophy game ended, there were only a few people left at the hotel where we saw the game, almost all being Pakistani. My good Indian friends Saif and Hurez, who had invited me, asked what relevance these religious slogans have in a cricket match.

“We are a Muslim country and God is with us”, I said in my own Shoaib Malik moment. My friends reminded me that they were Muslims too and perhaps there were more Muslims in India than in Pakistan, or at least almost as many.

I did not really have an answer to that because they were right and I was being ignorant. But in response, I shouted out, ‘Naraaye Taqbeer’. After all, that is what I grew up chanting and screaming at National Stadium Karachi.

This was the last time Pakistan won a match against India in an ICC tournament.

It was eight years ago.

What are your predictions for Pakistan's performance in the Champions Trophy this year? Tell us at blog@dawn.com

Aamir Zaki was Pakistan's most legendary guitarist who will be remembered by the nation as one of the greatest icons. As heartfelt messages after his sudden demise come pouring in, we would like to ask our readers, who was Aamir Zaki for you? Send a short tribute or a photo you took with the star to blog@dawn.com

Asad:

I was privileged to see him almost daily as he was my neighbour. He used to have a sports bike and of course, his guitar on his back whenever he was out. He was a very humble guy and as a student, I saw him many times sitting across my table in a small dhaba sipping tea. I am not sure what to say, but today I lost many of my childhood memories just like when JJ died. Allah kay hawalay, my mate. Innalillah.

Kamran:

When I was unable to concentrate on my studies for CA, I used to listen to his song, 'You need that fire'. His music always enabled me to concentrate on my studies. It sounds unusual, but it always worked for me. I will miss you, Sir.

Nadeem Farooq Paracha, in his piece:

In his bedroom were posters of Eric Clapton. He was in love with him, especially with Clapton's '461 Ocean Boulevard' album. Zaki also played the bass, and that too a fretless one preferred by dexterous jazz-fusionists.

We talked about the blues, jazz, prog-rock and the works, until we came to 'The Bomb.' I told him the lyrics were crap. He agreed and then asked me to write new ones. So I did, right there. He loved them. He picked up an acoustic guitar and set those lyrics to a new version of the song. Right there. Thus began my friendship with this most talented and also most frustrating musician.

Faiza:

May Allah bless his soul. I saw one of his concerts where he played alongside the famous Awaz and then Karavan's guitarist. He played Pink Floyd's 'Another brick in the wall' to perfection. He was always a family favourite.

Zia Moheyuddin‏:

A nation is bound together by the creative artists and not by parallel lines of rusting steel. #AmirZaki's demise is a great loss.

Maria Amir:

RIP #AamirZaki. 'Mera Pyar' was the 90s anthem to combat all forms of road rage. You will be missed.

All I'm left with are the songs he wrote for me and the few photos we had together. Missing you dearly my friend. #AmirZaki #RoughCut pic.twitter.com/JtRlRXQrct

— Hadiqa Kiani (@Hadiqa_Kiani) June 2, 2017

Abbas:

RIP. The best guitarist. I can never forget his performance in unplugged versions of 'Aitebar' and 'Teray Liye'.

Jon Eliya:

'Mera tumhara wo ghar humara'. Such beautiful lines. I remember him as a shy individual who was always busy in his work. As the most underappreciated guitarist and vocalist, he never wanted to be in the spotlight. He was probably the greatest guitar player Pakistan has ever seen. We have lost a gem. It breaks my heart. We will miss you, Aamir Zaki.

One of the first people I met in this industry.. the best conversations.. what an artist!! Rest In Peace genius #AmirZaki

— Mahira Khan (@TheMahiraKhan) June 2, 2017

Sahar Soomro:

Sad day for Pakistan. RIP Amir Zaki. We all bore witness to his artistic genius. Wish we could have cherished him while he was with us. We have lost an institution. Huge loss for Pakistan.

Ali Haider Habib, in his piece:

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.

Ratti:

Unbelievable! I remember him vividly. He was from our age, when we were growing up and pop was the upcoming culture in Pakistan. He was from the generation of Vital Signs, Hadiqa Kiyani and Ali Azmat when they were young and trying to make a mark in pop music. RIP genius. You were too young to die at this age.

Zahra:

The last time I saw him perform live at the I Am Karachi Music Festival in 2015 was as exciting for me as the first. It was Aamir Zaki, the Aamir Zaki set. Not someone featuring Aamir Zaki. While many great musicians played that night, Zaki’s set reminded me once more of the love for music he instilled in so many of us.

He was the last man standing from the era of Pakistani music when most gave up, or went for the next best financial option that real music couldn’t always promise. He was god sent and always reminded us that loving something wholeheartedly, and following it through, is more rewarding than anything in this world. He did so much for us in ways we didn’t even realise until he passed away.

Muhammad Ali:

Inna Lillah-e-wa-Inna Ilaihe Rajioon! Another blow to Pakistan's music industry. The songs sung and composed by Aamir Zaki were fabulous. Sadly, he passed away at an age when he had the potential to give even more good music to Pakistan. He will surely be missed. May his soul rest in peace - Ameen!

Saqib Hussain:

Last year, I saw my guitar turn into ashes in a house fire. The other day, my younger brother asked me about when I’ll be buying a new guitar. I told him, this time I’ll buy an electric not the acoustic one. But now, perhaps I won’t be getting any, because on Friday night I lost my reason to play. Rest in peace my idol.

Ashar Ahmed:

All good men go early. Never met him, but his genuineness and humbleness shone through. Always was a fan and always will be! Inna lillahe wa inna ilaehe rajeoon!

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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