Formerly vice-captain of Pakistan women’s cricket team, 26-year-old Bismah Maroof was appointed captain in September last year.

Since her tenure, the team has played two ICC Championship series: one home series against New Zealand in November 2017 in Sharjah and another away to Sri Lanka in March 2018.

In the November series, Pakistan came very close to winning the first match and subsequently won their first ever ODI against the Kiwis in the third match.

The ODI and T20 series against Sri Lanka were clean sweeps — this is only the second time that Pakistan women’s team has won an ODI series 0-3.

Bismah’s own performance has also been consistently strong. She is one of Pakistan women’s top batters, bowls well and is a keen fielder, helping her side secure many of the wins during her captaincy.

Bismah is currently the highest-ranking T20 woman player from Pakistan at 11th in the ICC Women’s T20 batters and 12th in the ICC Women’s T20 all-rounders.

But while Bismah’s on-field exploits are well known, her personal history and the story of her career path are not. In this interview, I try to bring that to the fore.

I spoke to Bismah over the phone recently to get to know her a bit more. The interview below is translated from Urdu and edited for brevity and clarity.

This is the first of a four-part series of interviews with two senior and two newcomers to the women’s squad, which is currently playing the Women's Twenty20 Asia Cup in Malaysia from June 3-10, 2018. Read part 2 here.

What is your earliest memory of playing cricket?

The first time I remember playing cricket was when I was six or seven, when my father brought me a toy plastic bat.

I used to play cricket with my elder brother. I live in a joint family with my paternal uncles and their families; and all of them were very supportive and happy when I played. My mother used to say that as long as you study well, it's okay.

She also believed that sports are a healthy pursuit, so she was supportive though she wanted me to study well too.

I was the youngest of three children. I have an elder brother and an elder sister. When I was born, my brother had been hoping for a younger brother so that he would have a playmate.

But he took me on as his playmate regardless of the fact that I was a girl. Whatever he did, he took me along with him; whatever he played, I played with him.

When I was 14, my uncle suggested that I go for open cricket trials. At the time, the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) used to hold open trials for girls.

Imtiaz Ahmed was the chief selector then. At the trials, I was selected for an upcoming Pakistan versus Hong Kong series.

When I went to the trials, I used to play with a tennis ball, so Sir Imtiaz advised me that I should practice playing with a hard ball. I had to learn how to play with a hard ball and I spent three months practicing that.

I didn’t get to play the first two matches but I played the third match of the Hong Kong series, in which I scored 82.

My whole family had come to watch me play. They were so excited when I made 82 runs.

I got cramps in my leg after the match. Without waiting for the physio, my mother started bandaging me in the ground right after the match.

After playing against other countries and meeting other players, I realised that if I am to be a serious cricketer, then I must work on my fitness.

My international debut for the national team was in the Asia Cup 2006, where I made 43 against India.

In the beginning it was difficult for me to stay away from my family because I was very attached to them. But the seniors — Taskeen Qadir, Qanita Jalil, Sajida Shah, Batool Fatima, Urooj Mumtaz and Sana Mir — really helped me.

When I made friends in the team and got the support of the seniors, I became more comfortable. Then it became easier to be away from family.

The seniors guided me on how to conduct myself off the field as well as on the field. I have had a lot of personal growth because of cricket. I may not have grown so much if it had not been for the sport.

Right in the beginning, I learnt humility because in this game there is both winning and losing.

You mentioned humility; what are some of the other key lessons have you learnt in cricket?

I have been very close to Sana and she has helped me a lot personally and professionally. She is one person I discuss everything with.

I have also worked with her as vice-captain for a while, so I have learnt a lot from her — how she works with honesty, how she helps out others, how she makes decisions.

I try to cultivate all these in myself: to make decisions that are helpful to others and I try to judge my own self with sincerity.

You took over captaincy in 2017. What is the difference between you as a player and as a captain?

Before, I used to help out Sana. If I had any ideas I would share them with her to assist her. But I didn’t have full authority and also I didn’t have the responsibility.

As captain you have to take the decision and own it fully.

So I feel it makes you more passionate and also increases the sense of responsibility. When you make decisions you have to be clear about your reasoning, so I have learnt to be sharper in decision making.

Also communicating with the girls to understand them — this is something I am doing more of but also something I'm still learning and trying to improve.

What have been your challenges over the past seven to eight months?

As captain if I have to compare, I would say that I’ve seen Sana and she had to do a lot of things herself because before maybe the management was different and her vision was much broader.

The new management I have to work with is much more supportive because their vision and my vision are much more similar.

So I have not had to face such a challenge because management handles many aspects and the new coach, Mark Coles, also has been a big help.

Mark handles a lot of the team issues off the field and I would say he is doing very well. My responsibility is much more on the field as captain.

How do you balance your own performance as a player and your responsibility as a captain on the field?

I fully captained the New Zealand ICC Championship series in November last year and at the time, I felt the pressure for my own performance and as a captain as well.

But when I returned from the series, I spoke to the coach and he explained that once you go on the field to bat, then you no longer have the responsibilities of a captain. Then you should just go and enjoy your game.

So during the Sri Lanka tour, I tried to stay in the present moment and play according to the requirements of the given situation. This was very helpful to me.

Two series, against New Zealand and Sri Lanka, were a big success. What do you attribute these successes to?

Definitely the win against New Zealand was a success. The way our World Cup 2017 campaign had gone … I was with the girls and I know how hard everyone had worked. But we couldn’t get the results we wanted in that tournament.

We were very disappointed that we weren’t able to convert our hard work into results. So for the New Zealand series, the girls themselves were very enthusiastic. Every girl wanted to show that we can do something for Pakistan, so I think the unity of our team really helped us.

We had never defeated New Zealand before, but this was a home series and we had an advantage which we wanted to utilise fully.

I would also like to mention that the new coach gave us self-belief and confidence that we could defeat New Zealand. The atmosphere in the dressing room was very light.

We all felt confident and every girl wanted to improve herself and play better. Our first match against New Zealand was very close and then we defeated them in the third match.

After that series we were confident that we could easily win against Sri Lanka. But we never got carried away. Everyone still played with responsibility according to their role and that is what helped us to win both the ODI and the T20 series against Sri Lanka.

You have achieved the top position in your field. If someone wants to excel in theirs, what can they learn from Bismah Maroof?

I believe very strongly in hard work. And I believe that whatever lies in my hands I should try and control that and whatever doesn't lie in my hands I shouldn’t try and control that.

I think hard work and being honest with yourself are very important. If I need to improve in a certain area but I go into denial that I don't need improvement, then I can’t improve.

Also focusing on my own work, my own contribution and not focusing on what others are doing or not doing. I think these things have really helped me and have increased my self belief. Therefore I can back myself.

I've never looked for shortcuts. I believe that we should keep putting in our effort and Allah will reward us. I have always believed this and Alhamdolillah, Allah has given me a lot of respect.

This 22-year-old medium pacer, Diana Baig, burst into prominence in the Women’s World Cup (WWC) 2017.

The young athlete from Gilgit is one of the most animated players on the field. She dives, runs and chases with a palpable energy, bringing the field to life.

Diana was effective with her pace in the recent ICC Championship series against New Zealand in November 2017 and Sri Lanka in March 2018, fielded with characteristic enthusiasm and was handy with the bat in some key moments.

One of the emerging stars on the women’s team, I spoke to Diana on the phone about her childhood and how she made it from Gilgit to the national squad.

The interview below is translated from Urdu and has been edited for brevity and clarity.

This is the second of a four-part series of interviews with two seniors and two newcomers to the women’s squad, which is currently playing the Women's Twenty20 Asia Cup in Malaysia from June 3-10, 2018. Read part 1 here.

How old were you when you first developed an interest in cricket?

I think I was around six or seven when we would play cricket at home. We wouldn't play football that much; we mostly played cricket.

We used to stuff old socks with shoppers (plastic bags) to make balls. We couldn't even afford to buy balls at the time. And for a bat, we would use our own wood or sometimes a spade with the handle removed.

We made our own cricket equipment because we were very young and we couldn’t afford to buy it.

Our parents were very keen that we study. My father had not been to school, so he really wanted us to study. He sent us to good schools, even though he couldn’t really afford it.

My father was very keen that the girls in the family study well. I have two elder sisters and an elder brother and my father never compromised on my sisters’ education; he sent them to good schools and universities

How did you go from there to being on the national team?

I wasn't very interested in studies but I was very interested in sports.

I played any sport; whatever was available or being played, I would play that. I didn't exclusively play cricket, though it was what we played more often.

But when I was a child, I once watched a women's cricket game between India and Pakistan on TV and that got me very interested because it showed me the possibility that girls can also play for a national team.

So after I saw that match, I would visualise myself opening the bowling attack for Pakistan. Before going to sleep, I would often imagine myself playing cricket for the team.

I used to play with my elder brother and I really liked his bowling. Whenever we played cricket with other boys, I really liked the way my brother played. I followed him. My cousins would also play with us.

There was some space in our house where we would play. We would be five or six cousins and we would bat and bowl by turns. Often my brother won because he would bowl us out quickly and he himself would bat for long.

Can you talk about some of the biggest hurdles you faced, and how you overcame them?

First of all, the problem in our area is that a girl cannot play in an open ground. She can only play in her own chaar diwari. If you do go out and play in a public or open ground, then people talk about you.

There is more support in my community because the Aga Khan Youth and Sports Board would arrange sporting events for us, so then it was okay if we played in public grounds. But for girls from other communities, it is much more difficult.

When I was little, we would mostly play in our home compound but sometimes when we played on the street, people would say to my father your daughter is playing on the street; it was not considered appropriate.

But my father never said anything to me. He would say she's my daughter; he was very supportive. My mother, however, would be a little affected and would say don't play on the streets.

When my mother realised that I'm doing something serious with cricket, she became more supportive.

So one problem is not being able to play in open grounds and the other problem is that travelling from Gilgit to Islamabad is a long way and if you are taking a team of girls then security is a big issue.

Parents are reluctant to send their daughters with other young girls and just a couple of coaches such a long way.

So how did you get to be included in the national team?

I played at the regional level and Madam Ayesha Ashhar (formerly the manager and now the general manager of PCB women’s wing) liked my bowling. She had her eyes on me for the future. Then I also played two under-19 tournaments. At that level my batting was also good, so I was an all-rounder.

Then I got selected for the Pakistan team in 2013. At that time I was 17 years old. But it was a bit strange; I was not settled. I got into the team quickly, but then I was out just as quickly. Then I was out for two years until 2015, when I got on the team for the Bangladesh series.

What did you do in those two years?

During that time, I was mostly in Gilgit, so there was very little practice. When there was a tournament, I would come play for the region and then go back. If I performed, I performed; if I didn’t, I didn’t.

After that, I shifted to Lahore for studies and joined the Lahore College for Women. There we had grounds and practice and coaches. They provided everything and that's how I got into regular practice, which improved my game.

Though I was on the team, I didn't get to play in the 2013 Women’s T20 World Cup, which was held in India. I debuted in 2015 against Bangladesh in Karachi, but it was not very good.

I was on the team for the West Indies series in 2015 and for the New Zealand series in 2016, but I only really got a chance to play back-to-back matches in the WWC 2017.

What would you like to tell young people who are aspiring to excel in the field of their choice? What are some of the key things that helped you to get here?

You have to keep setting goals — you start with small goals and once you meet them, you set bigger goals and keep moving forward. So every time I achieved one goal, I would set a higher goal and try to achieve that.

I was also motivated because I knew that other girls from my area were following me. If I failed to achieve anything, then people would say to other aspiring girls, “What did she (Diana) achieve that you will now go achieve?”

I thought that since I have stepped out from my area then I must do something and not waste the opportunity.

I would also say that if you like something then pursue it and work hard at it. In life, I have never searched for shortcuts because when you work hard, you learn something from it and you become stronger at it.

If you get something very easily, you can lose it very easily too, which is something I learned early on when I was selected quickly, but then dropped just as quickly.

Progressing slowly towards your goals is not a bad thing, as long as you are growing and moving forward. When you learn as you progress, even if you lose the game, you still have your learning with you, you still have your growth with you, so you are not as disheartened.

That's why it's important not to look for a shortcut, but to work hard and learn as you go forward.

I also tell parents that it's very important for them to support their children. The rest of the world doesn’t matter as long as you have your parents’ support.

Do you have a sense of responsibility to your area like you do towards the other aspiring young athletes as you mentioned?

Yes, I do. I want to be a torchbearer, which means that I have to stick to my values.

Being away from family can be difficult, so we need guidance. I get guidance from my seniors. We spend a lot of time together in camps; they are like our elder sisters.

