On the 22nd of June, 15-year-old Junaid Khan left his home in Khandwali, a small village in Haryana, along with his three brothers on a train bound for Delhi to do their annual Eid shopping for their family.

Somewhere between Mathura and Ballabgarh stations, while playing a game of Ludo to pass the time, Junaid and his brothers were confronted by a group of men wanting their seats, a common enough occurrence on Indian trains, and a scuffle ensued.

What should have ended with harsh words and perhaps a shove or two, quickly escalated. Within minutes, Junaid and his brothers were accused of eating beef, knives were wielded, and Junaid was brutally stabbed and murdered on the platform as a large group of people stood by and watched.

Junaid was not the first person to be lynched in India on suspicion of eating beef, and he will not be the last. In fact, only a week later, another man was beaten to death for allegedly transporting beef in his van in the state of Jharkhand.

Unfortunately, such violence is quickly becoming the norm in Modi’s ‘new India’. Since 2010, 28 people have been killed in ‘cow-related violence’ and 63 other cases of violence have been registered in total.

Also read: A train ride to India in better times

The vast majority of these incidents have taken place in states that are ruled by the Bharatiya Janata Party and have been targeted at Muslims and Dalits. Very often this violence is prompted by rumours, which spread like wildfire in an increasingly communally charged environment.

Junaid’s murder came as a shock to many because of where it took place. Delhi was assumed to be relatively sheltered from the wave of communal hatred that is otherwise engulfing large swathes of the country.

If a lynching could take place in the nation’s capital, then truly no place was safe anymore.

For me as well, Junaid’s killing was particularly distressing. It is has been 12 years since I spent an extended period of time in the country of my parents’ birth conducting my PhD research on Muslim insecurity in the area of Zakir Nagar — a Muslim-majority locality not far from where Junaid’s murderers boarded his train.

My research focused on the narratives of women in particular who spoke about their sense of marginalisation from the city and from the country as a whole as a result of repeated episodes of communal violence beginning with Partition and continuing till the 2002 Gujarat pogrom.

I wondered why Muslims would feel so insecure in a city that had itself not experienced large-scale communal violence since Partition with the exception of the 1984 anti-Sikh massacres. My research showed that despite the fact that actual incidents of large-scale violence may have been relatively few and far between, the reverberations of this violence could still be felt many years after the event and in places far away, and this contributed to a pervasive and growing sense of fear amongst Muslims, which led many to prefer living in Muslim-majority areas.

In-depth: How oppressed are Muslims in India?

At the same time, my research also demonstrated long-standing and deep bonds between people across religious boundaries. Women spoke about childhoods spent playing with Hindu neighbours and celebrating Diwali.

There was also a sense amongst the younger generation that, whilst insecurity lingered, things were getting better. Young people spoke about how their parents may have cheered for Pakistan during India-Pakistan cricket matches in the past, but they were staunch India supporters.

The new generation was confident that India was their country, and they were ready to claim their rightful place as full citizens.

While I concluded my research arguing that the marginalisation felt by Muslims was very real and that a general hardening of religious boundaries had taken place since the 1980s, I was also naively hopeful that I might be documenting the decline of communalism and of the Hindu Right in general.

The Congress Party was in power at the Centre, and although their record was far from spotless when it came to the manipulation of religious sentiments for political gain, they at least maintained a veneer of secularism, which provided some level of solace to religious minorities.

Few, including myself, could have imagined that less than a decade later, the man who many believe was the mastermind behind the Gujarat pogrom would become the prime minister of the world’s largest democracy.

Related: Thoughts on a rise in India's Muslim population

This followed by his seemingly unshakeable popularity and the election of other even more venomous politicians such as Yogi Adityanath seemed to be sounding the death knell of Indian secularism.

The nature of violence in India has evolved considerably. While the large-scale communal riots that took place throughout the 1980s and 90s have declined, religion and caste-based violence has in many ways become more pervasive and acceptable.

This is reflected in the media, with mainstream television personalities such as Arnab Goswami dominating the airwaves with their blatantly anti-Muslim rhetoric.

This is also reflected in social media, where average Hindus defend the killing of those who eat beef as justifiable.

All the while the government remains silent at best and laudatory at worst in response to the vigilantism of so-called ‘cow protectors’.

Of course these divisions were not created overnight. As my research and that of many other scholars has demonstrated, the roots of Hindu majoritarianism can be traced far back in Indian history to the period preceding Partition.

The seeds of this majoritarianism were not only present in the explicitly right-wing BJP but were also present in the rhetoric of the Congress Party. And alongside the bonds of cooperation and friendship between religious communities were also strands of resentment and distrust, which flared up periodically.

Modi did not create Hindu majoritarianism. He only stoked the embers that had been simmering in the Indian polity for several decades.

However, India is not exceptional; majoritarianism is not an exclusively Hindu malaise. Like twins separated at birth, India and Pakistan both continue to carry the same toxic ingredients within our countries’ DNA.

The only difference is that Pakistan is perhaps more blatant about its majoritarianism and has never claimed to be secular (despite those few lines from Jinnah’s speeches that may lead us to believe otherwise) while India has, at least in the past.

Explore: When Iqbal called for a Muslim India, within India

If frenzied mobs are rallied to lynch supposed beef-eaters in India, similar mobs are rallied in Pakistan when they hear another b-word. The brutal murder of Mashal Khan was the latest in a long string of violent attacks of those suspected of blasphemy, again most often belonging to the country’s religious minorities.

And of course this rise in majoritarian, xenophobic politics is not exclusive to the Subcontinent alone. The last few years have demonstrated the growing appeal of right-wing majoritarianism in countries around the world with race, ethnicity and religion all being used as a means of creating fear and distrust between communities as a means of gaining political mileage.

The need of the hour in both India and Pakistan is to step back from reacting to each of these incidents in isolation and to instead think carefully about what in our shared history has produced this violence and why these exclusionary ideologies are gaining so much traction at this particular moment.

It is only through careful analysis and collective action that we will be able to overcome the wave of violent majoritarianism that is engulfing both of our countries at this time.

Have you been discriminated against based on your class, religion, or ethnicity? Write to us at blog@dawn.com

The long turret of a temple rises unexpectedly amid tall minarets and round green domes in a busy area.

It stands like a reminder of an unwanted past, a memory we would like to bury deep within our communal subconscious, afraid it might challenge how we want to see ourselves.

The top of the turret carries a scar of battle that has been fought several times, between two groups locked in perpetual conflict.

The latest round of this battle roar its ugly head on a cold December morning in 1992, when passionate supporters of Jamaat-i-Islami and others not attached to any political party surrounded this temple, determined to bring it down to avenge the demolition of the Babri Masjid about 1,000 kilometres from here in a country they fought tooth and nail to separate from, but one that continues to be an obsession.

The temple, however, stood its ground. It was not willing to concede the space it had occupied for several centuries. It was not ready to hear that it did not belong in this new country.

It eventually won the battle – the mob lost interest and left, while the residents of the area who had evacuated the temple upon the mob’s arrival returned to their homes.

Brick by brick

Bheru da Sthan or the abode of Bheru is one of the oldest standing temples in Lahore, an ancient city believed to have been founded by Lav, one of the twin sons of Ram and Sita.

The temple was built on the spot to which Godar, Prince Dara Shikoh’s treasurer, was brought after being rescued from the dungeons where he had been kept after he was caught deceiving the prince.

Godar was visited in the dungeons by a man who later identified himself as Bheru. The man asked him to shut his eyes and brought him here. A free Godar started living in Shah Alami area in Lahore and constructed a small temple here at the spot he had last seen Bheru.

The temple was given its contemporary shape (including a vast complex and several rooms) during Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s rule over the Sikh Empire in the 19th century. The Maharaja’s Muslim concubine, Mora, gave Rs 1,400 for the temple’s construction.

When Mora’s mother had taken seriously ill, all the hakims and healers failed to cure her. She was then informed of a man who lived in this temple, a descendant of Godara and a magician, who exorcised the djinns from Mora’s mother.

As a reward, Mora summoned bricks from all the 100 villages that had been granted to her by the Maharaja for the construction of this temple and donated money.

The mob in a frenzy to bring this temple down may not have known that it was constructed thanks to the generosity of a Muslim.

Even if they were made aware of it, the story would have been rejected as an anomaly because it would not have fit the framework that they use to understand history.

In this framework, Muslims can only destroy Hindu temples and Hindus do the same to Muslim shrines.

Rise to fame

Just outside the walled city of Lahore is one of the most important Sufi shrines of the city, Data Darbar, dedicated to the city’s patron saint Hazrat Data Ganj Bakhsh. This shrine lends Lahore its monker of Data ki nagri, or Data’s city.

About 1,000 years old, the shrine has witnessed the evolution of the city – the arrival of the first Muslims, the construction of the walled city under Malik Ayaz, the governor appointed after the Mahmud of Ghazni’s invasion and its transformation from a small town to a grand urban centre under Mughal emperor Akbar.

The shrine stood its ground through the rise of the Khalsa Empire, the emergence of the colonial bureaucratic state and the transformation of the city from a multi-religious metropolitan to a Muslim-dominated city that saw the exodus of Hindus and Sikhs during Partition and the erosion of their religious symbols.

In post-Partition Lahore, it emerged as the most important shrine in the city. In the new state, with increased symbolic significance came political patronage. From ZA Bhutto to General Zia, Benazir Bhutto and Nawaz Sharif, all made multiple visits to the shrine and contributed to its extension.

A vast courtyard was constructed around a small shrine, including a basement for qawwali, a madrassah and a library. The tall minarets of the mosque behind the shrine are a part of Lahore’s iconic skyline that includes Badshahi Masjid, Lahore Fort, Minar-i-Pakistan and the smadh of Ranjit Singh.

Data Darbar did not always enjoy this social and political significance. For much of its long history, it was only a modest structure even as state patronage was extended to other Sufi shrines of the city, including that of Mian Meer, believed to be the patron saint of Dara Shikoh.

Once again defying popular perceptions, it was during the tenure of Maharaja Ranjit Singh that shrine began to grow. A library was built here, the first of its kind, with a vast collection of handwritten copies of the Quran.

The religious texts were donated by Maharani Jind Kaur, Ranjit Siingh’s youngest wife who, after his death, briefly served as her young son Maharaja Duleep Singh’s Regent.

This rare collection of handwritten Qurans brought many admirers to the shrine, gradually increasing its significance.

Today as thousands of devotees pay homage to the patron saint of Lahore every day, it is conveniently forgotten that a Sikh Maharani played a crucial role in the development of this shrine, just as the fact about a Muslim concubine of the Maharaja renovating a Hindu temple has faded from memory.

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

From I am Sweetie to Eye to Eye, NFP rounds up the most memorable pop songs of our times and what led to their fame.

No 6: Jab Sey Hoi Mohabbat: Rasheed Ahmad Tabrezi

Rashid Ahmad Tabrezi (aka RAT) emerged in 1989 with a bang. He was very much a part of the Pakistani pop scene which had begun to develop and grow at the time.

But more than his vocal style and songs (which were a conventional fusion of light pop and Pakistani filmi music), it were RAT’s innovative dance moves in his videos which caught the attention of young Pakistani pop music fans.

The ‘RAT Wave’ (as it was called) truly caught on when he released the video of Jab Sey Hoi Mohabbat in May 1989, impressing not only Pakistani fans with his brilliantly choreographed dances, but also some major players in Bollywood.

Indian actor, Jeetendra, immediately offered RAT to appear as his dancing double in a Bollywood film, but RAT refused. He told an Indian newspaper: "Jeetu Bhai Motor Chalay Pum Pum Pum …" Explaining this perplexing response, RAT added: "I have nothing to add."

But just as Pakistani and Indian fans were making RAT’s video the most requested video on TV (some even asked it to be played on radio), RAT’s fame went through the roof when he received a call from the King of Pop, the late Michael Jackson.

In September 1989, the New York Times reported that Jackson had placed a call to Pakistani pop star, RAT, and praised his dancing. Jackson was reported to have told RAT that his (RAT’s) moves in the video have surpassed even the Moonwalking dancing style popularised by Jackson in the early 1980s.

Jackson invited him to Los Angeles to help him choreograph a dance sequence in a video he was working on, but RAT politely declined. He told NYT: "I dance alone."

RAT’s rigid attitude, unwillingness to collaborate with other performers and refusal to toe the line of the recording companies isolated him. He did not record another song or release another video after Jab Sey Hoi Mohabbat. He became a recluse.

In 2009 when Michael Jackson passed away, UAE’s Khaleej Times quoted Jackson’s sister Jennet Jackson as saying that one of Michael’s greatest regrets was that he couldn’t dance like Riaz Ahmad Tabrezi.

Jennet said that her brother had watched RAT’s video multiple times but he just couldn’t replicate the innovative brilliance of RAT’s momentous moves.

No 5: Started With the Desert: The Royals

The Royals were a Pakistani pop band formed in 1979. After failing to achieve much success in their own country, the band relocated to Riyadh in Saudi Arabia.

The Royals often fused carefully constructed pop tunes with the more complex rock genres such as Prog-Rock and Neo-Psychedelia. They also wrote socially-conscious lyrics.

Their brand of pop could not find any takers in Pakistan. So, in 1987, the Royals moved to Riyadh where they managed to attract a more responsive audience. The band constantly topped Saudi Arabia’s pop charts. Then in 1992 they became the country’s biggest-selling pop act with their single, Started with the Desert.

The song, which incorporated elements of Techno-Pop, Prog-Rock and the then newly emerging House/Trance music genre, added a cutting-edge dimension to the Saudi/Pakistani pop music variety.

