Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

All photos by Reuters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also read: When Anwar surpassed the 'King'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read further: Saeed Anwar bids farewell to international cricket

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published on June 17, 2015.

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

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

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

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

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

The Sun-Earth-Moon geometry

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

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

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

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

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

The conflict

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explaining the 'fat' crescent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The utilitarian approach

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

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

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

One end of the bargain

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

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

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

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

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

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

Religious identity politics

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hobson’s choice

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

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

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

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

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

Liberal irrelevance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read more: Putting railways back on track in Pakistan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explore: All aboard!

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

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

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

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

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

Read further: A railway station steeped in history

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

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

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

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

All photos by the author.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explore: Shahjahan Mosque: Thatta's timeless splendour

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

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

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

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

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

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

In depth: Graffiti: Street art and the Arab Spring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All photos by the author.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The writer is a desk editor at Herald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was eight years ago.

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

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

Asad:

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

Kamran:

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

Nadeem Farooq Paracha, in his piece:

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

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

Faiza:

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

Zia Moheyuddin‏:

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

Maria Amir:

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

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

— Hadiqa Kiani (@Hadiqa_Kiani) June 2, 2017

Abbas:

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

Jon Eliya:

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

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

— Mahira Khan (@TheMahiraKhan) June 2, 2017

Sahar Soomro:

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

Ali Haider Habib, in his piece:

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

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

Zain Naqvi:

Most people fall in love with Zaki after 'Mera Pyar', but for me it was 'Bhula Deyna'. Now that he is gone, the lyrics seem more haunting than ever before.

Raheel Qazi:

I met Aamir when I was 18 in 1980, long before he became known for his talent. I remember spending time with him in his smoke-filled room. Lamps, spotlights and posters of Clapton, Knopfler, Frampton adorned the walls of his room. I would ask him to jam Mark Knopfler numbers and he would do it to perfection, maybe even better than him.

Listening to Aamir in his own environment was an experience in itself. The unplugged renditions of early Dire Straits in a setting of his choice simply can't be explained in words. You just had to be there, it had to be felt. I vividly remember him stringing the cords to 'Money for nothing or Romeo and Juliet' using the exact guitar that Knopfler used. I can't explain how cool that was.

Ratti:

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

Zahra:

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

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

Muhammad Ali:

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

Saqib Hussain:

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

Ashar Ahmed:

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

A blue board pointed towards a small trail heading into the jungle. In front of me was a majestic lake, the lifeline of Kallar Kahar. This small town lies on the banks of the river Jhelum, within the embrace of the salt range. It has been a tourist destination for a long time but its popularity has increased immensely since the construction of the Motor Way.

The entire region is a treasure trove for archaeologists and students of ancient history. Not far from here is the ancient Shiva temple of Katas Raj. A little further east is the fort of Nandana. North of Katas Raj, located on top of a mound, is the complex of Tilla Jogian, a vast area with a pool at the centre and several smadhs around it. Since time immemorial, this has been the most important religious pilgrimage for Jogis in Punjab, abandoned at the time of Partition.

I walked on the small trail, following the board, climbing the gentle slope of the mountain. Then, almost abruptly, the trail ended and the Takht-e-Babri was in front of us. A small black monument made of rocks, it was an unimpressive structure – a staircase culminating in a small platform.

A board next to it read that Babur, the founder of the Mughal Empire, had constructed a garden here that he called Bagh-i-Safa, and in the middle of the garden this throne was constructed. Standing on it, Babur addressed his forces, the board mentioned. The garden had been taken over by the jungle.

Also read: A visit to Gujranwala's Eimanabad throws new light on Babur's legacy

Perhaps my disappointment at looking at the monument came from my heightened expectations. Babur, in his wonderful autobiography, wrote about the Takht-e-Babri. It was the first Mughal construction in India. Having grown up in Lahore, I had always been just a few kilometres away from splendid Mughal architecture.

Architectural masterpieces

As children, we had returned to the iconic Badshahi Masjid several times for our school trips. Standing on the edge of the walled city, overlooking the Lahore Fort, the smadh of Maharaja Ranjit Singh and the Minar-e-Pakistan, the mosque, summoned by Emperor Aurangzeb and constructed on the model of the Jama Masjid in Delhi, has become a symbol of the city.