When your parents support you and trust you then you have to use your independence and freedom properly to honour their trust and support.

So there's a good message for elders too — that if we trust and support our children, they will not use their freedom inappropriately. Anything you’d like to say to the fans or general public?

As for the fans and the public… You know we work hard. No one plays to lose, but we don't always win. It’s okay.

I take the public's reaction in my stride.

The Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz's government finished its term on May 31, 2018.

When it came to power after sweeping the 2013 elections, the PML-N, which prides itself on prioritising economic growth and development, set out ambitious policy goals in its manifesto that year.

How many of those promises did the party live up to five years later? Let's look at what the data says.

Agriculture and food security

Claims:

—Ensure universal access to affordable food grains in all parts of the country by legislating the Right to Food as a fundamental right.

—To implement the Right to Food policy, the government will formulate, in consultation with the provincial governments, a National Strategy for Food Security to achieve an average agricultural growth of at least 4 percent per annum in the next decade, evolve an equitable system of food procurement and distribution, improve the access of poor households to food at affordable prices and evolve a transparent system of safety nets for very poor households.

—Strengthen the procurement programme to ensure all farmers receive the guaranteed support price for grains and improve arrangements for storage and subsidised distribution to ensure relative price stability throughout the year.

After five years:

The government didn't follow through on its promise to legislate a right to food policy. The target of 4 percent growth in the agriculture sector was also not achieved, with the sector's performance remaining unimpressive throughout, peaking at 3.81 percent in 2018 and falling to 0.15 in 2016.

The federal government's goal to procure food grains from all farmers to ensure they all receive a guaranteed price was unrealistic from the start due to the simple fact that such an endeavour would have been too costly.

At its maximum, only one fourth of the total wheat production was procured by the government, in 2017.

However, the government ought to be commended for keeping the support price stable at Rs1300 per maund of wheat during its tenure, unlike the previous Pakistan People's Party government. As a result, the PML-N was able to reduce food price inflation.

Food price inflation was also brought into check thanks to the government's Kisaan Package in 2015, 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 landholding.

Education and health

Claim:

—The PML-N aims to achieve public spending of four percent and two percent of the GDP for education and health by 2018 to achieve the targets set by the United Nations.

After five years:

The government did increase spending on education and health, but only marginally so. The abysmal numbers fall well short of the intended targets.

Budget deficit and tax-to-GDP ratio

Claims:

—Through reforms in the Federal Board of Revenue and the tax system, the PML-N will strive to improve the tax-to-GDP ratio to 15 percent by 2018. Informal economy will be brought into the tax net and the tax base will be broadened.

—To tax all income and to achieve greater equity in the tax system by increasing dependence on direct taxes.

—Budget deficit will be brought down to four percent of GDP.

After five years:

The government did consistently improve the tax-to-GDP ratio, but still wasn't able to achieve what it promised in its manifesto.

But what's more important is that the PML-N increased indirect taxes and the overall ratio of direct and indirect taxes did not change. This also means that the tax base was not broadened.

The government did, nonetheless, made progress on reducing the budget deficit and almost met its target in 2018.

Inflation

Claim:

—Inflation will be brought down to single digit in the range of seven or eight percent by limiting government borrowing and lowering interest rates through effective monetary policy.

After five years:

The PML-N succeeded in curbing inflationary pressures due to a host of factors, including low oil prices, stable exchange rate as well as its decision to stabilise the support price for wheat.

The food and general inflation figures are now at the lowest since a decade at 1.6 percent and 3.2 percent respectively, which is a great achievement and must be acknowledged, though the question of sustainability still lingers, especially since international oil prices are out of the country's control.

The government also performed respectably on reducing the interest rate by bringing it down to six percent most recently, as opposed to 15 percent at the start of the PPP tenure in 2008.

It is important to note that low interest rates help reduce borrowing cost and encourage investments via bank borrowings.

Housing for low income families

Claim:

—At least 1,000 clusters of 500 houses each for lower income families will be developed on a public-private partnership mode, and the industry will be encouraged to expand investment and to provide employment opportunities in the adjoining areas.

After five years:

This was an over ambitious target without realising the cost of setting up 500,000 houses in five years — that is 100,000 each year.

Suppose that the construction of a single house costs a minimum of Rs1 million — the expenditure of building 100,000 houses each year would be Rs100 billion.

The annual cost alone would have been 60 percent of the total development expenditure outside the PSDP during the entire tenure of the government.

How would the government have allocated resources to such a project when it failed to achieve its revenue target each year and consistently cut back on development expenditure?

In the end, there is no proof in the spending budget that shows that the government actually built any of the houses it had promised.

Macroeconomic stability

Claim:

—In order to decrease the fiscal deficit, we will eliminate VIP culture and launch an austerity drive. Expenses related to the presidency, prime minister, governors and chief ministers will be significantly reduced.

After five years:

Contrary to the promises, the budget for the Prime Minister’s Office went up consistently. In fact, the budget each year had to be revised and increased.

Energy crises

Claim:

—Investment of about US$20 billion to generate 10,000 MW of electricity in the next five years will stimulate overall growth of the economy.

After five years:

The government initiated several coal-fired plants in places such as Sahiwal, Port Qasim, Jamshoro, Faislabad, Mianwali and DG Khan; a solar park in Bahawalpur; and wind farms in Sindh.

But despite this show of resolve, a load shedding-free Pakistan is still very much a dream. Not to mention the fact that coal power plants are major pollutants as well.

Claims to bring about US$20 billion for the energy sector were a reach. It is as if the PML-N did not know Pakistan's record and potential for attracting foreign investment.

In 2014, foreign investment stood at US$4.44 billion, with a 36 percent reduction in the subsequent year to US$2.83 billion and consistent declines thereafter.

Over four years, the total foreign investment, including CPEC projects, was at around US$11.7 billion — a far cry from the government's goal of having US$20 billion investment in the energy sector alone.

A new framework for social change

Claim:

—In cooperation with the provinces, the PML-N government will raise the total spending on non-pension social protection from the current level of one percent of GDP to at least two percent by 2018.

After five years:

The non-pension social security and welfare includes expenditures on the Benazir Income Support Program, Social Development Goals and the Pakistan Bait-ul-Maal. The allocations to these remained less than one-third of what the manifesto promised.

According to the World Social Protection Report 2017, Pakistan spends the least among South Asian countries when it comes to social protection.

A new elections cycle brings in new electoral promises. To begin with, parties should present a fair assessment of the needs of the country and make realistic promises that they can more or less keep. This applies to everyone and not just the PML-N.

Pakistan ranks an abysmal 147th on the human development index. Whoever comes to power later this year will have to keep this statistic in mind. It's only by improving the lives of the people does one fulfill a democratic mandate.

Illustration by Nabeel Ahmed

Are you researching Pakistan's economy? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com

This 20-year-old left arm, leg spinner from Lahore has been on the squad for the past 16 months or so and has swiftly become one of the most reliable, consistent and economical bowlers on the team.

Sandhu’s 4 for 26 in the Women’s World Cup 2017 match against India reduced India to their lowest total in the tournament — a match we lost due to our batting.

Sandhu then had a consistently tight and economical showing in the ICC Championship series against New Zealand in November 2017 and Sri Lanka in March 2018 — keeping run rates down, striking at critical moments, and taking key wickets.

This quiet, unassuming and calm bowler is certainly one of the emerging stars to watch out for in the future.

I spoke to Nashra about her childhood, how she made it to the national squad, and how she keeps her cool and bowls those consistent lines and lengths against the best batters in the world.

The interview below is translated from Urdu and has been edited for brevity and clarity.

This is the third of a four-part series of interviews with two seniors and two newcomers to the women’s squad, which is currently playing the Women's Twenty20 Asia Cup in Malaysia from June 3-10, 2018. Read part 1 here and part 2 here.

How old were you when you realised you like playing cricket?

As a child, I used to play in our house with my father, sister and twin brother. Even my mother used to play with us. On Sundays and whenever we were off from school, we’d all play together.

Many children in Pakistan play cricket at home but not everyone makes it to the national team. Tell me about your journey.

There wasn't much support in my school for cricket. Other games like volleyball were played more.

When I finished my matriculation, I spoke to Madam Ayesha Ashhar (formerly manager, now general manager of the Pakistan Cricket Board’s women’s wing), and she recommended I consider Kinnaird College or Lahore College for Women, which provide support for women’s cricket.

At the time I used to be a fast bowler. But my brother was a spinner, so when I played at home I also learnt how to spin. I would try and spin the last ball of my over.

When I went to college, my coach Sir Shahid said, “You are short for a fast bowler, so try to spin instead.”

My heart was set on fast bowling but Sir Shahid said I’d be more effective as a spin bowler because I was already good at it and if I practised more I’ll improve. That's how I became a spinner.

I started off playing for Lahore College for Women at the board level. Then Alhamdolillah I was selected to play for Lahore in the under-19 tournament in my first attempt. Afterwards, I also played under-21 for Lahore in a tournament in Karachi.

Then there was a regional tournament. There was not enough space for me on the Lahore team, so I played from Abbottabad under Qanita Jalil, who was the regional captain.

I thought it was a very high-level tournament as all the seniors were playing in it, and so I didn't sit for many of my first-year board exams.

When I got my date sheet, I noticed that most of my exams were on the same days as the matches, except for English.

I hadn’t really studied much and I had not prepared for it, but I still asked Madam Ayesha for permission to go to Lahore to take my exam.

She said okay. So I went to Lahore to take my first-year English exam and then returned the same day to Islamabad to play the tournament.

After that there were smaller local tournaments. Then there was the SAGA Premier League T20 tournament, which the selectors came to watch and where I bowled very well.

After that, I was included in the Pakistan fitness camp in Abbottabad and eventually played for Pakistan A.

Then the Pakistan team had a tour of the West Indies in 2015 and Sir Basit [Ali, head of junior selection committee and head coach of women’s cricket team] called me to the women's cricket ground.

He said, "I want to see you bowl," so I did and he appreciated it. He said, "We will see next time."

The next time there was a selection in January 2017 for the World Cup Qualifiers in Sri Lanka. I was included in the camp for the qualifiers in Karachi, where I bowled really well and got selected for the team.

You mentioned there was no support for cricket in your school, so where did you practise and with whom?

When I was in matric, there was a teacher who encouraged me to take up cricket seriously. Both my baba (father) and I were very interested that I play, and on the teacher’s recommendation, I joined a cricket academy for boys that was relatively close by.

I was a fast bowler then. Spinners would get to bowl first and then the fast bowlers got a chance, so I had to wait a long time.

I used to bat a lot more at the time. But it would take a long time to get my turn at batting too.

I couldn't pay attention to my studies, but then I wasn't really getting a chance to practise at the academy either.

So I left the boys’ cricket academy and we decided to construct a cement pitch in our home.

Later, we put up proper practice nets around the pitch and I practised target bowling at home. Eventually, I joined the college as Madam Ayesha Ashhar had suggested.

It sounds like your father supported you a lot?

Everyone in the family supported me. My mother also used to play on Sundays. She and I would be on one team and my brother and father would be on the other team. My brother liked cricket, but he didn’t pursue it like I did.

Tell me something memorable or something that you learnt since you have been on the national team.

In the beginning I knew Qanita aapi and Sana aapi. Sana aapi has supported me a lot right from the beginning. I would talk to her and she would explain things very clearly and nicely to me.

The environment at the qualifiers was really good; I never felt like I was a new person on the team.

It never felt as if there were seniors and juniors, and there was no difference in the way we were treated.

It was a wonderful environment and therefore I performed so well — I was the highest wicket-taker in the World Cup Qualifiers, my first international tournament.

Tell me how you work on yourself to be so consistent and disciplined even in high-pressure games like against India in the World Cup, where you took 4 for 26.

There was a summer camp in college after my matriculation examinations. It was very hot and it would be just me and a few other people. I was trying to practise left-arm spin.

Sir Shahid would give me a target; he would place a cone or a glove, and tell me to bowl at that point. So whether he was there or not, I used to practise the same way.

Often there was no one to keep while I bowled. For about three hours every day, I would set a target, bowl my over and then pick the balls up to start again.

I think that practice formed a foundation and made me consistent in my bowling. Even though I was alone, I kept practising and I think that has made me really consistent and it helps me to focus and bowl on target.

Do you ever get stressed out?

Mostly, thank God, I have a lot of confidence in my bowling. I think when I'm in form then no one can play a big shot on my bowling.

Sometimes when I'm not in form, the other team members support and encourage me and give me confidence.