Enriched by a complex but highly danceable groove constructed through some dexterous synthesiser antics and a rugged, thumping drum-machine beat, the song’s other strength lies in its rather insightful lyrics.

The words are a mediation on the harsh desert life. It is based on a concept in which a man called Al-Fahad spends his harsh desert life hunting foxes and contemplating the meaning of harsh desert life.

Then one day while he is trying to dig a well in the harsh desert life, instead of water, he strikes oil in the harsh desert life. As the oil spills over the harsh desert life, the harsh desert life turns green. Buildings begin to appear and roads and bridges and shopping malls too. The harsh desert life is transformed. And it all happens in September.

It started with the desert

Started with the desert,

Started with the desert,

Came from the desert

It started with the desert,

Started with the desert,

Started with the desert,

Came from the desert,

Came in September,

Came in September,

Came in September!

It is remarkable the way the band manages to express the multifaceted composition in the most pop-friendly mode and communicate the astute and heavily conceptual lyrics in an uncluttered manner.

American music journalist and the founder of the influential Rolling Stone magazine, Jann Wenner, described the lyrics as being "very Dylansque". Wenner was largely impressed by the vivid imagery that the words reflect:

Life was the difficult,

Nothing in the desert,

Suddenly with the help of god,

Life became much better.

(Repeat)

Raveling, oh besting

By wisdom of the founder …

(Repeat)

Easy to remember,

Desert life was harder,

Saud, Faisal, Khalid and Fahad,

Together, stronger, they are the maker

(Repeat)

Make weight in desert,

Make weight in desert,

Him ripe in the desert,

Demolishing the desert

(Repeat)

It started in September,

Started in September,

Started in September,

Started in September!

The Royals were nominated for the Saudi Lux Style Awards in the Best Video and Best Lyrics categories. It is, however, unfortunate that the band still couldn’t find much fame in their own country, Pakistan.

In 1995, the group disbanded and one of its (four) lead singers, Tufail Akram, told The Saudi Gazette: "Pakistan people never understood our complex kind of music. They like simple, romantic songs. But thanks to Saudi pop fans, we were able to find fame and fortune in harsh desert life after we came in September, came in September, came in September!"

No 4: I am Sweetie: Naheed Akhtar

Naheed Akhtar’s fame quickly rose in the 1970s as a film playback-singer. In the midst of her rise, she also branched out towards pop music. However, her stay here was brief, but highly potent.

In 1975, she recorded a few original English pop songs one of which, I am Sweetie, became an international hit.

Penned by historical novelist, Nasim Hijazi (who at the time was also briefly exploring pop territory), I am Sweetie was composed by a lesser-known Pakistani jazz musician, Anwar Sarwar.

Naheed Akhtar, who at the time was extremely agitated by the growing Women’s Lib movement in the West and especially the way it had started to impact the lives of young women in Pakistan, approached Hijazi to pen an anti-feminist anthem.

She asked the song to be in English because she wanted to reach Western women as well and expose their follies.

Hijazi penned the lyrics which were then set to music by Sarwar who used a plethora of contemporary Western instruments such as keyboards, guitars, bass, bongos, drums and a blistering saxophone interlude which Sarwar played himself, busting a lung.

To expand her vocal range and sturdily express the powerful words, Naheed listened to songs by British heavy-rock band, Led Zeppelin, and tried to match the range of Zeppelin’s lead singer, Robert Plant.

The song’s lyrics potently address the concerns of women who want to become wives and not ‘sweeties.’ The song became an immediate hit and went a long way in halting the spread of feminism in Pakistan.

Though Naheed unfortunately did not record any more English pop songs (because Robert Plant sued her), she still considers I am Sweetie as one of her finest moments as a vocalist. She said that this was because this song became very popular with men and "move society as per their love and directive."

No 3: World Cup Has Come: Tahir Jabbar

Originally written and recorded as the official song of the 2015 cricket World Cup in Australia and New Zealand, Pakistan all-rounder Shahid Afridi loved it so much that he asked his sponsors, Boom Boom Bubble Gum, to buy it from Tahir Jabbar. Jabbar gladly obliged.

The Pakistani team were greatly inspired by the music and words of the song and it managed to lift the team’s spirit. Afridi told reporters: "It smells like team spirit."

Though sung and composed by the rising Pakistani pop star, Tahir Jabbar, it is believed that the words were actually penned by former England cricketer and TV commentator, Geoffrey Boycott.

Unfortunately, this funky, inspirational ditty was largely forgotten after Pakistan were knocked out of the tournament. However, recently, former Pakistani batsman and TV commentator, Rameez Raja, was heard singing it in the shower. Jabbar has sued him for royalties.

No 2: Goodbye: Danish Ghafaar

Danish Ghafaar was born to Pakistani parents in Reykjavik, Iceland. Being a fan of the Pakistani band The Royals (see entry), Ghafaar was heartbroken to learn that The Royals were largely ignored in their home country and had to move to Riyadh for success.

When Ghafaar turned 16 in 2013, he penned an angry/emotional song Goodbye. It was targeted at Pakistanis who did not appreciate real talent. He then recorded the song in his bedroom cupboard because he felt the overt emotions of the music and the lyrics might melt the glaciers of Iceland.

The song first became a huge hit in Greenland and then topped the Vatican pop charts. It turned Ghafaar into a pop sensation. But he refused to tour Pakistan, his home country, despite the fact that he was invited to perform the song on the country’s popular pop show, Coke Studio.

Talking to the BBC, Ghafaar said that the song is about an ingenious and highly talented Pakistani band (such as The Royals) who are addressing their lovers and haters in Pakistan, telling them goodbye, they are leaving and never coming back.

He further told the BBC: "Many of my fans think this song is about me having a breakup with my cat. Indeed, I did have one when I was writing this song, but it’s about The Royals. It’s about how genuine creative talent is ignored and shunned in Pakistan. And how this talent moves out, saying goodbye. The Royals moved to Riyadh and I got born in Iceland, so you see the pattern?"

He however added that his next song is about the cat and should not be mistaken for anything else. "Or else I will have to say goodbye to Iceland," he said.

No 1: Eye to Eye: Tahir Shah

The Pakistani pop scene seemed dead and buried when this song not only revived it but put it on the world pop map. Just about everything clicked on this song: the music, the vocals, the video and the lyrics – especially the lyrics.

The composition is inspired by the soft-pop of crooners such as Berry Manilow and the rich elevator-jazz of Kenny G, but Tahir Shah insisted that the tune actually came to him in a dream.

Talking to Al-Jazeera in June 2013 when the video had already received millions of views, Shah said: "I never heard of Berry Mellow and only ever so often unfrequently hear tapes of Kenny Jee. Tune of this tune came in my sleep, maybe third eye was open when two eyes closed from sound of snoring."

As mentioned earlier, though the melody of the song is extremely rich and manages to immediately enter and settle in the listener’s head, the lyrics of the song generated the biggest debates on social media forums all over the world.

Some fans in India suggested that the words ‘eye to eye’ meant ISI (the Pakistani intelligence agency). These fans believed that it was a subliminal recruiting song funded by the ISI. When a ZEE News anchor mentioned this to Shah he smiled and replied: "You watch too many James Bond films. You must use eye to watch true fiction of cosmic peace, not earthly pumpkin."

Shah has always remained enigmatic about the lyrics, but he somewhat tried to explain them when he was invited by famous TV host, Larry King, on his show on CNN.

King quoted the lyrics of the song and tried to extract the meaning from Shah. He first asked him about the following verse: Keep your love in the soul/make love with eye to eye/your face and glorious eyes/I can see with my spectrum eyes …

To this Shah told King that this verse is about tight jeans. In these words Shah is suggesting that one should avoid wearing tight jeans and should exercise abstinence and celibacy and instead use their energies by moving their eyes.

He said that the words your face and glorious eyes, I can see with my spectrum eyes, came after years of practice and research gave him the ability to see through the glorious but dangerous eye of the Illuminati on five-dollar bills.

He told King: "This lyric is deep-sea-like so anyone can fish meaning …dolphin, shark, whale, pomfret, crab, polar bear, panda, whatever … but I use spectrum eye that I got after staring at wall for 24/7 until they turn blue from Charlie Brown …"

King then quoted these lyrics: It’s a genuine classic love/serious feelings, romantic love/my pride, eye to eye/glowing with your sparkling eyes.

He told King: "It’s about Pakola ice cream soda."

King didn’t get it and decided to move to the spoken words section of the song: Eye to eye makes epic era love life time once in a life/Substantial love is heaven for precise eyes/spectacular eyes, our eyes, my eyes and your eyes, eye to eye, eye to eye …

Shah told King that this was his favourite bit of the song: "I talk here about 24/7 hours non-stopping pleasure gained from one eye ball to other eye ball when two eyes of same person meet people think he cock-eyed but he just enjoying act of eye to eye lovemaking eye ball of left eye bouncing with eye ball of right eye on and on defining epic era of epileptic love. Very simple."

This is when King asked Shah whether he was on drugs.

Shah told him he took two Panadols, "but only because of headache from carrying big locks of spectacular hair."

King told Shah that he was greatly impressed by the lyrics and especially found the following verse rather beautiful: Your love is faithful forever and ever/ without you I am like a butterfly/without flower….

Shah thanked King and told him these words came to him when one day he forgot to put a rose in the front pocket of his favourite white suit and felt like a butterfly without a flower. "It was very stressing event," he told King. "I wept 24/7."

After the interview, King and Shah were seen sharing a Panadol.

Disclaimer: This article is categorised as satire.

We stop, first at Nowpora. A crowd of boys is gathered. They could be pelting stones at the police vehicles in the distance but it is hard to see things clearly.

Miniature clouds from tear-smoke shelling hang mid-air like monuments of ether. We veer off the highway into a by-lane and wait for some minutes.

A faint moon rises, held above the stilted poplars and electric lines, submerged in the cobalt of the evening light.

The police leave, the boys disperse. The moon follows us for the rest of the night past Pampore, Pulwama, Haal, Pinjora into Shopian.

Faint impressions of Pakistani flags drawn on shop shutters emerge from underneath the erasure attempted with black paint. Go India!… made into Good India. After some point, the flags emerge clearly, seemingly too many to paint over.

Milestones by the roadside are painted green as well, as if to speak to the scale of contestation to geographies and orientations made normative by statist narratives.

Arrows point in the direction of “Lahore”, “Karachi” and “Abbotabad”. The road, I am told, merges with the Mughal Road further ahead – another approach to Poonch and Jammu.

At Pinjora, the road is littered with half-bricks; a mass of rusted concertina wires sprawls the entire breadth of the eight-foot-wide road.

It is usual to find tangles of concertina everywhere in Kashmir, especially around army camps and police stations. It also finds its way into domestic landscapes – enclosures for orchards, homes and kitchen gardens.

In-depth: The pursuit of Kashmir

We arrive in Shopian, home to my maternal family. By the evening, news reports confirm the killing of eight protestors in Budgam and Ganderbal; seven of them – Faizan Dar (15), Abass Jahangir (22), Shabir Ahmad Bhat (22), Nissar Ahmad Mir (25), Akeel Ahmad Wani (22), Amir Ahmad Rathray (20) and Amir Farooq Ganie – killed by being fired on; Adil Farooq Sheikh (19) died of so-called pellet injuries. Election Day is past.

The next morning, my cousin Habeel Iqbal – a lawyer based in Shopian – and I leave early to visit two women at the forefront of protests following the killing of a 22-year-old rebel, Burhan Wani, commander of the Hizbul Mujahidden in July last year. The women, a 23-year-old engineering student and her cousin, a 26-year-old teacher, ask me not to use their names.

•••

“Gun kateh chu? / Where is the gun?” The mother of one of the girls is looking for a spray gun as we enter. Apple trees are to be sprayed with insecticide this time of the year. My mother says the bitter scent of the leaves of the walnut tree embodies to her, her childhood in Shopian. Now, there are few walnut trees in “Apple Town”.

– ‘It just happened yesterday. Eight people are dead. This is not insignificant. My family was talking of my marriage yesterday night. “What are we doing?” I said to them. In these circumstances, even routine things are different. We have cancelled the tent… it should be as simple as it can be… how do I start?

[I ask her about the protests] Yes, I remember, it was the third day of Eid… I was ironing upstairs. We keep the iron and the television at the same place. My brother came in, he told me to turn on the television.

“Burhan has been killed”… I did not register it…“Burhan has been killed”, he said again.

I must have sat at the same place for an hour with the iron in my hand. The cycle of protest, which is still ongoing, started after that. In the first three days, 35 people were killed.’

–‘That was the first number we heard – 35.’

I told one police officer that it is you who lecture us on the merits of peaceful protests but they started shelling tear-gas at us.

– ‘There was a day in a week marked on the calendar issued by the Hurriyat for women to protest. We prepared in advance… the first thing we did was to make flags. We made them from our clothes, whosoever had anything green, we took it; we made crescents and stars. I have a young niece, when I would give her a star she would say... “Make a full Pakistan!”

We made a lot of this samaan, shopkeepers wouldn’t sell spray paint to boys… even with women they would ask what we needed it for… later the military came to this area looking for flags and banners… we hid them well…[laughs].’

–‘On the day of the first protest, we left following the afternoon prayers for our grandparents house… there were eight or ten of us. From there we carried the flags and gathered by the masjid. Slowly, more women came in. There must have been 1,000 women sloganeering that afternoon. Go India, Go Back! Kashmir Banega Pakistan! / Kashmir will be Pakistan! – which it will be… these were our slogans.

The atmosphere is hard to describe. I cannot say what it was that gripped people. Announcements were made in mosques for men to be at the peripheries of the protest. The police picked up the boys who were protesting with us from their houses the same night.’

