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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egyptian belly dancing comes to Karachi in 1960.

A 1962 Pakistan tourist brochure.

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

A 1964 Johnnie Walker ad in a Pakistani newspaper.

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

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

A 1966 tourism poster for Lahore.

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

An American cloth brand called Karachi.

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

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

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

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

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

One of the first copies of the 1973 Constitution.

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

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

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

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

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

A 1971 ad of Intercontinental Hotels in Pakistan.

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

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

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

1977 promotional image of the new uniform of PIA hostesses.

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

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

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

February 1978 cover of The Herald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2004 promotional picture of PIA’s new uniforms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Jaun Elia’s verse comes to mind:

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


All photos by the author.

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

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

This article was originally published on October 3, 2016.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passports and visas used to be handwritten.

My 1964 passport had one mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explore: 6 surprises that greet a Pakistani in India

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

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

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

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

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

The train to India moved slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I became much more relaxed at this point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprisingly, the policemen became friendly too.

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

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

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

No letters were exchanged.

But certainly the memories remain, at least for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Biological essentialism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also read: Cook, clean and vote for men

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

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

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

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

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

Work doesn't end when you go home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nature of domestic work

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

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

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

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

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

Produce the labouring class

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

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

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

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


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

The right to compensation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

China-Pakistan corridor

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

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

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

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

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

Colonial China

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

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

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

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

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

Debt diplomacy

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

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

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

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

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

Too little too late

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also read: Till divorce do us part: Separate lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read further: Misbah’s choke lock

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misbah lost his place in the side again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published on February 2, 2016.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This shrine has given us an identity.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women constitute a huge number of devotees here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take a look: Can Sufism save Sindh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.