In 1970, Rasheed Araeen stood at St. Katharine Docks, near his studio in London, and invited friends to throw 16 fluorescent red discs in the water.

It was an exercise in breaking the symmetrical structure of the discs and observing how they created their own random movements in the water.

This performance, titled Chakras, can be considered one of the originating points of Pakistani performance art.

Of course, it feels inappropriate to anoint Araeen as the beginning of any canon: his life and artistic practice have been dedicated to destabilising the canons of the art world.

As a pioneer of minimalist structure as well as public and performance art, Araeen worked tirelessly against racist and exclusionary art institutions.

His performance work, which includes Paki Bastard, where he put on dark glasses and gagged himself, and Burning Ties, where he set fire to a row of red neckties, took on increasingly radical tones.

Araeen is not alone in this. The history and practice of public and performance art is intimately tied with transgression and subversion, especially in the Global South.

A worthwhile step in this direction was taken by the initiative House, in March at a house in EME-DHA, as a collaborative effort by writers, thinkers, artists and designers to study the relationship between the body and its environments through performative means of expression.

The organisers and participants of House set out to explore sites outside of galleries and museums for the production and performance of art in the city of Lahore.

The series culminated with a performance inside a suburban house, where many of the performances, which had previously been performed in public, were repeated with slight alterations.

By domesticating their work of art in such a direct, forceful way, the performance provided insights into how performances are received differently in public and private settings.

According to Natasha Jozi, founder and creative director of House: "A house is a unique communal space which brings together living bodies and objects. Inherently it serves as a fulcrum for initiating dialogue, interactions and shaping identities. You often tend to question, what houses you? Which house do you belong in?"

Upon entering the house where the performances were taking place, I immediately came across a woman bound from head to toe in a long, brown rope, the kind often used to secure large packages of cargo.

Over the course of the performance, participants untied and tied her again and again, applying the rope to her body in different arrangements and configurations, securing the artist to different walls, sometimes even securing her to the installations of other artists.

The haunting, visceral passivity of the performer invited participants to move her, rearrange her, untie her, re-tie her in different styles, and in these ways, change the scope of her mobility.

This tension between the interactive openness of the performance and its physical restrictions allowed for a complex, even contradictory, array of meanings to develop: both playful and painful, both unfixed and restricted.

This performance, Abeera Saleem’s Tie Untie, was first performed inside Lawrence Gardens.

Abeera tied herself to a tree in this famous, historic park, which is central to the geography and community of Lahore, and attracts hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors on any given day.

Lawrence Gardens was first developed in 1863 as part of the modernising and civilising mission of the British colonial forces, which saw the Lahore of Mughals and Sikhs as insular, chaotic, and backwards.

Curators were brought from the Kew Gardens in London to give the park an ordered and symmetrical geometry, which was opposed to the organic growth of the older, walled city of Lahore.

In fact, the supposed contrast between the order of the new British developments and the chaos of the older parts of the city became an accepted trope, constantly invoked by historians, novelists, tour guides, administrators, and policymakers — in short, the whole gamut of colonial functionaries.

This Manichaean division between the good, modern, British section of the city and the bad, backwards, native section of the city is typical of colonial missions in India and Africa.

It often masked the reality that the native sector was deliberately underdeveloped, ignored and exploited, not to mention policed and surveilled.

The site of Lawrence Gardens is a vital reminder of the way violence is engineered by such hierarchical binaries of colonialism as good/bad, modern/traditional, chaotic/ordered, private/public.

Developed soon after the 1857 War of Independence, in which Indian sepoys rebelled against their colonial masters, the park was meant to serve as a memento of British superiority, of their ultimate victory in a ruthless campaign that destroyed cities and whole communities.

By tying herself to a tree in Lawrence Gardens, a possible descendant of the trees planted by experts from the Kew Garden, but also — at the same time — a local variant, an adaptation, Abeera embodied and performed the binds that keep us attached to the violent histories of colonialism.

It is also crucial to understand that the history of colonialism — at its fundamental core — is a gendered history.

The binaries that upheld British colonial efforts were mapped onto gendered bodies. Abeera’s performance doesn’t just centre any post-colonial body, but a body identified as female.

It is an unapologetic comment on the way these histories are not simply abstract texts or ideas, relegated to an unknowable past, but embodied experiences, painful and vehement, felt and lived every day by gendered and racialised bodies.

At the same time, I do not want to limit the interpretation of Abeera’s performance to a narrative of powerlessness.

Abeera’s interactive performance also enacts a resistant playfulness, handing over agency to other participants, especially women, who could change the narrative of the performance with their own engagement.

As I was leaving the house where the exhibition was taking place, I noticed two women making intricate patterns with the rope and adorning the performer with them.

When I asked them what they were doing, they simply responded: “We’re just trying to give her a pretty headdress; make some jewelry.”

Another performance that caught my eye was Abrar Ahmed’s Untitled. Abrar set up nine slates on raised platforms.

He drew a grid on each one, like a hashtag sign, using colourful chalks, and invited the participants to play a game of goodkata — similar to tic-tac-toe, but played with ticks and crosses instead of zeros and crosses.

At the beginning, the participants played with Abrar, but gradually, the participants began to play by themselves, inviting each other.

Abrar explained to me that he preferred ticks and crosses because he grew up playing with those symbols in his neighbourhood in Lahore.

He wanted to explore how certain supposedly universal signs — specifically, for this performance, the hashtag — are evolving, their historical and semiotic trajectories hybridised by routes of colonialism, capitalism, globalisation, and urbanisation.

The invitation to play with the sign within the performance felt like another attempt to explore the semiotic fluidity of the sign.

In fact, participants intuitively interacted with the hashtags in multiple ways, drawing and mixing different symbols to create their own games. Some used the sign to express famous Twitter slogans like #BLM.

The final game, played with acrylic on a canvas, resulted in ticks and zeros, a curious combination of goodkata and tic-tac-toe: a chance encounter with the syncretism of symbols.

A few days later, Abrar took me to the Taxali Gate in the walled section of Lahore, where he initially performed the piece by painting the hashtag sign on a public wall.

He was interested in the hyperreality of places like the Taxali Gate, curiously located between fact and collective fictions.

The area around Lahore Fort is a place that seems almost unreal, or, we can say, its actual reality matters little when faced with all the fictions attached to it.

I felt that the Taxali Gate itself had disappeared under its own narratives and representations. All that was left — even as I walked around the place itself — was a tourist brochure.

Abrar’s hashtag, conspicuously announcing itself on a public wall, became a co-conspirator in this game of invisibility, highlighting how our contemporary world often privileges a tidy and accessible virtual reality over the complexities of centuries-old cultures.

On our way back, we came across Lahore Fort Food Street. The space has been recently gentrified to attract tourism in the area, with no efforts to confront any of the various economic, political, and social problems afflicting the surrounding communities.

And what did we find at the very entrance of the Food Street? A big hashtag sign, proclaiming #LOVELAHORE, the O’s in love and Lahore substituted with Pepsi’s round logo. Reality, unfortunately, really was disappearing.

People inside the Food Street sat on the rooftops of old havelis, looking around at even older neighbourhoods, concocting fantasies from a safe distance without stepping into the streets.

As I walked, feeling myself part of a modern, developing city, observing neighbourhoods designated as "antique" and "traditional," I was reminded of the colonial juxtaposition between the new, ordered Lawrence Gardens and the old, chaotic areas around Lahore Fort.

It was easy to see in that moment how colonial and patriarchal binaries continue to inform our ideas and policies, interminably repeating their violence.

• The PAS’ reaction to [Ahad Cheema’s arrest by the National Accountability Bureau][12] over the Ashiyana scam seems to suggest the truth of this perspective. Elite bureaucrats are unused to having their (allegedly 'corrupt') actions investigated.
• But, in fact, bureaucrats’ responses to *sifarish* varied, as per the instructions of the department secretary.
• No questions or reassurances were necessary — this was a *sifarish* that would be fulfilled regardless of merit and transparency.

In December 2016, Shahbaz Sharif declared (as he has many times before and since) that transparency and merit were the hallmarks of his government, and that the Punjab government’s zero tolerance for corruption from the bottom to the top of the administrative hierarchy was producing results.

Certainly, a number of schemes were introduced to ensure that 'corruption' was eliminated across the administrative departments that make up the government of Punjab, most prominently through the use of monitoring and technology (e.g. the use of smart phones and computerisation of records).

In 2017, the chief minister declared that his government’s policies have led to there being "no room for corruption as idols of sifarish, nepotism and corruption have been broken in the province."

However, a problem arises where the CM’s plans for transparency run into electoral realities, particularly politicians’ desire to dispense patronage to voters.

Well aware of this clash, Sharif and his allies developed a method to have their cake and eat it too — they started differentiating between 'good' sifarish and 'bad' sifarish: the latter was to be condemned and dismissed as 'corrupt', but the former was to be catered to with speed and efficiency.

This distinction allowed the government to achieve success in select anti-corruption measures while simultaneously ensuring that some, favoured politicians’ patronage demands were met.

In what follows, I will briefly outline the market for bureaucratic appointments in Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz’s (PML-N) Punjab, and then focus on reforms introduced in the name of merit and transparency in teacher appointments in the School Education Department.

By making strategic appointments to key posts within the bureaucratic hierarchy, the CM Secretariat was able to control the implementation of its anti-corruption measures.

As a result, the CM Secretariat empowered a group of politicians and bureaucrats above others, while still maintaining the government’s image as an advocate of merit and transparency.

The PML-N is not an ideological party. Its appeal to voters (particularly those in urban areas) lies in the ability of elected party members to 'get things done' — the laying of a sewage line, acquiring an electricity, gas or telephone connection, and, most importantly, getting a voter (or their family member) a job with the government.

Therefore, moves to eliminate corruption and improve transparency may sound wonderful in theory, but in reality, they do not sit well with constituency politicians seeking to dispense patronage amongst voters.

Government jobs, ranging from Class IV posts such as cleaners or watchmen to teaching staff, are particularly in demand as a form of patronage for a couple of reasons.

The first is relative security of tenure and a pension, attractive prospects for anyone looking for some long-term stability for themselves and their family.

And second, government jobs allow the person being posted to exercise a bit of power themselves, particularly if they manage to advance up the bureaucratic hierarchy.

This power may be nothing more than getting a family member or friend an audience with a senior bureaucrat, but the ability to do even this much denotes prestige and access to power within the person’s immediate social circle.

Therefore, the distribution of government jobs by politicians has long been a means of winning votes within communities.

The reality of patronage politics in Punjab outlined here will come as no surprise to any observer of Pakistani politics.

What is of interest is how a government touting its anti-corruption policies (transparency, monitoring, open access to information, etc.) balanced the introduction of these measures with the demands made by politicians of their own party’s administration.

The uniform implementation of anti-corruption measures would close down avenues of patronage, threatening the political economy that exists in constituencies (and by extension, the province as a whole), thus endangering future electoral prospects for not just the Members of Provincial Assembly (MPA) and the Members of National Assembly (MNA), but eventually the party itself.

So, in implementing these measures, the government determined who must conform with anti-corruption policies when it came to distributing government jobs, and who may be exempted from having to do so.

During the time that the PML-N felt secure in its political position in Punjab, the provincial government’s implementation of favoured policies, projects, and anti-corruption measures relied on appointing a group of favourite bureaucrats (most of whom belonged to the Pakistan Administrative Service – PAS) to key posts – e.g. departmental secretaries, heads of authorities, and district coordination officers (DCO).

These would typically be officers who had worked closely with the CM or the chief secretary in the past and had a proven record of ‘getting the job done’.

As one example, Fawad Hasan Fawad was such an appointee. When the PML-N formed the government in Punjab in 2008, he was posted as Secretary Services where he was in charge of assembling the team of bureaucrats who would staff senior district posts (DCOs and divisional commissioners) in Punjab.

A few months later, Fawad was appointed Secretary Communication and Works to 'accelerate the pace of work and purge the department of corrupt officials and contractors'.

It is important to note here that the appointment of these bureaucrats by the CM Secretariat (often through the manipulation of regulations on bureaucratic appointments) was not regarded as 'corrupt'.

For example, Fawad Hasan Fawad’s appointments to various Secretary posts (Services, Communication and Works, Health) were made while he was still too junior (in terms of Basic Pay Scale) for these offices. However, no action was taken to prevent this widespread practice.

Instead, appointments that are not strictly in line with the rules — for instance, the hiring of retired bureaucrats on contract basis or the appointment of junior bureaucrats — are justified as discretionary, made to ensure that the government has access to the best officials to carry out its mandate.

Bureaucratic reshuffles that take place after an election is held are a key example — they allow the new government to assemble their own people around them.

In 2013, for instance, the PML-N was on the hunt for "a team of experienced and honest bureaucrats," particularly for the federal government under Nawaz Sharif.

In light of these practices, the feeling amongst the mid-tier and junior bureaucracy I interviewed was that anti-corruption policies that enhanced monitoring and transparency targeted them but left the higher echelons of the bureaucracy — where ‘corruption’ usually involved having a finger in the pie alongside senior politicians — largely untouched.

The PAS’ reaction to Ahad Cheema’s arrest by the National Accountability Bureau over the Ashiyana scam seems to suggest the truth of this perspective. Elite bureaucrats are unused to having their (allegedly 'corrupt') actions investigated.

This attitude is by no means unique to the Cheema case though — in 2015, for instance, the senior bureaucracy resisted attempts to make officers in BPS 20-22 subject to investigations by the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA).

The bureaucrats appointed to key posts in Punjab emulated the CM’s missionary zeal and micro-management within their own departments, and followed the CM Secretariat’s instructions on the implementation of policy.

Mirroring the actions of the CM, the secretary of a department would influence appointments to posts in the department’s secretariat offices and in key districts.

The secretary would be under pressure to ‘deliver’, and, in turn, he would pressure the officials working under him in secretariat offices and in the districts to ensure that targets set by the CM Secretariat were met.

In return, the CM Secretariat protected the secretary from investigations, smoothed the way for him in the implementation of policy, and ensured that, once he ‘delivered’, he moved on to a lucrative new post.

For instance, Ahad Cheema was transferred from the post of DCO Lahore when the legality of his appointment was questioned before the Lahore High Court and was appointed the director general of the Lahore Development Authority and put in charge of the Lahore MetroBus project.

And when Cheema was in charge of the Lahore MetroBus project, the CM took a personal interest in the project, pushed for its speedy completion, ensured that financing (including compensation payments) was swiftly approved, and dealt with questions regarding the project’s transparency quickly and quietly.

The dynamics between bureaucrats and the CM Secretariat allowed the former (and through him the CM Secretariat) to shape the behaviour of bureaucrats throughout the department’s hierarchy, thereby ensuring that the work of the department was transparent and merit-based, but only to the extent desired by the CM Secretariat.

When the PML-N formed the government in Punjab in 2013, the government implemented policies that regulated the recruitment and transfer of frontline staff — teachers — in the School Education Department.

Rather than allowing politicians to influence the recruitment or transfer of teaching staff for personal or electoral gains, the department decided to improve the recruitment process by computerising merit lists and displaying them publicly for candidates to check them.

In addition, the department decided to control teacher transfers by imposing a ban on all transfers during the academic year. Transfers would only be permitted during department announced transfer windows, and teachers would have to apply for a transfer by identifying an appropriate vacant post.

In my observations of bureaucrats at work in the School Education Department, however, it soon became evident that, for all the claims of merit and transparency in teacher appointments, the reality was much more mixed.

In theory, bureaucrats in the department were not permitted to entertain politicians’ requests (made either in person, on the telephone, or through parchis attached to an application form) asking them to expedite an application, to give an applicant a few extra points on his interview, or just give the applicant a job or transfer.

But, in fact, bureaucrats’ responses to sifarish varied, as per the instructions of the department secretary.

The department secretary at the time had a reputation amongst his colleagues for resisting political pressure, a function of his close ties to the CM Secretariat from a previous posting as DCO Kasur.