“We must come out for the cause, men and women, at the same time. Otherwise we keep getting martyred, one by one, dying a slow death.”

–‘As women, we have limitations, there is fear. Being a woman means knowing that condition of vulnerability all the time. It is not possible to go beyond that.

There was a case in 2006 I think… in our district… there was a crackdown in which all the men of a village were taken outside their homes… a mother and child were in a house… the military raped them both. It is not that women are afraid to die. No one is.

In 2009, during the agitation following the rape and murder of Asiya and Neelofar by the forces… we protested… it was like that in 2016 as well… we didn’t think about being fired upon. Women went with fire in their kangers [traditionally made earthen pot used to keep warm in winter] even though it was summer, with chillies in the pockets of their pherans [long tunics worn by both women and men]…'

–"We did not go out of compulsion, neither can one say we went out of frustration. We went because we don’t want to be plunged into an abyss from our suffering. Now when we see there are still a few people voting in these elections, we think it is they, not those hit by pellets, who must be blind."

•••

Sabeeta Ganaie is a resident of Memendar, Shopian. Her father, Tariq Ahmad Ganaie, has been in jail under provisions of the Public Safety Act (PSA) on and off, since the 1990s. He was arrested most recently at the beginning of the 2016 summer uprising.

Under the PSA, the due process required before a person can be jailed or arrested is severely curtailed. A person may be detained without trial for a period of three or six months, which may later be extended to up to two years. Often, persons of interest are named in multiple First Information Reports [FIR], effectively keeping them “out of circulation” for decades.

–“Starting from when I was born, I am accustomed to this… yesterday it was someone else’s fate, today it could be mine. This is the norm here. A student was martyred yesterday… he was in seventh class.

I recently passed my 12th standard exams… I am 17 years old. If I remember anything, it is these unspeakable cruelties. I have seen a lot… I don’t know my father much because he was never able to be at home. He has not been involved in pelting stones, he is a political prisoner… yes we want freedom… we are pro-freedom but we believe in non-violence. My father was first affiliated with the Hurriyat in the 1990’s, now he is the Area Head of the Muslim League. We are fighting for the cause of history.”

"When we see there are still a few people voting in these elections, we think it is they, not those hit by pellets, who must be blind."

–“They [the police] know my father is not here, yet they come in the dead of the night. There are three of us in the house – my mother, my ten-year-old brother and I… my elder brother is not here… they knock at one in the night, they smash our windows and dent our trunks with their guns. I tell them, “You are also Kashmiris… don’t you see what is happening here?”

–“This year I took my 12th class exams. I want to attend Jawaharlal Nehru University or Aligarh Muslim University but I wasn’t able to study as much as I wanted to. I wasn’t able to concentrate. More than anything else I regret how my father’s arrest has affected my education… the education of my siblings… my father says he hasn’t come away with much in life but he wants his children to be educated well. During my exams I wasn’t allowed to stay at home, my mother feared for my safety… I stayed with one relative for a month, then with another. Even if I were to stay at home… the police destroyed all the electricity transformers in the area, what would I read in the dark?”

–“It is difficult to not have your father around. You receive a lot of sympathy, sympathy that I don’t want. Nobody comes forward with anything else. I cannot share what I am going through with anyone… keeping it inside makes me unwell… my father was not here for Eid [starts to cry]. We had Eid without him. Where else does this happen?”

•••

The next morning, we travel from Shopian town to Sedow, a picturesque village en route to the Aharbal waterfall. We are here to meet 14-year-old Inshah Mushtaq – whose face became symbolic of the mass blinding of Kashmiri youth from the use of bird-shot by the Indian military following the uprising last June. A transformer outside the house, perched on four bare deodars – a makeshift trellis – is buried in sandbags. I am told this is to protect it from army firing. Darkness, like blindness, is a collective punishment too.

We find Inshah’s mother, Afroza, sitting by the stairs to her house.

–“There are many who have come here since my daughter lost her eyes. The doctors grafted the wound in her head at the All India Institute of Medical Science… we spent the winter there… Dr. Natrajan operated one of her eyes in Mumbai but her eyesight has not revived. We have been told the other eye is beyond repair. I have narrated the events to many.”

–“Inshah is not here. She has gone to Srinagar for treatment… her aunt is accompanying her. Her teeth [she points to her own front teeth] were broken when the pellets hit her. Parents want their children to be independent at a point, to walk without the support of their parents… even those closest to you may not do this.”

•••

–“Shaheed Asiya, Shaheed Neelofer – In donoon ne azeem shahaadat paye / Martyr Asiya, Martyr Neelofer – Both have attainted the highest martyrdom”, reads the epitaph of the grave of Asiya Jan (17) and Neelofer Jan (22), sisters-in-law who died on the 29th of May, 2009.

She says she is an ordinary housewife, a mother to four children. When she was younger, her father encouraged her to speak at congregations of the Jama’at-e-Islami, of which he was a member, but she hasn’t addressed a gathering in a while. She asks for her name to not be published.

“Though my family is affiliated with the Jama’at-e-Islami, I don’t want Pakistan. What have they been able to do for themselves? I want independence for Kashmir."

–“… When in the Battle of Badr, men were being martyred, women said to themselves, “Why are we not martyrs?”… “Why can’t we seek the heavens?” The women came to see the Prophet Mohammad, May Peace Be Upon Him, and said to him, “Men have the opportunity to be martyred in battle, but we women don’t go to battle, are we sinning in our inaction?”… The Prophet told them that they may attain martyrdom from their home too… carrying on the day-to-day struggles of domestic life is in itself valuable though this not the same as putting one’s body on the line... that is the highest martyrdom. As Muslims, we are not allowed to spend our lives as victims…we must raise our voice against zulm… when Indian forces enter our houses and beat our men, how can any self-respecting woman be silent? The oppression is such… a young girl from Sedow has lost both her eyes…what greater sacrifice can there be?”

•••

–“Yeth kyaha che waen wanaan/What is it called now?” asks my aunt, a native of the area, to which my cousin retorts, “Janoobi Kashmir/ South Kashmir”.

My aunts have come to see me. We have lunch together. Afterwards, I go to meet a young woman whom I have been told is someone I must meet. She says she is happy to talk but asks not be named. 27, she has recently completed her MPhil.

–“That I will be in a protest here is a given. When the event with Burhan saeb happened… the next day I heard a woman call out “Nara-e-Takbeer!/Allah is the Greatest!” in the streets… I went out. From two, we were 2,000 women. I covered my face up to here [pointing to her eyes] and entered the nearest mosque. I told the men in the mosque that I needed to make an announcement there. I went in, switched on the loudspeaker and said, “An appeal is made to all women to come out and protest”. Five or six women came out.”

"I am 17 years old. If I remember anything, it is these unspeakable cruelties. I have seen a lot."

–“The night before, the police had broken doors and windows of the houses in the neighbouring locality. They caused a lot of damage. One woman… the police had torn her pheran. They were looking for a boy… a stone thrower… who was leading protests in the area. People didn’t give him up so the police beat them. A woman was hurt… police personnel slapped her five or six times. She received multiple stitches in her leg.”

–“I also made announcements in the mosque at the Main Chowk. In some time a sea of women gathered. We told the police, this is a peaceful protest. They wouldn’t allow us to move further than the Chowk. I told one it is you who lecture us on the merits of peaceful protests but they started shelling tear-gas at us. During the shelling, the women dispersed… some left behind their veils… others their purses… still others their footwear…”

–“Later, I gave a bag full of stones to boys from our neighbourhood. I must have emptied a whole truck of construction materials this way [laughs]… I picked up one for myself and hurled it at the police. A large group of women-police came hurtling towards me. God! how they beat me but I too must have gotten a few punches on them [laughs]. I was bed ridden for the next 40 days. My leg was broken. Even then, though my parents would bolt the door from outside, I would clamber out of the window to join the protest, supporting my limp leg with my hand…”

–"The police have destroyed the windowpanes of our house several times. My family understands this is because of me. The entire neighbourhood says this girl is out of the control, that her family has let her be this way. They call me names. They cannot understand… thankfully I am engaged already… [laughs] if I am called to the police station, it is considered shameful. It is not so for boys. For the sake of my sanity, I don’t tell my parents anymore. Sometimes, they don’t know what I am up to. When a militant from the neighbourhood was martyred, I was at his funeral… my parents kept calling my phone but I wouldn’t take their calls.”

"When Indian forces enter our houses and beat our men, how can any self-respecting woman be silent"

–“I don’t have the patience to bear zulm… especially from military men. I swear by God, if I had the support of my family… I feel for the cause so deeply… if there were a place for ladies militants, I would be the first to join them. I want to attain martyrdom. Unfortunately, there is no tehreek of women. A lot of women… my friends in university feel this way too. As far as my point of view is concerned, I believe women can attain martyrdom through struggle but because of society… society is something… we are behind in the attaining our freedom.”

–“Though my family is affiliated with the Jama’at-e-Islami, I don’t want Pakistan. What have they been able to do for themselves? I want independence for Kashmir… I believe we can survive that way. It may be difficult in the beginning but our future generations will be safe. We must come out for the cause, men and women, at the same time. Otherwise we keep getting martyred, one by one, dying a slow death.”

•••

I head back to Srinagar. Narrow rivulets inch their way through a vast field of stony soil, which is the Ramb-e-aar. Into this Asiya and Neelofar were purported to have drowned in narratives of officialdom.

At Pulwama, a large group of students is gathered outside the Degree College. They scatter at the Rakshak's siren. Cars pick up pace. Later, a video emerges of a student, reportedly of the same college, held under jackboots by military personnel while being beaten, apparently shot from the edge of a military jeep.

Two days later, students – boys and girls – from colleges and universities all over Kashmir are out on the streets in protest. Unafraid of being bloodied, they are seething. Iqra Sidiq, a protesting girl student, suffers a fracture to her skull from a stone thrown from a paramilitary bunker. Dozens others are injured. Schools have to be shut. In a protest streamed live on social media, students from Women’s College, Maulana Azad Road are chanting…

– “Yeh cheez nahi hai, Azadi!

Hai haq hamara, Azadi!

Hum le kar rehenge, Azadi!

Bharat se lenge, Azadi!

Hum lad kar lenge, Azadi!

Hum gun se lenge, Azadi!

Inshallah lenge, Azadi!

Burhan ke sadke…”

How has the conflict in Kashmir affected your life? Write to us at blog@dawn.com

This blog was originally published on October 29, 2016.

The news first broke when I was in the north of Kashmir in Vijbal, a town of less than a hundred households.

My cousins had invited me for dinner as I was scheduled to leave for New Delhi right after Eid.

One of my friends from Tral, south of Kashmir, informed me through a Whatsapp text: Burhan Wani has been killed.

I didn’t believe him. It was just a rumour, I thought. Half an hour later, the Indian media erupted in celebration, announcing victory.

The party immediately began on Twitter and continued on television. “Burhan Wani elimination BIG NEWS,” tweeted Barkha Dutt of NDTV.

Abhijit Majumdar, the managing editor of Mail Today, chipped in: “with Burhan Wani's killing, Indian forces have eliminated entire gang of Facebook terror poster-boys of #Kashmir one after the other. Salute.”

Cars, trucks, and motorcycles began to honk mindlessly. My aunt worriedly asked her son to check if everything was alright.

Burhan gove shaheed (Burhan has been martyred), I told them.

They looked back at me in shock.

My aunt began to wail.

Ye kusu tawan cxunuth khudayoo (what tragedy did you send upon us, oh God), she lamented.

The heavens opened up at the same time and the sound of rain hitting the tin-roof of the house got louder.

I looked at my cousin, red-faced, eyes welling up, his body shivering.

His phone rang and he finally noticed on the fifth ring. It was my mother calling.

By the next morning, the internet was blocked. People were expecting mobile networks to be shut by the government as well in order to restrict communication in the valley.

People know how the state functions. The Indian state’s oppression is as routinised in war-time as it is in peace-time.

In-depth: The pursuit of Kashmir

People knew that in the coming days, the only way to communicate and find out what was going on would be to travel, on foot, from village to village. They knew that they had to avoid the highways which are constructed to allow smooth movement to Indian military convoys only.

'They know everything'

Rafiabad, the place where I live, is as militarised as any other place in Kashmir. Indian army camps are located every five kilometres from one another, allowing them to bring every village and its people under the army’s view.

The army knows the number of people in each household, including how many males and females, educated and uneducated, where they work, newborns, adults and old.

They have numbered our houses and categorised the localities. They have marked our streets, shops, playgrounds, even the apple orchards.

They know the size of our courtyards and backyards, as well as the the shape of our cowsheds.

They know everything.

As the protests and stone-pelting began, so did the congregational funeral prayers.

People began to count the dead. And the numbers kept rising.

The protest demonstrations kept swelling.

The campaign of killing, blinding, maiming and torturing people continued.

For more: Dispatch from Srinagar: Our nights are becoming longer and darker

The Pakistan bogey

The protests were a sign of the Indian state losing all ground. The divisions that they had constructed — Shia-Sunni, Muslim-non-Muslim, Kashmiri-Ladakhi, Tableeghi-Salafi, majority-minority — to obfuscate the truth went up in smoke as the air was now incensed with songs of freedom.

But in the newsrooms in India, it was the perennial threat that was being accused of fomenting the trouble. Pakistan, they said, was responsible for causing unrest in Kashmir.

Sometimes, one imagines, if Pakistan were to tectonically shift from here to Antarctica, where would the Indian state and its jingoistic media derive their narrative from?

Who will they blame for their own failure and guilt, their own deception and debauchery?

A confrontation

Soon after (dates have lost their significance) the death of Burhan Wani, people of Rafiabad assembled near the Eidgah in Achabal.