How many times did you bowl out Chamari Atapattu, the Sri Lanka team’s captain and best batter, in the recent series?

Four times.

How did that feel?

It felt awesome. I kept bowling a good line and length and she kept losing her wicket. She should have played according to my bowling, but she tried to play big shots.

Do you have a message for young people who are aspiring to excel in sports or any other field of their choice?

You should practise a lot and then assess how far you can go. If you have a coach, ask how far they think you can go so you don’t waste your time.

Anything you want to tell your fans or the public about how to support the team better? Often, there are expectations and, I think, unfair criticism.

People who don’t have knowledge can criticise or comment unfairly. First, they should follow the game more closely and watch the live matches or follow the live scorecards.

They should get to know the history of the game and the team so they understand us better. Then they can comment better on our performance.

Zulfiqar Ali, a 54-year-old terminally-ill Pakistani on death row in Indonesia, passed away on May 31, 2018.

He was arrested in 2004 and sentenced to death on drug charges, following a forced confession and an unfair trial.

An Indonesian government inquiry concluded that he was innocent in 2010.

Nonetheless, his incarceration continued and in July 2016, warrants for his execution by firing squad were issued.

The execution was stayed after a last minute intervention by former prime minister Nawaz Sharif.

Ali was diagnosed with stage-4 liver cancer in January 2018 and was told he only had three months to live.

He leaves behind five children, a wife and mother.

Zulfiqar taught me how to be compassionate

When the poor prisoners in our jail could not afford anything better than the inedible prison food, Zulfiqar decided to distribute packets of noodles from his own pocket.

He didn’t know who these people were, where they came from, what they had done or what languages they spoke, but Zulfiqar helped them — not once, not twice, but on most days.

I remember seeing long queues outside our room of people thanking him and asking him for food. He never refused.

Op-ed: Death of a prisoner

Some days, he would give out as many as 300 packets of noodles, and around every six months, he would feed 3,000-4,000 people in the jail at a time.

You can imagine how much money that costed him.

His own medical bills were in the thousands of dollars. He had lost a lot back home, he had lost his health, he had lost several years of his life.

But giving was important to him. He could not see people around him going to bed without a decent meal.

Zulfiqar taught me how to be hopeful

I remember that one night in 2016 when they came to take him away. He was so sick, he couldn’t even walk.

They put him in a wheelchair and tied his legs and neck while he still had his oxygen mask on, and put him on a bus with 13 other people.

The 10-hour bus ride was taking him to the island where he was scheduled to be executed by a firing squad.

That one day, he got lucky. He received a last-minute stay on his execution after the Pakistani prime minister spoke to the Indonesian authorities.

Zulfiqar was seen smiling and flashing the victory sign at the camera in a picture released shortly after.

Letter from prison: Terminally ill and on death row in Indonesia — Pakistani national Zulfiqar Ali requests to be sent home

He was hopeful that he would eventually be saved and taken out of his misery with Pakistan’s efforts — the same country that had neglected him for years, the same country he still had pride in.

The Pakistani embassy did pay for his medical bills when he ran out of money, but what he needed the most ever since he was in jail was to be set free from the stain of the crime that he never committed and to die at home with his family.

In the five years I was in the jail with him, I never saw anyone from the Pakistani embassy visiting him, to help him fight his case, to help him gain freedom, to help bring him back home.

But I always saw Zulfiqar’s unwavering trust in his country.

Zulfiqar taught me how to be forgiving

Can you imagine being subjected to the pain that was inflicted upon him and still have no desire for revenge in you?

For days, he was kicked, punched and beaten so horribly by the police that he had to be rushed into emergency surgeries.

There was no evidence that Zulfiqar was involved in drug trafficking.

But they brutalised him so severely that he was forced to sign a self-incriminating confession.

All that torture left him with stomach and kidney injuries that lasted him a lifetime.

Zulfiqar said he wouldn’t even wish the agony he went through upon his enemies.

Reverse the roles, put the officers who tortured him in front of him and hand him a baton, and he still wouldn’t do it.

Related: Pakistani citizens, including children, on death row in Saudi Arabia and Iran

There were some people who saw the kindness in Zulfiqar, but there were more who took advantage of him.

Every day, I would see the jail officer come to him and ask for money.

He was so heartless, he wouldn’t even let Zulfiqar go to the hospital if he didn’t pay him.

Another officer who would take him to the hospital would also ask for his share.

Then there were police officers for whom Zulfiqar used to buy lunch every now and then.

For Zulfiqar, nothing was free. And his health wasn’t on his side either. I remember him being weak, and always with a fever.

Many times, I would see him vomiting blood. He had to take several medicines every day that cost him a fortune.

Yet, the corrupt officials around him kept extorting money out of him. And Zulfiqar kept on complying.

Zulfiqar taught me how to be patient

Every day, for six years, Zulfiqar waited for the proof of his innocence to come out.

It did in 2010 when an inquiry commission formed by the then-Indonesian president found him not guilty.

The authors of the report even publicly confirmed that Zulfiqar had not just been wrongfully sentenced but had also been subjected to severe human rights abuses. Zulfiqar was finally proved innocent.

And then, for eight more long years, he waited to be sent home. His body had already weakened because of the injuries and scars caused by the torture. His pockets had already been emptied with all the bills.

But his heart was full of hope. He knew his place was not inside the prison, and there was still goodness left in the world.

Read next: 'Mr President, grant mercy to my daughter who was tortured into a false murder confession'

But it had been 14 years now and he just wanted to go home, when his life was unexpectedly and drastically shortened by stage-4 terminal cancer.

Now he only had a few months to breathe. Only a few months left to hope. Only a few months to wait for freedom.

Luckily, Indonesian President Joko Widodo was visiting Pakistan soon after Zulfiqar was diagnosed.

I heard about public uproar and massive campaigns that called for Zulfiqar’s release.

The Pakistani prime minister took it up with Indonesian president who promised to look into Zulfiqar’s case and make sure he was freed.

But his freedom only came with death.

No amount of pressure could urge the governments of Indonesia and Pakistan to take action for a helpless, dying man.

No amount of humanity could make them fight for him.

Zulfiqar’s tragic story couldn’t stir their hearts enough to bring him home, not even in his very last moments.

Mohammad Reza Nezafa was Zulfiqar’s fellow inmate at Batu Prison in Indonesia. He spoke to Ema Anis who wrote it in the form of an article.

Sana Mir, the former captain of the Pakistan women’s cricket team, is quite likely the most admired and successful female athlete in the history of Pakistan.

She has had a very interesting past year, marked by a difficult showing at the Women’s World Cup (WWC) 2017 but also some memorable personal performances.

After our team lost all its matches at the WWC 2017, the conflict between Sana — who was the captain at that time — and the coach was made public by the ‘leaking’ of the coach’s confidential report to the media and Mir’s public response via social media.

However, she returned to the team and has been in good form. In the ICC Championship series against New Zealand in November 2017, her four-wicket haul helped her team make history and secure Pakistan’s maiden ODI win against the Kiwis.

In the recently concluded ICC Championship series against Sri Lanka in March 2018, Sana helped secure two of the three ODI wins for Pakistan in their clean sweep of the ODI series and is now ranked number four in the ICC women’s ODI bowlers in the world.

This is the highest ODI ranking any Pakistani woman cricketer has ever achieved. She is also ranked number six ODI all-rounder in the world.

We talked about the past year — the transitions, challenges and triumphs and her definition of leadership.

The interview below has been edited for brevity and clarity.

This is the first half of the final installment of a four-part series of interviews with two seniors and two newcomers to the women’s squad, which played at the Women's Twenty20 Asia Cup in Malaysia from June 3-10, 2018. Read part 1 here, part 2 here and part 3 here.

The past couple of years have been both challenging and important for you in terms of transitions, difficulties, achievements. Let’s start with that….

The year started with a big challenge with the Women’s World Cup Qualifiers (WCQ) in Sri Lanka in February 2017. To qualify for the tournament was important for two reasons.

First, to qualify for the WWC 2017, but more importantly for all the ICC Championship bilateral series that we are now playing — like the ones against New Zealand and Sri Lanka.

The future of women’s cricket in Pakistan depended on the WCQ as we don’t get much bilateral cricket other than the ICC Championship.

Qualification for this tournament not only guarantees you a place at the world cup, it also guarantees the top eight teams seven ICC Championship series with each other for two years.

Read next: Sana Mir calls out advertisements for promoting body shaming and objectification of women

This gives us more opportunities to experiment with youngsters and help them develop because now we have at least three matches per series.

In these series, we can give new players leeway. But in tournaments like the qualifiers, you have to get results. You can’t develop players like that.

So qualifying in that tournament has been really good for women’s cricket in Pakistan.

The preparation for the WCQ and WWC 2017 were affected by the constant change of coaches and players and last moment injuries.

It was harder to stay with the team at that time than to leave. But I felt that leaving was not the right thing to do at that point. So I chose to do it after the world cup.

You chose to step away after the world cup?

Yes, after the world cup because once the team had qualified, there was a future for women’s cricket.

The departure of a senior player before a world cup or a qualifier would have impacted the team for the whole tournament and in the coming years.

It could have had a negative impact on the younger players as well. They would have felt abandoned and I didn’t want to do that.

I knew it was going to be a tough world cup with a new coach. It would have been difficult to be on the same page or make effective strategies to win, because everything would be so new.

But I still took on the challenge because walking away at that point would have been more disastrous for the team.

I quite willingly walked into what I anticipated would be a difficult situation.

I understand why you walked into fire, so to speak, but I want to know how you did it….

I think the only thing that helped me was taking it one day at a time, doing my best in the moment and trying to be present for the people who were around me.

Not thinking: What will happen to me after the world cup? What will people say about me? How will we do in the world cup? Will we win or lose?

For example, I came in to bat against New Zealand after we were three down with the Kiwi bowler on a hat-trick. I just did what I could and scored a 50 in that match.

So, it helped me personally and it helped us to do whatever we could as a team.

We fought in every match. Yes, we didn’t win, but even with the new team and other changes that posed difficulties, every day when we went to the ground — each and every one of us — we fought our hearts out.

That’s something I am very proud of. We came close to beating other teams in at least three or four games and it couldn’t have happened if the girls were not ready to fight.

This is something that makes it worth the struggle and difficulties we went through.

When I came back, I wanted to step away, but Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) chairman Najam Sethi, [former chief selector and current director cricket operations] Haroon Rasheed and [chief executive] Subhan Ahmed called me and we had a meeting.

We got a foreign coach, we got new selectors, we got new management. So I think things are getting better and we are moving in a good direction. There’s always more to do but crucial changes have been made.

Right after that, in the first ODI against New Zealand that we played in November 2017, we did the same thing we had done in the world cup: we choked.

But this time the coach stood up. We were looking for leadership and I would like to give credit to Head Coach Mark Coles because he was calm and told the girls not to sulk.

That’s what we had done in the world cup after coming very close to beating South Africa in our first match but losing in the second-last over. It was something we weren’t able to recover from in subsequent matches.

Op-ed: Thank God for Sana Mirs

But in the series against New Zealand, Mark helped us keep our nerves and maintained his confidence in every person — the captain and all the players.

He strengthened the team. We weren’t able to do well in the next match — we lost by eight wickets again — but he kept giving us confidence and we were able to win the third and final match.

A lot goes on off the field. That’s something that changed in the series after the world cup. All these changes were quite good for us. And Bismah Maroof was also doing well as a new captain and the team was gelling together.

Then after the ODI series, we didn’t have a very good T20 series against New Zealand. We worked hard and prepared for the Sri Lanka series and Alhamdolillah we were able to do pretty well as a team.

Individually, I was able to reach my highest ICC ODI player ranking. So I think all of it is coming into place, all the hard work and changes.

Would it be accurate to say that the stand you took after the world cup and the meetings you had led to some of the changes we can see now?

Yes, I put forward my suggestions and recommendations. The PCB top management asked if I could move forward with the same setup. I said, “If I stay in women’s cricket, I want to contribute.”

But if certain mindsets, strategies or policies, or things that might be a hindrance in taking women’s cricket forward continue, I would not endorse them.

So in that way I would say that I did make some strong recommendations, but I am thankful to the PCB that they brought in a new vision, made commitments and followed through.

And it is helping everyone — the new captain, the new coach and the team.

Also read: My college gave me the confidence to lead: Sana Mir recalls her alma mater days

We have new policies. We have the captain and coach on the selection panel now so the team cannot be selected until the captain and coach are involved. This is a huge thing.

So cricket, unlike other sports, is basically led by the captain, not by the coaches or selectors. It’s something we need to understand while making policies.