This connection between the CM Secretariat and the secretary of the School Education Department was critical to the regulated implementation of anti-corruption measures in the appointment of teachers.

Certainly, bureaucrats in the department offered no hope to ordinary citizens asking for jobs and teachers asking for transfers, stating that there was a policy that had to be followed, that the secretary would not bend, that things had changed as per the CM’s emphasis on merit and transparency in appointments.

A few people were given the courtesy that bureaucrats hung on to their parchis till after they had left the office, as if they really meant to at least think on their sifarish.

These applicants were junior bureaucrats or applicants whose sifarish came from politicians that bureaucrats considered insignificant to the CM Secretariat.

As soon as the door closed behind these people, the slips of paper joined the rest of the parchis on the floor under the bureaucrat’s desk.

But I observed a third category first hand — those with a sifarish from a prominent politician or bureaucrat — caused the official to sit up straight and immediately summon a member of his office staff to usher the person, parchi in hand, to the office of the secretary down the hall.

No questions or reassurances were necessary — this was a sifarish that would be fulfilled regardless of merit and transparency.

Such variations in bureaucratic behaviour came as no surprise to opposition MPAs and MNAs, nor to ruling party MNAs and MPAs, who did not have a close association with the PML-N leadership.

They were well aware that their demands for teaching jobs or transfers for their voters were not considered sufficiently pressing by the CM Secretariat and would therefore not be accommodated by officials in the School Education Department.

Their discontent sometimes arose in the form of complaints to the press regarding the CM’s disinterest in his own party’s politicians’ electoral needs, or privilege motions in the Punjab Assembly regarding bureaucratic high-handedness.

In 2017, for instance, an MPA complained through a privilege motion that the regional manager of Sui Northern Gas Pipelines Ltd in Sargodha had made him wait for an hour despite not being busy, and then responded rudely to the MPA’s queries about public works.

In another case, an MPA complained about the behaviour of a superintendent in the Communications and Works Department through a privilege motion, claiming that the officer had refused to act in accordance with the law and had said that he would not follow the law because "it has been created by those without any shame."

In both cases, the bureaucrats had to present themselves in front of the Committee on Privileges and apologise to the MPA.

Though privilege motions allow politicians to impress their dignity and position on bureaucrats by dragging them in front of the committee, and press interviews allow them an avenue to vent their grievances, the politicians I spoke to were nonetheless well aware that any sifarish they made would be subject to the rules set by the CM Secretariat.

While a sifarish from an ordinary citizen, or someone not close to the CM could be ignored, a sifarish from someone in the CM’s inner circle would be catered to immediately.

The sheer volume of appointments that go through the School Education Department’s bureaucrats (with over 400,000 employees across the province and teaching posts in such high demand) make the distinctions drawn between different kinds of sifarish particularly visible.

However, these distinctions were not unique to the School Education department — similar practices prevailed in the Higher Education Department, and likely in others as well.

They allowed the CM Secretariat and its chosen bureaucrats to maintain the veneer of reform, touting merit and transparency as its hallmarks, while consolidating power in the hands of the CM and his closest political and bureaucratic allies.

Those with access to the CM were still able to dispense patronage at will, meaning that teacher appointments continued to be politicised.

But the exclusion of ordinary citizens and some politicians and bureaucrats from government largesse allowed the CM Secretariat to claim that the government’s anti-corruption measures were producing results.

As the Punjab government became more and more centralised, entwining the party’s leadership with a small coterie of politicians and a cadre of politicised bureaucrats, excluded politicians had to either seek alternative means of satisfying their voters or convince the CM to compromise his anti-corruption measures in order to accommodate electoral realities.

Luckily for the ruling party politicians at least, political realities change and the party leaders’ priorities change with them.

With the 2018 election approaching, and the party facing a leadership crisis, the electoral calculus shifted.

Though the CM continues to advocate for merit and transparency, the PML-N government can no longer afford to ignore its politicians.

Are you a researcher or policy advocate working on government reforms? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com

• From *kirtan* to *qawwali*
• A dying connection

"Why weren’t the Muslim rubabi protected? They held such high status in Sikhism? Why were they allowed to leave East Punjab at the time of Partition?" I asked.

The question was directed at Ghulam Hussain. I was in his home, deep within the older part of Lahore, close to the shrine of Data Darbar, the city’s patron saint.

Dressed in a white shalwar kameez and maroon waistcoat, a white scarf tied around his neck, the octogenarian had only recently recovered from what had become for him a recurring sickness. He had nevertheless agreed to my request for an interview.

Behind him, the walls and cupboard were adorned with symbols of the Sikh religion — a picture of a kirpan, the Golden Temple — and numerous awards he had received from Sikh organisations over the years.

Along with them were a few Islamic symbols, including a poster with a verse from the Quran. It was February of 2014 when I met Hussain. He died in April the following year, and this was possibly his last interview.

I had searched for Ghulam Hussain for a few years, having heard that he was a descendant of Bhai Mardana, Guru Nanak’s Muslim rubabi.

Bhai Mardana played an important role in the development of the Sikh religion. Not only did he accompany Guru Nanak on his travels, he also played the rubab while Nanak sang his divinely inspired poetry.

Since their time, Muslim rubabi had been given the responsibility of performing the kirtan at gurdwaras — till the tradition was abruptly disrupted during Partition.

From kirtan to qawwali

"Everyone was only concerned about their own selves at the time," Hussain recalled.

"We were Muslims, therefore we had to leave. It did not matter if we were rubabi. What mattered was our Muslim identity. That became our only identity. In fact, a couple of our rubabi even lost their lives during the riots. My father-in-law, Bhai Moti, was one of them. He used to play tabla at a gurdwara in Patiala. Another rubabi who used to perform at Guru Amardas' gurdwara at Goindwal was also killed."

He continued, "My chacha, Bhai Chand, was a rubabi at the Golden Temple. He had three houses in Amritsar, all of which were three storeys high. He was a millionaire at that time. He used to live in Bhaiyyon ki gali, named after the rubabi family. He became a pauper in Pakistan."

Elaborating on his Sikh heritage, Hussain said his family’s ancestral gurdwara was Siyachal Sahib, which lies between Lahore and Amritsar. His father was a gyani — one who leads the congregation in prayer — who also gave lectures on Sikhism.

"My father was the gadi nasheen of the rubabi seat there, which meant I would have taken over his position eventually," he added.

But Partition changed all that.

"Not only did we lose our money, we also lost our profession," Hussain said. "While we knew the [Guru] Granth by heart, we knew nothing about being Muslim, besides the kalma. The Muslims had no interest in our profession. Thus, we began doing odd jobs — selling samosa, kheer, meat."

However, Hussain soon found a second calling in qawwali, after receiving an invitation to a performan at a local cultural organisation called Nizami Art Society.

"At one of these meetings, not many years after Partition, I was invited to perform qawwali," Hussain said.

"In those early days, I struggled because my Urdu pronunciation was weak. I couldn’t even read the script, having been trained in Gurmukhi. However, I practised and gradually mastered singing in Urdu. My financial condition also began improving."

I asked him, "How similar or different are these two traditions, of kirtan and qawwali?"

He answered, "There is an old Punjabi saying — a hundred wise men sitting together will end up saying the same thing, while in a group of a hundred fools each one will say a different thing. Bulleh Shah reiterated what Nanak said. Guru Arjan’s and Sultan Bahu’s message is the same as that of Shah Hussain. Their kalam overlaps. In fact, I would go to the extent of saying that Guru Nanak expounded the Quran. Thus, to answer your question, qawwali and kirtan are part of the same tradition."

A dying connection

But not everyone shares his view of syncretism.

Hussain’s son, sitting quietly with us as the interview progressed, suddenly jumped into the conversation.

"A few Sikhs say Mardana was nothing but a funny character in Nanak’s Janamsakhis, who was always either hungry or thirsty," he said. "I would choose to disagree. It was Mardana who brought out the divinity of Nanak. It was for Mardana that Nanak turned sweet the bitter fruit of a Kekkar tree."

Hussain had a personal story of his own about Mardana’s importance in the history of Sikhism. "Once, before Partition, my father was at Gurdwara Panja Sahib in Hassanabdal," he said.

"He was in the sacred pool taking dips when one Sikh got offended and complained to the office. He accused my father of polluting the water. My father was summoned to the office. When questioned why he had taken a dip in the water, he asked the official, 'Who did Nanak create this pool for? To quench Mardana’s thirst. This is, therefore, Mardana’s pool and I being a rubabi am his descendant. Now let me ask this question, who are you to claim ownership over this pool?'"

He let out a loud chuckle at the end of this story, but quickly became serious as he spoke of his visit to India and to the Golden Temple in 2005 — for the first time after Partition. "I wanted to perform at the Golden Temple," he said.

"My family had performed there for seven generations. We are the descendants of Bhai Sadha and Madha, who were appointed at the Golden Temple by Guru Tegh Bahadur. Such was our honour that we used to receive a share from the offerings at the shrine, which was then equally distributed among all the rubabi families. Throughout Sikh history, the rubabis have displayed their loyalty to the gurus. It was Bhai Bavak, a rubabi with Guru Hargobind, who rescued his daughter, Bibi Veera, from the Turks, when no other Sikh dared cross into their territory."

But Hussain’s wish to perform at the gurdwara was not to be fulfilled.

"Our family has a deep connection with the Golden Temple but now it has become extremely difficult for a rubabi to perform kirtan there. The officials there told me only Amritdhari could perform there," he said, referring to Sikhs who have been initiated or baptised by taking amrit or "nectar water".

He added, "I wanted to tell those officials that my ancestors had been performing kirtan here before Gobind Rai became Guru Gobind Singh. There is no tradition of any rubabi ever converting out of Islam. When the gurus never asked us to become Sikhs, then what right did these officials have?"

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

• What the law says
• Recognising convicts on bail as a risk to society
• How gaps in the law leave victims vulnerable
• US federal courts have held that no right to bail exists where charges against a defendant indicate a strong threat to society and where a defendant poses a threat to a key witness.¹
• However, the notion that persons convicted of a crime of neglect against a minor child under their care are roaming free, and that too on the submission of a paltry surety bond of Rs50,000 each is concerning.
• Pakistani law has not developed jurisprudence focused on convicts/accused being required to prove and establish that they do not pose a substantial risk of harm and safety to the public and/or the victims.

Last Tuesday, the Islamabad High Court (IHC) sentenced additional district and sessions judge Raja Khurram Ali Khan and his wife Maheen Zafar to one year in prison for neglecting their 10-year-old maid, Tayyaba.

The case had sparked outrage in December 2016, as it brought to further light the rampant but often ignored illegal practice of child labour abuse.

At one point, the Supreme Court had to intervene suo motu to set aside the convicts’ compromise with the accused.

The IHC held that the evidence exhibited beyond a shadow of a doubt that under Section 328-A of the Pakistan Penal Code, the convicts "neglected and/ or willfully harmed and abandoned Mst. Tayyaba Bibi which resulted in harm to her or had the potential of causing harm."

The IHC did not find sufficient evidence to convict on other charges (wrongful confinement, criminal intimidation, shajjah-i-khafifah and damihah etc; classifications of physical harm, or hurt, defined by the Pakistan Penal Code).

It can be reasonably inferred that the convicts were convicted under Section 328-A due to the specific crime requiring a lower threshold of culpability.

What the law says

A reading of the section demonstrates that an accused’s act of omission, which has the potential to injure a child by causing psychological injury, may be punishable by imprisonment.

Within a few hours of the verdict, however, the IHC accepted the convicts’ application to suspend their sentences and granted them post-conviction bail against surety bonds of Rs50,000.

The accused were given seven days to appeal the verdict. During the seven days, the accused were released on bail, not in jail and were free to roam in public with no restrictions.

Today, the division bench of the IHC suspended the IHC's one-year sentence, and adjourned the next date of hearing till the second week of May.

The appellate bench’s rationale for suspending the original IHC verdict is not yet clear. Questions remain unanswered.

However, the whole matter highlights an unnoticed disturbing fact: courts granting bail after conviction in potential matters of public safety.

Section 426 (2-A) of the Pakistan Criminal Procedure Code (CrPC) empowers a court to exercise its discretion to suspend a convict’s sentence under certain circumstances pending appeal, while allowing a convict to be released on bail.

The period during which a convict’s sentence is suspended and the convict is released on bail is excluded from the total period of sentence the convict has to eventually undergo.

Recognising convicts on bail as a risk to society

The legal remedy of bail pending appeal after conviction is not exclusive to Pakistan. It is a well-recognised doctrine throughout the world.

Since the defendant's conviction rebuts the prior presumption of innocence, the defendant bears the difficult burden of convincing a court to grant an appeal bond after conviction. Courts throughout the world are careful in entertaining such bail applications.

For example, under the United States federal criminal law, a defendant’s eligibility for bail after conviction depends on whether the defendant poses a flight risk, a safety concern and/or whether the defendant’s appeal raises substantial questions that offer the prospect of success.

US federal courts have held that no right to bail exists where charges against a defendant indicate a strong threat to society and where a defendant poses a threat to a key witness.¹

Individual states within the US, which have their own laws, often prohibit bail after convictions for certain serious offences, which include child abuse or neglect.²

English jurisprudence is similar to the extent that bail is only granted in exceptional circumstances, such as where the merits of the case are overwhelming (e.g., good past behaviour, strength of case on appeal) or where the applicant will otherwise have served his sentence before the appeal can be heard.

In Pakistan, the model is somewhat similar. Interpreting Section 426 of the CrPC (except for 1-A), the SC has held that bail pending appeal is not allowed unless it is shown that the conviction was based on no evidence, based on inadmissible evidence or that it is ultimately not sustainable.³

A court examining suspension of sentence/bail application is only required to tentatively assess the evidence, as the court is not deciding the innocence or guilt of the convict.

Therefore, an appellate court through a cursory glance ascertains whether there exist strong grounds for suspension of judgment.

High courts have granted bail after convictions in certain fact-patterns that showcase glaring errors on the surface (e.g., appeal not disposed of even after expiry of three years,⁴ glaring contradiction in trial record as to arrest,⁵ accused having gone through significant portion of sentence,⁶ no overt act attributed to accused in the First Information Report⁷ and prosecution suppressing evidence).⁸

How gaps in the law leave victims vulnerable

Interestingly, there is no real jurisprudence in Pakistan on a convict’s bail being linked with safety risk, threat to the society or threat to victims or witnesses.

In 1999, the SC, without getting into the merits of a convict’s case, granted bail on the basis that the convict’s sentence, which was increased from three to five years, was fit for exercising discretion of bail in favour of the convict.⁹

Although the SC did not address it, the fact that the convict was convicted for criminal breach of trust (as opposed to a more heinous crime) may have played a part in the granting of bail without getting into the merits of the case.

In light of the above and otherwise, high courts within Pakistan have exercised suspension of sentences/bail application on a liberal basis where original sentences are short.

High courts have cited the aforementioned SC judgment to suspend various kinds of short sentences that span up to five years (e.g., mischief, carrying unlicensed firearms & bribery) whereby the hearing of the appeal would take some time.¹⁰

While the rhetoric on the surface is sound (i.e., short sentences are related to crimes of a less heinous nature), it is not entirely applicable towards the Tayyaba case.

The judge and his wife were sentenced to a short term imprisonment (i.e., one year) and reportedly have no criminal history. Their appeal was theoretically accepted by the division bench due to flaws apparent on the surface in the original IHC verdict.

However, the notion that persons convicted of a crime of neglect against a minor child under their care are roaming free, and that too on the submission of a paltry surety bond of Rs50,000 each is concerning.

With the acceptance of bail, the victim and her family may be exposed to potential threats by the convicts.

This is especially in light of the fact that the apex court in 2017 set aside a coerced compromise agreement between the victim and the accused, along with the chief justice of the SC insisting that there was no doubt that a criminal act had been committed.