The announcement was made through the mosques’ loudspeakers. People from adjacent villages poured in as well. As the numbers kept rising, so did the volume of the slogans, causing panic inside the Indian army camp nearby.

As the protesters neared the army camp, two armoured vehicles blocked the way on one side.

Rest of the road was sealed with barbed wires. The demonstration came to a halt, but the sloganeering did not.

Soon, there was chaos.

Read next: What pellet guns have done to protesters in Kashmir

As stones were hurled at the armoured vehicles, more army men from the camp arrived and started moving toward the protesters with guns and lathis. A few protesters started to turn back.

A direct confrontation with the Indian army, we are told by our elders, should be avoided. But some among the protesters didn’t relent and stood their ground firm.

Several of them were later picked up. All security installations in Kashmir are equipped with high-quality surveillance cameras to keep watch on the people's every movement.

From the footage, they identified the persons who were at the forefront of the march. They knew who these men were. They knew their addresses. They could pick them up from inside their bedrooms.

Inside the camp, they were tortured. One of the boys later told me about how they were made to stand naked, abused, spat on, and beaten with guns, sticks and belts till their bodies bled. They were given death threats and some were even made to jump naked in the river. Yet, after he came out of the prison, he was determined to protest again.

Another boy, in his pre-teens, lying flat in his room, smiled as I entered to see him. He didn’t appear to have been affected by the torture at all.

He was waiting for a bandage to be removed from his back. “I remember the face of the army man who beat me up”, he said, “I won’t spare him”.

He was clearly enraged. He wanted to avenge what was done to him.

It is this anger and this sense of revenge, especially among the youth, which the ‘experts’ on Kashmir amplify and manipulate to present the issue as a problem of inteqaam (revenge) alone.

They also see in the youth a rage informed by religious extremism.

Building a false narrative

For years now, these Kashmir ‘experts’ have dedicated all their energy and resources to maintain control over the Kashmir narrative that comes on TV screens and newspapers.

In April this year, when an Indian army trooper was accused of molesting a teenage female student in Kupwara, a group of reporters were dispatched from New Delhi to report the aftermath in which five protesters were killed, including a woman.

The Kashmiri reporters working for various Indian media organisations, barring a few exceptions, were asked to stand down or take leave of absence or just assist the reporters airdropped from New Delhi.

While the reporters filed contradictory versions of the actual incident, India’s Kashmir ‘experts’ were quick to process the information and construct a narrative which helped the government to systematically shift the focus from the molestation to the protests.

Praveen Swami, one of India’s leading Kashmir ‘experts’, a journalist who has the audacity to tell Kashmiris that he knows more about Kashmir than Kashmiris themselves, tried to historicise the violent protests. For him, “the underlying crisis in Kashmir needs to be read against the slow growth, from the 1920s, of neo-fundamentalist proselytising movements.”

He implied that allegations of sexual violence against an Indian army man do not merit any protests as per secular traditions and only religious movements, like the Jamiat Ahl-i-Hadith and Jamaat-i-Islami, can inspire people to take such a recourse.

Two more ‘experts,’ David Devadas and Aarti Tickoo Singh, whose writings have a clear streak of right-wing bigotry, indulged in victim blaming and in theologising the movement for self-determination in Kashmir.

Also read: Modi has become a prisoner of his own image

Devadas wrote that the different “narratives emphasise that unarmed ‘civilians’ were killed by armed forces, with no reference to the fact that the mobs attacked an army bunker and a camp before the army retaliated”. Four months later, Devadas said that “it still isn't clear what exactly lies at the heart of the current unrest.”

Aarti Tickoo Singh believes that in 2010 “stone pelting phenomenon that led to the death of over 100 youth during clashes with the forces was restricted to urban poor Sunni Muslim youth in Srinagar”. She also cites a study by Indian police officials that “lack of entertainment resources and Saudi-funded religious radicalisation” motivate the youth towards violence.

These ‘experts’ have time and again warned the people of Kashmir about the capabilities of the Indian State: you will be killed if you come out on the streets.

For them, the responsibility of Kashmiris getting killed by an Indian soldier is on the Kashmiris and not on the Indian state.

However, their ideological manipulations have been of little consequence to the people of Kashmir.

Men, women, young and old, come out daily in the streets of Kashmir with the slogan: Hum kya chahtey? Azaadi!

Freedom, self-determination and the right to live in peace are innate to a people. No matter how much violence the Indian state resorts to and no matter how much the country’s media manipulates the narrative surrounding what’s going on in Kashmir, the people of Kashmir will keep coming out on the streets to demand for their rights.

There's perhaps no other person in Pakistan who enjoyed the undivided adoration and respect that the great humanitarian Abdul Sattar Edhi did. His death, on July 8th last year, plunged the country into deep mourning. One year on, the sense of loss still lingers. Who was Edhi for you? Send us a few lines of your tribute at blog@dawn.com

Zak:

He once laughingly told Nariman Ansari and I a story about how he was held up by a notorious gang of bandits in Sindh while on a rescue mission. As they were robbing him, the ringleader recognised Edhi. He immediately fell at his feet and began to cry. He said: "I've done unspeakable things in my life and I am prepared to answer for my deeds, but if I harm one hair on your head I will never be able to face my creator."

The bandits returned the money and also insisted on donating zakat from their loot. Of course, Edhi refused and instead urged them to give it to the poor. Edhi found this story very amusing, but nothing describes better how his countrymen, even the worst of them, saw him.

The world may not know him, but for us all, in this bitterly divided society, he was a saint.

Christopher:

His death was the first time in my life that I wept for a national hero — that’s the love he deserves. I promise myself that I will do better for humanity and the needy, whenever I am granted a chance. If we change ourselves for the better, that in itself will be a tribute to our hero: Edhi.

AJS

His demise is a loss for all of the humanity. I am from India and deeply saddened. He was a hero for every Pakistani and for me too. Around 20 years back there was a cover story in India Today on this great man, and now I watch his dedication to serve humankind in the form of Suzuki vans driving here and there to help the needy. I am surprised as to why he was not conferred a Nobel Prize. Long live the Edhi Foundation!

Sobia Afridi

I had the privilege of meeting him. He was so humble. We are blessed with two children whom we adopted from his centre. My nine-year-old said when Edhi passed away: "It is an emergency — Mr. Edhi died! Mama, if it were not for him, I would not be here with you today!"

May we all have a little bit of Edhi in our souls.

MK

We mourn a messiah: a man that always wanted others to live with dignity, and wished for the dying to not worry for their burials. The mothers were not hesitant to leave their unwanted children in his cots. His love for their children, the mothers knew, was of purity. Those addicted to substances found a shelter at last, a place of refuge. Nobody can ever take Edhi's place.

Dilip

I fervently appeal to the Indian government to rename Bantva in Gujarat, India, where Edhi was born, to Edhinagar, in honor of this great human being who stood above all the differences that assail us today. Let us all ponder his memory for a while, and feel the warmth in our hearts, and try to understand this great personality, and feel inspired to emulate even a fraction of his achievements. That is the only true tribute we can pay to Edhi.

T Khan

Edhi was very quick with his wit and one-liners. I often saw him engaging in humorous conversation with the locals. Few may have witnessed his greatness up close and in person. I had the honour of not only meeting him casually in the neighbourhood, but also witnessing his charity when I was seven years old.

I grew up in the Aram Bagh, Karachi, where many homeless men slept on the benches, grass, and footpath. One cold morning, a homeless man died in his sleep. Many passed by, ignoring the dead body; many looked from their balconies (including my parents), only to pull their children inside and close the doors.

Around zuhr time a young bearded man arrived in a white kurta pajama with a chaddor in his hand. He simply covered the body with the chaddor, hailed a rickshaw, and requested the bystanders to help him lift the body onto his lap. He then sailed away in the rickshaw. Rest in heaven, Edhi.

Javed

Many years ago my father was driving down a lonely road in Islamabad and saw an elderly man walking in the hot summer sun. He stopped to give him a ride, only to find that the elderly man was Edhi, walking to the Edhi office. He could have used any one of the hundreds of ambulances, but his conscience did not allow him. Do you see such traits in any other public figure in Pakistan?

Taha

I was raised in Kharadar, Karachi, and first became aware of Edhi's humanitarian efforts in the mid-1960's, when I was a child. Monsoon rains used to cause damage and flooding in some areas in our neighbourhood, and the name Edhi came up as the one helping those affected.

At that time, he used to personally ask for donations on the streets of Kharadar. With his hard work and dedication, he converted that tiny operation into the network that we see today. I only have respect, lots of respect, for Edhi.

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

If I'm being honest, the phrase “I am a heritage manager” that I have been introducing myself with for the three years I've lived in Pakistan after graduating has been consistently interpreted as “I can read and write in English”. I wish I was exaggerating.

The problem of working in the field of heritage in Pakistan – or, more specifically, the irrelevance here of a Masters in Cultural Heritage Studies and Managing Archaeological Sites – is so startlingly simple, it requires a 1000+ word explanation.

It all began one stormy night when there was negligible understanding of the merits of the humanities and social sciences in the local education system.

Thus ensued zero critical engagement with the objects, processes and environments that constitute our daily lives and the reduction of this paraphernalia of our existence to its functionality, commercial value and nothing more.

The gaping hole, where a collective cultural/historical consciousness should have developed by now, was then exploited by the select few who did get a chance to peer around the curtain into 'civilised society'.

Descend, they did, with all their knowledge gleaned from two brisk rounds of the museums in South Kensington and half a bus tour of Rome, into the barren plains of Pakistani ineptitude – on which they would build a shrine to a musealised slice of Marie Antoinette's cake, and then scoff at the public who didn't know what it was.

Despite the readily available support of international NGOs, potentially groundbreaking conservation and tourism development is being bottle-necked by ownership, administrative control and bureaucratic politics.

Needless to say, it has been a long three years. I wanted to open by blowing off some steam because underneath all the Anglophilia, antiquated bureaucracy and dregs of a colonial mindset, Pakistan's heritage is on the precipice of such a bright future.

Not only does the Indus desperately heave its silt each year to protect acres of untapped Bronze Age archaeology, but we're also standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the world in the digital documentation of some of our key monuments that are miraculously still standing.

World-class, carefully conceptualised museums are in the works. Not to mention that slapping a #heritage onto your Instagram post will really cash in the hearts and likes. It's amazing what having social media on your side can do for a niche profession.

We are pressing forward despite the challenges, but it doesn't hurt to know one's enemy, so I will enumerate some of these challenges based on my still brief, but nonetheless diverse experience in the field.

Related: Abandoned city: Why Mohenjodaro's heritage risks extinction

It may be useful to start with the heritage of Pakistan's heritage management system itself. While I will leave the (extremely useful) history lesson on heritage legislation in Pakistan to Dr. Rafique Mughal, it is important to note that the first piece of legislation protecting heritage in the Indian Subcontinent was the Ancient Monuments Preservation Act of 1904 (AMP).

This was enforced, of course, by the British Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) that was looking to finally gain administrative control over the archives worth the reconnaissance work it had carried out under the guise of archaeological exploration.

Like countless other government institutions, the post-Partition Federal Department of Archaeology and Museums stepped blindly into the oversized shoes of the ASI, the legal remit of which only bothered to extend to the acquisition, right of access, and 'assumed guardianship' of heritage sites.

Museums are trying to be art galleries, thereby trading in their core function as centres of generational interaction, critical engagement and learning for an attractive display designed for passive appreciation.

To make a long story short, merely domesticating the AMP (and let's be real, it really hasn't changed much since) meant that the prime focus of the only Federal heritage body was administrative control and ownership of Pakistan's heritage sites – not their conservation, interpretation, and certainly not the exploration of their research potential. And thus, the Zero Critical Engagement policy was born.

I'm only this acerbic because I can so clearly see how that one mistake set such a strong precedent for the bureaucracy that spawned around these government departments.

Despite the readily available support of international NGOs like the Aga Khan Trust for Culture, despite the strong and successful public-private partnerships these NGOs have formed with government bodies like the Walled City of Lahore Authority (WCLA), potentially groundbreaking conservation and tourism development is being bottle-necked by ownership, administrative control and bureaucratic politics.

Here, let us wipe our tears with the consolation that while heritage protection in Pakistan slowly began to resemble a period reenactment of the British Raj, the contemporary art scene was progressing in leaps and bounds.

With the refinement of Pakistani art came the refinement of the Pakistani art gallery, as did growing respect for the associated discipline of art curation. Meanwhile, museums belatedly took inspiration from these swanky, white-box galleries, and began arranging their displays to allow each object to claim a little more space and attention for itself.

However, while the proliferation of stunning contemporary art galleries grew organically out of a deepening public engagement with art, this recent attempt of museums to emulate the art gallery aesthetic is not symptomatic of a growing historical consciousness, nor a mass desire to engage with historical artefacts – these are just museums trying to be art galleries, thereby trading in their core function as centres of generational interaction, critical engagement and learning for an attractive display designed for passive appreciation.

As long as our museums confine themselves to being pretty collections of old things, clumsily taxonomised by chronology or geographical origin, we will not learn to make new connections, ask new questions or discover new things about our past and its relics. The museum then serves little purpose other than being a glorified store, or the cabinet of curiosities of a rich old man.

Read next: Karachi has lost most of its heritage: Habib Fida Ali

The last challenge I am going to present is one on which the winds of change blow strongest. Thus far, heritage and museum management – a dynamic and multidisciplinary field – has been looked after either officially by a government department of archaeology (consisting of bureaucrats and archaeologists), or privately by exclusive and isolated groups of architects and self-professed museum experts.