Its marble dome and its sandstone tiles shine in the night as it is lit up for tourists visiting Food Street, which runs parallel to it. The sombre and graceful exterior of the mosque is in sharp contrast with the elaborate geometrical patterns on the inside, where flowers and other floral patterns sculpted on the wall hang precariously. The mosque gracefully embraces both designs – the external sobriety and the mesmerising patterns on the inside.

About a kilometre from here, deep inside the Delhi Darwaza of the walled city of Lahore, is the Wazir Khan Mosque, one of the most beautiful specimens of Mughal architecture in all of South Asia.

Constructed during the reign of Emperor Shahjahan and summoned by his governor of Punjab, Wazir Khan, this mosque has a spectacular splatter of colour all over it.

It is overwhelming, assaulting the aesthetic sensibilities of an unwary tourist. All of these colours, blue, red, yellow and green, stand distinctly, retaining their individual identity, yet they also blend together, giving the mosque its own distinct flavour.

Explore: A visual delight – Maryam Zamani and Wazir Khan Mosques

At the entrance of the mosque, on the roof, are honey-combed structures called muqarnas. Distinct to Islamic architecture, these structures are a product of complex mathematical formulas, highlighting how scientific progress goes hand in hand with artistic development.

Perhaps not as famous as the Badshahi Masjid, the mosque has recently come on the radar of tourists searching for cultural Lahore deep within its intertwining streets. It is impossible not to fall in love with this monument.

Right at the entrance of Delhi Darwaza is the newly revamped Shahi Hammam, another monument constructed by Wazir Khan. Fairies and djinns dance on the walls of this royal bath as they play heavenly instruments.

Floral and geometrical patterns merge into each other in a beautiful union of mathematics and art. The frescoes on the domes spiral, hypnotising the onlooker. The thick walls of the structure with smartly designed windows make the hammam breezy even on a hot summer day.

Humble beginnings

Unconsciously, I had expected the Takht-e-Babri to be a grand structure at par with these magnificent buildings I had grown up visiting and falling in love with. This was the throne of Babur, the first Mughal king, the founder of the Mughal Empire.

There would not have been a Badshahi Mosque or a Shahi Hammam if there was no Babur. The structure should have reflected the symbolic significance of the empire. It was to be the foundational stone of one of the world’s richest empires.

In depth: Lahore's iconic mosque stood witness to two historic moments where tolerance gave way to brutality

But it was nothing like what I had expected it to be. The first Mughal structure in India was just a small platform with a grand name.

It was the construction of a king on the run, in search of an empire, not an emperor whose family had been at the pinnacle of power for generations, controlling the destiny of millions, with unlimited wealth. The monument was an embarrassment to the splendid tradition of Mughal architectural that was to follow.

Yet, perhaps more than any of the structures mentioned above, it has the greatest symbolic value. It represented the arrival of the Mughals in India. It was a stamp of their authority.

It was to be the throne of Babur, the pauper prince who laid the foundation of one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen.

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

I remember the day when consensus was finally reached among negotiating countries for the Paris Agreement on climate change.

I had actually left the conference centre at Le Bourget, the Parisian suburb where the negotiations were being held for the 21st Conference of Parties(COP21), for the long train ride back to my hotel in central Paris. It was late, I was tired, and it was the last day of two long weeks of negotiations.

We all knew that the historic deal would be clinched that night; the hold up was due to the American outcry over some wording in the final agreement. American delegations to international conferences are always full of lawyers who scrutinise every single word.

President Obama was frequently seen pacing the halls of the conference centre, hurrying from one meeting to another with world leaders. He had made the fight against climate change one of his 'legacies' and was determined, along with the outgoing UN chief Ban Ki Moon, to get a positive outcome in Paris. Secretary of State John Kerry was also present with his legal team, fine-tuning the American approach.

Diplomacy eventually prevailed and by the time I reached my hotel and turned on the TV, the deal was done. 197 countries agreed to finally do something about combating climate change together.

Obama was able to sign the agreement without needing Congressional approval. He could do so since the agreement was an extension of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change, which the US had signed in 1992, meaning that there was no legal requirement to go through the Congress again. Remember, it was President Bill Clinton who supported the Kyoto Protocol, only to have the Congress reject it upon his return to the US.