Furthermore, since the appeal has now been entertained within seven days, it could not have been argued that bail last week was granted due to an uncertain time-frame for the appeal.

Courts, in deciding whether to suspend a sentence and to grant an appeal bond, must take into account various factors.

This includes the exact nature of the crime, whether there is a substantial risk that the convict will pose a danger to others in the community, whether there is a substantial risk the convict will intimidate the victims/witnesses and whether it appears that the appeal is filed only for the purpose of causing delay.

Pakistani law has not developed jurisprudence focused on convicts/accused being required to prove and establish that they do not pose a substantial risk of harm and safety to the public and/or the victims.

Instead, a suspension of sentence/grant of bail is based primarily on the merits of the convict’s case, the time-frame of appeal and a de facto statutory reading of the term of sentence.

Such standards of law, while beneficial, do not address the underlying adverse consequences of post-conviction bail, as showcased by the Tayyaba case.

For now, the victim, through the operation of law, stands potentially vulnerable in more ways than one.

¹Bail, 45 Geo. L.J. Ann. Rev. Crim. Proc. 383, 407 (2016)

²§ 31:3. Release pending appeal, Tn. Criminal Trial Practice § 31:3 (2017-2018 ed.)

³2007 SCMR 246, Supreme Court of Pakistan (Javed Hashmi v. the State)

⁴1999 MLD 351

⁵1991 P Cr. L.J. 1352

⁶2006 YLR1211

⁷PLD 2008 Lah. 306

⁸2006 P.Cr. L.J. 749

⁹1999 SCMR 2589, Supreme Court of Pakistan (Abdul Hameed v. Muhammad Abdullah)

¹⁰2005 PCr. LJ 657, Sindh High Court, Karachi (Nazeer Ahmed v. State), 2017 YLR Note 241, Sindh High Court and 2016 YLR 2600, Sindh High Court

Are you a lawyer or public policy expert working on issues related to justice reform? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com

Just as I’m about to enter Shah Hussain’s 16th-century shrine in Baghbanpura, Lahore, I scan for a lone tomb to offer a prayer, only to find a pair next to each other — one of Shah Hussain and one of Madhu Laal — and both marked with a single emblem reading, "Sakhi Sarkar Madhu Laal Hussain."

Baffled at the sight, I had to halt and contemplate over this rather odd finding, reminiscing about Shah Hussain’s own words on the trials of love and separation:

Man atkeya beparwah de nal
Us deen duni de shah de nal

My soul is entangled with the indifferent one
Lord of all things visible and invisible

For many, these words denote one’s infatuation with God, but on a second thought, I think about how these verses might have been a double entendre, encapsulating the love of two human beings, Madhu Laal and Shah Hussain.

The two conflicting personalities, both socially and economically, later combined into one singular being, defying all social statures and norms — Madhu Laal Hussain.

In another instance, I hear some familiar verses being sung from a distance:

Maye ni main kinnu aakhan
Dard vichoray da haal ni
Dukhan di roti, soolan da saalan
Aahein da baalan baal ni
Jungle belay phirann dhoondandi
Ajjey na payonn laal ni

Oh my Mother, whom shall I tell my torments of separation?
Bread of despair, with a curry of thorns
Kindles a fire of cries in me
I have wandered forests and deserts
But not found that ruby stone [the Beloved]

Lamenting his mother's early demise and the separation in meticulously chosen words is not a task undertaken by some ordinary man.

These are the heart-wrenching texts of Shah Hussain, who neither belonged to a direct lineage of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) nor a wealthy merchant household, but to a low caste Muslim weaver family.

He was endowed with two highly proclaimed names in Islam, Shah and Hussain — Shah referring to a ruler, and Hussain, to the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, but these "given" names had little significance for the poet himself. He preferred to be called a fakir — shunning all worldly possessions.

Kahe Hussain faqeer numanha, theewan khaak daware di

Says Hussain the worthless fakir, I am the dust on your doorstep

After spending years learning the teachings of the Holy Quran and what his sheikh would refer to as the "true path" towards salvation, Shah Hussain was quick to realise that mere rituals do not reveal the true essence of God.

Attaining a state of ecstasy was a lifelong pursuit of the Divine truth and could not be salvaged through a mullah’s orthodoxy. In his own words, he once said:

Qazi mullah matti dainde, kharay siyyane rah dasende, ishq kee lagay rah de nal

Judges and clerics are full of advice, the righteous and wise show you the path, but love itself needs no guidance

Shah Hussain’s life took a turn when he came across a Brahmin Hindu boy, Madhu Laal, riding a horse from Shahdara, across the river Ravi. Shah Hussain followed the boy back to his town, overwhelmed by the feeling of love and enchantment. The locals started to refer them both as one entity.

The bond between the two went so deep that Shah Hussain put his name after his beloved's, becoming Madhu Laal Hussain. Beyond the personal bonding of the two, Shah Hussain's union with Madhu was a metaphor for the people's unity in South Asia — negating all religious and social institutions through their mode of life.

Shah Hussain spent the second half of his life under Akbar’s rule, during which, the Mughal capital was moved to Lahore (1584-1599). According to historical accounts, Prince Saleem, who later ruled under the name of Jahangir, ordered one of his officials to write a diary of whatever Shah Hussain did or said every day.

Some argue this was done due to reverence while others claim that it was to keep an eye on him because of Hussain’s large following and outright denial of religious orthodoxy.

Today, the death anniversary (urs) of Hazrat Madhu Laal Hussain is celebrated with full fervour at his shrine, adjacent to the Shalimar Gardens.

The urs and the mela (festival) were two separate events, one carried out at the shrine and the other in the Shalimar Gardens, until they were both combined into one, Mela Chiraghan (Festival of Lamps), by Ranjit Singh.

The spring mela, revered by the Hindus, and the urs, celebrated by the Muslims, signified union and harmony among the two faiths when combined into one celebration — remembering the bond of Shah Hussain and Madhu Laal.

The shrine is marked by a massive "fire well" which is lit throughout the urs by the devotees using wax, oil, wood and cotton. Visitors mark their presence by adding to the already lit fire or by igniting cotton lamps decorated all over the shrine complex.

The massive fire from the well keeps most of the devotees at a distance except for the few devout dervishes that perform dhamaal next to it. The dervishes refer to the fire of devotion ignited in their hearts by the sufi saint that shields their inner self from the exterior distractions, the literal fire.

The festival, much like the fire, has been a continuous affair for centuries. During Ranjit Singh’s rule in 18th century, the emperor would lead a procession from his palace to the shrine barefoot, accompanied by thousands of Sikhs, Muslims, and Hindus.

Held on March 24 this year, Mela Chiraghan is still regarded as the biggest festival of Punjab, both east and west, and has been a symbol of love, devotion, harmony and defiance of social customs.

Even though the Mela holds immense significance for Lahoris, the teachings of Madhu Laal Hussain continue to spread throughout South Asia, especially over the last four decades through the saint’s kafi form of Punjabi poetry, featuring four to five stanzas.

These kafis have been popularised by a diverse set of musicians, including Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Abida Parveen, Hamid Ali Bela, Noor Jehan and Junoon.

Recalling the story of these two lovers at their shrine, I start to realise the immense significance of this revered sufi. His poetry on love and devotion speaks to millions, but what about the relationship between Shah Hussain and Madhu Laal?

Since Partition, the religious plurality of the two has become a far-fetched idea in Pakistan today, something deemed too elusive at a time when Islam in Pakistan is not only at crossroads within itself, but in conflict with monotheism in South Asia as well.

Apart from learning devotion and losing of "self" to attain a path towards God, Madhu Laal Hussain, shows us that, perhaps, Muslims and Hindus can live — and thrive — in complete harmony, as they have for many centuries.

Have you experienced places or events of religious or cultural significance? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

• A city transformed
• Ganga Ram and Lahore

As I entered the samadhi of Sir Ganga Ram in Lahore, I took out my phone to photograph the small yellow, domed structure standing on one side of a vast enclosure.

I managed to sneak in a couple of photographs before a middle-aged man jumped up from his chair under the shade of a tree near the building, wagged his finger, and asked me to stop.

He was a government official posted here to look after the memorial where the ashes of the philanthropist who designed and built several of Lahore’s landmarks are interred.

Indeed, his tenure as the executive engineer of Lahore towards the end of the 19th century and beginning of the 20th century, is now referred to as the "Ganga Ram architectural period".

Traveling around Pakistan, I have become accustomed to the attitude of government officials at historical structures. I have often been barred from photographing these buildings.

Sometimes, the officials relent when I tell them I need the photographs for a journalistic assignment, but even that does not always work.

This official was adamant. He told me to go to the office of the Evacuee Trust Property Board, the department responsible for looking after the abandoned properties of non-Muslims in Pakistan, including temples and gurdwaras, and return with permission to take photographs. I did not do so as I already had a few pictures of the samadhi from one of my earlier visits.

But I continue to be baffled by the government’s policy of not allowing people to photograph some historical structures that it is in charge of.

An old man who lives in a hut behind the samadhi, within its enclosure, walked up to me and gave me a guided a tour. He told me how the entire enclosure had been encroached upon.

It had housed several refugees of Partition till the 1980s, when the government decided to take charge and renovate the structure. Only one house was permitted — that of the old man, as he was given the responsibility of guarding the building.

He told me how, in the name of renovation, a pool that was constructed along with the samadhi, was also filled with earth, becoming the courtyard upon which we now stood. The walls outside were painted, while marble was laid on the floor and on the building’s interior walls.

The samadhi stood at the centre of a hall. It was a little platform tiled with marble, one side of which bore a brief history of Ganga Ram, along with his photograph in which he wore a suit and a hat. He died in London in 1927.

A city transformed

Lahore, in the middle of the 19th century, was not the city we know today. For almost half a century it had served as the political capital of the Khalsa empire, but it was far from the provincial capital it was under the Mughals.

Its dilapidated Mughal mausoleums and remains of the vast Mughal gardens that were unkempt and encroached upon reflected a lost glory.

Under Maharaja Ranjit Singh, Lahore’s neighbouring city, Amritsar, had emerged as the economic hub of the empire. In the first comprehensive census of British India in 1881, the population of Lahore was 149,000 compared to 152,000 of Amritsar.

The city transformed under the colonial state that used it as a symbol of its imperial power. A narrative was crafted, of a city rising from the ashes of its Mughal past. After the turn of the century, Lahore became one of the largest cities of the Indian subcontinent.

It became a city of migrants. According to the 1911 census, 46.3 percent of its residents were those who were not born in the district.

Ganga Ram and Lahore

In many ways, the story of Ganga Ram is the story of Lahore, a city that he helped transform into the symbol of the colonial state. He too was a migrant who, after acquiring a degree in engineering, migrated to the city for better economic opportunities.

This is a time when the colonial state, in the aftermath of the war of 1857, was redefining itself. The British increasingly began appropriating indigenous Indian symbols of authority to present continuity between former empires of India and the new British Empire.

Architecture played a pivotal role in this depiction, and led to the emergence of the Indo- Saracenic tradition. In this architectural approach, an effort was made by the colonial state to incorporate traditional structural techniques with colonial architecture.

This was a conscious effort to depict British symbols of authority in traditional visual forms for the local populace to marvel at.

Architecture was a powerful propaganda tool at the hands of the colonial state.

Lahore, along with other major cities of British India, served as the canvas upon which this narrative was painted.

The Lahore High Court, the museum, Post Office Building, Aitchison College, the Anglican Cathedral, and National College of Arts are a few of the several examples constructed following this hybrid tradition.

In these structures, balconies, columns and watchtowers, interact with domes, chattris (canopies), arches and screens.

In Lahore, all of these iconic structures were raised by Ganga Ram. Working with the colonial state, he transformed the landscape of the city to reflect the glory of this new empire.

A new city, even more glorious than the former, had been raised from the debris of its Mughal past. Lahore had a new master and its architecture was a testimony to this fact.

In many ways, the Lahore of today is a continuation of this colonial city. It continues to serve as a symbol of the state. Its Metro Bus and now the Orange Line projects are meant to be stamps of authority.

Ganga Ram helped build this narrative. He transformed the city into a proverb that it continues to be. The Lahore of today owes much more to Ganga Ram than it would care to admit.

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

• Rising debt
• Rigid tax structure
• Trade and deficit
• Agriculture sector and policies

Since the restoration of democracy in 2008, Pakistan has witnessed extensive constitutional and economic reforms, the main ones being the 18th Amendment, National Financial Commission (NFC) 2010, Benazir Income Support Program (BISP), Kisaan Package and of course the China Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC).

While the 18th Amendment and the BISP were feathers in the Pakistan People’s Party’s cap despite their turbulent five years in government from 2008-13, the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz has never shied from brandishing their credentials when it comes to megaprojects.

As the outgoing government presents its budget on April 27, 2018, it’s pertinent to survey Pakistan’s economic performance in the last 10 years and see some of the most persistent trends in the country’s economy, no matter the party in charge.

This is part 1 of a two-part series looking back at the last 10 years of Pakistan's economic performance. Read part 2 here.

Rising debt

Domestic debt increased by five times and external debt by 1.4 times in between 2009 and 2018

Servicing of debt is an overarching theme of the Pakistani economy. Despite the government’s self-congratulatory claims, the fact remains that the entire paradigm of economic development continues to be underpinned by debts and subsidies.

CPEC is very much going to perpetuate the paradigm, as well as the defence budget, which weighs heavily as ever on the public exchequer.

Rigid tax structure

Pakistan’s taxation system continues to be rigid and reliant on indirect taxes. The ratio of direct versus indirect taxes remained around 38:62 in last 10 years.

Of those direct taxes, more than 60 percent are collected as withholding taxes, which are easy to collect and monitor and therefore betray government inaction when it comes to diversifying the tax net.

Finance Minister Ishaq Dar has been generous in relaxing the tax rate for direct taxation. While corporate tax rates and salaried tax rate were reduced, and exemption limits were raised at the same time, indirect taxes were increased. Most indirect taxes were added to the goods and services with inelastic demands such as electricity and gas.

The main issue with indirect taxes is that they lead to higher inflation as they are added to the cost of a product.

One of Dar's most contentious decisions was the imposition of withholding tax on withdrawal of cash from bank accounts. It led to a crisis of deposits and the percentage of total deposits declined from 27.6 to 25 percent right after it was introduced.

As for the provinces, the service sector makes up around 55 percent of the economy. With the General Sales Tax (GST) devolved to the provinces after the 18th Amendment, taxation on services had increased scope. Unsurprisingly, GST on services constitutes major chunk of provincial revenue.

But with majority of tax revenue dependent on a single source, the provinces are not making significant effort to reform and expand the tax net.

The tax mix of the provinces shows an overriding reliance on indirect taxes, which leads to inflation, and the same is likely to continue in future.

Agriculture tax can be one of the most significant sources of tax revenue for the provinces, but remains untapped — as it has been since the Government of India Act of both 1919 and 1935.

In fact, the agriculture sector is heavily subsidised and more so when the PPP comes to power, which helps the landed elite. The subsidies are 20-25 times higher than the income tax collected from this sector.

Trade and deficit

Pakistan’s exports are constrained by product and market non-diversification. 60-70 percent of the country's exports come from a handful of products. With the passage of time, Pakistani products have also lost their competitiveness.

Pakistan was in a serious balance of payments crisis in 2009 when the current account deficit was as high as 5.5 percent of GDP.

But the PML-N was fortunate to get Generalised Scheme of Preferences Plus status in 2013 and managed to bring down the trade and current account deficits.

Agriculture sector and policies

During the PPP government, the price of wheat doubled due to its insistence on increasing the support price for wheat. This resulted in overall food inflation and increased hardship for the poorer segments of the society.

Support price is an incentive given to producers or growers that the government guarantees to purchase their output at a price set by the state.

The PML-N, on the other hand, did not allow the level of support price to fluctuate. It also directed the subsidies to tubewells, electricity, fertilisers, seeds, etc.