These efforts have naturally been very unilateral and therefore incomplete; holistic and sustainable decisions for heritage conservation and management can only be made with the collaboration of an archaeologist with a historian, social scientist, curator, architect, engineer, specialist conservator, chemist and even – in the case of glazed tile conservation in Lahore – a microbiologist.

Museums are schools, objects are teachers and dusty archives are libraries – use and appreciate them for what they have to offer, and encourage and support those who are trying to restore this status quo.

Since 2007, the conservation and rehabilitation work being carried out in the Walled City of Lahore has been increasingly mindful of the multidimensionality of the field.

In addition to architects, engineers and socio-economic analysts, specialist consultants from the aforementioned fields are engaged as and when the need arises, who are brought together on site to solve complex issues of material testing, microbial activity, structural stability etc as a team rather than in outsourced isolation.

The same is true for recent activities in museum design and management. The conceptual plan for a new museum in the Lahore Fort is being prepared from a thorough assessment of the target audience, and with the primary aim of harnessing the UNESCO World Heritage Site for its educational potential.

Just the preparatory work entails socio-economic surveys, object cataloguing, digitisation and handling, archival research – each a field in and of itself.

Overall, we can see that visitor experience, effective communication design and factual accuracy are quickly becoming top priorities for the organisations leading such projects in Pakistan.

Things are definitely moving forward, and the future holds exciting promises.

Explore: Of heritage & development

So upon this long exposition, I urge two things. Firstly, to those who manage or profess to manage heritage in Pakistan: I am not asking for you all to be on the same page, but for you to acknowledge that you are all vital chapters of the same book. Competition is fruitless and a waste of your time and expertise – share information, work together and innovate so that some net progress can be made in the field.

And to you – the passive peruser of heritage and all its trappings – please demand more from your museums. It is your active engagement with, analysis of and demand for a more thorough heritage experience that will spur the authorities into action, or at least drag our cabinets of random curiosities into the 21st century.

Museums are schools, objects are teachers and dusty archives are libraries – use and appreciate them for what they have to offer, and encourage and support those who are trying to restore this status quo.

• Mastery over both music and language
• Contributions to film music

This piece was first published in June, 2014.

It has been two years since Mehdi Hasan left this world and almost 14 since he last gave a public performance. It was so heartrending to see him suffer from different illnesses for at least a decade and to be told that there was no chance of his recovery that when he finally called it a day, one felt relieved.

Mehdi Hasan's contribution to Pakistani and North Indian music has been immense, but his admirers are all over the subcontinent. No less a person than the Academy Award winning composer A. R. Rahman, whose knowledge of Hindi, let alone Urdu, is fairly limited, said, “I have grown up with the ghazals of Mehdi Hasan.”

Coincidentally, Mehdi Hasan’s last public performance before he was afflicted with a stroke in 2000 was in Kerala, deep down in South India.

Mastery over both music and language

There can be no two opinions on the fact that in the last three decades of the 20th century Mehdi Hasan's singing was the benchmark of musical renditions of ghazals. Singers of the calibre of Jagjit Singh considered the great exponent of ghazal-gayeki (ghazal singing) his mentor.

Abida Perveen, another titanic figure in the field of music, told me when I was compiling a book on Mehdi sahib that “he has widened the horizons of ghazal gayeki immeasurably.”

Also read: '2nd death anniversary of renowned ghazal singer Mehdi Hassan Khan'

One of Mehdi Hasan's many remarkable qualities was that he did not always go for big names in Urdu poetry. More concerned with the poetic quality of the verse, he chose the finest ghazals even if their authors were lesser or barely known poets like Farhat Shahzad, Saleem Gilani and Razi Tirmizi.

This is not to say that he never rendered the ghazals of such stalwarts as Mir, Ghalib, Momin, Bahadur Shah Zafar, Dagh and among the more recent ones Faiz Ahmed Faiz, whose 'Gulon mein rung bhare', was a rage of the late 20th century.

What imparted timeless appeal to Mehdi Hasan’s ghazals was that he had based his renditions on different ragas. The ragas he selected were in accordance with the moods of the verse. Thus Mehdi Hasan the composer worked in tandem with Mehdi Hasan the singer.

What was no less remarkable was that two songs of his based on the same raga invariably sounded different.

That he was a stickler for perfection can be illustrated by one single incident: Writer-cum-broadcaster Raza Ali Abidi recalls that once when he was having lunch at the Karachi Press Club, he met Mehdi Hasan for the first time. He was to perform at the club the same evening but wasn’t sure about the pronunciation of a couple of words. For just those words, he had come looking for the singer as someone whose knowledge of language was known to be impeccable.

Contributions to film music

Mehdi Hasan’s contribution to Pakistani film music was second to none. Proof, if proof be needed, is that he won as many as eight Best Playback Singer Nigar Award trophies, a figure even Noor Jehan could not match. His solos include such immortal numbers as 'Mujhe tum nazar se gira to rahe ho', 'Ik naye mod per le ayen hai halat mujhe', 'Yoon zindagi ki rah pe takra gaya koi' and 'Pyar bharay do sharmeelay nain'.

His list of dulcet duets comprises such lilting numbers as 'Aap ko bhool jayen hum', 'Mujhe dil se na bhoolana' and 'Tere bheegay badan ki khushboo se'.

Likewise his folk songs, such as the Rajasthani number 'Kesarya balama' and 'Heer' are etched on the memory of music lovers in much the same way as the wistful 'Bulleh Shah kafi ki jaana mein kaun Bulleya' has continued to haunt music buffs for more than three decades.

Read next: 'Who killed Mehdi Hasan?'

I would like to conclude my tributes to the departed singer by recalling a semi-classical number Chedho madhur beena from the movie Geet kahan sangeet kahan. He was pitched against the exponents of two ustads, Nazakat Ali and Salamat Ali. He matched their virtuosity but the duo had no answer to the mellifluousness he imparted to the number.

Mehdi Hasan may not be with us, but his repertoire will continue to enthrall music lovers in all times to come.

“Is Bosnia dangerous? Isn’t there like a war going on there?” Our Bosnian guide frustratingly recounts the questions he is frequently asked when travelling overseas.

“Sarajevo is only known for three things abroad: triggering the First World War, 1984 Olympics, and the war (Bosnian War, 1992-1995),” he tells us.

“We need another Olympic games to balance things out,” he humorously says.

Sarajevo is an increasingly vibrant place again with a growing number of tourists each year. Rich in history and natural beauty, the country is relatively cheap to travel across by European standards.

Sarajevo, Bosnia’s capital, bears all the marks of the country’s turbulent history and blends together white Ottoman-style mosques, Serbian Orthodox and Catholic Croat churches, Austro-Hungarian 19th century architecture, Communist-era apartment blocks and modern shopping malls. A bit of Vienna, a bit of Istanbul, a bit of central Europe – and totally Sarajevan.

Sarajevo is made up of two words, ‘saray’ and ‘evo’: ‘saray’ comes from the Turkish word for palace and ‘evo’ is believed to be a Slavic derivative of the Turkish word ‘ova’ or ‘ovasi’ meaning field or valley.

The city is built inside a valley and is surrounded by the Dinaric Alps mountain range with green hills and beautiful houses with red roofs and white walls, minarets, church towers, forts, mansions and graveyards donned across it.

Walking through the streets of Sarajevo’s old town with its wooden-built Ottoman-style bazaar and smell of kebab and grilled meat being cooked, I can see that Sarajevans, despite the rise of huge shopping complexes, still retain a love for the traditional markets. Families, couples, friends and colleagues alongside tourists relax in tea houses, smoking nargila (water pipe).

Bars, pubs and nightclubs are blended in throughout the city; a tall woman wearing a hijab walks alongside her uncovered blonde-haired sister who is wearing a dress. The city still embraces its multicultural heritage, although as our guide, who has a Serbian father and a Bosniak mother, tells us – it’s not like it used to be. “Mixed marriages used to be very common in this city,” he recalls.

Bosnia was a part of Yugoslavia, which encompassed present day Macedonia, Slovenia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Kosovo, Serbia, and Montenegro.

In 1991, 49.2% of the population identified as Bosniak (Muslim), 29.8% as Serbs (Orthodox Christians), 10.7% as Yugoslavs, 6.6% Croats (Catholics) and 3.6% as others (including Jews and Roma).

The war drastically changed the demographics of the entire region. Today, Sarajevo’s population is 80.7% Bosniak, 3.7% Serb, 4.9% Croat and 10% others.

Sarajevo’s streets are littered with reminders of the war and a sense of macabre is undeniably present throughout the city. One typical mini memorial I kept coming across is the red roses of Sarajevo. Every other street has a section of the pavement that looks damaged, but upon getting closer, I realised that the damaged pavement is painted red and forms a rose-like shape.

A Sarajevan explained to me that “these damaged parts of the pavement are where artillery landed and killed someone during the war. Rather than forgetting our past, we want to remember each and every individual tragedy, each life lost. We painted a red rose as a sign of love and peace. Because this is not an official memorial, the roses sometimes disappear. If the government decides to redevelop the street, people get angry about it.”

Cemeteries play an important role within Sarajevan culture; the city has integrated graveyard space into its everyday social life. I went to a few graveyards and saw people having picnics. A local explained to me that “Bosnian Muslims have always had a very open attitude to death. It’s a part of life. Why hide away from it? Why shouldn’t graveyards also be public parks?”

Sarajevans love life. Huge developments across the city, which not only include new shopping centres but also restoration of historic sites, opening of galleries and museums, give a clear impression of a place moving on.

Hikers and trekkers will be in heaven in Sarajevo; I walked up a steep hill and reached the yellow fortress, where I saw many young and old relaxing and enjoying the stunning views of the city at sunset.

There is no shortage of places to visit, hills to hike or adventures to be had in the city. Getting lost is not an issue; the locals are warm and friendly and are willing to help you find your way. I should warn you that food portions are large here; a little salad is a mini feast. But if Sarajevo doesn’t win you over, surely Mostar will.

A two and a half hour drive from Sarajevo to Mostar has to be among the most beautiful and stunning rides of my life. Green and lush valleys, snow-peaked mountain tops, clear river, mini mosques and churches in tiny villages – it could be the description of paradise itself.

Once you enter Mostar, the city does not disappoint with its old stone streets, vibrant market place and tasty food. Undoubtedly, the main attraction is Stari Most, a 16th-century Ottoman bridge which is aesthetically pleasing but difficult to walk across. Also known as the Old Bridge, it was destroyed during the Croat–Bosniak War 427 years after it was built. It was finally rebuilt in 2004. It is a hump-back bridge; it goes up, stabilises in the middle, before going down again.

Locals look amused as tourists struggle to cross the bridge and some even hold onto the railings while crossing. It took repeated attempts before I could confidently cross it.

One local man climbed to the ledge of the bridge. As a crowd gathered, he worked them up, and when enough people had gathered, he jumped off the bridge and landed safely into the crystal-clear waters below.

From Mostar, it is easy to travel to anywhere in southern Bosnia. There are numerous towns, villages, cities, historical sites and nature reserves to visit.

A must-see is the Kravice Falls, 40 minutes away by car. The beautiful waterfalls are an ideal spot to go for a swim, take photographs, relax and eat Cevapi or grilled kebab in bread. Even on a hot day, being close to the water will keep you cool as you listen to the sounds of crashing water.

Coming to Bosnia and Herzegovina is an unforgettable experience. For many, the word ‘Europe’ conjures up images of Paris, London or Berlin, but the so-called ‘other Europe’ is as important to the identity of modern Europe.

Despite its troubled past, the importance of Bosnia – especially at a time when reductionist identity politics is sweeping the Old Continent – is about demonstrating the multiethnic and multifaceted of Europe’s past, present and future.

Beyond the history and political lessons that can be learnt in Bosnia, it is also a cool place to enjoy good food, great sights and warm people. The place is really opening up to tourists and it deserves to be on your travel checklist.

All photos by the writer.

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

• It was all a ‘mistake’, he told me, as I wailed in his arms. He led me to the bathroom to wash my face. He hugged me after bringing me back outside, asking me to smile for him. “You only look nice when you smile”, he told me. It was all a mistake.
• I believed that if I went to my family for help, they’d cast me out, disown me, and/or kick me out of the house. I thought they’d blame me and tell me I deserved it for doing something as wrong as being involved with a man.

It was physical – he beat me. It was psychological – he manipulated me. It was verbal – to this day, I flinch at Urdu slang, because I only learned it when it was hurled at me in the form of abuses. It was emotional – he took delight in humiliating and mocking me for his enjoyment.

He was skillful at lying and exploiting my feelings, and patient in gaining my trust and developing a relationship with me, before he began causing me harm. The abuse started slowly, building up over time.

He did things like grabbing my arm too hard, pinching me ‘as a joke.’ When I complained, he told me that I was being ‘delicate’ and making a ‘big deal’ out of ‘playful teasing’.

He would tell me how his friends and everyone in his university ‘knew’ about me and how ‘loose’ I was. This was the psychological aspect of abuse; belittling me, degrading me because he could. Because he knew he had the power to affect me with just his words, and saw fit to abuse it.

Over the passage of time, the abuse increased until it could no longer be disguised as playful teasing. It became blatant, undisguised abuse to punish me for perceived transgressions.

The first time he hurt me so severely that I wept was when I grabbed his phone and wouldn’t return it. I was retaliating for him doing the same earlier, teasing that I wouldn’t return it.

He grabbed and twisted my arm, but I still didn’t return it. He twisted it more, and I whimpered. “Cry all you want,” he told me, “I’m not letting go until you return my phone.” He slowly kept twisting my arm more and more, and that made me instinctively tighten my grip on his phone.