I happened to be on my way to Marrakesh, where the COP22 was being held, when Donald Trump was elected President of the US. The Paris Agreement had by then come into law as it had been formally ratified by 110 countries. Pakistan also managed to ratify the Paris Agreement just days before sending its delegation to Marrakesh.

My colleague Kashmala Kakakhel who was already at the COP22 told me that the election results left everyone at the conference in shock and that members of the American delegation were visibly shaken. Other countries, however, were determined to reaffirm their commitment to the Paris Agreement with or without American support.

WWF-International noted that one of the most positive messages to come out of the COP22 was the “consensus to defend the Paris Agreement and push it forward”. Marrakesh was where all the nuts and bolts of the agreement were discussed, which will be formalised in the form of a rule book by 2018.

It took more than 20 years of hard negotiations to get to this point, only for President Trump to dismiss diplomacy and science by announcing last week that the US was "getting out" of the agreement.

Sunita Narain, Head of the Centre for Science and Environment in Delhi, did not hide her exasperation when she told me that with the US president’s latest assault on the global fight against climate change will create the efforts in meeting the objectives of the Paris Agreement to become an uphill task. Trump has sounded the death knell for the agreement.

Trump’s decision has come at a time when there is, in fact, little time to waste. 2016 was the warmest year on record and efforts to curb climate change have not been sufficient.

Prior to the Marrakesh conference, the United Nations Environment Programme released an Emissions Gap report, warning that countries’ climate pledges amount to less than half of the cuts needed to reach the goals they agreed to in Paris.

Sunita’s colleague, Chandra Bhushan, said to me that we are already on the path to a dangerous temperature rise of even up to 3 degrees. The only foreseeable future course would be for the remaining countries to come together to modify the Paris Agreement to make it more effective.

I interviewed senior Bangladeshi climate expert Saleem ul Haq when I was in Marrakesh, who told me that if Donald Trump takes action against the Paris Agreement, this COP will mark the transition of global leadership from the US to China.

On the last day of the conference, I visited a side exhibition where I discovered that the last time Marrakesh hosted a COP was back in 2001. That is when the US pulled out of the Kyoto Protocol. “We survived that, we will also survive their pull out from Paris” said one delegate. “Who knows how long Trump will stay in power. We should not be fixated on Trump; the momentum to build a low-emission economy and shift away from fossil fuels must not stop”.

Photos by the author.

Has climate change impacted your life? Tell us about it at blog@dawn.com

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

If you've read my previous travelogues, chances are you know that I love arts and culture. Enter Qatar, once labelled a dull Arab state and now a mighty force to reckon with in cultural initiatives.

The oil-rich state has become the world's largest buyer of contemporary arts, thanks in no small part to Sheikha Mayassa Al-Thani (the sister of the current ruling Emir of Qatar Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani), who has been declared the most powerful and influential person in the global art world. She is said to spend $1 billion annually on art works.

I had a 12-hour layover in Doha before heading to Saudi Arabia to visit family. I decided to visit the magnificent Museum of Islamic Art (MIA) during my brief transit but ended up seeing a lot more.

When the plane landed in Doha, I immediately felt like I was surrounded by luxury — a trademark of most, if not all, Arab countries.

Everything about the small, yet largely ambitious, Gulf state felt brand new and untouched. To put things into perspective for Pakistanis, Qatar is slightly smaller than the size of Azad Jammu and Kashmir (AJK).

It seemed like all the infrastructure that greeted me had popped up overnight — from the newly designed contemporary, clean cut architecture at the Hamad International Airport to the soaring skyscrapers aligned on the outstretched highways that I observed during my taxi ride.

Not to mention the giant yellow lamp bear that sits atop a raised podium at the airport. The 23 ft (7m) high giant teddy bear was designed by world-renowned Swiss sculptor Urs Fischer. It was subsequently acquired by the Qatari Royal family for $6.8 million at a Christie’s auction.

In anticipation of the 2022 FIFA World Cup that Qatar will be hosting, the entire nation is basically one giant construction site. It is well in the throes of building a new city Lusail, and an iconic 80,000 seater football stadium where matches will be held.

Additionally, 12 international standard football stadiums (six of which are located within Doha), a state-of-the-art national rail system and a 160km+ citywide metro system are under construction.

Cruising through Doha — where a majority of Qatar’s 2.5 million residents live — I found it incredulous how the city had changed so much from my previous transit about three years ago.