If the captain is strong, if the coach is strong, then the team will be strong.

What were the key lessons you learnt during this time?

I think one thing that I have learnt is to not try and control things. We tend to make a lot of calculations, that if I do this then the other person will do that, or the media will do that, or the management will do that.

And sometimes we don’t take the decisions we should.

What I have learnt is to do the right thing, no matter what the result might be. And that takes a lot of courage, but in the end it’s really good for everyone.

I didn’t walk away before the qualifiers or the world cup, thinking that it’s better for the team for me to stay with them.

But once I walked away, to be very honest, I never thought that I would play again.

When I wrote my report and that open letter, I thought that was it.

But because I was courageous and took a stand for the betterment of women’s cricket, God had His own way to give me what I also wanted.

Related: It's the PCB, not captain Sana Mir, who's responsible for Women's WC performance

I also wanted to continue playing, but I couldn’t at that point. But then the setup changed, and I was playing again.

I think if you are brave, if you try to do good for other people, you do get a return.

Sometimes the favour is returned instantly; sometimes it takes time.

So, we don’t have to worry too much about results and trying to safeguard our own selves.

If you speak up for other people, that’s all that’s needed.

Many times, you can’t see it instantly, but when you see it in the bigger picture, it usually turns out that if you have done something right, it will be beneficial for you in the end.

It can take one year, two years, five years, ten years. That’s something you can’t predict but it’s for your own good.

Illustration by Zoha Bundally

Sadh Belo — whenever I heard the name, it felt like an ancient incantation, a wave on water, a ripple caressing the smooth surface of the Indus.

I came across this beautiful temple complex while writing on Udasipanth in Sindh. Whenever I went to an Udasi establishment and interviewed someone there, people would ask, Have you been to Sadh Belo?

And after discovering I haven’t, they would exclaim, But that is exactly why you must visit it, because that is the most important centre of Udasis in Sindh.

So, like magnet pulled by metal, I found myself drawn to it. That’s how my longing to see that famed place with my own eyes grew immensely, but it took me some time before I could materialise that dream.

The dream finally came true one fine morning in late spring 2017. Accompanied by one of my students, I travelled to Khairpur and stayed at Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur’s guest house.

The very next morning, we went to visit the temple.

A few men were sitting under a makeshift shelter, two or three boats were moored to the platform and right in front stood the majestic white marbled and buff-sandstone building of the Sadh Belo.

The sun was still low and a gentle breeze was setting the waves in motion.

We sat in a boat; the fishermen had oars in hands, their sweat-soaked dresses reminded me of the indigenous inhabitants of the Indus valley.

Sitting there, we could see the Lansdowne Bridge and its graceful arches on one side, and the island shrine of Zinda Pir Khwaja Khizr on the other side.

Sadh Belo is an Udasi tirath (pilgrimage) founded by Baba Bankhandi, an Udasi missionary and who came from Nepal to settle in Sukkur in 1823.

Udasipanth is a religious tradition that was founded by Sri Chand (1494-?), the elder son of Guru Nanak (1469-1539), founder of the Sikh faith.

The Udasis are ascetics, they do not possess any property and spend their life disciplined by yoga, meditation and reciting the prescribed texts.

The island was just a clump of trees when Bankhandi first arrived there, but he liked the place so much that he chose it as a place to set up his dhuni (sacred fire).

It is said that once Baba Bankhandi saw Annapurna, the goddess of grain, in a dream. She gave him an oblong metal object called Kamandal and told him that, as long as this object is in the complex, there won’t be any shortage of grain for the community kitchen.

Later, Baba Bankhandi established various places of worship, including temples, dedicated to Annapurna, Hanuman, Ganesh and Shiv Shankar, and places for Granth Sahib and Bhagavad Gita.

The temple complex is spread on two interconnected islands; Sadh Belo having kitchen, verandah, many temples, and Deen Belo which houses samadhis, a park, and Rishi Nol mandir.

Baba Bankhandi had many disciples who succeeded him one by one as the mahant or custodian of the place; the most notable among them are Swami Achal Prasad, Swami Mohan Das, and Swami Harnarain Das Udasin.

Sadh Belo attracted many people in search of spiritual enlightenment and had a thriving community of monks and devotees.

In front of the complex, there is a huge marble wall with many engravings depicting various scenes that are related to the local Hindu and Udasi traditions, including a depiction of hell and heaven, musicians and Udasi saints.

The glory of Sadh Belo came to an end on the fateful day of Partition, when most of the Hindus of Sindh, including the inhabitants of Sadh Belo, crossed the border and left it deserted and forlorn.

The current gaddi nashin (custodian) is Swami Gauri Shankar Das who lives in Mumbai and comes here for Baba Bankhandi’s annual anniversary celebrations that take place in June.

Currently, Sadh Belo is under the custody of Evacuee Property Trust Board and is managed well, but the absence of the former administration of Udasi mahants is felt immensely.

The place was once crowded by the monks living in cells, writing manuscripts in Hindi and Gurmukhi, cooks preparing food and devotees gathered across the sanctum to pay their respects.

However, the monks’ cells lie empty with cobwebs and dust, the library is devoid of readers, the books are mired in dirt and the verandahs show the stark absence of devotees.

Still, if you close your eyes for a while, the wooden balconies, marble columns, and staircases seem to echo the footsteps, chatter, laughter, and whispers of the monks and devotees once here.

Watching the sun setting over Sadh Belo, Iqbal’s verse came to my mind:

Awwal-o-akhir fana, batin-o zahir fana
Naqsh-e kuhan ho kay nau, manzil-e akhir fana

Annihilation is the end of all beginnings; annihilation is the end of all ends
Extinction, the fate of everything, hidden or manifest, old or new

Have you visited places of historical, cultural or religious significance? Share your experiences with us at blog@dawn.com

Mrs Safia Saifuddin (not her real name) refused to take her husband of 10 years back home from the hospital when she found out that he had tested positive for the dreaded Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV).

While he suffered from the devastating symptoms of immune deficiency, she told him off incessantly for bringing shame to the entire family.

She called him immoral, accused him of going to ‘bad women’ and being a drug addict.

Mr Saifuddin vehemently denied these accusations, himself baffled and shocked about his newfound HIV-positive status.

Specialists at the hospital sat down with Safia and explained to her that besides sexual encounters, there were other plausible reasons her husband could have acquired HIV.

However, Safia refused to listen.

Perhaps the stigma of a husband with HIV was so profound that rationality had abandoned her.

This scenario brings into sharp focus to the societal view about HIV and its outcome, the horrifying Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndromes (AIDS).

The stigma surrounding this disease is so profound that those living with this virus are often abandoned and ostracised by their families.

A major reason for this is that the virus is poorly understood among the general population with respect to the way it is acquired and transmitted.

Although there are no nation-wide studies with respect to knowledge about HIV among the Pakistani public, a survey in Lahore with 580 educated respondents — most of whom were highly qualified, with 16 or more years of education — brought out some of the misconceptions.

While a significant majority of the respondents knew that HIV is transmitted through sexual contact, sharing of needles and transfusion of contaminated blood, there were at least 35 percent who erroneously also believed that it can be transmitted through exchange of saliva.

Another 14 percent stated that, in their mistaken opinion, even sharing utensils could also lead to transmission of the virus from the infected to the healthy.

One can only assume the extent of misinformation among the less educated amongst us.

Editorial: HIV/AIDS and stigma

However, the picture is grimmer. Given the lack of open discussion regarding HIV and AIDS in our society, one can perhaps understand lack of awareness among the general public.

But it is difficult to comprehend the fact that often even those who are part of the medical community demonstrate not only limited information about the virus, but also a lack of empathy towards those stricken by this disease.

Meet Khuda Bux (not his real name). He is admitted in the general ward of a tertiary care hospital for pneumonia.

He is being provided routine care but there is something different about this patient.

His file has a red tape attached to it.

All the healthcare professionals know that this means he is HIV-positive.

Some of the patients are also smart enough to pick this up. Consequently, they stay away from Khuda Bux, and do not talk to him, occasionally whispering about him when they think he is sleeping.

One night after dinner, as the dishes are being cleared, a junior doctor comes and yells at the cleaning staff.

“Why are this patient’s dishes being kept with other patients’ dishes? Don’t you know this patient is HIV-positive? This will spread the infection to other patients,” the junior doctor scolds, not only demonstrating his own lack of knowledge, but also reinforcing the stigma and unfounded fear associated with caring for such patients.

An infection control specialist standing nearby hears this and says to the junior doctor. “Where is your information coming from? HIV does not spread through sharing utensils!”

The cleaner looks from one doctor to the other, not knowing whom to believe. Khuda Bux, feeling exposed to a ward full of people, looks embarrassed, eyes downcast.

This real-life case illustrates the manner in which HIV patients are often treated at some hospitals.

Not only are these patients made to stand out from the others, but they are also treated differently.

Labeling is quite common, a process which can be psychologically damaging for the patient suffering from the disease.

And this happens within the confines of an environment that is supposed to provide respite from suffering, often at the hands of healers, their messiahs.

Special report: The making of an HIV catastrophe

Consider the case of 32-year-old Arif Ali (not his real name) suffering from an infection due to stones in the gallbladder, necessitating an emergency surgery.

The surgeon, once he discovers his HIV-positive status, refuses to operate on him.

His concern rests on the fact that he may acquire the infection while operating and simply does not want to take the risk.

Acquiring the infection, for example through a needlestick injury, is a real fear among medical professionals, and perhaps not a completely misguided one.

However, is the fear justified?

After all, physicians are duty bound by their oath to provide healthcare to patients, particularly in times of emergency.

But how far does this duty extend? Does it extend to putting their own lives at risk?

There are no easy answers to these questions but very often the typical “fright and flight” reactions of the care providers are out of proportion to any real risks they may be facing.

The issue is not merely at the level of individuals, but rather reflects a much broader systemic issue.

It is also the callous disregard to established protocols that contributes significantly to this problem.

We saw evidence of this two years ago during an HIV outbreak at a hospital in Larkana.

This serious and unconscionable outbreak, which was caused by unscreened tainted blood provided by unscrupulous blood banks with poor infection control practices for dialysis, not only increased the infection’s already notorious reputation, but also further eroded public trust in the healthcare system.

Following standard guidelines and procedures for safe blood transfusion practices and adequate cleaning of dialysis machines through proper infection control methods could have easily prevented the outbreak.

While one can hope that the healthcare system becomes better equipped by providing better infection control facilities and enforcing stronger regulatory mechanisms, it is also equally important to tackle societal attitudes among medical professionals.

We realise that medical professionals do not practice in a vacuum and dominant social beliefs will also influence their behaviour but they have a higher moral responsibility to treat patients in an unbiased fashion.

We need to start with dispelling the myths surrounding HIV among the healthcare workforce primarily but also within the larger society.

Acquiring HIV is not a death sentence and with proper treatment, those living with the condition can lead almost normal lives.

Are you a health professional working for the betterment of Pakistan's healthcare system? Share your expertise with us a blog@dawn.com

In the neighbourhood of Ichhra in Lahore, hundreds of people gather every Thursday night at the shrine of Shah Jamal, a Sufi of the Suhrawardi and Qadiriyya orders (silsila).

Under the sacred peepal trees, devotees sit in a circle to witness and experience the sacred dance: dhamal.

Repetitive rhythmic beats of dhols and correspondingly frenzied barefoot whirling of the devotees create a trance-inducing effect on the audience.

Participants reverently witness the performance, while collectively partaking in hashish-smoking — a derivative of cannabis.

Devotees indulge in hashish intoxication as a communal activity complementing the sacred ritual of dhamal.

Sufi shrine culture in Pakistan is multi-faceted and diverse; while hashish does not feature uniformly across cultures of traditional shrines, hashish-smoking is a visible, communal, and conspicuous activity associated with Qalandari shrines in Pakistan.

Paradoxically, it is also one of the least studied phenomena as meaningful in terms of Islam; despite its prominence in Islamic settings, it is frequently dismissed as merely illegal and representative of the degeneration of Islamic ideals.

In the popular imagination, the use of hashish in Islamic settings, and as an Islamic activity, is explained primarily within two discursive frameworks; it is explored through its legal status in Islam or through the category of “folk” or “popular” Islam.

Deeming hashish to be one form of intoxicant, Islamic legal prohibition of intoxicants is extended to censure the use of hashish.

The illegality of the activity serves as the premise for the “un-Islamic” and irreligious characterisation of hashish-smoking.

When explained in non-legal terms, hashish is described as an aspect of “popular” Islam, or particularly “popular” Sufism, representing the beliefs and practices of non-literate masses belonging to the “lower” social strata.