Finally, the pain was so severe that I couldn’t keep my fist closed. Now lifeless, my hand opened of its own volition and his phone fell on the floor. He immediately let go, and the second he did, I fell apart, crying hysterically for being treated this way.

It was all a ‘mistake’, he told me, as I wailed in his arms. He led me to the bathroom to wash my face. He hugged me after bringing me back outside, asking me to smile for him. “You only look nice when you smile”, he told me. It was all a mistake.

The next ‘mistake’ I made was to teasingly poke him with my foot. Not even my whole foot, just my big toe. He responded by kicking me, hard, in the thigh. The pain was excruciating and I couldn’t stop crying.

All those times when ‘mistakes’ were made – when he slapped me for swearing at him, when he slapped me for making a comment he disliked – it was all my fault, he said. I had given him chocolate or juice that made him hyper, and he needed to let the energy out somehow.

When he pushed me down that one time and whispered to me about how easily he could rape me, how I wanted him to rape me, it was my fault for taking a harmless ‘joke’ too seriously. Because, of course, threats, specifically rape threats, are something you make in jest.

He’d forcibly take my phone or Mp3 player from me and demand me to give him money if I wanted the devices back. I couldn't really wrestle it out of him because I was all of five feet to his 6'4. I had to give him money, which was upsetting. When I called him out once, he pushed me down and wouldn’t let me go until I did what he wanted me to do: to say that I was his whore.

When his friends would call and message me to slutshame me, I was just ‘lacking a sense of humour’ and was ‘taking their jokes too seriously’. I’d cry sometimes, asking him why he was letting his friends speak to me in such a way, or why he was speaking that way himself.

He’d tell me he left his phone in a friend’s car and the friend was just fooling around, or he’d say he was with his friends and thought it would be ‘fun’ to ‘tease me’.

He’d call me and tell me his friends wanted a night with me. Multiple times. The first time he did it, he told me, “Don’t worry, X isn’t going to go all the way with you, tumharay jism par tou mein ne kal raat apna naam pher diya.”

Related: A 7-step guide for Pakistani victims of hacking and blackmail

Sometimes, I tried to get away. I tried to ignore his calls and messages. He said he’d show the texts and calls between us to my family so they’d kick me out of the house. He said he knew where I lived, that he’d come himself and tell my father who he was. This was the threat I received every time I tried to get out of the relationship.

Another threat was, “YouTube kardun?” To this day, I don’t know what he was threatening to post on YouTube, but I’d still be scared, thinking he might have a text or some photo which I didn’t know he’d taken.

I wonder, as I write this, if he will recognise himself in this story. If he truly has something to YouTube and if he’ll do so to punish me for ‘giving him a bad name.’

Reader, you’re wondering, at this point, why I didn’t run. Why I didn’t look for help. There must have been something I could have done, you’re thinking.

For six years, I have thought about those 11 months. I know that I was overprotected like many women are. Yet, that protection left me ill-equipped to experience life, to understand how cruel men can be, how entitled they feel over my body.

I had spent my life being told to protect myself, my honour; failure to do so could only be my fault. Hashtag Internalised Misogyny. But that still isn’t an answer; my naiveté might be how I fell for his lies, but it isn’t an explanation for why I stayed.

I know that I was utterly terrified of him, and what he would do if I tried to leave. I was lonely and isolated with no support system except my university friends, who were as lost as I was.

They told me to stop talking to him, that he was a typical guy trying to take advantage of me. None of us ever called him abusive, they all told me he was a typical guy trying to get in my pants.

I believed that if I went to my family for help, they’d cast me out, disown me, and/or kick me out of the house. I thought they’d blame me and tell me I deserved it for doing something as wrong as being involved with a man.

And The Boy knew this very well; he knew I was afraid of my family, he knew I came from a conservative household and hid a lot of who I was from them, and he used it to his full advantage.

I was utterly terrified of my abuser but I was more scared of what he’d do if I tried to leave. I couldn’t see a way out. It was awful, living in such helpless fear, wondering when I’d be stuck with him the next time, when he’d use fear and threats to intimidate me into meeting him.

The only adult I could speak to was a much-loved Behavioural Psychology teacher, who figured out that something was wrong.

He approached me, asked me gentle questions now and then, and never abused his authority as a teacher or passed judgment.

It’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay, but even he couldn’t help me or get through to me.

Eventually, the bruises became prominent enough that my best friend brought up the matter with my siblings. I didn’t find out until years later that she had done this. Despite how distressing the resulting confrontation with my siblings was, I am thankful to her for having done so.

My siblings didn’t fully find out until years later what really happened to me, but when my best friend initially alerted them, they imposed a restriction on me from seeing my abuser.

And then … it became permanent. Time passed. Days turned into weeks, months, years.

I learned to name what had happened to me as abuse. I learned that I was a survivor. The hardest lesson was the realisation that I had mental health issues as a result, issues that will definitely last for the remainder of my life.

But I also learned how to deal with those issues, to be strong and learn to live life. I learned that when you’ve been abused, you’re never really the same, but that it is possible to rebuild, to have a rich, fulfilling life.

Guess what, though? I was abused again, years later, but there was a big difference. My first abuser had been a violent bully, someone I mistrusted and who terrified me; this abuser was a close friend, someone I trusted and felt safe with when it was hard for me to trust men anymore.

What’s worse is that as my feelings changed for him into love, he used the depth of my feelings to be more vicious, because he believed he could get away with it. To be honest, I sometimes feel that maybe he was punishing me for loving him because he didn’t believe he was worth it.

For years, I was constantly trying to be ‘better’ for this man. The few times he was good to me, were like scraps of meat thrown to a starving animal, only to later kick the poor beast. But because the animal remembers you’ve fed it a few times, it will whimper and stay, waiting for the food again.

It went on for at least four years until I saw what he was doing to me. When I finally saw the truth and confronted him, he admitted that he had been abusive, but had crueler things to say to me.

Read next: I was sucked into my husband’s narcissistic world, but came out of it stronger

When I finally saw him for a controlling egomaniac who got off on the power he had over me, I was emotionally and psychologically broken for a very long time.

It wasn’t until I left my familiar life to study abroad that I was able to face the victim I had been even as I learned to be a survivor, and reconcile the two as one person.

I learned then that being a survivor was not a shield against more abusers. I learned that I didn’t need to be ashamed of letting this happen and not knowing better, because I didn’t let anything happen.

What I need readers to understand is that abusers can be so manipulative that their victims start internalising the abuse. They blame themselves as the cause of abuse.

For the second time in five years, I rebuilt myself. I’m a survivor. I had to be strong and whole, in order to help other women who needed me. Who needed someone to look them in the eye and say, I’m a survivor too. Other people feel this way too. You’re never alone.

I wanted to write about abuse because I have personally lived that particular hell. I could have quoted statistics, research, various sociological or psychological theories. But I chose to connect with readers more personally, not just because my story, like every survivor’s story, deserves to be told.

In our society, we are so quick to blame the women, and then by default their whole family because a woman is burdened with the family’s 'respect' and 'honour.'

So perhaps there is a chance that someone reading this thinks my experiences of abuse simply happened because I come from a 'bad' household where I was not 'taught' the right way to be 'decent.'

But what about the man who beat the living daylights out of me on a daily basis? Did you, even once, think the same thing about him? Why not? Wasn’t he raised by a family, by parents too?

Where did he learn to slap a girl because she swore at him? If I ‘brought shame’ upon my family with my actions, does that boy exist as a separate entity, that he has no family, no parents, siblings to shame?

Before asking others why they raise daughters like me, why don’t you stop raising sons that beat women? Before shaming my parents for raising a warrior, why don’t you check in with your sons to see what kind of men they’re becoming?

I don’t ask for sympathy. I ask to be heard, because I want to tell my story and own it. I ask to be heard for all the women who do not have the opportunity or means to speak up.

I ask to be heard and understood, for this painful, gut-wrenching exercise to mean more than just a cathartic rant; if I could help just one person understand how abuse works, and how victims can be helped, then that’s one person who might be able to help someone in a similar situation as mine.

So if someone who is in an abusive situation reads this, know that you are worth more than being someone’s punching bag. Know that you do not have to pay the price for someone else’s need to hurt and dominate.

Know that there is a way out, and it might take years, and it might be a lifelong process, but it is so much better than living in fear and misery. You are not alone in fighting to believe that you deserve better.

If you're in an abusive relationship and want to seek help, the following are some of the organisations you can reach out to: The Punjab Commission on the Status of Women, Citizens-Police Liaison Committee, Social Welfare, Special Education And Women Empowerment Department, Aurat Foundation, Madadgaar, Bolo Bhi, and Digital Rights Foundation.

You can also share your story with us at blog@dawn.com

Long before The Palm Island was put on the map and the Dubai Marina was dotted with upscale yachts and boats, there was one main waterway in Dubai, the Dubai Creek, joining two of the city’s oldest neighbourhoods — Deira and Bur Dubai.

In contrast to Dubai’s more recent and luxurious developments that thrive on pulling in more tourists, these areas, having escaped excessive retouching, still bear some semblance to the city’s early life.

For a change of scenery from gleaming glass high-rises to coral and mud stone houses with wind towers, my two friends and I took the squeaky-clean train heading to Al Fahidi in Bur Dubai, avoiding the usual traffic in the busy area.

We started off our tour of old Dubai with a brief history lesson at the Dubai Museum, which is housed within the walls of the restored Al Fahidi Fort, built in the late 1700s.

The museum is worth a visit for its wax statues and interactive displays that give a background into how Dubai and its six sister emirates came together to form the United Arab Emirates in 1971.

At the back of the museum is the Grand Mosque, open only to Muslims, and behind the mosque is the Hindi Lane that’s home to temples for Hindus and Sikhs, as well as numerous small shops selling garlands, bindis, and other paraphernalia used in worship.

Walking out of the alley, we knew we were approaching the Bur Dubai Souk as the crowds and number of shops started to multiply and the smell of herbs and spices became stronger.

You’ll be hard-pressed to find many locals around in the area; as is the case with most of the city, you’ll see a mix of nationalities that have influenced and shaped the Emirati culture over the years.

Most of the shopkeepers are South Asian but have picked up enough Arabic and English to market their prices as “the best you’ll get”.

We stopped at one of the tea shops, where the seller told us reassuringly that he won’t charge us “anything extra”, adding that he saves the most exorbitant prices for the foreigners.

The shops at the souk sell everything from rugs and knock-off designer wear to spices and ceramics. Pakistani and Indian snacks, such as pakoras and dosa, are popular among the locals as well as visitors, and are sold at small cafeterias along with fresh juices and the famous karak chai.

Since the souk runs parallel to the creek, we stopped at the Creekside café and found a table by the water to have a cold lemon and mint juice while taking in the view of the abras (traditional boats made of wood) against the backdrop of Deira’s old buildings.

A few steps away from the Creekside café is Bayt Al Wakeel (“Agent’s Home” in Arabic), one of the oldest houses in Dubai that was built in 1935.

Earlier a shipping office, the building now functions as a restaurant that serves Arabic food — and while the food isn’t anything exceptional, the view from the jetty that has been transformed into a dining terrace certainly is.

The manager was nice enough to let us explore the inside of the building where pictures showing the creek and Bayt Al Wakeel in their original form have been put up.

We found an abra station just a few steps away from Bayt Al Wakeel to cross over to Deira; the five-minute ride took us past the traditional houses, wind towers and minarets into the heart of Deira, where we stopped by the Spice Souk and the Gold Souk.

Tired from our souk-hopping, we called it a day, got juicy shawarmas from Ashwaq Cafeteria (one of the best in town) for dinner, and decided to return to Bur Dubai the next day.

Day two started with breakfast in the Al Fahidi Historical Neighbourhood (also known as Bastakiya); we got off at the same metro stop and walked past the Dubai Museum towards Al Fahidi street to the Arabian Tea House, where we had the Arabic breakfast tray with hummus, fried halloumi cheese, and olives —the holy trinity of local cuisine.

A number of eateries have cropped up in the neighbourhood but be wary of tourist traps (an elaborately decorated camel outside is an easy giveaway); if you don’t mind being touristy, then the Sheikh Mohammed Centre for Cultural Understanding will take you on a tour of the area and host a traditional breakfast for you, complete with Emiratis to converse with.

In contrast to the bustling and noisy souk, this preserved quarter is quiet and you don’t feel hassled to rush through the alleys. Built in the mid 1800s, Al Fahidi is one of the city’s oldest heritage sites where you can get a sense of the life of the early Emiratis.

Traditional courtyard houses made of coral or sea stone and mud are marked with the wind towers (barjeel), which allow hot air to rise out and cooler winds to flow down.

Today, the neighbourhood has become an art hub with many houses having been converted into cafés and art galleries, and it is also the venue for the annual Sikka Art Fair that usually takes place in March during Art Season.

We made our way through the labyrinth, stopping at the XVA Hotel and Gallery, Make Art Café, Coffee Museum, Art Connection, Mawaheb Art Studio (for artists with special needs), and anything else which looked remotely interesting.

All the places welcome visitors who are not necessarily customers, so you can walk in and roam about without feeling the need to buy anything.

You can also see a small portion of the Bur Dubai wall, dating back to 1800 A.D., in the area and for the history buffs, there’s a Restoration House, dedicated to preserving original architecture and artefacts, where I saw some gorgeous traditional, wooden doors.

One of the best ways to get an idea of how Dubai has changed over the years is to strike up a conversation with the shopkeepers or the abra drivers, many of whom have been in the city for decades.

In the evening, we went back to the Creekside café to watch the sun set over the abras, which went about their routes as they have been for years, taking commuters across the creek for a mere one Emirati dirham.