In September 2015, the prime minister announced the Kisaan Package worth Rs341 billion, which included benefits in terms of tax reduction on agriculture machinery from 45 percent to nine percent, reduction in sales tax from 17 percent to seven percent on cold chain machinery, tax holidays and mark up-free loans for farmers with less than 12.5 acres of land holding.

Due to input subsidies instead of support price subsidies, the PML-N managed to control food price inflation. Nonetheless, the overall structure of agriculture subsidies in Pakistan is inefficient and does not work to reduce inequality and support poor farmers.

Subsidies are based on number of units consumed, which implies marginal piece of the pie for small farmers, as their consumption of electricity, fertilisers and seeds is very little.

Large farmers, on the other hand, use more fertilisers, tubewells, electricity and machinery imports and therefore enjoy larger subsidies.

• Subsidies
• Restructuring the National Finance Commission
• Welfare and safety nets

Since the restoration of democracy in 2008, Pakistan has witnessed extensive constitutional and economic reforms, the main ones being the 18th Amendment, National Financial Commission (NFC) 2010, Benazir Income Support Program (BISP), Kisaan Package and of course the China Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC).

While the 18th Amendment and the BISP were feathers in the Pakistan People’s Party’s cap despite their turbulent five years in government from 2008-13, the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz has never shied from brandishing their credentials when it comes to megaprojects.

As the outgoing government presents its budget today, it’s pertinent to survey Pakistan’s economic performance in the last 10 years and see some of the most persistent trends in the country’s economy, no matter the party in charge.

This piece concludes a two-part series looking back at the last 10 years of Pakistan's economic performance. Read part 1 here.

Subsidies

The power sector continued to enjoy heavy subsidies throughout the tenures of both the PPP and the PML-N. This was by far the most subsidised sector of all, receiving 96 percent of total subsidies provided by the government at one point.

Given the pattern, it is unlikely that the support to the power sector will waver any time soon. Fewer funds, therefore, would be available for other areas.

Restructuring the National Finance Commission

In 2010, the PPP government brought landmark changes to the NFC award in order to address grievances and the pervading sense of deprivation among the smaller provinces of Pakistan.

The most important move in this direction was the structural shift towards multiple criteria of distribution of finances, rather than just population alone, which formed the basis of previous awards.

Poverty, area, and revenue collection and generation were added to the mix, which benefits provinces other than Punjab.

Punjab’s share will further decline after the results of the 2017 census, while funds for the other provinces will increase further.

However, provinces are not bound to allocate money for social welfare programmes. Even though poverty is one criteria of distribution of the NFC award, social welfare expenditures by the provinces have been unimpressive.

Karachi continues to be a contentious point. Despite being the biggest contributor to taxes at both the provincial and federal level, as well as the country's most populous city, Karachi’s share in allocated funds is negligible, which does little to ease political, social and ethnic tensions in the metropolis.

Welfare and safety nets

In 2009, the PPP government announced a well-acknowledged framework of social welfare for the country’s poor in the form of the Benazir Income Support Program (BISP).

Initially a monthly cash grant of Rs1,000, the amount given out under the programme was increased in subsequent budgets to Rs1,200 and then Rs1,500.

The system of payments has been computerised and transactions are facilitated through the BISP card, which works just like an ATM card.

Though the BISP should remain in place, it has a few loose ends that need to be tied up.

For one, the BISP has no graduation strategy. A beneficiary in 2009 is still a beneficiary today, likely to be one in 2030, and will remain in poverty.

This is because the grants are inadequate if we are to lift its beneficiaries out of poverty. The main reason is that the grants are worth less and less every year because they do not keep pace with inflation.

Continuous resource allocation for the same person for years on end also constrains the government’s ability to widen the scope of the grant for others. This calls for an objective reconsideration of the programme.

For example, the transfers under the BISP are unconditional at the moment but, in future, they can easily be linked with some conditions such as health vaccination from government hospitals and sending children to government schools, as is the case with a social programme in Mexico called PROGRESA.

• Cyber security
• Why is data important?
• Data security is personal security
• Need for laws
• Next steps

The recent notification from Careem to its customers regarding the hacking of its database of users and Captains raises various concerns about how much we can trust technology companies with our critical personal information, and what the next steps should be.

Careem is a ride-hailing mobile phone app that makes moving around urban areas convenient in cars owned and often driven by contractors or individuals that share the profit with the company. The company is based in Dubai, UAE and was founded by two former McKinsey consultants, one of whom is Pakistani.

In order to register as a Captain or a customer of Careem, one has to share details such as full name, telephone number, email address, and by virtue of using the app, addresses of all the locations one frequents regularly. The application also supports adding a credit card as an alternative to cash payments.

On April 23, 2018, Careem in an "Important security announcement" via email and its website informed customers that "on January 14th of this year, we became aware that online criminals gained access to our computer systems which hold customer and Captain account data".

The hack affected user data of over 14 million users and 558,880 Captains in the 13 countries and 90 cities that Careem operates in.

According to Careem’s announcement, the data acquired by hackers includes names, email addresses, phone numbers and trip data of customers.

They have stated that credit card information on the app is secured by "an external third-party PCI-compliant server" that "uses highly secure protocols".

Perhaps similar protocols should be implemented for the rest of the data at Careem as well.

Cyber security

Careem acknowledged in its announcement that no company is completely immune from cyber attacks, and that is true as far as the evolving nature of technology that enables these attacks is concerned.

It is, however, concerning that Careem announced this data hack more than three months after it had been intercepted, apparently because the company "wanted to make sure they are providing the most accurate information before notifying people."

But the company has provided very little specific information other than the type of data that was breached and when it happened.

Perhaps Careem had learnt from the backlash its rival Uber faced last year after it was exposed for hiding a breach of data of over 57 million users and drivers and paying hackers $100,000 to delete data and to keep silent about it. The Chief Security Officer of the company was also fired.

Careem only asked customers to reset passwords, monitor their credit card activity, and not click on links in emails they do not recognise three months later.

This is key advice that the company should have given their customers as soon as they discovered the hack.

The risk the company put its customers through during this time merits scrutiny and calls for corporate accountability.

Why is data important?

Data is now being tipped as “the new gold”, as companies pay millions to acquire it from those that have access to it.

It is data that forms the backbone of the most profitable companies in the world such as Facebook and Google which rely on analysis of users' personal data that companies then use to target advertisements.

The hackers who attacked the Careem data server are likely to have the objective of selling this data to other companies interested in data.

The company has so far not identified the hackers, or informed users if the hacked data has been deleted, so it can be assumed that the data of 14 million Careem users is currently in the data black market.

Data security is personal security

The hacked data could be misused in several ways, and further threatens the safety of Careem users, because it includes critical information on the movement patterns of its users, including home and work addresses and other regularly visited locations.

Access to such information can expose users to risks of criminal threats such as burglary, mugging and kidnapping, as well as potentially endanger activists, journalists and political workers.

Further, it has the potential to make women in particular more vulnerable.

Need for laws

Careem has promised to continue to strengthen its information systems, but customers and governments both need to hold the company accountable to higher standards of information security as any breach in information systems impacts us.

Whereas the data hack took place on Careem servers based at its headquarters in Dubai, the Prevention of Electronic Crimes Act 2016 criminalises interference with information systems and data under sections 3 to 8 in Pakistan.

However, there are currently no laws in Pakistan that protect individuals' data, despite Article 14 of the Constitution guaranteeing that "dignity of man, and subject to law, the privacy of home, shall be inviolable".

There is a need for legislators and courts to consider the right to privacy in the realm of the internet where vast amounts of data on each citizen is stored.

A recommendation for the federal government to make regulations to provide for “privacy and protection of data of subscribers” exists in Article 43 (2)(e) of the Electronic Transactions Ordinance 2002, but little has been done in this regard.

The current IT ministry has talked about a prospective data protection bill, but none has been introduced in parliament, and Pakistan does not have a privacy commission so far.

Next steps

On an individual level, it is important for users to be aware of the associated risks of using technologies that make our life more convenient, and the ways in which our personal data can be misused for profits and ulterior motives.

Hence, steps must be taken to secure our information as much as possible by setting strong passwords, ensuring that a different password is used for each account, two-step verification enabled for all accounts that offer the option, screen locks turned on for phones, and minimal information shared on social media.

Additionally, if one uses the Careem app regularly, it would be helpful for safety reasons to change frequent routes from time to time so no single easily traceable pattern is identifiable, and changing drop off and pick up locations to walkable distances rather than the exact location of residence or work.

On a corporate level, Careem should, as promised, implement stricter cyber security protocols, similar to those used by financial companies, in order to value and protect personal information of customers and Captains.

Companies should inform customers of data breaches in time in order to protect them rather than waiting for investigations as that can tarnish the credibility of the company.

On an official level, the government must ensure that data protection and privacy laws are put in place to provide legal relief to citizens whose personal information is misused or breached not only by technology companies, but also mobile phone service providers, hospitals, schools, banks, public relations companies and so on.

Further, the government should set standards and protocols of cyber security for all corporations and organisations without which they should not be allowed to deal with personal information of citizens.

A privacy commission should be set up that citizens can access easily in the event of breach of data.

Whereas customers will continue to use services that make life convenient, they should at the very least be making an informed decision when divulging personal information to companies, and at the same time, both citizens and the government should hold these companies accountable to higher standards of safety when dealing with private information.

Are you an information security expert working in Pakistan? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com

From where I sit in my wheelchair, the world seems a pretty insensitive place to a differently-abled person’s plight.

I became paralysed from the neck down following a car accident in 2002 on the Lahore-Islamabad motorway. My sister, who was in the car with me, lost her life on that fateful day.

The subsequent professional nursing care that I received was severely inadequate. Sandbags and neck collars to stabilise the neck were unavailable at hospitals.

Unable to talk after a badly done operation, my main way of communication was by blinking. To get the attention of sleeping nurses, I would often bite on my ventilator tube to stop the oxygen supply and set off the alarm.

Lack of proper paramedic care left me with little chance of any substantial recovery. But subsequent rehab treatment in Aylesbury, England provided me with a ray of hope, with excellent nursing care and accessibility of wheelchair users to all socioeconomic backgrounds helping in my rehabilitation.

Editorial: Rights of the disabled

I came back to Pakistan with a renewed sense of hope and determination, and tried to not let circumstances dictate my life.

However, it soon became apparent that I would not be able to enjoy the basic comforts of life due to lack of access to buildings for wheelchair users.

I was routinely inconvenienced in going to school, clinics, weddings, movies, restaurants, stores, banks etc. due to the lack of ramps and lifts for those in a wheelchair.

Far too often, my access was dependent on whether good Samaritans and/or staff would help carry me up the steps.

Never mind the fact that being physically lifted each time created a health hazard for me, as I was exposed to further injuries and paralysis.

I spoke out on print and digital media about my story, and the importance of making sure access for the differently-abled was included in building plans.

However, without tangible ways to effectuate my goals, the media and the public’s initial enthusiasm naturally waned with time.

My impatience grew, and recently, I engaged with a civil advocacy law firm to explore this subject.

Much to my surprise, I discovered that the Lahore Development Authority (LDA) had mandatory tailor-made provisions for differently-abled persons in public buildings.

Regulation 6.2.3 of the LDA Building and Zoning Regulations 2007 states that:

In all commercial buildings, public buildings and apartments a ramp of minimum 6-feet width and having maximum gradient of 1:6 should be provided. In case of non-provisions of lifts, each floor should be accessible through this ramp. A toilet for disabled must also be provided.

Needless to say, this provision has not been implemented by the LDA, nor has it been adopted by commercial/public buildings and apartments.

Most places do not have ramps for wheelchair users. The seldom presence of wheelchair ramps is often an afterthought and, as a result, poorly designed and promoted.

Read next: This child with a learning disability was expelled from school

I have yet to see a single toilet within the LDA’s jurisdiction (or otherwise) that accommodates “disabled” persons.

A few restaurants in recent times have been generous to build ramps (or have portable ramps) after I highlighted the issue to them.

I authored letters to the LDA on behalf of the marginalised wheelchair community, imploring them to implement their own regulations.

After the initial forwarding of my letter to the concerned department for action, there was the predictable lack of correspondence afterwards.

My impatience reached fever pitch, and I was constrained to personally visit the LDA head office in Johar Town, Lahore.

Upon entering the head office (through a ramp), I was directed to go to the first floor to meet the concerned LDA officials.

There was only one problem: there was no functioning lift to take me to the first floor. The irony was not lost on me.

Upstairs, my colleagues had to speak on my behalf to the officials, and I was left out of meaningful discourse (barring one official coming down to see me later).

While the officials acknowledged the legitimate grievances to my colleagues, they used insubstantial reasons to justify the lack of past and current enforcement.

This included stating that the regulations did not apply to buildings that were made before 2008 (notwithstanding the fact that the regulations were written as applicable to all buildings irrespective of construction date) and that the enforcement required a lot of surveying man-power, which required extensive preparation and time (notwithstanding the fact that the regulations have existed for 10 years).

Also read: Angels in adversity

We exited the building with a semblance of hope and expectation. However, recent communications with the LDA have been met with muffled concern, as they have showcased lack of urgency on their part.

Apart from sending notices to the buildings identified by us, no documentary evidence has been shared to demonstrate substantial overhaul.

This is notwithstanding the fact that it is an open secret that LDA regulations have been violated for the past decade with impunity, with little to no action taken.

I am cautiously optimistic that the LDA will take concrete action in the near future on my rather simple demands.

Access to buildings in a safe and secure manner is a gateway for wheelchair users in their pursuit of life, liberty and happiness.

This does not just impact quadriplegic wheelchair users such as myself, but also other people having to use wheelchairs, such as persons suffering from amputation, arthritis, cerebral palsy, multiple-sclerosis, post-polio syndrome, back disorders and old-age weaknesses.

The state has systematically made wheelchair users feel invisible, unwanted and unwelcome as a part of its fabric.

With the continual lack of facilities for wheelchair users to access buildings, we as a marginalised community have been systematically deprived of meaningful access to basic healthcare, education, employment and enjoyment of life.

With lack of enforcement by bodies regulating buildings over the past decade, one would think that the courts of law would be a decent avenue for enforcement of rights.

However, far too often, public interest petitions seeking for enforcement of differently-abled persons’ rights become muddled with various state entities seeking time to respond.

This ultimately leads to a slow decay of interest in such cases, with little to no progress.

The last ray of hope, for better or worse, is the LDA developing a conscience and acting on its own volition. We, the wheelchair users, are at the LDA’s mercy.

Access for us is not just about putting in ramps, but without ramps, we have no gateway to a meaningful life.

Have you ever felt marginalised by society owing to your disabilities? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

I’ve always been fascinated by the desert. The idea of a giant land of distant horizons, framed by a flawless canopy of blue sky, and complete silence.

In my mind, being in a desert is like existing in a vacuum — no beginning, no end, and nothing around but space.

A perfect, silent void.

Few people appreciate the sheer beauty of a desert — far from the barren wastelands that we imagine them to be, they are dramatic, almost spiritual places, filled with life.

Being from Australia, I had experienced deserts long before visiting Pakistan. My native country, an entire continent, is filled with deserts which in some cases stretch thousands of kilometres to the seashore.

I’ve flown over them countless times, and even driven through them. But I had never stayed any length of time in a desert — until now.

It was a few weeks ago that I received an invitation to stay on a friend’s relative’s farm in Hyderabad Thal, the desert west of Jhang in western Punjab.

My friend Ali and I left Lahore in the middle of the night, and arrived at the desert just after the ringing of the Fajr call to prayer — a perfect time to witness the sunrise.

A giant tangerine sphere rose in the distance, bathing the surroundings in an atomic crimson hue — an otherworldly spectacle which seemed to greet us to the place which would be our home for the next few days.

Far from being desolate, the desert in Hyderabad Thal is lush green in February and March — this land is used for the cultivation of green chickpeas (hara choliyan), and the squat plants' elastic branches and chubby little fruits jiggle in the desert breeze as far as the eye can see.