Such phenomenon, by definition, is assumed as self-evidently distinct from proper and official Sufism.

It rests on a trickle-down movement of beliefs and practices, where the activities of “elite” are assumed to be “pure,” which undergo a process of distortion, degeneration, and vulgarisation as they are popularised and lived by the masses.

Under both rubrics, hashish is characterised as intrinsically “non-religious” and devoid of Islamic normativity.

Because such an understanding of hashish is secular, the affiliation of hashish with Islamic thought and settings is rendered meaningless.

It is helpful to note here the modern constitution of the analytical categories of religious and secular, which may not always be applicable to phenomena meaningful in terms of Islam.

Disruptions in the processual constitution of Islam through colonialism and modernism in the 19th and 20th centuries are reflected in the loss of meanings of hashish, poverty, Qalandariyya, and asceticism in the conceptualisation of modern Islam.

Legality of hashish

The history of Islamic legal thought surrounding the status of hashish does not display uniformity in legal opinions.

Franz Rosenthal traces the development of Islamic legal thought on hashish-smoking in his book, The Herb: Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society.

He notes that while jurists traditionally equate intoxication with inebriation, they reflect far greater diversity of opinions in qualifying hashish as an intoxicant, and thereby, legally impermissible.

Since every intoxicant was deemed forbidden in Islamic law, categorising hashish as an intoxicant was the logically necessary premise in framing its use as prohibited in Muslim societies.

However, it has proven rather difficult to consistently equate the effects of alcohol and hashish.

It has been noted that alcohol largely has the same effect on everyone; its consumers get exhilarated and joyous, numb from the painful sensations and prone to violence.

Read: Sehwan: The undisputed throne of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar

Hashish affects its users according to each’s temper and induces trance-like states of silence, calmness, and acuteness. It turns the concerns of its users inward and is conducive to contemplation and meditation.

Considering the different natures and effects of wine and hashish, Islamic jurists have offered legal opinions ranging from strong negative evaluation to its legal sanction.

A highly respected Hanafi judge, Jamal-ad-din al-Malati (d. 1400) issued a fatwa permitting the use of hashish.

However, such opinions remained in the minority, while its legal status was discussed largely in terms of its intoxicating or corruptive effects.

Hashish and ascetic practices

Legal framework alone, therefore, does not get us very far in terms of understanding the supra-legal Islamic value of hashish.

The mystical paths (tariqa) of Sufism, at the basic level, require strict adherence to the Sharia before journeying inwardly to the ascending stages of spiritual perfection and proximity to God.

As anthropologist Jurgen Frembgen points out, well-established mystical paths are known as tariqat-i shariat, implying the close relationship between observance of law and institutional Sufism.

There is, however, a not so small minority of mystics in Pakistan which does not accept this premise, and are distinct, in thought, practice, and identity, from institutional Sufism.

Known by different names, such as qalandar, malang, faqir or malamati, the mystical path chosen by such mystics lie outside the Islamic law (bi-shar), as opposed to “mainstream” ba-shar Sufis (observant of law).

Underlying such an attitude of religiosity is the devaluation of the external world, where social life and norms are considered to be impediments to salvation.

Read next: Old Sufis, new challenges

Qalandars live life as ascetics by rejecting social responsibilities, such as gainful employment, family life, and social association.

Ahmet Karamustafa, in his book God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Middle Period 1200-1550, describes renunciation of the world as a “pious religious attitude that foregrounded the effort of the individual Muslim to establish rapport with God.”

Based on the concept of tawwakul (trust and reliance on God alone), qalandars live out the doctrine of reliance on God in its extreme form, by completely rejecting the world in favour of exclusive orientation towards God.

Abhorring property ownership and choosing voluntary poverty as a mode of piety, qalandars offer a “sobering critique of society’s failure to reach God.”

Society inevitably draws and ties the devotee to the affairs of this world to the detriment of complete faith and trust in God.

Qalandar, therefore, strives to achieve independence from the world by rejecting every form of social association and Islamic institutions, in effect becoming “dead” to society, interpreting radically the Prophetic tradition, “Die before you die.”

Accordingly, some mystics follow the practice of uttering “four takbirs” — a reference to the funeral prayers, and live in cemeteries and shrines.

Having rejected the social values and formalism of the external world, qalandars disassociate themselves with the institutionalised forms of Islam, primarily Sharia.

Since law governs external behaviour, Qalandars view inherent in it the danger of riya (self-conceit).

Public adherence to legal and social norms can be a danger to a truly spiritual life, where the performance of public piety may be directed towards audiences other than God.

Such performative piety can act as an obstacle to spiritual purification. Qalandars choose to flaunt and deliberately violate Sharia to attract public blame and censure.

Blame (malama) has a great effect in “making love sincere,” as noted by the Sufi saint Ali Hujwiri (d. 1072-77) — better known as Data Gunj Bakhsh.

As a pietistic attitude, it requires “covering up of one’s laudable deeds and erecting a façade of blameworthy behaviour,” notes J. T. P. de Bruijn.

It allows the mystic to seek the path in a more focused way, by becoming indifferent to public opinion, both positive and negative.

Now read: How shrines helped indigenise Islam and Christianity in South Asia

Malamati piety inevitably leads to behaviour censured by the norms and prescriptions of the legal discourse. Acting against legal norms serves a deeply Islamic purpose for qalandars.

Qalandars openly display disregard for prescribed ritual worship, violate public norms of decency by adopting minimal clothing or wearing black woolen cloaks (signifying social withdrawal), and use hashish religiously.

As an active rejection of established social customs and norms, qalandars seek the effacement of the individual or self, which forms the constitutive unit of modern society.

Mahmud Shabistari (d. 1337), one of the most celebrated Sufi poets, writes:

To be a haunter of taverns is to be freed from self,
Self-regard is paganism, even if it be righteousness.

Contravention of legal norms, in such a context, acquires positive meaning while retaining its disrespectability.

It reinforces the separation between society with its worldly concerns and Qalandari mysticism with its Malamati piety.

Historian Nile Green observes that hashish “was lent religious value as evidence for renouncing the world and as an instrument for reaching the other world.” It was “attributed with moral value and epistemological meaning.”

Hashish turned the seeker away from the lower passions related to this world, and elevated his concerns to matters of spiritual importance.

It purified the seeker’s devotion, by turning away from this world to prepare for the inner flight to the Divine.

A verse by a medieval poet, Al-Is’irdi (d. 1222-1258), on the spiritual meaning of hashish puts it as:

It is the secret. In it, the spirit ascends to the highest
Spots on a heavenly ascent (mira’j) of disembodied understanding

Modernity and transformation of hashish

In Pakistan, Qalandariyya traces its roots to the 13th century saint, Sayyid Uthman Marwandi (d. 1274), popularly revered as Lal Shahbaz Qalandar.

Qalandars, faqirs and malangs, as “holy men,” operated in relative autonomy from the norms of social institutions.

Such radical embodiment of asceticism and renunciation came increasingly under attack with the advent of modernity through European colonialism.

Nile Green notes that through colonial laws, moral and scientific discourses, modernity displaced the foundations of Qalandariyya as constitutive and representative of Islamic values.

The capitalist ethos of the colonialists could not accommodate the values of asceticism, and in turn, sought to de-emphasise Islamic valourisation and understanding of “voluntary poverty” and homelessness.

Next: Why ‘Sufism’ is not what it is made out to be

Reducing it to its material aspect, poverty was characterised, not as symbolic of spiritual wealth, but as evidence of the downfall of Muslim societies.

Victorian morality denigrated hashish as “profane,” opposed to “religion.” It conveniently conflated Islam with colonial conception of religion.

Colonial critics criticised faqirs’ drug use, and explained the behaviour as “not the result of devotion to and absorption in God, but instead as the voluntary degradation of the work-shy addict.”

Scientific discourse was instrumental in associating drug use with criminality and insanity, through efforts such as the Indian Hemp Drugs Commission of 1893-1894.

Colonial construction and representation of qalandars and faqirs as symptomatic of the decay of Muslim society was, in turn, fundamental in justifying the moral authority of the colonial order.

Muslim reformers of the 19th and 20th centuries — troubled by the eclipse of Muslim rule in the Indian subcontinent and elsewhere — embraced colonial criticism against Muslims practicing corrupted and denigrated forms of Islam.

The decay of Muslim political rule was explained through the anti-work ethic, antinomian practices, and other-worldly piety of qalandars and faqirs.

Seeking to re-form Islam to bring it in harmony with the modernist values of progress, reason, and law, Muslim reformers marginalised those modes of religiosity and piety which protested against such a worldview.

In terms of Qalandari mysticism, hashish was meaningful and instrumental in dissolving the self (fa’na) through detachment and antagonism towards the “World of Exile” (i.e. material world).

It represents a radical interpretation of Islamic themes such as salvation, poverty, fa’na and tawwakul.

Orientalist and reformist categorisation of hashish as profane demarcated it from religion proper, rendering it meaningless in the constitution of modern Islam.

For Muslims of Pakistan, the transition from the colonial order to the post-colonial was marked by the insistence upon an Islamic identity of state. Islam was defined through the state as primarily law.

Katherine Ewing notes that the relationship between traditional Sufi shrines and saints attached to them, and the state of Pakistan has been geared towards reforming the image of the Sufi saints as “originally” ulema, reflecting the stress on conformity with Sharia.

Up next: Sufi saints and their descendants: part of the solution?

Hashish as a ritual, as performed in the Sufi shrines associated with the Qalandari path of Islamic mysticism, represents “pockets and currents of resistance” to the modern conceptualisation of Islam, with its unprecedented privileging of legal and prescriptive discourses as primarily and exclusively definitive of Islamic values and meaning.

Liberal reframing of cannabis against its legal prohibition in terms of its medicinal and economic benefits, as recently echoed by Shashi Tharoor, merely reinforces the secularisation of hashish, despite noting the traditional use of cannabis in Hindu rituals.

In the context of such loss of meaning of bi-shar mysticism in modern Islam, Pakistani academic Hasan Ali Khan notes that the spiritual centre of the Qalandariyya, Sehwan in Sindh, represents its “last remaining bastion in this world.”

Are you researching transforming traditions? Share your expertise with us at blog@dawn.com

My precious Sabika,

This was the first Ramazan and this will be the first Eidul Fitr when you will not be physically present with us.

There will be Eidul Azha, your birthday on December 1, the new year, birthdays of your siblings, matriculations and graduations, marriages, each of those without your beautiful presence.

Nothing is able to explain away the grief that we feel every single day. Nothing can fill the most gut-wrenching emptiness and the most painful hole that our family carries in our hearts wherever we go.

The tragedy — that you were snatched from us just days before you were scheduled to return home for Eid — is so profound that it will forever remain incomprehensible.

That Pakistan lost a young ambassador in you — who only knew respect, who only had love to give, and who was so determined to grow up to work for peace — to terror and violence is so profound that it will forever remain nonsensical.

I would often imagine, unsuccessfully attempting to rationalise how families of children lost in war, in conflict, in violence, and in accident, grieve.

I would often wonder if their grief is disenfranchised grief, a grief unrecognised by society.

I would wonder if their grief becomes even more disenfranchised when the world around them is in celebration.

I would wonder if the loss of a child, a sister, a cousin, a friend, incapacitates them from finding joy in festivity.

I would wonder and I would try to empathise, not knowing that the answer would hit so terribly close one day, that it would hit home one day.

Some days, in their entirety, feel like a scene out of an extremely gloomy movie.

Your excitement for returning to Pakistan in time for Ramazan, your enthusiasm for celebrating Eid with your entire family after having spent a year away, you counting the days to your flight, and your anticipation for getting to eat Pakistani food again, especially during Eid — all of it now seems surreal. Sorrowful and surreal.

Perhaps the only solace in your farewell is that you returned home draped in your beloved country’s green and white flag, the country which you so passionately wanted to serve.

Perhaps the only comfort in your departure is that while you departed from your own home, you were welcomed into homes across Pakistan.

And perhaps the only harmony is that while our family lost its daughter, sister, cousin and niece, you now belong as all of these with hundreds of families who embraced your memory as that of their own.

I remember standing, on May 20, 2018, at the back of Masjid Sabireen in Houston where your funeral prayer was being performed, and I remember looking from there at the countless people who had come there bearing the sincerest emotion and the most heartfelt prayer for you.

I remember the umpteen mothers, daughters and sisters who had never met you but who spoke of you as if you had been a part of them all these years.

It is this powerful memory of yours, Sabika, which still allows us to feel empowered in knowing that your name travelled across two worlds not because you were killed with brutality, but because you lived with humility.