All photos by the author.

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

• Current ODI All-Rounders ICC Player Rankings

“Why is Hafeez still playing for Pakistan?” my cousin messaged, as the Professor propelled Pakistan into a batting collapse against Sri Lanka in Cardiff. Three perfectly-middled and well-timed dot balls with no intentions to score. Followed by a soft dismissal. A solitary run in the space of six typically Hafeez minutes spent at the crease without much purpose.

I try not answering. I have advocated Hafeez’s selection for too many years to get into that conversation. Hafeez is currently ranked as the second best ODI all-rounder in the world.

Yes, Hafeez is a better all-rounder than Ben Stokes, ranked higher than Angelo Mathews and positioned five places above Ravindra Jadeja in ICC’s player rankings.

Current ODI All-Rounders ICC Player Rankings

There has to be something wrong with ICC calculations, and/or something a miss with the Pakistani public, a large part of which does not want Hafeez in the team. The other nine in the top ten all-rounders are heroes in their country. Why is Hafeez then demonised in his?

Is there sound reason to this notion?

My brother responds to my cousin, “We need Hafeez’s bowling. It’s usually very good. He refuses to bat lower. It’s been a problem for a long time. He still wants to open. They moved him to three after many failures, and now to four after failing many times at three. At this rate he will move to number six by 2020.”

I laugh at the truth behind this comment, more though in disgust. Pakistan has made a mess of a modest chase of 236 runs on a pitch devoid of spitting cobras.

I can’t take it anymore. I reply, “You cannot expect bowling all-rounders to bat in the top order”. Pakistan has suffered from the batting all-rounder delusion for so long, and has yet not been able to get its balance right.

Also read: The 'batting' all-rounder delusion

Pakistan is playing with only three specialist batsmen, Azhar, Fakhar, and Babar. Hafeez, Malik, Sarfraz, Imad, Fahim, Amir, Hasan, and Junaid are the other eight players. We need more specialist batsmen I insist.

Why is Haris Sohail sitting out? He averages 52.01 in First Class cricket and 43.00 in ODIs. In comparison, Hafeez averages: 34.91 and 32.69, Malik: 37.09 and 35.35, and Imad: 41.59 and 35.00.

Imad and Hafeez play a similar bowling role with startling economy rates of 4.63 and 4.13 respectively. These numbers in this day and age are like that of Joel Garner’s of its time.

Imad bats low down the order with a strike rate of 100.26. And Hafeez bats with a horrendous modern day strike rate of 75.21 up the order, like he is batting in the time of Joel Garner.

By now, Pakistan is 137-6 with Imad also returning to the pavilion. I have had it. It is not about individuals, I say. Teams are built on combinations and balance. Please play proper batsmen in the top order, and either play Hafeez or Imad for the all-rounder’s slot. I am fuming.

After the next 80 minutes of miracle, Pakistani batting and morbid Sri Lankan fielding, Pakistan crossed the finish line, and went into the semis.

The conversation is halted by celebrations.

“They should play Shahdab, England is suspect against spin, and Shahdab is a wicket taker,” says my father–in–law before the semi-final. But whom would you drop? I ask. Imad, he suggests.

Shadab could be a good option, but dropping Imad would make the frail Pakistani batting line even more fragile, I reason.

The team against England is announced.

Amir is unfit, replaced by debutant Rumman Raees. Shadab is in, replacing Fahim Ashraf.

Fahim? The 23-year-old who kick-started Pakistan’s fight-back against Sri Lanka by hooking Malinga out of the ground? The debutant who took 2/37? Who chased 342 in the warm up game against Bangladesh? After being unlikely run-out on debut and then being dropped in the next game must have hurt the kid.

Well, horses for courses. Pakistan has probably picked their best XI, I thought.

And the best XI, performed at its best – crushing England with an eight-wicket win, in 37.1 overs.

In depth: India to face Pakistan in Champions Trophy final after comfortably beating Bangladesh

Within seconds of Pakistan winning the semi-final, I receive another group message from my other brother. “What a great win, comprehensive! No place for Amir in this XI.” I chuckle, shake my head, and resist to respond.

Amir is still almost always the first bowler the Pakistani captain picks, I say to myself. He is still the man the skipper turns to most on the field.

Amir has bowled 697 overs in the last 12 months, Wahab is number two with 443 overs, and Hasan third with 229 overs. Amir is the only regular bowler across all three formats. He is the first bowler that is picked in the Pakistani team, in any format.

Yet, my brother’s point holds weight. Rumman bowled his heart out on debut and returned with figures of 2/44 in the semi-final win against England. Amir has taken 2/135 in the three games in the tournament.

In Pakistan, we are all selectors. No captain knows how to select a playing XI better than any of us commoners. And the PCB and its selection committee over the years? Biased, corrupt, inept; the lesser said, the better. They have done well to earn a reputation usually reserved for the politicians of the country.

The Pakistani public knows better. It knows how Fawad Alam is the highest averaging (56.51), run-hungry giant on Pakistan’s domestic circuit and averaging 41.66 in Test cricket and 40.25 in ODIs. Ignored by the selectors for so long that his only solace today is the example of Misbah–ul–Haq, who has redefined the cricketing age-cycle in the country. But lets keep that for another day.

Debutants Fahim and Raees have performed well, while Junaid and Hasan (who has a niggle in his shin) seem automatic selections. And Amir should be fit by Sunday. Pakistani captains face many problems. But the difficulty of selecting from a bunch of performing bowlers is perhaps one of the few good problems Sarfraz will ever face.

Amir is likely to return in place of Raees, and Fahim might get the nod ahead of Shahdab considering how well India plays spin.

Expected team for the final: Azhar Ali, Fakhar Zaman, Babar Azam, Mohammad Hafeez, Shaoib Malik, *Sarfraz Ahmed, Imad Wasim, Fahim Ashraf, Mohammad Amir, Hasan Ali and Junaid Khan

• Behind this surge is the rise in the scores of these two batsmen. Zaman has struck 31, 50, and 57 and Azhar has made 9, 34, 76. The two, however, will be up against the most potent pace attack in the history of Indian cricket.
• Pakistan have beaten India twice in ICC tournaments, both times in the Champions Trophy in 2004 and 2009. They have met India six times across limited-overs formats in ICC tournaments since their 2009 triumph, losing every time.

London will be painted green and blue come Sunday in anticipation for one of the biggest games in cricket history. Pakistan play India in a 50-over ICC tournament final for the first time.

It cannot get bigger than this in the game of cricket, barring a world cup final between the two South Asian giants. But for now, the India-Pakistan final is the event and has already brought the cricketing world to a standstill.

Just a few weeks back, any notion hinting at Pakistan making it to the final of the prestigious ICC Champions Trophy would have induced laughter. After all, the Sarfraz-led unit entered the tournament as underdogs. The top eight teams in the ICC’s ODI rankings compete in this tournament – and Pakistan stood eighth.

But the Men in Green surprised everyone by becoming the first side to secure a berth in the final.

With a resurgent Pakistan, it is difficult to predict the outcome of the contest. One can never be sure which Pakistan will turn up to play this Sunday. Whether it would be the one that got humiliated against India exactly two weeks ago or the one that thrashed the best one-day side two days later.

Just two Sundays ago, India thrashed Pakistan by 124 runs. Virat Kohli’s men have an edge over their rivals this Sunday as well because of the latter’s fragile middle order batting.

Pakistan’s middle order (from number three till number seven) have scored 300 runs in the tournament at just 30 runs per wicket. The Indian middle order, on the other hand, have added nearly 500 runs at a staggering rate of 90.6 runs per wicket.

Four out of five in the middle order are right-handed batsmen and the only left-handed batsman of the order, Imad Wasim, comes in at the end, at number seven. This is an area that India will be targeting.

Left-arm orthodox Ravindra Jadeja averages 29 against right-handed batsmen as compared to 60 against the left-handed in the ODI format. However, after the match against Pakistan, in which he removed Azhar Ali and Mohammad Hafeez, Jadeja seems to have lost his lustre, bagging just two wickets for 140 runs in the following three matches.

Pakistan will be heavily reliant on their openers to get them a steady start. Since the introduction of 27-year-old Fakhar Zaman at the top of the order, Pakistan has seen a surge in the opening stands.

Pakistan’s first wicket posted 40 against South Africa. In the next match against Sri Lanka, the Azhar-Zaman duo put up 74 runs. During the semi-final against hosts England, they struck Pakistan’s first 100-plus opening partnership since May 2015.

Behind this surge is the rise in the scores of these two batsmen. Zaman has struck 31, 50, and 57 and Azhar has made 9, 34, 76. The two, however, will be up against the most potent pace attack in the history of Indian cricket.

Both Bhuvneshwar Kumar, who entered the tournament at the back of a fruitful IPL, and Jaspreet Bumrah, have been bowling at meticulous lengths. In a must-win game against South Africa, they choked Hashim Amla and Quinton de Kock in the first power play, leading to a disastrous batting collapse for the best-ranked ODI side.

India will approach Pakistan’s opening pair in a similar manner, especially Zaman, who looked uncomfortable against English pacer Mark Wood in the semi-final, when he was being cramped for room.

After their loss against India, Pakistan resorted to their old tactics of unleashing their pacers on the opposition. Their spinners prepared the ball for reverse swing (legally) on an abrasive Edgbaston wicket in the match against South Africa. Hasan Ali, with his scorching reverse swingers, did the job in the middle overs.

This has been the pattern ever since.

23-year-old Hasan tops the tournament’s most-wicket column with 10 scalps in four matches. Left-arm fast bowler Junaid Khan stands at number four on the list with seven wickets.

Mohammad Amir has picked up only two wickets in the tournament from the three matches he has played. He missed the last contest due to a back spasm, but his impeccable bowling throughout the tournament keeps him in contention for the final. He will undertake a fitness test before the final and if deemed fit, will have a daunting task ahead.

Indian openers Shikhar Dhawan and Rohit Sharma top the most-runs-of-the-tournament section with 317 and 304 in four matches apiece. In their journey to the final, the pair have struck two 100-plus opening partnerships, the first one coming against Pakistan.

Indian captain Kohli, who bats at one-drop, has struck three 50-plus scores, with his best score of 96* coming in the last match.

Pakistan have beaten India twice in ICC tournaments, both times in the Champions Trophy in 2004 and 2009. They have met India six times across limited-overs formats in ICC tournaments since their 2009 triumph, losing every time.

With a resurgent Pakistan, it is difficult to predict the outcome of the contest. One can never be sure which Pakistan will turn up to play this Sunday. Whether it would be the one that got humiliated against India exactly two weeks ago, or the one that thrashed the best one-day side two days later.

But unlike the Sunday when they were drubbed by India, Pakistan have a side full of self-belief this time. A side that has picked itself up. A side where juniors stepped up when seniors faltered.

From being beyond abysmal, this Sunday the Pakistani team will enter the Oval with a shot at the championship.

This is certainly a contest that promises to live up to its expectations.

The stage is set: Pakistan vs India in the final of the Champions Trophy. Mother of all contests. For the Indian captain Virat Kohli,“it is just another game”. According to Wasim Akram, it is poised to be a “battle of nerves” between two countries that were once one.

Ex-Indian captain Saurav Ganguly gives India a 73% winning chance. The bookies somewhat agree and give 1/3 for betting on Pakistan. India are clear favourites.

Meanwhile, the Pakistani public, the social media, and the entire nation do what they know best. They pray a little harder.

First conundrum of the morning: win the toss and bat? Or bowl?

Pakistan cannot chase well, and well, India can chase anything. Looks like a flat pitch, but a fresh one. For Virat, it is simple: win the toss, bowl first. For Sarfraz, probably a good toss to lose. He could have very easily fallen into the death trap of chasing a big total in a massive final against India.

Pakistani openers Azhar Ali and Fakhar Zaman start the proceedings. First over is a maiden by Bhuvneshwar Kumar. India have done their homework. They bowl a tight line to Fakhar and give him no width. India are prepared. They are wired to win. They are facing Fakhar for the first time, but they know he likes width. They give him none.

Fakhar has been pegged on the stumps for eight deliveries and then Bumrah floats one outside off. Fakhar follows it and edges to Dhoni behind the stumps. But Pakistani prayers intervene and the first signs of magic appear. Bumrah has overstepped, it’s a No Ball. Fakhar gets a life.

It is the start of lady luck playing in Pakistan’s favour. Inside edge goes for four, outside edges go for four, and it even races off the helmet for four. India miss clear run out chances against both Pakistani openers. And luck continues favouring the brave.

Fakhar and Azhar take their chances, keep stealing quick singles and flash their bats at anything on offer. But it is not just boom-boom, bam-bam Pakistani batting. They have a plan too. They have targeted men in their minds. They know whom they are going after today.

Ashwin, who was not picked for the first game against Pakistan, bowls the eighth over. And Azhar charges down the ground and smashes Ashwin out of the park for a six.

The tone is set. Pakistan will attack Indian spin.

Pakistan blow punches, but are also circumspect. India feel the heat, and their fielding standards drop a notch. Fakhar hits straight to Yuvraj Singh but it goes through him to the boundary for four as Fakhar gets to his third consecutive fifty.

Is Fakhar the opener Pakistan has been searching for? Three fifties in four games with a career strike rate of 113 – so far, so good. Keep going, lad.

They run hard and take risks, till they are caught ball watching. Azhar is finally run out and is visibly upset. Some of the blame for the blunder is on Fakhar, but most of it is on lack of communication.

Azhar had taken the initiative in the partnership and was surprisingly scoring faster than Fakhar.

But this is where Fakhar changes gear and scores 58 off the next 37 deliveries, smashing three sixes and five fours. Reaching his first maiden hundred in style, but holding out in the deep not much after.