The sea of green is interrupted only by the odd sand dune, where the faded yellow sand occasionally rises up in undulating waves, reminding us of what lies beneath.

When the harvest is picked, the roots die off and the desert returns to its usual naked emptiness.

However the desert is far from dead; as we walked from the drop-off point towards the farmhouse, we spotted tracks in the sand; tiny scoop shapes that stood as evidence to the existence of insects and birds in the vicinity.

My friend, a local, and I tried to imagine what could have produced the footprints; a sparrow, a small lizard, a scorpion, perhaps?

What was clear was that while the animals that made it were long gone, the desert around us was teeming with life.

The days we spent at the dera were long, dry, sweet and mesmeric. In March, the heat hadn’t yet built, and respite from the sun’s rays could be found under the boughs of a grand old banyan tree.

We spent hours lolling about on charpoys, eating ber picked straight off a tree across the yard.

Lying on the string beds with only the sun’s position to indicate time, I felt that my life itself was slowing down.

With no cellphone signal, no internet, little electricity to speak of, and no form of entertainment besides our own creative minds, I detected a gentle yet pleasant decalibrating of my sense of time.

With the sun’s migration from one side of the sky to the other, we moved the charpoys to follow the shade.

At one point, we ended up at a roll of sand next to a row of chickpea plants. A few small birds darted about in the greenery just metres away, diving and swooping at breakneck speed.

The slightest movement by either of us would send them shooting off in a different direction, only to flitter back moments later.

Laying on my stomach, I dragged myself lazily to the edge of the charpoy and stretched my chin over the edge. I was now looking straight down at the powdery, sandy earth, and was amazed by what I saw.

Scores of insects were marching beneath the charpoy into the field of crops, each leaving behind their distinctive footprints.

Ants, both tiny and large, something which resembled a crab in its sideways gait, tiny spiders... they were all on the move to the shady green microforest, possibly in the hope of finding cover from the birds above.

The other thing that strikes you about the desert is the sense of sheer quiet. Nowhere is the phrase 'deafening silence' more apt.

So expansive is the sky, so distant the edge of the earth, so clear the visage, and so subtly alive the surroundings that it’s almost overwhelming.

In such a situation one is forced to appreciate the humbling truth of how small one truly is in the grand scheme of things; for the thoughtful, it could inspire them to inner dialogue; for the uninitiated it could be simply terrifying.

To get some groceries for dinner, we would ride a motorbike 10 kilometres to the nearest town. The trail through the desert was lonely — the whole time we didn’t pass another soul, bar the odd snake which slithered across the path, or guard dog from a nearby farm which would bark at us until we were out of sight.

Somewhere out there, in the middle of nowhere, we saw what looked like a mud brick building in the sand hills. Ali rode towards it to investigate; upon closer inspection it was a tiny mosque.

"Why would they build a mosque out here?" I asked.

"For travellers. People travelling on foot," he replied.

In all my hours indulgently lost on the charpoy, wondering dreamily about the enormity of it all, I had forgotten that, in fact, humans had, for millennia, conquered the desert by foot.

Once again, but in a very different sense, I was struck by how small I was in this land of might and extreme. I kicked off my Peshawari chappals and sank my feet into the soft, soft sand.

Beneath, the surface was cold, a sea of cool earth that hadn’t seen the heat of the day. The tiny grains trickled in between my toes, sensually massaging the soles of my feet, and I lay back in the field, staring at the milky blue sky.

The sun was getting low in the sky, and I was partially shielded from its rays by a sand dune. An ethereal glow enveloped the remains of the day.

Turning around, we traced our tyre marks back through the sand to the main trail. We had just made it back to the trail when day began to turn to night, and as luck would have it, our bike suffered a punctured tyre.

We parked the bike for a bit, and sat down to watch the sunset. The blazing sun, so blindingly white hot just a few hours earlier, had once again turned an inflamed red, before sinking behind the sand hills.

The day’s azure canopy above was flushed with an iridescent indigo, shimmering with the lights of a thousand stars.

With no other option, we walked back the last few kilometres to the farm, pushing the bike as we went.

It was tough, the sand slipping beneath our feet and the bike’s wheels, but nothing compared to the feat of crossing the desert by day; the thought of thirsty nomads arriving at the mosque, parking their droves outside and taking refuge kept recurring in my mind.

We arrived at the dera, and our charpoys had been dragged to the top of the nearest sand hill. Shaking the dust off our feet, we reclined on the beds and stared at the universe above.

This time, however, the desert wasn’t silent, but alive with the sound of a million beings which had come back to life, singing back to us the stories of the day which we had witnessed.

Later still, we slept, our thick blankets wrapping us away from the cold of the night, and as we dreamt beneath the heavens, the theatre of the desert unfolded around us.

Have you ever ventured into off-the-beaten tracks? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

• Courtly origins
• Onset of modernity
• Modernity and its discontents
• Natives are restless
• Constant vigilance
• In fact, the history of Pakistani journalism is the history of a format and a technique of articulating and disseminating information — the history of the production and dissemination of newsprint, along with the emergence of news-reading publics.
• It is a common misapprehension of colonial times that the British brought along with their rule a modern, liberal understanding to the subcontinent. The history of colonial journalism in India would in fact have it the other way.
• As the events of the ‘mutiny’ unfolded, the native language press became active and issued statements about freedom that the colonial authorities found deplorable.

In the 21st century, we can note that Pakistani journalism has experienced an organic development of professionalism, periods of draconian suppression and frequently innovated new modes of resisting extraneous control.

Journalism in Pakistan has indeed progressed over the past decades in discursive, technological and institutional terms.

With the dissemination and subsequent regulation of satellite and broadcast technologies, journalism has morphed into a form characterised by 24-hour "breaking" news, colloquially referred to as "the media".

At the same time, virtual spaces on the internet, driven by social media sites, have opened up new spheres of debate and discussion.

It would, however, be a misnomer to conflate these forms of progress with the attainment of "Freedom".

As long as it remains true that there is a fine line demarcating what can and cannot be said in public discourse, journalistic or expressive freedom, in a political sense, in fact, is never truly attained.

It can only be strived towards — that in itself is a constant struggle.

While it is important to look to the future for advances in expressive freedoms and journalistic liberties, it is equally important to look at the struggles of the past.

Pakistan’s history is peppered with incidents of centralised control, repression and censorship that have left their marks on the character of this emergent 21st century news media.

At the same time, the fact that the struggle for attaining Pakistan, the anti-colonial freedom struggle of Muslims in the subcontinent, was catalysed by newsprint, continues to stand as a source of inspiration and vitalisation to continuing strands of serious journalism and news reporting in Pakistan.

It is paradoxical, then, that the very medium which took on the struggle for freedom of expression and self-determination of Muslims in British India is the same format that is most hotly contested in our country today.

How can the state, or the powers that be, ever see it justifiable to repress that very mode of expression which breathed life into the struggle for this country?

Courtly origins

The history of Pakistani journalism undoubtedly stretches further back than the birth of Pakistan. Two of the largest print and electronic media houses in this country — Dawn and Jang — were formed well before Partition.

However, the roots of Pakistani journalism cannot be confined within the chronological bounds of 1947-present, nor can it be simply tied to the anti-colonial movement of Muslims in the subcontinent, which eventually spawned Pakistan.

The pre-history of Pakistani journalism actually stretches further back than the 1940s, before the journalistic interventions of Sir Syed Ahmed Khan for a Muslim identity, even prior to the closure of Muslim periodicals such as Sultan-ul-Akhbar, Gulshan-i-Nowbahar and Siraj-ul-Akhbar through the Indian Press Laws promulgated by the British authorities in the aftermath of the 1857 War of Independence.

In fact, the history of Pakistani journalism is the history of a format and a technique of articulating and disseminating information — the history of the production and dissemination of newsprint, along with the emergence of news-reading publics.

Even prior to the rise of the printing press and mass production, historian C. A. Bayly has traced a subcontinental tradition of newswriting and political reporting enshrined in the tradition of akhbar-naveesi.

These early-modern akhbar-navees or newswriters in Bayly’s account were neither journalists nor public intellectuals, but closer to information runners who used to report on matters of different princely courts for the benefit of the sovereign who commissioned them. Their activities comprised an admixture of diplomacy, espionage and reportage.

It is no wonder that the honourific title of the Mughal sovereign included the terms hoshyar and khabardar, for he would be alert and aware of developments in his own and surrounding territories and the affairs of his subjects, thanks to briefings delivered by the akhbar-vafees.

The arrival of the printing press at the dawn of modernity and the emergence of a new colonial public abruptly pulled this pre-modern informational membrane inside out:

With the rise of commercial and political newsprint, a newly emergent newsreading public now demanded to know more about the affairs of the sovereign, about politics, commerce and war.

Onset of modernity

Soon after the East India Company (EIC) set up dominions in their presidencies of Bengal, Madras and Bombay, the first printing presses and typesets also arrived in the subcontinent.

The earlier uses of the press included printing calendars, bibles and almanacs by the missionaries, and this technology was not utilised for news reporting until the end of the 18th century.

It is James Augustus Hicky who is widely attributed by historians to be the founder of modern print journalism in the subcontinent. As noted by Graham Shaw in Printing in Calcutta to 1800:

"It remains an interesting fact that printing was introduced into Calcutta in 1777 only on the whim of a bankrupt businessman who whilst in prison resorted to his former calling of printing simply as a convenient means of paying off some of his debts!"

The Company’s government was not thrilled by the prospect of privately published newsprint broadsheets circulating in its territories, where its rule over the populous native inhabitants was held together by only a fragile veneer of appearances and illusions.

Hence, the first governor general of India Warren Hastings pursued a gruelling extra-legal strangulation of Hicky’s Gazette by instructing postmasters to suppress its distribution in the dawk.

Hicky is now granted accolades for maintaining a stringently critical editorial line against Hastings and the Company’s arbitrary rule in his Gazette, and consistently lampooning powerful colonialists in his signature satirical style.

In fact, Hicky spent much of his days as a printer indebted and in prison. After being forcibly deported from India, the ill-fated founder of modern news-media in the subcontinent died penniless on a boat to China.

Modernity and its discontents

It would appear that modern journalism in colonial India was born in a prison. Since then, journalism in the subcontinent has scarcely, if ever, escaped these incarcerating walls of fear and coercion.

Colonial documents from the early 19th century on the topic are ripe with the "fear" or "dangers of a free press in India".

The EIC’s administrators and shareholders were constantly anxious about the potential of the new medium of the press to disrupt their colonial rule and depriving Britain of its bejeweled possessions.

It is a common misapprehension of colonial times that the British brought along with their rule a modern, liberal understanding to the subcontinent. The history of colonial journalism in India would in fact have it the other way.

The East India Company actively tried to suppress this new medium, as it drew adventurers and private profiteers to the lucrative market of selling newsprint commodities to European inhabitants of the three presidency towns of Calcutta, Madras and Bombay.

The repression employed by the Company was neither liberal, nor was it progressive. From 1780 onwards, the Company carefully monitored each piece of newsprint that was being circulated within its territories.

The first infraction in the press recorded by the Company was of Irish-American William Duane, proprietor of a Calcutta paper called The Indian World, where he published reports with an American revolutionary flair considered damaging by the Company.

Having no legal mechanism to apprehend such infractions, Governor General John Shore retorted to brute force against Duane.

On a number of occasions, peons and domestic servants were sent to rough up and forcibly abduct Duane and hold him without warrant.

In the meantime, the Company contrived a way to get rid of Duane by rescinding his license to reside in their colonial territory, and effectively deported him.

Soon after Duane’s extralegal deportation, the EIC, under Governor General Cornwallis, enacted the first printing press regulations in India with the following five precepts:

1stly — Every Printer of a Newspaper to print his name at the bottom of the Paper.
2ndly — Every Editor and Proprietor of a Paper to deliver his Name and place of abode to the Secretary to Government.
3rdly — No Paper to be published on a Sunday.
4thly — No Paper to be published at all until it shall have been previously inspected by the Secretary to the Government; or by a Person authorised by him for that purpose.
5thly — The penalty for offending against any of the above Regulations to be immediate embarkation for Europe.

With these five simple but comprehensive draconian maxims, the EIC formally enacted censorship in early 19th century India.

A government censor would scrutinise the proofs, prior to the publication or distribution of any printed matter.

The only printers and publishers in India at the time were of European descent, hence the threat of deportation to Europe was a formidable threat.

The Company’s anxieties with print stemmed from the fear that the Europeans would discuss the news amongst themselves, and this news would spread to the natives, who would soon come to know the truth and ultimately overthrow the yoke of European domination.

Some liberal proponents of the press as a means of delivering enlightenment to the natives also became vocal about the positive aspects of a press in India.

One such man was an adventurer and mariner by the name of James Silk Buckingham, who arrived in Calcutta in 1818 and soon bought The Calcutta Journal.

Prior to this, the liberal-minded Marquis Rawdon had relaxed the censorship regulations to a set of rules for editors by which they may regulate themselves.

J.S. Buckingham took advantage of this regulatory lapse in order to publish articles critical of the colonial authorities.

As the government lacked the authority to deport Buckingham at the time, it attempted various strategies to strangle The Calcutta Journal, until finally his enterprise was suppressed and he was shipped back to England.

The fear that Buckingham's Journal aroused in the Company administrators had little to do with his liberal-minded critique.

Rather, it stemmed from the fact that the natives had begun setting up their own printing enterprises in local languages, and that they would take inspiration from Buckingham and criticise government policy in public discourse.

These native printers and publishers, as the administrators would note, could also not be deported to Europe as they didn’t require a license to reside in their own territories.

Hence a new regime of press regulations was swiftly put in place in 1823. Writing against the colonial government would be penalised by revoking the license to print — and printing without a license would result in jail time.

Natives are restless

Ram Mohan Roy, an influential scholar and reformer, set up one of the first local language printing presses in Calcutta. He began issuing two newsprint broadsheets, Meerat-ul-Akhbar in Persian and Sambad Kaumudi in Bengali.

After these regulations were put in place, Roy travelled to London to pursue a legal case against the Company and publicly voiced his disapproval, eventually shutting down his paper in protest.

The first ever Urdu language newspaper Jam-i-Jahan Numa (Mirror of the World) was also published in Calcutta during this time by a Hindu proprietor.

Innovations in typefaces for local languages spurred local publishing in the early 19th century, mushrooming towards the middle.

This was the time of the great rebellion of 1857, in which the printing presses played an important part in disseminating information about the conflict throughout the territories.

As the events of the ‘mutiny’ unfolded, the native language press became active and issued statements about freedom that the colonial authorities found deplorable.

In the June of 1857, a new press regulation limiting the circulation of books, pamphlets and printed matter was put into force, which later came to be known as the Gagging Act.

This is also the period when Muslim news periodicals began to formulate critiques of colonial rule. However, as Margarita Barns notes in The Indian Press, a majority of the Urdu newspapers in this time were edited by Hindus.

Through the aftermath and brutal repression of 1857, a Muslim identity began emerging through the press, and it was through the press that they voiced their earliest calls for freedom.

In the 20th century, newspaper editors and journalists greatly aided the birth of a new political consciousness in the colonial subcontinent.

Political parties such as the Congress and the All India Muslim League were sustained and supported by affiliated print organs, which voiced their concerns and reservations to negotiations with the British authorities.

Since the first decade of the 20th century, the British Raj enforced a draconian regime of press censorship fueled by the same anxieties about the dangers of a free press and free-thinking public opinion.

The origins of the printing press, and along with it the history of Pakistani journalism, lie in the dawn of colonial modernity.

In this colonial realm, the freedom to discuss collective issues has always been a contested space, freedom to print and publish was a constant struggle, and there is scarcely a period where this was completely attained.

Even if this freedom is attained on one occasion, it could be easily yield to forms of constraint.