From a run-down shabby airport to an extravagant terminal replete with gold-plated coffee kiosks, and from a non-existent skyline to a towering Manhattan-esque one, Qatar's growth has been phenomenal.

Every second or third person in Qatar is a migrant worker, and South Asians account for 88 per cent of the population. Other than the immigration officer who stamped my entry into the country, the only other place in Qatar where I happened to come across locals was at the Souq Waqif — the main city souq-cum-marketplace — located in the district of Al Souq.

Unlike most souqs in the region, it has retained some of its yesteryear Arabian charm. I wouldn't call it authentic because a large part of it has been gentrified with the opening up of mainstream cafes and fast food outlets but compared to the rest of the country, it does have a rather raw feel to it.

My favorite spot in the district is the adjoining Falcon Souq. Inside this souq, birds are sold for thousands of dollars. But shopkeepers allow visitors to pose with the falcons and even hold them. I couldn't afford a falcon so I contended myself with just admiring them.

Given that falcon hunting is a popular sport in most Arab countries, I wasn't surprised to discover that the area also has a Falcon Hospital!

Later, we drove further into the city to the waterfront promenade of Doha Corniche, which is home to many stunning landmarks and public art displays: the dhow harbour, the pearl monument and the Orry the Oryx Statue.

Since I had arrived around sunset, I also got to witness the golden rays of the sun illuminate the West Bay, which was a magical sight to behold, juxtaposed with Doha's skyline in the background. I also indulged in some good ol' people watching.

Then, I proceeded to the much-anticipated, and most famous of all landmarks, the Museum of Islamic Arts aka (MIA). Built in 2008 on reclaimed land within Doha Bay, the cubistic building is designed by the award-winning Chinese architect I.M Pei and rises out of the turquoise blue waters of the Arabian Gulf like an iceberg.

Apparently the museum building is meant to look like a woman in a niqaab; the two windows on the top dome are meant to be her eyes peeking out from behind a veil.

I had hardly bargained on seeing such a world-class museum in Qatar. I was pleasantly surprised that entry to the museum was free.

It contains some of the largest collections of Islamic art from three continents, spanning over almost 1,400 years, containing exhibits from as far as Central Asia, Morocco and Spain.

It also offers a free shuttle service to the nearby Mathaf: Arab Museum of Contemporary Art, and to the Qatar National Museum that will reopen up later this year after renovation.

After having my fill of the museum, I decided to end my short Qatari odyssey at the Katara cultural village, a public space that is home to a photography museum, an amphitheater, some traditional buildings and multiple public art displays by famous artists from around the world.

I couldn’t help but think that if a country like Qatar, where its own citizens are a minority, could forge a strong cultural identity on the world stage, and undergo a cultural renaissance, then why can’t Pakistan?

Pakistan is home to a plethora of rich culture and traditions; there should be museums dedicated to all of them, showcasing the diversity of our communities. Investing in the arts can go a long way in the development of the nation's social fabric.

—Photos by author

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also read: Afghanistan`s stunning lakes thirst for tourism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the same topic: Splendour falls on palace walls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explore: Saving artefacts in Afghanistan

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

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

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

All photos by the author.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egyptian belly dancing comes to Karachi in 1960.

A 1962 Pakistan tourist brochure.

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

A 1964 Johnnie Walker ad in a Pakistani newspaper.

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

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

A 1966 tourism poster for Lahore.

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

An American cloth brand called Karachi.

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

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

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

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

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

One of the first copies of the 1973 Constitution.

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

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

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

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

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

A 1971 ad of Intercontinental Hotels in Pakistan.

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

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

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

1977 promotional image of the new uniform of PIA hostesses.

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

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

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

February 1978 cover of The Herald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2004 promotional picture of PIA’s new uniforms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Jaun Elia’s verse comes to mind:

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


All photos by the author.

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

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

This article was originally published on October 3, 2016.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passports and visas used to be handwritten.

My 1964 passport had one mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explore: 6 surprises that greet a Pakistani in India

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

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

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

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

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

The train to India moved slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I became much more relaxed at this point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprisingly, the policemen became friendly too.

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

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

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

No letters were exchanged.

But certainly the memories remain, at least for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Biological essentialism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also read: Cook, clean and vote for men

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

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

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

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

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

Work doesn't end when you go home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nature of domestic work

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

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

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

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

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

Produce the labouring class

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

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

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

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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