It was not the classiest hundred that one would see, but it was as important as any.

Babar Azam and Shoaib Malik tick the scoreboard but are not able to really explode.

Then walks in Mohammad Hafeez. The first ball he steps out of the crease and hammers it down the fence. For once, Hafeez is not given the liberty to play himself in. He does not have to rotate strike cause he’s striking so clean.

We know that Hafeez can time the ball as good as anyone in Pakistan. Maybe coming in at number five is more suited for his game play. Maybe when the professor has fewer options, perhaps when the game dictates play, he will not need to complicate things, like he so often does.

India are on the back-foot and feeling the pressure of a big game. They give away 25 extras. In their first game against Pakistan, they had given eight.

With runs on the board, Pakistan is in command.

But this is India. If there is anyone in the world who can chase down a mammoth total, it is Kohli and his men.

However, they are up against the most potent bowling attack of the tournament. In the last three games, Pakistan restricted South Africa to 219/8, bowled Sri Lanka out for 235 and bundled England for 211.

The new ball is in the hand of Pakistan’s ace fast bowler, Mohammad Amir. He angles two of them out and brings the third one back in – truly reminiscent of Pakistani left-arm god, Wasim Akram. The ball is too good for Rohit Sharma, who has scored 301 runs in the week with an average of 101. But he now returns to the pavilion with a duck.

Fast bowlers hunt in pairs. And Junaid Khan is steaming in from the other end. The last time Kohli had to walk in this early was in June, 2015. He is not used to this, and he is up against Pakistani fast bowlers who have their tails up.

Amir bowls another jaffa that catches the outside edge and flies straight into the hands of Azhar Ali at first slip, and then falls out of it. Kohli is dropped on five. Kohli, who has 17 hundreds when batting second. The 23-year-old Kohli had clobbered Pakistan for 183 not out and chased 330 runs in less than 48 overs.

Now he is 28, Indian captain and the number one batsman in the world.

Amir is livid, and rightly so.

Then something very Pakistani happens. Amir gets Virat twice in two balls. Pure Pakistani magic!

Amir is on fire, so is Junaid. Both have bowled maidens. But it is Amir who strikes again. This time, his victim is Shikhar Dhawan, the holder of the Golden Bat, the leading run scorer of the tournament.

India are reeling at 33-3 in nine overs, and Amir has taken 16-3 in five.

Amir has stream-rolled through Rohit, Virat, and Shikar; the top three Indian batsmen who had contributed 82% of the runs (894 out of 1094) that India had scored in the championship, before the final.

Yuvraj Singh and MS Dhoni stand as the last ray of hope for India. They stand between Green Glory and Bleeding Blue. But there is little respite.

Fast bowlers hunt in pairs, but Pakistani fast bowlers are known to hunt in packs. And they are deadlier when they have a leg-spinner in their ranks.

Sarfraz soon unleashes his second line of attack. Hasan Ali is bowling from one end, and Shadab Khan from the other.

The 19-year-old Pakistani leg spinner was two years old when Yuvraj made his international debut. But Shadab has the zest of youth and tosses one up to lure Yuvraj into a cover drive. It is from the back of Shadab’s hand. Shadab’s wrong’un is not easy to read as it goes past Yuvraj’s outside edge. Yuvraj is half out.

And then the second half is out on the next ball, one that pitches on a similar length but turns back in. Yuvraj tries to jam his bat, and the umpire adjudges it not out. Shadab thinks otherwise, he knows better and directs his captain into taking a review. He is right.

Shadab is sure he has got his man, Yuvraj Singh.

Technology confirms that Yuvraj was plumb.

Hasan Ali sets his field against Dhoni. Deep square leg in place. It is an obvious trap. The ball is short and climbing into Dhoni’s ribcage. He takes a dab at it and puts it straight down the trap, where Imad completes a fine diving effort.

Hasan starts the generator and opens his arms in trademark celebrations. He is already the highest wicket taker in the tournament, but this moment is more important to him. He has come, he has planned and he has conquered the Indians.

In the space of four balls, both Yuvraj and Dhoni are parcelled back to the pavilion. India are 54/5, with the top five back in the hut. That’s game, set and match for Pakistan.

Hardik Pandya later launches himself into Shadab, but it is too late. A lot of the Indian crowd is leaving the stadium and the writing is on the scorecard.

India are eventually bundled out for 158 runs. Pakistan win the match by 180 runs and are crowned as the champions. They received white jackets that are two sizes bigger, perhaps tailored better to fit the English team.

Sarfraz and his boys celebrate.

The entire team goes down in prostration.

The streets of London turn into Lahore. And celebrating fans surround Sarfraz’s house in Karachi. Television sets break across India, and Rishi Kapoor’s twitter account is painted with green graffiti.

Almost every Pakistani player who comes for an interview starts by first thanking Allah. It is as if Pakistan believes that they play with supernatural support from a superior being. As if they have a team of twelve instead of eleven on the field.

Pakistan’s performance is paranormal, it is pure magic and it is almost unfair.

• We’re all scurrying to work in the United States, or vacation in Europe, when there is so much we can learn from our next-door neighbours.
  • • My journey elicited stories from others also personally impacted by the Partition. I had an overnight layover in Ambala, where a Pakistani friend told me his grandparents lived before Partition. An Indian friend asked me to find the home his father had left in Lahore. Partition felt like recent history, despite having taken place 70 years ago.
    • I cherished my time in Lahore, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being somewhat of an outsider. But my newfound family ties alongside the cosmopolitan nature of Karachi erased that distinction. Here, ethnic Sindhis rub shoulders with Pashtuns, Punjabis, Baloch and even a few Hyderabadis like me. Karachi teemed with the infectious spirit of a bustling metropolis rapidly evolving, even reinventing itself, and I was hooked.

I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I finally received my visa to visit Pakistan. As an Indian-American, it was not an easy process.

That I was born in Hyderabad – Deccan, not Sindh – made India home, but rendered Pakistan almost impenetrable. My first application was scoffed at by the embassy in Cambodia where I initially applied.

But still I persisted, finally succeeding through the help of a college roommate, another Hyderabadi-American, who connected me with an official at a Pakistani Consulate in the US.

It always surprised me that nearly everyone I know has visited either India or Pakistan, never both. That these two nations are born out of the same cloth; out of a shared cultural and linguistic tapestry that stretches back millennia, has been unfortunately obscured by the politics of a few decades.

During Partition, my entire family, as far as I knew, decided to stay in the relative security of Muslim-majority Hyderabad in southern India. Amidst a slightly different situation, I could just as easily have been born in Pakistan. I was, of course, as proud an Indian as any, but that never hampered my curiosity for my fraternal nation.

We’re all scurrying to work in the United States, or vacation in Europe, when there is so much we can learn from our next-door neighbours.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was so excited to go somewhere new. I had already visited some 40-odd countries, attempting with each to broaden my understanding of the world. But there was something especially evocative about Pakistan.

As a South Asian Muslim, it was the indignation of a birth right interminably delayed due to political complications. After all, Pakistan was created in the spirit of inviting and protecting the rights of Muslims.

As a proud speaker of the language, I was also excited at revelling in Urdu in all its glory in Pakistan. The Devanagari script used to render Hindi is, of course, just as beautiful to my eyes. But I yearned to immerse myself in the elegant curves of Nastaliq outside of the select Muslim-majority neighbourhoods where it’s prevalent in India.

Of course, this was not the first instance I seriously considered visiting Pakistan. I flirted with the idea every time I was in India. Yet, I always let myself be dissuaded by a well-meaning family friend or another advising it was ‘too complicated a process, or worse ‘too risky.’

I wasn’t going to be stopped this time.

This time, passport and visa finally in hand, I boarded a train to Amritsar, on the other side of the Wagah border from Lahore.

My journey elicited stories from others also personally impacted by the Partition. I had an overnight layover in Ambala, where a Pakistani friend told me his grandparents lived before Partition. An Indian friend asked me to find the home his father had left in Lahore. Partition felt like recent history, despite having taken place 70 years ago.

I arrived at Amritsar Junction around 9am, exhausted from the modicum of sleep I could muster amidst the overnight frenzy of a train station. Still, I was eager to head as early as possible to the Wagah border to solve any issues I was worried might arise. I hailed a cab and sat in eager anticipation during the 45-minute drive.

As we pulled into the Attari Integrated Check Post, my passport and visas were verified. The taxi driver’s license was held before we were allowed to enter. I had meticulously prepared backup documents: duplicates of invitation letters, passport copies, photos; anything I could think of, the absence of which might justify rejecting my crossing.

I held my breath at each step, worried that a wrong answer or a misstep would get me denied entry or detained. Although the security was thorough, every single person I spoke with was courteous and professional, on both sides.

I was joined by a few working-class Indians: some Kashmiris, and a few Sikh pilgrims visiting temples in the Pakistani Punjab. Cleared through Indian security and customs, we boarded the bus to head to the famous Baab-e-Azadi.

I’d seen it before, ten years prior in my first trip to India from the States. I had come to Wagah to witness the daily military parade. Like every other visitor in attendance, I had no visa to cross then. The border seemed impassable then.

But on this day, Quaid-e-Azam’s portrait and the qaumi parcham welcomed me. It was an almost spiritual experience as I took my first steps into Pakistan. It was hard to believe. I would be the first in my family to ever visit Pakistan; a nation close to my heart as a South Asian Muslim, a nation separated from me as an Indian-American.

I would be joining the unfortunately small ranks of individuals who have recently experienced both India and Pakistan, communities cleaved apart after Partition that had lived peaceably together for centuries. I was about to see through my own eyes how Pakistan compared to its international perception and perhaps more intriguing, with its sibling rival, India.

My friend’s father was the first familiar face to greet me on the Pakistani side. The hour-long drive to Shahdhara, Lahore kicked off an unforgettable week.

Watching the Mughal-era Baadshahi Masjid rise up in the horizon as we drove into the city was a majestic experience, perhaps rivalled only by joining the jamaat inside the following Friday.

I marvelled at the Lahore Metrobus, riding it routinely as I shopped for shawls at Anarkali Bazaar or kurtas from Junaid Jamshed.

I was even fortunate enough to participate in a Punjabi wedding, enjoying the most tender and flavourful mutton across any of my travels.

As memorable as my time in Lahore was, I had just uncovered a much more profound revelation. While there, I received an unexpected phone call from my mother in the States. The excited tone in her voice indicated something was up.

I had, in preparation for my trip, requested her and my dad to ask around on the off chance we might have any distant relatives who had migrated to Pakistan. Most inquiries had led to nowhere. It seemed like all of my living relatives stayed in India, or otherwise opted for the Gulf or North America.

However, on the phone this time, my mother informed me of recently receiving an invitation to a wedding in Chicago from a distant uncle. When she told him about my trip, he suggested a cousin of his, whose number he didn’t have.

My mom perused old phone books of my late nani to find this person’s number, a distant relative of whom she had heard, but never met. With this, my mom made her first call to Pakistan. She was ecstatic to deliver me the news, that I had a relative in Karachi who was excited to meet me.

I couldn’t believe it. I had lived 29 years of my life, believing my entire family (and by extension myself) to be solely Indian. That this journey might question that monolithic ancestry, and reunite me with family separated by Partition, imbued the journey with a much deeper sense of purpose.

Originally having planned just a week for Pakistan, entirely in Lahore, I changed my schedule. I ate as much chargha and murgh chhole as I could before I boarded my flight to Karachi.

When I landed at the Jinnah International Airport, I was the first in my family to meet Moin nana, the maternal cousin of my nani.

Given the distance, it was unsurprising that we only just learned of each other’s existence. More remarkable was how deep the familiarity still ran. I recognised him immediately, the spitting image of my nani’s younger brother in Toronto.

We quickly discussed our shared family. My nani had only met his older siblings in India over half-a-century ago. It was more than enough to forge the consanguine bond that tied us together.

I learned that Moin nana was born in December of 1947 just months after Partition. His parents packed up their life, and along with their kids, left Hyderabad in 1950. Like millions of Muslims immigrants, they were eager to settle in the Dominion of Pakistan and selected Karachi as their new home.

It was evident that Hyderabad remained with many of them. A replica of the char minar, Hyderabad’s most iconic landmark, welcomed me as we drove in to Bahadurabad. I recognised it immediately as an homage to the Deccan origins of the resident’s central Karachi neighbourhood.

Khatti daal and mahi khaliya cut adorned the dining table of my nana’s house, staples of Hyderabadi cuisine from 1,500 kilometres south.

My cousin, despite never having been to Hyderabad, could pull off a dakhini accent that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow near the original char minar. He introduced me to other relatives, as well as the best biryanis, niharis, and lassis Karachi (and perhaps the world) could offer.

I met friends from college and even attended a mushaira. I was beginning to see Pakistan less as a tourist and as more of an insider.

I cherished my time in Lahore, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being somewhat of an outsider. But my newfound family ties alongside the cosmopolitan nature of Karachi erased that distinction. Here, ethnic Sindhis rub shoulders with Pashtuns, Punjabis, Baloch and even a few Hyderabadis like me. Karachi teemed with the infectious spirit of a bustling metropolis rapidly evolving, even reinventing itself, and I was hooked.

I know I’ll return someday, and soon. I intend to bring others along – to share the most important lesson I’ve learned.

My voyage to Pakistan was originally born out of intellectual and cultural curiosity. Driven by a desire to understand the broader canvas of South Asia, I thought I was heading to a foreign country. This Indian-American didn’t realise he was actually discovering another home.

All photos by the author.

Are you an expat living in Pakistan or have you visited the country as a tourist? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com