As Margarita Barns concludes about freedom of expression in her own monograph on the press written a few years before the creation of Pakistan:

"World conditions today have jeopardised this supreme ideal. Experience of totalitarianism leaves no doubt that once liberty is lost, nothing short of a revolutionary situation would seem to hold out any prospect of its return… Above all, there is the persistent danger that, because the times are critical, emergency powers devised to meet the needs of the moment may have the effect of permanently restricting the freedom which has been so dearly won."

Indeed, when Barns was about to publish her history of Indian journalism in 1939, war broke out which imposed a new strict regime banning the publication and distribution of anything "to influence public opinion in a manner likely to be prejudicial to the defence of the realm or the efficient prosecution of war."

These measures only convinced her to rush the publication of her monograph, as "never was there a more opportune moment to recall phases of the struggle for the liberty of expression."

Constant vigilance

Today, as World Press Freedom Day encourages us to think about the current state and future of the freedom to print and publish without constraints, we must, at the same time, also recall the continued struggles fought over two centuries for the ever-fleeting right to print and publish freely.

It is paradoxical to think that any Pakistani policy maker would have ever felt justified in curtailing the use of the very press that has been so instrumental in making Pakistan into a realistic outcome through the constant labour and advocacy of journalists, editors, printers, publishers and hawkers.

The freedom of expression is a delicate yet important right, generations have fought for it — it should always be cherished when one has it, and it should be constantly struggled for when one doesn’t.

• No plan, no leader
• The conspiracy trials
• An inspiration to others

A special tribunal was set up to hear what eventually came to be known as the First Lahore Conspiracy Trial. Under it, multiple cases were heard, the first batch of which began on April 26, 1915.

The judgement was read on September 13 — 24 of the accused were sentenced to death and 27 to transportation for life, while the others received varying sentences.

One of those sentenced to death was 19-year-old Kartar Singh Sarabha, who had returned to Punjab from San Francisco to take up arms against the colonial state. During his trial, he spoke eloquently and passionately about the injustices committed by the colonial state.

Sarabha had been associated with the revolutionary Ghadar magazine in San Francisco since it was founded in October, 1913. The magazine was published in several languages and distributed to Indian expatriates all over the world.

Sarabha had taken up responsibility for the Gurmukhi edition, even contributing poetry and articles to it.

With the onset of the First World War in 1914 and the decision of the committee responsible for the magazine’s publication to wage war against the British state in India, Sarabha headed home along with thousands of others, convinced that their heroism would inspire the local population to rise against their colonial rulers.

They could not have been more wrong.

The majority of the revolutionaries were originally from Punjab, having been inspired by the Ghadar magazine. But on their return, they found Punjab firmly within the embrace of the colonial empire.

Most of the villagers had benefited from the agricultural policies of the state while the recruits to the army were pro-empire.

Thus, upon landing in the various cities of British India, many of the revolutionaries were betrayed by their fellow villagers and arrested. Those who escaped were forced to go underground.

What also did not help was the lack of discretion shown by the revolutionaries. Infused with an inspiring patriotism, many preached on their ships in an attempt to recruit more to their cause. To keep the passion alive, many sang patriotic songs on the way.

Thus, even before the first boat had landed on the shores of British India, the colonial state, through its network of spies and the vocal proselytising of the Ghadari revolutionaries, was prepared.

No plan, no leader

There was also never a particular plan of action or a central revolutionary party organising the movement. It was entirely centred on a magazine published in San Francisco.

While the articles that appeared in the magazine were high on rhetoric and passion, it never offered any concrete plan of action for the imminent revolution.

Perhaps Hardayal, Sohan Singh Bakhna and Pandit Kanshi Ram, the founders of the committee that published the magazine, had anticipated that revolution was a distant reality.

Hardayal, particularly, the intellectual inspiration behind the magazine, was more inspired by Russian anarchist political thinkers than Marxist literature. For him, revolution was spontaneous individualistic acts of bravery against an oppressive regime.

The anarchists, unlike the Marxists, did not believe in one party guiding the revolution, for they believed that, eventually, even this party would form the ruling class.

People needed to be prepared for this eventual uprising. Hence, the need to set up a magazine to create an environment conducive to a revolution.

While the magazine romanticised arms, bombs and violence and promoted their use, it never set out to plan the course of action to be taken.

The situation, however, changed drastically after the First World War broke. With multiple powerful forces joining hands against the British, it was felt the opportunity was ripe for an armed revolt against the colonial state.

Indian migrants all over the world were exhorted to return to the motherland to free her from the shackles of slavery. Thousands responded to the call, embarking on boats from various ports of the world.

But there was no clear plan as to what was to be done when they reached home. It was imagined that individual acts of bravery would inspire the entire country to rise against the colonial state.

The conspiracy trials

Those who managed to avoid arrest returned to their home towns and villages, forming little groups, each one working on its own, independently. Many of these groups began reaching out to Indians within the army.

The plan was to instigate a rebellion similar to the war of 1857 — when Indian sepoys at the Meerut cantonment had rebelled against their British officers, starting a year-long struggle for freedom.

Other groups continued with their own efforts to collect arms, raise funds through armed dacoities and manufacture bombs.

A semblance of a central leadership was given to the movement in January, 1915 when Rash Behari Bose was convinced to take up the mantle.

Bose was a revolutionary nationalist from Bengal who had gained popularity in radical circles because of his involvement in a plan to assassinate Lord Hardinge, the viceroy, in 1912.

Connections were established within several army units, including Lahore, Ferozepur, Meerut, Agra, Benares and Lucknow, who gave assurances that they would defect when called upon by the leadership. February 21, 1915 was fixed as the day the general revolt would start.

The British, however, had already learned of this plan and before the date, many of these army units were either moved or disarmed, while several leaders of the movement were arrested.

Bose managed to escape to Japan. He later set up the Indian Independence League in exile, a precursor to Subhas Chandra Bose’s Indian National Army.

Others who were caught were tried in the First Lahore Conspiracy Trial.

An inspiration to others

For all practical purposes, the Ghadar Movement failed to achieve its political goals. The colonial state remained deeply entrenched in Punjab. However, something had changed.

The spontaneous acts of bravery of these revolutionaries became part of folklore. While in their lifetimes they failed to see the fruits of the seeds they had sown, for generations to come after them, tales of their bravery were recalled to instill nationalist fervour in people.

Bhagat Singh was one such young man who was moved by the passion of these revolutionaries. It is believed he always carried a picture of Kartar Singh Sarabha in his pocket. And that all the meetings of the Naujawan Bharat Sabha, the party he founded, had a picture of the young revolutionary as well.

16 years after the First Lahore Conspiracy Trial, a second Lahore Conspiracy Case was heard against Bhagat Singh, which he — taking a leaf out of Sarabha’s book — used to promote his ideas of revolution.

Like Sarabha, he became another young intellectual-revolutionary, whose sacrifice was meant to prick the conscience of the people.

Many other revolutionaries of the Ghadar Movement who escaped the wrath of the empire eventually formed other political organisations, the most prominent of which was the Kirti Kissan Sabha, a Marxist party particularly popular in the rural areas of Punjab. In 1928, they formed a crucial alliance with the Naujawan Bharat Sabha.

Thus, while the Ghadar Movement failed to achieve its revolutionary purpose, it managed to set into motion a series of important events — Jallianwala Bagh, the Non-Cooperation Movement of the 1920s, the demand for Purna Swaraj or complete self-rule — and inspired key figures in history such as Bhagat Singh, Subhas Chandra Bose and the Kirti Kissan Sabha.

Through their heroism, it may be said the Ghadaris managed to spark a revolution.

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

The word 'taqseem' is commonly used by Partition survivors to refer to the events of 1947. A division, a split, a rupture that gave birth to Pakistan.

In English, the word 'Partition' is part of the established vocabulary that gives voice to one of the most significant events in recent history.

As an oral historian and researcher, I have interviewed hundreds of Partition survivors over the past several years. These words are uttered often in interviews, allowing people to share their memories, to in some way express what they had endured during the cataclysmic division.

And just as these words are present in all the interviews I have conducted, so too are the horror stories of Partition. Bodies chopped up, breasts cut, throats sliced, figures mutilated.

Regardless of the volume of work conducted on Partition, on both sides of the border, perhaps not even a fraction of the bloodshed and violence endured by Partition survivors has been captured in its essence.

Many of these survivors continue to live in the trauma of Partition, its journey ongoing, interjecting their dreams, their thoughts and their everyday lived experiences.

Yet 70 years after Partition, the Pakistani state has devised its unique way of referring to 1947; these official versions have their own ontology, removed from the context of the survivors.

The politics of recognition of certain events, or certain version of events, and the politics of denial of other episodes is at the heart of these policies.

I was recently invited to speak about Partition at a literary event. The students who were putting together the event had wanted me to share the Partition narratives I had collected, particularly focusing on the violence that the survivors had experienced.

I wasn’t surprised for it is often assumed that the only experiences of 1947 are the violent ones. It serves to justify separation, the creation of Pakistan that 'liberated' Muslims from the ferocious 'infidel' perpetrators they had left behind on the other side.

Narratives of inter-communal harmony, of nostalgia and longing of the pre-Partition past are seldom explored in the mainstream discourse.

However, days before I was scheduled to speak, there was a subtle change. I was no longer meant to talk about Partition; rather, I was supposed to limit myself to talk about 'Independence.'

While 1947 indeed marks both Partition and Independence, one cannot talk about Independence without addressing Partition.

However, the organisers, I was told, believed that there was no Partition but only Independence that had taken place.

Moreover, they rejected the idea of discussing the bloodshed of 1947. Instead, they claimed there were no horrors. 1947 was Pakistan’s triumph, its victory. After all, if there was no Partition, how could there by any bloodshed?

Today, Partition has metamorphosed into Independence. And it is not Independence from the British but rather from 'Hindu' India.

The colonial past receives little attention in Pakistani textbooks and the Divide and Rule Policy is often sidelined. Using the Two Nation Theory to inculcate the idea that Hindus and Muslims were always separate nations, the two communities are shown as divisive throughout history.

A common phrase found in textbooks is, "Hindus can never be the true friends of Muslims." 14th August then is a cause for celebration because it gave Pakistan independence from India.

In the collective memory of the nation, independence from the British holds little significance.

What the actual survivors feel, those who had fought tooth and nail to create Pakistan, those who had suffered the loss of family members and friends, of childhood, properties and their homeland, does not matter.

No taqseem, no Partition, no horrors took place. By depriving them of the language to express these sentiments, the state can erase any memories of longing, of remorse, of nostalgia. It can impose the official understandings of a tumultuous 'victory'.

The use of selective language, of particular words and symbols, is a powerful way to mold memories and understandings. By imposing or depriving citizens of specific words, of the tool of language, states are able to construct identities, meanings and experiences that fit national projects.

Interestingly, while Pakistan insists on referring to the events of 1947 as Independence, when it comes to the 1971 war and the creation of Bangladesh, terms such as 'The Fall of Dhaka' or 'Dismemberment' are openly used.

This is in stark contrast to the use of the word 'Liberation' by the Bangladesh government. To call it anything else in Bangladesh can invite charges of anti-state behaviour, just as calling it Liberation or Independence in Pakistan would.

In India, it is unacceptable to refer to the part of Kashmir under India’s control as anything but Jammu and Kashmir. Titles like 'Indian-administered Kashmir' are deemed objectionable on the pretext that they challenge the notion that J&K is an integral part of the country, that they challenge India’s sovereignty over the territory.

The open and ongoing resistances against the Indian state by Kashmiris who indeed do challenge Indian rule and view India as an occupying force are dismissed.

By insisting that the territory is referred to as Jammu and Kashmir, the apparatus to express that occupation is snatched away.

Publishing houses and media outlets too are expected to abide by these 'guidelines' laid down by the state, undermining freedom of speech and denying Kashmiris freedom of expression.

Related: Two countries, shared traumas

In Myanmar too, there has been an active effort by the state to deprive the Rohingya community of their ethnic identity and their claim to the land by insisting that the Rohingya people should not be referred to by that name.

In 2016, it was reported that Aung San Suu Kyi, the State Counsellor of Myanmar, had advised that the term not be used. Foreign Ministry official, Kyaw Zay Ya, further reasoned that, "We won’t use the term Rohingya because Rohingya are not recognised as among the 135 official ethnic groups" in Myanmar.

By making the community nameless, the state can deny them the right to the land, the language to express their grievances, and the world recognition as a persecuted community, facing genocide.

The forced use of particular terms or the silencing of certain other terms like Partition, taqseem, Rohingya, Indian-administered or Occupied Kashmir successfully suppress indigenous voices, sentiments and aspirations.

States are able to reign in elements that may question state policies, histories and ongoing violence perpetuated in the name of security.

Through this politicisation of language, attempts are made to try to reconstruct national identities, sidelining the very citizens that often helped create and sustain these nation-states.

Did you, or anyone in your family, have to leave home due to Partition? Share your story with us at blog@dawn.com

• More provinces or expansive administration?
• The choices we make

As election season kicks off, once again we are starting to hear the evergreen demand before every election cycle: the creation of new provinces.

Before taking a position on this issue, I am going to unpack this debate and allow the readers to make up their minds about what Pakistan needs.

Let’s start with some basic facts. We have over 200 million people in this country, spread over four provinces, two federal territories and two autonomous territories

The bulk of the population is concentrated in Punjab and makes up for over half the total population. The other provinces and territories make up the rest of the population.

Another overlooked fact is how far-flung the seat of government is in every province.

In Punjab, Lahore is about 300 kilometres away from Multan, while in Sindh, Kashmore is about 600km from Karachi. Similarly, from Gawadar to Quetta is nearly 1,000km.

These distances highlight the fact that if you are a citizen of any of these towns, you must travel for at least a day to get to the seat of government if you are dealing with anything that has to do with the provincial government.

Yes, there are local centres but even those are hundreds of kilometres away. Administratively, the current number of provinces limits the access to government for a very large number of citizens. In a democracy, that limits the ability of those citizens to get their voices heard.

More provinces or expansive administration?

So, can services be provided to all citizens? How can every citizen have improved access to their provincial government and have their voice heard when the need be? To these questions, there are two possible answers.

One solution is to create new provinces, and the other is to expand the existing administrative apparatus. There are costs and benefits of both options.

Most discussions on the topic have a habit of delving into a dichotomous debate of either/or that takes away from the nuances of the challenges we face.

Editorial: New provinces

The argument that we need new provinces is a logical one. Having more provinces will bring closer the seats of government to the citizens.

For instance, if you are in Kashmore and your seat of government is Khairpur, your travel time is much less and the likelihood to be heard by the local government is significantly higher than when making the trek down to Karachi.

More provinces also mean funds are transferred to more areas that can then decide to use them as they please. In Punjab, the majority of the funds get spent in and around Lahore or the Grand Trunk Road corridor between Rawalpindi and Lahore. Southern Punjab does not get the same attention, nor do the border areas with Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

If Bahawalpur were to become a province, it would, at the very least, force expenditures to be localised and the priorities of the area would get more airtime, rather than the perpetual focus on Lahore and the GT Road.

Similarly, in Balochistan, Sindh and KPK, localisation of funds through creation of new provincial administrations can improve public accessibility to funds and services.

A subset of this debate is that if we were to actually make new provinces, on what grounds would we make them? Do we make them on an ethnic or administrative basis?

My question is: why are we having this debate in the first place? Let some provinces be administrative and some be ethnic.

Related: Unity through diversity

The Seraiki belt in southern Punjab is already structured in a manner that is suitable for a province based on ethnicity. That is completely fine if people of that area get better access to services and get their concerns noted.

In Sindh, a new province would be administrative, based purely on the geographical arrangement of the province.

The elephant in the room in Sindh is the idea that Karachi should be a province. If that were to happen, Karachi would first have to be part of a bigger province constructed on an administrative basis.

Karachi cannot be cut out as a city and declared a province because it already has a city government and is the seat of power in Sindh.