Not because you were taken away so young, but because despite that the lives which you entered, touched and impacted — in both your home country and host country — testify to your humble legacy of peace, empathy, and equality. This legacy deserves celebration.

Eid Mubarak, Sabika. Eid Mubarak.

• 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 rein 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

I was a first year Associate at the investment bank where I worked, when my boss came out of his office.

"Where’s my little Taliban?" he asked.

He said it in such a comical way, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, shirt half tucked in, a grin on his face, that it was actually endearing.

I'd worked for him for three years now. He was a quirky Englishman, very smart and funny. A more sophisticated Boris Johnson, prone to the odd gaff or two. Everyone laughed. I laughed.

This was 2002. Several months after 9/11. The world had changed, but sensitivities and the idea of political correctness had not, perhaps.

Read next: 'Hans gayi aur phans gayi': On the mechanics of laughter and sexual harassment

But that remark always stayed with me. While there are some things that flow under the bridge, this does not. If I could go back in time I would ask my Twenty-Something Self whether, deep down, she was offended.

And Twenty-Something Me would probably say, "Ah! Had that joke been one of many, of course I would've been offended. It’s not like this happens all of the time."

And that's true. It was a one-off, but a one-off that people who were there at the time remember. Yet it's still troubling, and I would go back to Twenty-Something Me and ask her to think about it in another way.

That she was the butt of an ever so slightly racist joke. That she simply swallowed what she was dealt. That she even laughed.

To which she would say, "You’re suggesting I’m complicit?"

I would reply that to remain silent normalises that behaviour, that perhaps it isn’t okay. And then Twenty-Something Me would reel off other examples, far worse, in her mind, like the other guy in the office who referred to Germans as krauts and Arabs as ragheads.

"That’s offensive," Twenty-Something Me would say. "My little Taliban is not. And besides," she would go on, "Isn’t it my choice to decide how I feel?"

True. As an outsider it is easy to be up in arms about the incident described above, to feel outraged and all hot in the face. But then I would ask her, "But was it right?"

And Twenty-Something Me would roll her eyes and retort, "But X is nothing but supportive, he got me promoted, he’s kind, he has a good heart. His comment was an aberration."

True, I would say, and a silly one at that. And then Twenty-Something Me would throw her hands in the air and say, "What do you want me to do? Go marching to HR and report him?"

And I would say, no. It's simply a question of having the courage to speak up when something someone utters doesn’t sit well.

To which Twenty-Something Me would say, frustrated, "Of course it sat okay with me — you don’t understand. You don’t have context."

But I do have context. I was there. And while it was a one-off, and my career wasn’t hampered, I often go back to that incident and wonder.

There are many lines, some grey, some painted so deftly black you have to be blind not to see them. There are battles you fight, and others you don’t.

It’s with respect to the latter that I probably chose not to pursue it. It was a small fire. It came from my boss, no less. Someone I didn't necessarily want to cross. It was a one-off. End of story.

Related: My life as a little brown girl growing up in Scarborough, UK

But let’s change the situation slightly. We’re still in 2002. But I’m now a mother listening to my daughter telling me that her teacher had called her, My little Taliban. In an instant, I would’ve phoned the school.

We can look at the incident in another way, too. Had my boss come out of his office and uttered in the same way, "Where’s my little Jew?" Would that be offensive?

To which the answer would be a resounding yes. I think there would be a silence so uncomfortable, that his career would have been tainted for life.

And why’s that? Because the answer lies in history and the ebb and flow of anti-Semitism since the days of the Old Testament.

For all this intolerance, however, there are rays of hope. The majority of people — in Britain at least — are standing up to this marginalisation.

There’s a strong desire to stand hand-in-hand, to understand one another and our differences. Doors wide open, not shut in one’s face.

The terrorist attacks in Manchester and London Bridge have, I believe, served to bring people closer together.

Perhaps Egypt's greatest export to the UK, Mohammed Salah, with his sublime footballing prowess, has muted prejudicial voices.

That aside, and in all seriousness, people feel empowered to call out questionable behaviour. The #MeToo is a case in point.

We should all have the confidence to air our grievances without fearing the consequences. I'd like to think that put-up-and-shut up is dead in the air.

Also read: How South Asian music helped my identity formation as a British-Pakistani

So, it's January 2018. A first year Associate sits working away at her desk. Her boss comes out of his office and asks, "Where’s my little Taliban?"

He says it in such a comical way, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, shirt half tucked in, a grin on his face.

She’s worked for him for three years now. He’s a quirky Englishman, very smart and funny. A more sophisticated Boris Johnson, prone to the odd gaff or two.

But this is more than just a gaff. Of course, there’s the choice of his words which soften the semantics: my and little. There’s the subject matter, Taliban which carries a little less clout, perhaps.

And of course, we worry that political correctness is such that we feel so contained, so straightjacketed that we've lost any grain of humour.

Even so, people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Maybe someone laughs. Then again, maybe not.

Because the statement is derogatory. He would not have said it to a white man or woman. And there’s the rub.

Opinion: I am a Pakistani-American and Trump's rise threatens me

It all boils down to fundamental respect for one another, a value embodied in every religion and culture. Of course, she thinks to herself, prejudice has always existed in one guise or another, but then she’ll consider the memorials dedicated to victims of extreme prejudice and persecution.

For her, they are reminders of what comes to pass when those 'little aberrations' roil into horrifying and despicable acts of violence.

Reminders of when patriotism and a love of one's country morph into extreme nationalism and hatred. Or when fanatical religious beliefs blindside a population.

However innocent it may seem, she shouldn’t shrug off that little comment from her boss. She needs to confront him, have the confidence to speak up. Remember what could happen if you let sleeping dogs lie, she thinks.

She imagines a world where she’s forced to wear an arm band with the symbol of her religion emblazoned upon it, a society where her family is stripped of their assets because of their religion, where she is forced into enslavement because of her gender. Where, heaven forbid, she's put to death because of the etymology of her name.

She shakes her head. It'll never happen again. Not here in Britain. Not in my time. Never.

But a whisper says, it could. Just consider that. And the notion lingers at the back of her mind, a little reminder pulsing away.

Later that day, she'll summon up the courage to go into her boss' office. She;ll tell him that what he said was, actually, not okay.

And if he’s half the man she thinks he is, he'd probably scratch his head, look a little surprised, a bit stupid, then aghast, and then say he didn't mean anything by it and that it wasn't meant to cause offence.

"But yes, perhaps you’re right," he’ll add quickly, "it wasn’t the most appropriate thing to say." And he’ll tell her he’s sorry.

The apology would be heartfelt and genuine. And the incident would never repeat itself.

Have you ever been discriminated against on the basis of your identity? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

• Back to Shigar

If you ever fancy going to Concordia and treating yourself to the magnificent cathedral of four 8,000-metre high peaks in one go, chances are that you will pass through the ancient kingdom of Shigar.

You may not be required to pay tax to the Raja of Shigar anymore, but a nice lunch at the grapevine-covered restaurant at the Shigar Palace is definitely worth a thought.

About half an hour drive out of Skardu, you take a left turn and cross the bridge over the wide basin of the Indus River to enter the Shigar Valley.

As soon as you cross the bridge, you find yourself in the world's highest cold desert. Locally known as the Katpana or Sarfranga Desert, it continues on both sides of the Indus and into Ladakh on the other side of border.

After passing through a few gorges, you enter the lush green oasis of Shigar, an ancient principality on the banks of the Braldu River, which comes straight from Braldu glacier at the base of the 8,611 metre-high K2, the second highest mountain in the world.

If you continue on the road beyond Shigar, the road becomes a trek along the roaring Braldu River and takes you to the last frontier: Askole, the final village on the trek to K2.

From Askole, you need to start trekking for 3-4 days over dangerous alleys, paths, rope bridges, moraine and ultimately over glaciers to reach Concordia, from where you can view four of the world’s fourteen 8,000-metre peaks together: Gasherbrum I, Gasherbrum II, Broad Peak and K2.

I must confess, I had to turn back a few hours before reaching Concordia due to a medical emergency in our group, and since then Concordia has been a dream.

Back to Shigar

Shigar’s historic fort was converted into a heritage hotel by the Aga Khan Development Network and is now managed by Serena Hotels. The fort was constructed by Raja Hassan Khan, the 20th Raja of the Amacha dynasty, in early 17th century.

The Amachas arrived in Shigar around 11th century after fleeing persecution from the Ganesh in Hunza. The elders travelled for days through foot-deep snow over the Hispar glacier and braved storms and finally landed into the Shigar Valley, where they built fort Khar-i-Dong.

The original fort was on top of a cliff, but after a few peaceful centuries, the Mughals arrived and in a battle that lasted many days, the Amachas were uprooted and the fort destroyed.

However, once the Amachas submitted, the Mughals left them in peace. The 20th ruler of the dynasty then built the current fort on top of a huge boulder and named it Fong Khar — Palace on the Rock. The new fort remained the seat of the Raja until a few decades ago.

In the 1970s, Pakistan merged all the states within its boundaries, with the Rajas losing their official status, though they still hold local influence, as is true of the current Raja, Muhammad Ali Saba.

K2 and apparently many other 8,000ers, including the two Gasherbrums and Broad Peak, were once part of the Shigar state.

The fort and the palace within the fort were constructed with great love by the Raja, and craftsmen from Kashmir ensured that it is one of the best architectural feats of its time.

The fort is surrounded by lush green orchards and lawns, and you can find cherries, apricots, apples and grapes all around in season.

Numerous small water channels traverse the lawns with a very soothing sound which gets louder as the sun goes down and the surroundings get quieter.

There is a beautiful central baradari with a marble base surrounded by a pool of fresh springwater, which seems adapted from traditional Mughal baradaris.

The palace’s original aesthetics have been preserved and part of it is open for guests, while part of it is a museum with relics from the era gone by.

The grapevine-covered terrace restaurant provides a lovely view of the valley with a gushing white stream — and of course, a mouth-watering menu.

Shigar also proudly owns the 14th century Amburiq Mosque, which was awarded Unesco-protected heritage status in 2005. The mosque was built by the Persian artisans accompanying Syed Ali Hamdani, a travelling Persian scholar and poet who preached Islam in the Kashmir Valley.

Shigar has the 1614-built expansive Khanqah-i-Muallah, or mosque and travel-lodge, as well. The exquisite wooden work on balconies and ceilings leaves one impressed with the masterful craftsmanship.

The Khanqah was built by Shah Nasir Tussi, who came from Tus in Persia, and laid its foundations in 1602. Both the Amburiq Mosque and the Khanqah appear to be built in a similar pattern to Khaplu’s Chaqchan Mosque and Khanqah; apparently the same artisans travelled from one town to the next, leaving behind marks of their craftsmanship.

There is a 7th century Buddha and other ancient rock carvings in Manthal nearby, besides hot springs and lakes — but you can always choose to just stay at the Palace and unwind in its lush green gardens and recharge yourself before the start of another work year.

Have you explored any off-the-beaten tracks across the world? Share your journey with us at blog@dawn.com

While on one of my tours to Azad Jammu and Kashmir, all the way up to the Neelum Valley, I heard about a daak bungalow in Barsala from a concierge at one of the tourist lodges.

The historical and sentimental value of the Barsala Tourist Lodge was that Jinnah had stayed there for some time while on his way to Srinagar from Rawalpindi on July 26, 1944.

Also known as the Quaid-i-Azam Memorial Rest House, the lodge is located at a distance of 100km from Islamabad and 40km from Murree. On the way to Muzaffarabad, it is only 3km from the Kohala Bridge, which is the entry point to AJK.

The lodge, like most buildings in Kashmir, suffered damage during the 2005 earthquake, but the AJK Tourism Department has repaired the structure and its numerous rooms are open for tourists wanting to break the journey and stay at this serene place.

As our jeep made the descent from Muzaffarabad — the capital of AJK — towards Murree, my curiosity to explore the lodge where Jinnah had stayed gained momentum.

The roads grew broader and smoother the closer we got to Barsala, the treacherous twists and turns reduced in number, the sun played hide and seek, momentarily disappearing behind the curiously-shaped clouds.

It left us to enjoy the soothing shade, just before springing out from behind the clouds, bathing us in the bright light.

On one side of the road winding through the mountains was the splendid Jehlum River, roaring in all its majesty. Its waves crashed the rocky banks, occasionally spraying us with cool froth.

Stretched in front of us were the distant Himalayan mountains in all their majestic grandeur.

Soon enough, the jeep came to a halt at a by-road, jolting me out of my reverie. It seemed like we had arrived at the daak bungalow. Only, it was nowhere to be seen.