How we make new provinces does not have to be a dichotomous argument; it can be a mix of what is needed.

In contrast to the creation of new provinces, the other option is to simply expand the administrative structures. This means more empowered local governments and permanent bureaucracy structures supported by regular political elections at district level.

However, the political elite does not support this notion because it dilutes and devalues the power and influence of the provincial governments.

Look at Lahore, for instance. There is a local government in place, but it practically has no control as it is starved for funds from the provincial level.

If the expansion of administrative affairs is a continuation in this direction, then it solves nothing. The need is for an expansion of administrative units with financial backing.

That seems unlikely to ever happen. It would also mean new hiring for local bureaucracy, which will take years to complete and may become politicised.

The choices we make

For better or worse, political parties are the only form of representation of public we have. Any move on new provinces will need to be political and include all political parties.

Ideally, the political parties would sit down together and agree to dilute their influence in certain areas for the long term gain of the country. That also seems unlikely to ever happen.

For instance, the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz, in its right mind, would never agree to a province in south Punjab because that would cut its power in Punjab and reduce precious funds that are showered on the GT Road constituencies that form the party’s powerbase.

On the other hand, the Pakistan Tehreek-i-Insaf would love the idea of a new province in south Punjab; from their power base in Multan, which is Shah Mehmood Qureshi’s home ground, they would get to head a province and the funds can be used on their strongholds.

Similarly, the idea of a Hazara province is unlikely to get traction in KPK because the PTI there is in the same position as the PML-N in Punjab. Sindh has similar issues and so does Balochistan.

Yes, more provinces would be a great idea. I believe it needs to happen, but would even settle for more expansive local administration too.

Turkey has over 80 provinces, while a small country like Taiwan has 22 divisions. It is a joke with our population of over 200 million that we have just four provinces.

Read next: For a democratic Pakistan, more power needs to be given to local governments

More localised control is a necessity as our country continues to expand, but the harsh reality is that our politicians cannot look beyond their personal gains to see the long term needs of our country.

Any option that might fractionally erode their control or their ability to manage finances is scuttled through agreement.

This is the type of issue that needs to be discussed in campaign season.

As citizens, we deserve clarity on this question, especially after the 18th Amendment that handed over significant control to the provinces.

A federal system like ours is strengthened when control and authority is not concentrated.

Our citizens deserve better, they deserve their voices to be heard and represented beyond rhetorical slogans.

And for that to happen, we all unfortunately have to wait for self-obsessed politicians to see the light and break from habit.

Are you an analyst or activist working on policy reforms? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com

• A matter of principle
• Bhagat Singh’s popularity
• The rise of Jawaharlal Nehru

The reaction to the assassination was not what Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev had anticipated. On December 17, 1927 the three freedom fighters shot dead JP Saunders, assistant superintendent of police outside the Superintendent’s Office in Lahore.

The act, originally intended for Superintendent of Police James Scott, was meant to avenge the death of freedom fighter and Congress leader Lala Lajpat Rai.

Rai had died exactly a month ago, a few days after he was thrashed by the colonial police led by Scott outside the Lahore Railway Station, where he was protesting against the Simon Commission.

The British had set up the commission to report on the progress of constitutional reforms in India, but it was criticised for not including a single Indian member.

Rai had been a mentor to Bhagat Singh. He was a former ally of Ajit Singh, Bhagat Singh’s revolutionary uncle and role model.

The young leader had also studied at Lahore’s National College, which Rai had established, and had imbibed revolutionary literature at the Dwarka Das Library that Rai had set up in the city.

A matter of principle

A committed communist, Bhagat Singh had ideological differences with Rai, who was regarded as a Hindu communalist.

Besides being a member of the Congress, Rai was also part of the Arya Samaj, an organisation that had played an important role in the communalisation of national identity in India.

However, despite his differences with Rai, Bhagat Singh and his comrades felt it was essential to avenge the death of one of the leading politicians of the country.

Rai was a former president of the Congress and he, along with Bal Gangadhar Tilak and Bipin Chandra Pal – known as the Lal-Bal-Pal trio – had been responsible for adding fervour to the Indian national struggle.

For Bhagat Singh, Rai’s death was a blow to the honour of the people of India.

However, when the honour was avenged with the death of Saunders, it failed to inspire the revolutionary reaction Bhagat Singh had anticipated.

Many prominent leaders and politicians distanced themselves from what was described as a “terrorist” act, while numbers at the regular meetings of the Naujawan Bharat Sabha, the parent organisation of Bhagat Singh and his comrades, also dwindled.

Even The People, a weekly newspaper Rai had founded in Lahore, called the assassination a desperate action.

Bhagat Singh and his comrades reasoned that a more courageous act was required to inspire the revolutionary spirit of the people – an act that would “Make the deaf hear.”

Thus it was decided that a bomb would be thrown in the Legislative Assembly in Delhi, making sure no one was harmed in the process. But Bhagat Singh realised that even that might not achieve their objective.

He then suggested that the bombers court arrest thereafter. He argued that they would use their trial to educate the people about their revolutionary ideas, thus setting up the conditions for an eventual communist revolution in the country.

However, the country’s leading politicians also condemned the bombing in the Legislative Assembly, much like they did with Saunders’ assassination.

Gandhi equated the bombing with the murder of the Hindu publisher Rajpal in Lahore for publishing a controversial pamphlet on the Prophet of Islam.

Motilal Nehru declared that the choice for the people of India lay between Gandhi (the adherent of non-violence) and “Balraj”, a pseudonym used by Bhagat Singh for the assassination.

At this stage the young revolutionary leader was far from the hero he was to become shortly after.

Bhagat Singh’s popularity

The situation began to change dramatically during the record-breaking hunger strike that Bhagat Singh and his comrades undertook in jail to protest against the deplorable conditions there.

Overnight, the public sentiment changed in their favour. Meetings arranged by the Naujawan Bharat Sabha and other organisations sympathetic to Bhagat Singh’s agenda began attracting thousands of people.

The zeal increased even further following the death of their comrade Jatin Das, who lost his life on the 63rd day of the hunger strike due to the damage to his lungs after being force-fed.

The hunger strike touched the conscience of the people, making the nationalists household names. Many argue that around this time, Bhagat Singh began rivalling the popularity of Gandhi.

In the meantime, the Indian National Congress was also experiencing a transition. A new cadre of leadership, led by Jawaharlal Nehru and Subhas Chandra Bose, was emerging.

They were both leftist in their ideology and critical of the existing leadership, which included Gandhi and Motilal Nehru.

At this point, the Congress was demanding Dominion Status from Britain, which would have allowed India autonomy within the monarchy, like Australia and Canada.

To the younger leaders, this was a compromise. Jawaharlal Nehru particularly had serious reservations about it, but eventually accepted the idea after being persuaded by Gandhi.

However, the rise of Bhagat Singh’s popularity meant that the Congress started losing its influence over the youth, who were being increasingly drawn towards his political rhetoric.

Jawaharlal Nehru was already sympathetic to the nationalist leader, whom he visited in jail. He also published the defence statement of Bhagat Singh and his comrades in the Congress bulletin, for which he was criticised by Gandhi.

The slogan of “Inquilab Zindabad” being used by Bhagat Singh and his comrades started replacing the slogan of “Vande Matram” popularised by the Congress.

Towards the end of the 1920s, it became increasingly clear to the older leadership of the Congress that they would isolate their young followers if they did not accommodate their political agenda.

The rise of Jawaharlal Nehru

On September 28, 1929 much to the surprise of everyone, Nehru, backed by his father and Gandhi, was chosen as the new Congress president. This was to mark a shift in the Congress’ policies.

A couple of months later, on New Year’s Eve, the tricolour flag of independent India was hoisted on the banks of the Ravi in Lahore, as the Congress changed its demand from Dominion Status to Purna Swaraj or complete independence.

Bhagat Singh’s popularity was at its peak in Punjab, with Lahore being his political home. He, Rajguru and Sukhdev were executed there on March 23, 1931, a little more than a year after the Congress called for Purna Swaraj.

Their last rites were performed on the banks of Ravi by Bhagat Singh’s supporters who had snatched their remains from the colonial state.

It is impossible to predict how things would have turned out had Bhagat Singh’s rhetoric from jail not captured the imagination of the people.

Would it have been possible for Jawaharlal Nehru to rise so quickly to the top in the Congress? Would the largest political organisation of the country have changed its demand from Dominion Status to Purna Swaraj so soon after first demanding Dominion Status?

There is, however, no doubting that Bhagat Singh’s popularity and rhetoric made it easier for Jawaharlal Nehru to convince the senior leadership of the Congress to revolutionise their agenda or risk losing their popular support to other more radical organisations.

This piece was originally published in Scroll and has been reproduced with permission.

We didn’t know who we were meeting until just a few hours before. All we had been told was to show up.

Perhaps that is why when 20 of us female human rights defenders found ourselves in a room waiting for her to arrive, none of us had quite calibrated what was happening.

Women, many of whom are institutions unto themselves, were teetering with excitement, joy – emotions not common in the lives of activists.

There was Syeda Ghulam Fatima, who works to liberate brick kiln slaves, Anis Haroon, a National Human Rights Commissioner, Khawer Mumtaz, Muniba Mazari, Nighat Dad, Samar Minallah, activists from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and Balochistan.

We all know of each other but our schedules rarely, if ever, bring us all into the same city, let alone the same room.

We started taking pictures to commemorate this moment. It isn’t often you are in the same room as all your sheroes.

As we took our seats, the doors opened.

The first thing you notice about Malala Yousafzai is how small she is – barely clearing 5’3 ft. But her effect on the room was immediate, that suddenly seemed too little to contain our shared pride. We all jumped to our feet and burst into spontaneous applause.

That after six years, she was home. That she had survived being shot in the head. That despite all the media scrutiny, the relentless bullying, the robbed childhood, she was back.

Despite a whirlwind schedule, the world’s youngest Nobel Prize winner had made time to meet the women on the ground to inspire both the old and new generations of activists.

Malala went around the room, greeting each female activist individually by shaking their hand, sometimes leaning in for a quick hug.

Some had met her before. Some, like me, had only ever seen her on television. But the delight of both was the same.

Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy, who had organised the meeting, asked everyone to briefly introduce themselves to Malala. But this moment was about Malala, nothing else.

Some told her they had not been able to sleep the night before when they found out they would be meeting her.

Anis Haroon, who has dedicated her life to the cause of human rights in Pakistan, had flown in from Karachi just that morning. The short notice had made it difficult to get a proper token of her affection, she said.

But she had brought with her the iconic Women’s Action Forum scarf, yellow, imprinted with laws and poetry that uphold the rights of women.

Malala got up and went up to Anis Haroon, who draped the scarf around her shoulders, welcoming her into this decades-long battle.

Anis Haroon then invited present and past WAF activists to be photographed with Malala, in a moment of inclusiveness that echoed the generosity and positivity in the room. That is Malala’s power.

In-depth: Malala Yousufzai

Malala is a listener. She speaks when called upon, and when she does, her words take comfort in their wisdom. She sits up straight, she makes eye contact. Her confidence is one fostered over years of experience. Only, Malala is just 20 years old.

Her small stature emphasises this. We all know the battles she has fought. We all know the enemies she takes on. We all know the ambitions she has.

I told her, you are so young. I told her that I have two daughters and as inspirational as she was for them, I hoped that she could still find time to enjoy what is left of her childhood.

There is a collective acknowledgement of this in the room, each looking at her, aware of the normalcy she has traded in for her extraordinary life.

When the introductions are done, Malala takes a deep breath. If she is overwhelmed, she does not show it. She knows how to navigate her distinction without a trace of arrogance.

She is comfortable in a room full of Pakistan’s leading activists. And surprisingly, Pakistan’s leading activists are comfortable in a room with her.

Cover story: The daughter of the nation

Earlier in the day, I had met a fellow activist at a café who was bursting with excitement at having just met Malala at the Prime Minister’s House.

I asked him how she was, and he said she was thronged by people which seemed to overwhelm her. And yet in this room, as we bonded over her arrival, she was calm, collected and eager to listen.

Malala is thrilled to be home. She has dreamed of this moment, and like many of us, can’t bring herself to believe that her dream of returning to her country came true.

She was apprehensive about her reception in Pakistan but was glad to see that she had been welcomed with open arms.

Sure, she manages the Malala Fund for Education. But, she tells us, she has assignments due at Oxford. She worries about homework.

Her friends at university have been texting her constantly, who are in disbelief that she managed to keep her trip to Pakistan secret from them.

We are heartened to hear of these small marks of student life. It is apparent that Malala can have a life, not entirely untouched by her celebrity but still pretty close.

Malala has always been serious about her studies, we know that. Even after she was shot, her first conversation with her father from the U.K. included an impassioned plea to bring her books with him. Her Matriculation exams were right around the corner, after all.

Her father, Ziauddin Yousafzai, sits next to her. He lets her shine, and speaks with the same respect he has passed down to his daughter.

There was something personal about how we understood what his support had done for Malala.

We all know how enabling having a father-figure that supports our work can be, and the courage it gives you to embark on a path less trodden.

Malala says her home country looks the same. Only, everything is different. There is so much hope, she finds, and is deeply touched by the kindness she has found in just this room.

I have never seen activists in such a good mood.

Last month, the civil society in Pakistan lost one of its giants. There was a sense of foreboding, as if we had lost a compass in a terrain that suddenly had become unfamiliar despite years of having walked it. Even the most steadfast of us felt broken by Asma Jahangir’s death.

Being an activist in Pakistan, being an activist anywhere, is a taxing road. But when we met Malala, the work seemed validated.

That if this young woman could find her way back, after everything she had been through, with her faith and will intact, how could we not keep fighting?

The struggle is long and often a lonely one, but how were we alone if we had each other?

And make no mistake, Malala fights the good fight. She brings nuance to the narrative about Pakistan in the West.

She is accused of being a tool for this narrative, but rest assured, she is no one’s fool.

She was not yet 16 years old when she met President Obama, who had asked her to come at the White House, and raised the impact of drone warfare on her people, reminding him of their murderous consequences.

Her very existence complicates things for the very institutions that paint Pakistan with a broad brush. And she does not let them forget that.

To those who know this, her homecoming was the triumph for the years of standing up for her.

Editorial: Malala returns home

This meeting wasn’t a baton-passing ceremony. None of us marked her out to continue the journeys that many of us embarked on before Malala was even born. That is not what we were there to do.

What it was, was a moment of validation and joy, for what she meant as a global symbol of Pakistani women fighting for a just world.

It is easy to overlook how much courage it took for her to come back home, and in that room, that bravery was infectious.

The best you can do as an activist is to create a path for future activists. You are lucky if you even guide one.

And here was Malala, uniting us all to continue to march forward, demanding more, fighting back and never giving up.

When she left the room, we all looked at each other in excitement. We took some more photos, hugged each other, promising to help each other in our respective battles.

Eventually, we all got up and returned to the work that we do.

This past week, 20-year-old Malala Yousafzai made an emotional return to Pakistan. Her four-day visit included meetings with friends, family, and senior officials, including Pakistan’s prime minister.

Many Pakistanis applauded Yousafzai’s return. Some, however, did not. While she may have received a hero’s welcome, Malala is no national hero in Pakistan.

A small but vocal minority, most of them members of a growing conservative middle class, resent her. They label her as a fraud, traitor, sell-out, or American stooge.

They say that there’s nothing special about her, that many Pakistani children suffer worse fates; that she’s abandoned her nation for fame in the West. Some claim the attack on her was staged by the CIA.

This is a story about an ordinary teenager who survives an unthinkable tragedy, uses that tragedy as inspiration to become a prominent advocate, and ends up in the crosshairs of a hate campaign led by conservative compatriots.

A similar story is playing out now in the United States.

Survivors of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School gun massacre in Parkland, Florida. have launched a powerful movement for more gun control.