I blinked, waiting for it to appear before my eyes, when I saw the driver pointing somewhere a few feet down. I gasped as I gazed in awe at the loveliest lodge I had seen in a while.

It wasn’t the glamour of the building that robbed me of speech, but it was its perfect elegance and sophistication that mesmerised me.

The lodge was settled cosily in a clearing some feet above the now calm Jehlum River and a bit further down the main road.

Slightly secluded from view and very close to nature, this beautiful place located perfectly was totally befitting of the great leader’s standards.

Mossy stairs with tiny mushrooms growing out of them led me down to the wooden gate and into the lodge.

The whole place seemed like it was slumbering. At the sound of my family’s chatter, however, Abdullah, the concierge, came rushing out to greet us.

He welcomed us warmly and offered us tea, displaying the usual hospitality of Kashmiris.

When we told him that we weren’t there to stay but had come to visit the place out of our attachment to Jinnah, he got emotional — and I got a glimpse of the devotion he had for the lodge.

He told us that the room where Jinnah had stayed had been turned into a museum; it was opened only for visitors who wanted to take a look at the famed room. There was a plaque outside it with a description of the historic visit.

The sitting room, attached to the bedroom, was simple and elegant, with furniture of the finest quality.

Decades-old furniture with its gleaming surface looked good as new because Abdullah kept it spotlessly clean.

The bedroom contained a heavy wooden dressing table, a wardrobe and bed with an intricately carved headboard, like an embroidered crown.

In the sitting room, I spotted a rocking chair, which as Abdullah told, Jinnah had mostly rested upon.

We spent a few minutes in the room, taking in the surroundings and committing them to memory. Abdullah led us through a beautiful veranda with a grassy lawn running adjacent to it, into the drawing room where he showed us old pictures of the daak bungalow and those during and after its renovation.

After taking pictures and enjoying the beautiful view of the mountains and River Jehlum offered by the lodge, we thanked Abdullah, who courteously saw us off to our vehicle.

We left with the precious memories of the place that, I think, is nearly as valuable as the now restored Ziarat Residency.

Have you visited little known yet historically important places? Share your adventures with us a blog@dawn.com

In the early 50s, not long after she had arrived in Bombay (later Mumbai) as a newly-married bride, my mother portrayed Anarkali in a theatrical production.

The director, K Asif, happened to see the play and was so taken with her performance that he wanted to cast her as Anarkali in Mughal-e-Azam. Over 200 photos of her were taken on the movie set, including ones with the iconic feather grazing her face.

Ultimately, she had to decline the role owing to family pressure, as in those days women from respectable families did not act in 'pictures'.

The photos remained in an album which she sometimes opened whenever she felt like reminiscing about her life before migrating to Pakistan.

She had vivid memories but my mother did not view the past through rose-coloured glasses. Though she never spoke of it publicly, she carried an immense pain throughout her life.

Once she felt I was old enough, she began to share her secret history with me, speaking with the utmost frankness, mother to daughter.

Her public life in Bombay was filled with the trappings of glamour. There were movie premieres with film stars like Dilip Kumar, Madhubala and Kamini Kaushal, photos at official functions with heads of state like Prime Minister Nehru and history-making individuals like Tenzing Norgay.

The glamorous mirage masked a terrible reality.

My mother was being violently abused, physically assaulted by her husband at the time. The entire duration of the daily abuse, a period of seven years, she kept up appearances, accompanied her politician husband on campaign rallies, hosted elegant soirées with the pallu of her sari draped just so that the bruises would not be visible.

She begged her family to intervene, only to be ignored time and time again.

After one particularly brutal beating, my uncles came and took her back home to Bhopal. However, her husband persuaded them to hand her back with a written apology and undertaking that he would never hurt her again.

Needless to say, the abuse continued, until one day her gynecologist, the eminent Dr Shirodkar, told her plainly that she would be dead within six months if she did not divorce her husband.

My mother took his advice, but the price she paid for going against that devious and influential monster was enormous. He was a barrister and a politician and she a woman with a minimal education and no defences against his cunning. He took custody of both her young children, my step-siblings.

She spent the next 20 years desperately searching for them. When she was finally able to track them down and met them in their adult years, they had already been thoroughly brainwashed against her by their father.

The final manipulation came in the form of the threat that if they ever reconciled with their mother, he would disinherit them. It worked.

After the briefest of reunions, her long-lost children cut off all ties with my mother, breaking her all over again.

My mother cried herself to sleep every single night of her life. No joy could fully overcome the pain of the separation from her children.

It was remarkable that she had the courage to keep on going in spite of her inner agony. Constantly harassed by the police in Bombay, she decided to take a break and visit Karachi for a family wedding, where she met and married my father, a love marriage across Shia/Sunni sectarian lines.

Bia carried herself with great poise in her new life in Pakistan, but never failed to journey to India every year for the next two decades in search of her children. Each time she would return newly heartbroken and dejected.

Bia loved music as well as singing. Music for her was a kind of opiate. She had a gorgeous voice, had studied a little with an ustad in Bombay and was a great aficionado of the ghazal form.

Time and time again my memory goes back to dwell on the early years of my childhood, between the ages of six and nine, that were spent in Karachi with my mother as head of our household, while my father was a prisoner of war. She never let us feel the lack of a father.

Our rooms in the Services Club had no kitchen, so come evening it would be time to discover a new restaurant or revisit a favourite eatery. We would pile into the bright red Dodge, which she drove at race car speed with the top down and her hair flying in the wind. There were weekends on the beach at Hawke's Bay and Sandspit and endless trips to bookstores.

I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood.

Recently, I have been drawn to reconstruct some of that time in a novel set in the Karachi of my girlhood in the 70s. In the course of my research, I stumbled upon a video of Bia in the audience of a Zia Mohyeddin show.

It was a surreal moment: there she was in her trademark chiffon sari, all smiles, and swaying in rapture at Mehdi Hasan singing Ranjish Hi Sahi.

I remember being seven or eight years old and being taken to mehfils where Iqbal Bano or Farida Khanum or Mehdi Hasan or Habib Wali Mohammad were performing.

As a little girl, I found all that boring but the music must have penetrated my subconscious in a kind of osmosis, as it is now an indelible part of my being.

I recall Bia singing each night before going to bed; when she was putting me to sleep, it was a lullaby, but when she thought I was asleep, I would tip toe out of my bedroom and hear her sing.

Sometimes it would be a Noor Jehan ghazal, sometimes an old film classic like Mujh Ko Is Raat Ki Tanhai Mei Avaaz Na Dou. It is only now that I realise what was haunting her.

I myself have never spoken of this publicly before. But I feel it’s time. My mother passed away in 2012; before #metoo and #timesup, she and countless other women of her generation were vilified and deliberately estranged from their children as an act of revenge for asserting their independence.

I suspect my mother, who gave a full page interview in an Urdu paper under the headline "Begum Ali has Grave Grievances Against Men," would have loved that so many powerful figures in the West have been knocked off their pedestal by this newly-empowered social media savvy generation of women.

Unfortunately in South Asia, although there are cracks and tremors the past and present pillars of patriarchy remain firmly entrenched.

Case in point: my mother’s first husband, though long dead, remains firmly on his pedestal.

He is revered in India as an author and Islamic scholar. His two oldest children, my step-brother and sister, worship his memory and resolutely deny my mother's assertions of physical assault and emotional torture.

If I had only denied my mother's reality and accepted the version of events that their father fed them, that my mother was a woman of questionable morals who abandoned them at the tender ages of four and six, I would have been accepted by my step-siblings, but I refuse to accept the erasure of my mother’s being so easily.

Bia used to write Urdu poetry on little slips of paper that she kept in her ghazal collections. I'd be perusing Faiz or Nasir Kazmi and a nazm would come floating down like a feather.

After her death, I went through all her books and her poems were missing. All except for one. It reads:

Shani
tou pani hai
Chahé jis bar
tun mei bhar lo

Shani was her nickname. The double entendre of bartan (vessel) with bar (bridegroom) and tun (body) is so subtle and stunning. This tiny little poem contains the constrictions of a woman's life so succinctly.

Given the opportunity, I am sure my mother would have been as renowned for her creativity as she was for her looks and her grace.

Writing is a means by which we counteract erasure. After my mother's death, I gave up both paternal and married surnames and adopted my middle name, Naz, as my surname, as well as takhallus.

Naz was given to me by her symbolically breaking off a piece of her own name, Shehnaz. Own in the larger sense that she had chosen it for herself at the ripe old age of five, after rejecting the family's given name.

Now and until death, I will proudly wear the mantle of this matronymic, forever my mother's daughter, Sophia Naz.

Have you ever been discriminated against due to your gender? Share your experience with us at blog@dawn.com

Da Sanga Azadi Da — "What freedom is this?" — is the Pashtun Tahaffuz Movement (PTM) anthem heard at their gatherings and jalsas.

PTM’s figurehead, Manzoor Pashteen, asked that question in Karachi — the world's largest Pashtun city by population — on Sunday, May 13, as the PTM headed over to Pakistan’s main metropolis.

Karachi, after all, is where a young Pashtun from Waziristan, Naqeebullah Masood, was killed in an extrajudicial encounter by the police on suspicion of terrorism on January 13, which provided impetus for PTM’s rallies and demands for fair treatment from the state.

But if we are to trace the origins of some of the grievances of the Pashtuns of Pakistan's tribal areas, we will have to go all the way back to 1893 — to the year when the Durand Line was set in stone as a border separating British India from Afghanistan.

The creation of this border-province begins the story of the continued maltreatment of the Pashtuns inhabiting these areas.

Characterised by the Raj as ill-defined and turbulent, these regions compromised the defence of the borders of British India. They did not border a recognised foreign power; rather, they separated the Raj’s dominion from the 'wild', 'lawless, 'unsettled' and 'warlike' tribes living in the hills that stretched into Afghan lands.

Eventually, these borderlands were assimilated into the Pakistani state post-1947 and incorporated into what we now know as the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (Fata). For the residents of this region, however, not much has changed in over a century in terms of infrastructure and development.

The curfews, coercion and oppression that the PTM protests against today trace their roots to laws created by the Raj.

The basic aim of the Raj was to ensure that order prevailed along British India’s periphery and that a 'safe and permanent frontier' was established along its borders.

In 1898, the London Times ran a report on these policies of the Raj:

"Now that we had established our authority and supremacy over the district in which warlike operations [the Afridis revolted after the Durand line was proclaimed — a revolt which the British successfully quashed] had been taking place, it seemed an opportune moment to define what were the objects which we should wish to promote, what should be our frontier policy in India.

"[Lord George Hamilton] had always held that the presence and the advance of Russia in Central Asia was a factor connected with our frontier policy which we could not ignore.

"We must protect our subjects [referring to subjects in Punjab and Sindh] and must ensure that the tribes under our influence [are] not interfered with."

And while the rest of British India was a crude reproduction of the metropole — introducing a centralised state that had ostensibly modern forms of governance, a bureaucracy, defined territory and a monopoly over violence — colonial rule in borderlands was markedly different.

As opposed to pursuing a project of modernisation, the goal was to ensure that the frontier’s ‘unruly’ tribesmen did not integrate with the rest of the territories of the Raj.

Galvanising the Raj’s impulse towards the institutionalisation of difference and excluding the frontier and its inhabitants from the colonial state were the Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCR), established as law over Bajaur, Mohmand, Khyber, Orakzai, Kurram, Waziristan — the borders of NWFP — in 1901.

These regulations transformed tribesmen into imperial vassals, denied them access to colonial courts and Raj governance and yet, expected them to act in accordance with the interests and concerns of the overarching imperial state.

Subsequently, under the guise of respecting the independence of the tribes, the Raj’s road and railway construction was limited to the areas of British Baluchistan — and not the border region — and irrigation projects were limited to the provinces of Sindh and Punjab.

At the same time, service in tribal militias — which served on colonial outposts and checkpoints along the frontier region’s border with Afghanistan — transformed Pashtuns into wage labourers, tying them further into the colonial economic system at minimal cost, and consequently, to the colonial state.

Colin Metcalfe Enriquez’s The Pathan Borderland — published in 1921 — describes this as a "marvelous method":

"Not the least wonderful of the many marvelous methods employed in keeping our fickle and excitable neighbours [North of the Durand Line] in order is the use made of the Pathans themselves to protect our marches."

According to Enriquez’s chronicle, the number of troops — militias, border military police and levies — along the border numbered 10,440 in July, and all but 1,150 were Pashtun.