This campaign has elevated them to prominence and provoked a small constituency of conservative, conspiratorial, gun-loving Americans.

These haters say the grieving victims attract attention they don’t deserve, come off as sanctimonious and self-righteous, are frauds, and are “being funded” and “given scripts.”

The gun massacre survivors are branded as Nazis, targeted in doctored photo campaigns, and even mocked for college rejection letters.

Admittedly, the analogy is imperfect. Malala suffered a more serious physical injury than did most of the Parkland survivors.

Malala is an overseas-based global activist focused on the transnational issue of education, while the Parkland survivors centre their advocacy around the US domestic issue of gun control.

Malala’s advocacy is couched in the language of hope; the Parkland activists are often emotional, angry, and overtly political.

Additionally, while Pakistanis and Americans use the same tactic—character assassination—against their objects of scorn, their respective motivations are different.

For Pakistanis, Malala represents something unusual: A successful case of upward mobility. In a nation of entrenched inequality, where 40 per cent of Pakistani children in the lowest economic quantile are expected to remain there for life, Malala’s rapid transformation from schoolteacher’s daughter to embodiment of the global elite is literally unbelievable—especially for the millions of middle-class Pakistanis who know they’ll never reach such dizzying heights.

As I wrote in an essay last year, this disorienting reality provokes admiration from some—but jealousy, skepticism, suspicion, and hostility from others.

While Pakistanis feel confused, Americans feel threatened. These impassioned, articulate students—who have galvanised many Americans, including elected officials—make them worry about real threats to their cherished gun culture. So, they lash out.

Nonetheless, the same basic dynamic is at play with Malala and the Parkland survivors: Young people suffering unthinkable tragedies and then being subjected to vicious hate campaigns—simply for the sin of being well-known advocates.

There are lessons here. One is the power of conspiracy theories. They convince people that despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, children weren’t really nearly gunned down and aren’t really innocent advocates for a cause.

In Pakistan, conspiracy theories have long been ubiquitous, thanks to a troubled education system, extremist sentiment, and the state’s tendency to blame domestic problems on foreign forces.

In America, only more recently have conspiracy theories gained such widespread prominence. Formerly fringe figures like Alex Jones and Erick Erickson have become highly influential, thanks in part to social media. Even President Trump has supported conspiracy theories. In effect, fringe has gone mainstream.

The other lesson is about civility. Restraint is dead in public discourse. No one—including young people targeted by militants and school shooters—is off limits from hate campaigns.

Tragedy is not a sacrosanct shield that confers immunity from abuse—especially when, in Pakistan, America, and beyond, people are harassed or worse simply because of their religion, ethnicity, or political views. Social media, which gives haters the luxuries of anonymity and distance, compounds this incivility.

In a video message to protestors at the March for Our Lives rally on March 24, Malala explained what she and the Parkland survivors share in common: They experienced violence and injustice, and they decided to speak out.

Sadly, something else they share in common is the hate to which they have been subjected for daring to speak out.

18-year-old Sadia (all names have been changed) was brought into a clinic at a bustling tertiary care hospital by her father Noor Khan with high fever for the past three weeks.

She was diagnosed with typhoid and prescribed the standard oral antibiotics suitable to treat this disease.

The next week, Khan returned to the same clinic with his 20-year-old son Habib who had the same symptoms as his sister.

However, his condition was considerably worse and necessitated admission to hospital and intravenous antibiotics.

“Doctor sahiba, Habib has his exams in less than two weeks. Please fix him up soon,” Khan implored.

“We will try our best,” the doctor comforted him.

On the day of discharge, Khan walked into the clinic with heavy steps. Unable to see the doctor in the eyes, he said, “Doctor sahiba, the bill for the hospital admission is Rs 15,000. And the medicine that you have given now to be taken at home is also quite expensive. Can we do without this medicine?”

“If Habib is to get better, then this medicine is required,” the doctor replied.

“I know doctor sahiba, but this will be very difficult. I work in a local factory as a worker. I make Rs 15,000 per month. I have taken out a loan to pay for his treatment,” Khan said helplessly.

The doctor stepped in and arranged for part of his medical expenses to be waived by the hospital. Grateful as he was, Khan didn’t know that his ordeal was far from over.

Related: Superbug typhoid strain behind Pakistan outbreak

After a month, he was rushing his youngest child Mujeeb, 12, into emergency with high fever and convulsions.

“Since when has this been happening?” the doctor asked.

“For the past two weeks. We were giving him medicine from the local medical shop because well…” Khan replied.

“What!?” exclaimed the doctor

“Doctor sahiba, I didn’t have money to bring him to the hospital,” a dejected Khan stated, his eyes downcast.

Mujeeb was rushed to the Intensive Care Unit where he was treated with a number of very expensive intravenous antibiotics. His blood culture indicated multi-drug-resistant typhoid. He remained in the hospital for two weeks.

He was suffering, but so was his family who was now in massive debt. His elder brother Habib had left his studies to work in a motor repair shop to help pay for the household’s daily expenses.

Khan was facing problems at work because of taking leaves for his family’s illness. The mother, Bano Jee, was convinced that someone had done kala jaadoo (black magic) on her children.

Special report: The antibiotics resistance crisis: an emerging public health disaster

Unfortunately, for those within the medical profession, this story is not fiction — it represents a terrible reality, a classic example of how some infectious diseases, almost unheard of in the developed world, have not only lingered as major threats to our lives, but have actually gained in strength to wreak havoc on our populations.

This is evidenced by the fact that 40 per cent of the disease burden in Pakistan can be attributed to infectious diseases such as typhoid, tuberculosis and malaria.

Typhoid, a household term in our cities and villages, was relatively easy to treat up till recently. Two years back, multi-drug resistant typhoid was found within the localities of Hyderabad and Karachi.

According to reports, more than 800 cases of drug-resistant typhoid were found in Hyderabad alone in a 10-month period between 2016 and 2017.

This bug was sensitive to only two broad-spectrum antibiotics, the cost of which is exorbitant. Infectious disease specialists estimate the total treatment cost for 14 days to be roughly around Rs 50,000.

Broad-spectrum antibiotics are those that can kill a wide range of bugs; they are used when the bug is unknown, but these antibiotics increase resistance if used indiscriminately.

For someone who survives on daily wages, such treatment costs can put the entire household in financial catastrophe.

Read next: ‘Pakistan needs to know, tackle crisis resulting from antibiotic resistance’

What adds to the problem is that broad-spectrum antibiotics are unlikely to be found in small towns and shops, particularly in rural areas, where generic antibiotics availability ranges from 10 to 25 per cent.

Bacteria also know no boundaries — recently, the same bug was found in Swabi. The doctors in that locality reported that the patient was from Karachi.

A World Health Organization poster reads: “Our time with antibiotics is running out.” This is not a dramatic call for attention, but a tragic reality of the times that we live in.

The growing resistance among organisms to different antibiotics has developed and worsened over the course of decades due to our unfavourable systematic practices that lead to prescription of antibiotics, even when they are not medically indicated or required, such as in the case of viral infections.

Overuse of antibiotics is an increasing problem, as the recent Dawn editorial also suggests. This occurs due to the fact that patients themselves come to physicians looking for a quick fix, which they misconceive to be only through antibiotics, and demand to be prescribed antibiotics.

Alarmingly in our situation, it is easy to bypass physicians and just go to the corner store and buy any antibiotic we feel inclined to get, based on the advice of the storekeeper who may have no background even in pharmacy sciences.

A 2016 study from Peshawar demonstrated that 26 per cent of 800 respondents reported self-medication of antibiotics.

Another equally worrying factor is that many medical practitioners, amenable to the influence of pharmaceutical companies, prescribe these antibiotics in large quantities.

Such physicians accept favours and gifts — including simple office stationery, drug samples, trips to exotic destinations abroad among others — from pharmaceutical companies who, in exchange, require them to prescribe the more expensive antibiotics.

The complicity of these physicians, who are honour bound by their medical oath to put the interests of the patients above their own but fail do so, is another influencing factor within developing countries, including Pakistan.

Guidelines by the Pakistan Medical and Dental Council and the National Bioethics Committee on pharma-physician interactions exist but, to date, no physician has been held accountable or had his/her license revoked, although the practice is rampant. Since these guidelines have no teeth, it is hardly surprising that the practice continues to flourish.

Prevention works better than cure and is significantly cheaper in the long run also. This is even truer in cases of infectious diseases such as typhoid, tuberculosis, and dengue and so on.

Unhygienic food and drinking water and poor living conditions create a perfect milieu for infectious agents to thrive. The response of health authorities in such situations should not be reactive, but more efforts have to be geared towards primary prevention.

Preventive efforts include measures like vaccination, which is seriously neglected in Pakistan. A vaccination drive was conducted in Hyderabad recently only after cases of drug-resistant typhoid were found by a private university and the authorities duly alerted.

However, vaccination against the more common diseases in Pakistan should become part of the Expanded Program on Immunization (EPI), which itself faces a number of challenges, including limited resources and inadequate coverage.

General lack of awareness among public with respect to vaccination, along with limited effort by public health authorities, has relegated the importance of vaccination. These need to be revitalised in order to tackle this menace.

Also read: How Pakistan turned around its vaccination programme using technology

Serious efforts by the authorities to provide clean sanitation and provision of hygienic food should be done. With sewerage spilling over streets and vendors selling pakoras to eager buyers right next to a tertiary care hospital is a common site for all Pakistanis that does not even merit raising eyebrows.

While our chemists merrily dispense antibiotics to eager customers, our food stalls dispense fortified salmonella, the bacteria that causes typhoid. If we are serious in stopping infections short in their tracks, we need to get serious in preventing conditions that foster them.

The dangers of antimicrobial resistance are real with significant impacts. To combat this, the medical community has an essential role to play in limiting their prescriptions of antibiotics and raising awareness among public about dangers of self-medication and antibiotic overuse.

Health authorities also have to wake up from their restful slumber and focus their energies on preventive mechanisms as opposed to occasional stirrings when water is already under the bridge.

Are you a medical practitioner working on community and public health issues? Share your insights with us at blog@dawn.com

• Devotion towards fire

I have been to Sargodha many times. In fact multiple times in a year, throughout my childhood. This is where my family comes from — both maternal and paternal.

Despite all my trips, however, I have never visited the shrine of Naghyana in a village called Dharema, about 10-odd km from the city.

Composed of two graves, it is an extraordinary shrine, dating back to the 17th century. The first grave is said to belong to Prince Murad Baksh, the youngest son of Emperor Shah Jahan, who had joined hands with his older brother Aurangzeb to take on their brother, Prince Dara Shikoh.

However, after Aurangzeb defeated Dara Shikoh, he put Murad Baksh to death, clearing the way for him to become the emperor. The story of his grave being at this site, though, is unlikely as Prince Murad Baksh was put to death in Gwalior.

The second grave is said to belong to the saint Naghyana, who is believed to have given refuge to Murad Baksh. The progeny of the saint eventually came to be known as Naghyana.

The word 'naghyana' is believed to have been derived from 'naghe,' an epithet used for nanga sadhus, the naked ascetic devotees of the Hindu deity Shiva.

Covered in ash dust, sporting long untrimmed hair, and known to consume hashish incessantly, these sadhus defy all societal norms and prefer to live in seclusion.

There is also a long established tradition of naked Sufi ascetics, connecting all the way back to udasi sadhus, followers of Shri Chand, the eldest son of Guru Nanak.

In devotional art, Shri Chand is usually depicted almost naked sitting in a yogic position next to a fire. He has long, ragged hair, just like a nanga sadhu.

Like these sadhus, the Sufi dervishes too let their hair grow long, and believe that hair is the source of life-energy.

It seemed that the udasi, as devotees of Shri Chand later came to be known, also borrowed heavily from the Shaivite sadhus, just as the Sufi ascetics or dervishes did. Perhaps Naghyana was one such Sufi ascetic.

There is another legend at the Naghyana shrine about the fire that the saint lit. Fire acquires a particular symbolic and religious significance in ascetic Sufi tradition.

Many popular Sufis are believed to have their dhuan (smoke), which, in this case, specifically refers to the place where they lit their fire and sat.

For many such Sufis, their dhuan became a place of veneration after their death. The situation at the shrine is quite similar.

At the shrine, it is narrated that the fire has remained alive ever since the death of the saint in the 17th century. His devotees have made sure that his dhuan survives.

I am told the fire simmers — emitting more smoke than fire — at the centre of a room that is blackened by this centuries’ old smoke.

Perhaps the fire comes to life during the annual urs celebration, the death anniversary of the saint, the day he is believed to have become One with the Divine.

I saw another similar situation at the shrine of Shah Hussain, the 16th century mystic poet, who is believed to have fallen in love with the Hindu boy, Madhu Lal. They are buried in Lahore together, in a union that signifies the Oneness of the world — Monism.

There is a fire just outside the shrine to Madho Lal Hussain in Lahore, which is lit throughout the year by the lamps of his devotees. Much like the fire at the Naghyana shrine, this one too was simmering when I visited a few months ago.

The situation at the shrine this past week, however, was different as thousands of devotees of the saint converged there to celebrate his urs, also known as Mela Chiraghan or the Festival of Lamps, one of the greatest festivals of the city of Lahore.

The fire must have been alive, thriving, whirling and swinging, imitating the dhamaal of the dervishes around it.

Devotion towards fire

Fire has long been held sacred in the indigenous religious traditions of South Asia. The Zoroastrians are popularly and falsely referred to as fire worshippers. Their religious shrines are known as fire temples, with fire forming a central feature in their religious rituals.

At a fire temple, the fire never dies. The original fire (other traditions assert it was ash from the fire) that was brought from Persia by the fleeing Zoroastrians was set up in a temple off the coast of Mumbai, the oldest fire temple in the world.

There is a deeper connection between the Zoroastrians and the Sufi ascetic tradition of South Asia. The term 'dervish,' popularly used to describe ascetic Sufis, is derived from the Persian word 'daryosh,' which is derived from the word 'drigu,' for devotees of Zarathustra.

While there is an etymological connection between the drigu and dervish, there also seems to be a religious continuity between the two, with fire joining the knot of these two traditions.

For many dervishes, it is not just fire — the ash from the fire of a Sufi saint is also significant. Just like the Shaivite sadhus, they believe ash from this sacred fire has magical properties and use it frequently for healing purposes.

It is around these fires that different dervishes gather and engage in hashish consumption, another connection that binds them with the Shaivite sadhus. In both of these traditions, the consumption of hashish or other forms of cannabis enjoys religious approval.

Sometimes Sufi ascetics perform zikr around the fire — this involves the invocation of God in a liturgical manner, using a breathing technique in a particular rhythm.

Jurgen Wasim Frembgen, a German anthropologist who has worked extensively on the Sufi culture of Islam, finds the origin of this form of zikr — a particular feature of South Asian Sufism — in the yogic tradition.

While fire is important in their religious asceticism, so is the tong or chimta, which is used to maintain the fire.

The chimta is an essential possession of a Sufi dervish. It is used to announce the arrival of a dervish into a village. It is used by him for rhythm when he sings Sufi songs. Often, it is the only instrument a Sufi dervish possesses.

The chimta is also kept by sadhus who not only use it to maintain fire but as a percussion instrument when need be. It is also part of the Sikh tradition where it is used as an instrument to perform religious music, following a trajectory that has its origin in the Shaivite sadhu tradition and their fire-tending necessities.

Scratching beneath the surface, one would find similar traditions of fire veneration in Buddhist and Jain traditions. Moving beyond the demarcations that divide these religions, it becomes impossible to maintain these boundaries in the ascetic realm.

Where does the Shaivite sadhu tradition end and Sufi dervish tradition begin? How does one begin to differentiate between the dervish and the udasi devotees of Shri Chand?

While there are several traditions that join together the threads of these indigenous religious practices, one of those traditions is their communal devotion towards fire, perhaps a tradition all of them borrow from Zoroastrianism.

The article was first published in Scroll and has been reproduced with permission.