The FCR recognised and codified the existence of the jirga, or Council of Elders. But while the jirga's punishments and decisions were based on tribal customs, the FCR allowed and empowered the British Deputy-Commissioner to make both civil, and criminal, references to Councils of Elders.

In addition, where the Deputy-Commissioner believed that a civil dispute was likely to lead to a blood-feud or a breach of peace — especially in cases where a frontier tribesman was party to the dispute — he was at the liberty to refer the case to a jirga of his own nomination.

In other words, supreme power lay in the hands of the Deputy-Commissioner: he could question the jirga's decisions, veto or pass criminal sentences and bar hostile tribes from entering British India.

And because of the Raj’s stifling military presence in the tribal borderlands — with four 'movable columns' in Peshawar, Kohat, Bannu and Dera Ismail Khan, along with multiple corps of military police, levies and militia across the region, from Waziristan right up to Chitral — these tribes, more often than not, had no option but to accept the terms laid upon them.

For example, a 1919 Nottingham Evening Post report states that the "Mahsuds accepted all our [referring to the Raj] terms, which include an unopposed march through their territory and the continuance there of our troops until all fines have been paid."

In addition, Article 11, Section (1) of the FCR stated, "The Deputy Commissioner may or if the Commissioner so directs, shall, by order in writing, refer the question to the decision of a Council of Elders (jirga), and require the Council to come a finding on the question after such inquiry as may be necessary and after hearing the accused person. The members of the Council of Elders (jirga) shall, in each case, be nominated and appointed by the Deputy Commissioner. [emphasis added]"

More importantly, with Article 36, the FCR granted the British government the authority to "remove persons" — with "remove" ostensibly referring to a colonial form of deportation: one that forced inhabitants of the frontier region to "reside beyond the limits to which this regulation [the FCR] extends."

In 1937, the Evening Telegraph and Post in Dundee, Scotland reported about "Tribal Hostages Handed Over". It detailed that over a hundred men were "handed over as hostages" to the Government of India by the jirga of the Tori Khel tribe in Mirali, Khaisora Valley, Waziristan.

This "handing over" of men was part of the conditions laid down upon the Tori Khel tribesmen by Major-General D. E. Robertson, Commander of the Waziristan district, "to ensure peace."

In addition, the FCR lacked basic civil protections, allowed collective punishment of individual crimes and placed extraordinary discretionary powers in the hands of the officers of the Raj.

A 1914 report in London’s The Times titled "Indian Frontier Tribe Chastised" described the "punishment" of the entire Bunerwal tribe as a consequence of a raid carried out by a few tribesmen:

"The column set out to execute reprisals on the Bunerwal tribesmen who recently raided British territory has, after a tiring night march, taken the villages and captured a number of prisoners."

When Pakistan gained independence in 1947, the new state kept the architecture of tribal governance in place, thus keeping tribesmen of the frontier outside the realm of citizenship and leaving them in a state of perpetual dislocation.

It wasn’t until 1997 that regions governed by the FCR were granted representation in the national legislature. Party-based elections – after much debate and deliberation – were introduced to the region in 2013.

The recently passed Fata reforms bill proposes abolishing the FCR altogether (there were substantial amendments to the FCR in 2011), bringing the region into the fold of the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, as well as expanding the jurisdiction of the Supreme Court and the Peshawar High Court to the region.

While the bill has been approved and signed by the President, its terms haven’t been made law as yet due to political reasons.

There has also been talk of granting Fata a share in the NFC award — this proposition has allegedly been opposed by other provinces.

But the military checkposts across Fata remain standing. They are physical reminders of over a century of high handedness.

And the people of Fata remain confined to the margins of the state, excluded from the national body politic and defined by an era of colonial governance with limited rights and restricted access to judicial systems.

• Fear and suspicion
• Winning public trust
• Pakistanis should not have to look for foreign benevolence for hearts and kidneys.

Mansoor Ahmad, who gave his heart and soul to bring glory to Pakistan on the hockey field, died last Saturday waiting for a new heart.

While the National Institute of Cardiovascular Disease (NICVD), a tertiary care hospital in Karachi, optimistically tweeted that Ahmad would be its first heart transplant candidate, this could not erase the reality that, in the absence of an established deceased organ donation programme in Pakistan, procuring a heart for transplantation was not possible for Ahmad in the foreseeable future.

In order to live some more, Ahmad, Pakistan's World Cup-winning hockey goalkeeper and captain, was willing to have an Indian heart beat in his chest.

Many like Ahmad die daily in Pakistan, waiting for organs that are buried with the bodies of potential organ donors.

Our greatest tribute to this fallen hero can be in making his story the catalyst for an important change in our health system: a formalised deceased organ donation programme that can, according to estimates, save thousands of lives of people dying from organ failure every year.

For decades, Pakistan has been relying on healthy, living donors for transplants, limiting the scope of organ transplantation primarily to kidney and some liver transplantation.

Kidneys, being paired organs, are easier to donate with minimal operative and long term risks for the donor.

Major kidney transplant programmes, such as the one at the Sindh Institute of Urology & Transplantation (SIUT) in Karachi, have relied primarily on living related donors to meet the needs of patients suffering from renal disease, so far transplanting around 5,400 patients between 1994 and 2017.

Donating portions of the liver, however, carries high risk to the donor. A retrospective study looking at data from nine US transplant centres in 2013 concluded that 37 percent of donors underwent one or more medical complications.

It is no surprise that most liver transplant programmes around the world rely mainly on obtaining the organ from deceased donors, thereby obviating any donor health risks.

Given that living donors are the primary source of organ donations in Pakistan, heart transplantation is currently not a possibility.

Transplant programmes relying entirely on living donations are fraught with multiple difficulties and challenges.

For one, the huge demand for organ replacement cannot be met with the limited supply of organs coming from living donors related to the patient, creating space for the organ trade to emerge.

This particularly abhorrent form of exploitation was rampant until a few years ago with rich — and often foreign — buyers purchasing kidneys from poor Pakistani peasants.

Mafias facilitated every step of this trade and earned Pakistan the notorious reputation of a kidney bazaar.

A 2012 study conducted by one of the co-authors of this piece at the Centre of Biomedical Ethics and Culture, SIUT showed that most donors who sold their kidneys, especially in rural Punjab, were poor farmers wanting to pay off their debts.

But instead, the donors only sank deeper in despair.

Fear and suspicion

Pakistan banned the organ trade with the Transplantation of Human Organs and Tissues Act in 2010.

While this landmark law went a long way in reducing exploitative transplants, curtailing the organ trade, and improving Pakistan’s reputation in the international medical community, it has done little to address an ever-widening gap in the supply of healthy organs.

The only viable way to increase organs available for transplants is through establishing a deceased organ donor programme.

It is the responsibility of the medical community to show a way towards deceased organ donation and its subsequent acceptance in society.

Pakistanis should not have to look for foreign benevolence for hearts and kidneys.

To date, Pakistan has only had eight deceased donors whose organs have been transplanted. These include three who could only donate their corneas because their other organs were unviable due to age or disease-related factors. Abdul Sattar Edhi was a corneal donor.

Most of those eight people became organ donors long before the 2010 transplant law was enacted, which recognises brain death as a legal cessation of life.

Part of the problem lies in the many misconceptions surrounding posthumous organ donation, as we found out in another study conducted by our centre in 2014.

We discuss some of these misconceptions below, and address them also.

Winning public trust

Before a programme can be set up, the misconceptions and fears surrounding the subject have to be dispelled.

The medical community has to engage with the public to help alleviate fears around donating organs and spread greater understanding of the process.

It is mind-boggling to see that the ultimate gesture of kindness and benevolence — which continues well beyond one’s own life and can change the lives of up to 17 others — requires so much convincing for wider acceptance in the society.

The most unexpected of people sometimes can become the harbingers of change. A simple event can ignite profound societal shift.

Perhaps Mansoor Ahmad’s demise while waiting for a heart can become a beacon for that change.

Visit the Transplantation Society of Pakistan’s website to register yourself as an organ donor.

Pakistani scholars and ulema of different schools of thought have weighed in on donating organs. Read their views here.

Are you an organ donor? Have you pledged to donate an organ? Share your thoughts and experience with us at blog@dawn.com

• Read an extract below from Sarim Baig's debut novel

Sarim Baig writes in whatever “pockets of time” he can find while juggling his other job as a teacher of computer science.

His recent book of short stories, Saints and Charlatans, is set in a fictionalised neighbourhood in Lahore, a city where he has lived most of his life in at least 12 different localities.

He is an enthusiastic advocate for independent presses, one of which — Mongrel Books — published his book.

He is curiously insistent that the book does not reflect his personal experiences, although he does explain how his childhood roaming the streets of Lahore has inflected the picture he draws of the Rampura neighbourhood and the characters that inhabit it.

This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

This is your first published book. When did you get into writing? If there is such a thing as a point you can identify, where you thought that you wanted to be a writer.

I guess if you read a lot then there comes a point where you think about writing. And after that, it’s just about who is stubborn enough to keep doing it. When it comes to this collection, it represents the last four or five years. The work I have done in those years is consolidated into this collection.

This is a very connected collection.

All the stories are stand-alone. Every story is complete in itself. The connections that are there are primarily the connections of setting. Then, some of the underlying themes are common. And there are these floating characters that reappear across stories. But as stories, they are all different, meaning that they have their own beginning, middle and end.

They have their own logic, their own arc.

Yes, they have their own logic. You don't need to read one story to understand the other.

Who are some of the authors that you have been inspired by? Or some styles of writing?

I feel that the authors you read earlier on, in your teenage years, have the most lasting impact. I used to read a lot of Gothic horror. I’m talking about people like Poe, or Lovecraft, or Sheridan Le Fanu... he wrote this long story called Carmilla, about a vampire, one of the first vampire stories. It’s a wonderful Gothic horror.

And these writers are really good at describing stuff. Creating worlds which have very mysterious settings. The setting itself is an actor, and a lot of things are possible in that setting.

So that is one of the influences which I think I carry. Other than that, Latin American writers. Also some South Asian writers, I would say R. K. Narayan, Ruskin Bond. Some Urdu short story writers. People like Ghulam Abbas.

You said that one of the things you have taken away from some of these books is that the setting is itself an actor. How does that function in your book?

Most of the stories are set in Rampura, which is an imaginary place in Lahore. That setting feeds mostly on my own experience which has been a slightly different one because I have lived in at least 12 different places in Lahore, on rent. It is also different because it’s more like a street experience. I have had friends, street friends, across Lahore.

What is a street friend?

You know, when your mom is sleeping, you sneak out, and you find someone to play with, and he has also snuck out. That is a street friend. And he could be anybody.

He could be the son of a rickshaw driver, he could be the son of a seth. So you have this experience coming from all these rather different parts of Lahore which are also reflective of different parts of our society.

That amalgam shapes this imaginary place of Rampura. Which also has some additions in it. Meaning that there are things that happen in Rampura that cannot happen in the actual physical universe. So it’s kind of a magical real place.

Tell us more about this setting, Rampura.

I feel that my training in science has shaped my thinking in a certain way. So when I think of a character thinking, I am always aware of the fact that our brain itself is just part of the bigger universe, and whatever we call the setting is ultimately the product of our brains.

So to me, setting is a state of mind. For example, in Rampura there are these labyrinthine streets and gallies and a lot of people get lost in those. Usually when they do that, they are also lost in thought. So the mind and the world are kind of meshed together.

And I have lived around Lahore, and grown up there, in the streets of Lahore. I think that’s the experience that has fed the fiction. A lot of the characters in this book — although they are not real people — but if you went out looking you would probably find somebody close to each one of them.

Are there any characters that you keep returning to?

There is a boy in this book who is a trash-picker. I feel that the spirit of that boy somehow embodies the spirit of this book. Because he is literally living in trash and he has kind of stolen his own world out of it.

His own world which no one else knows about and he is the master of this world. And he is a survivor.

If you look carefully at a lot of these characters, they are like that. They’ve kind of stolen these worlds for themselves.

That child in that story, he is not only a survivor, he is also a bit of a caretaker. Because he takes care of what you find out is his dad…

Yes. But he doesn't tell his mom about this.

Because he is protecting his father, in a way.

Yes. So one of the themes of this book is — and that’s where the title also comes from — is that when your primary objective is to survive then you could be a saint — or you could pretend to be a saint and you are actually a charlatan.

But if the primary motive is to survive, then a lot of these lines are actually grey. You can’t tell who is a good guy and who is a bad guy.

You also have the presence of saints like Sain Siraj in the book, and the mosque also plays a role, with characters like Maulvi Muhammed Ijaz.

I am always wary of these characters — the character of a cleric, or a hardliner. Because it is easy to caricature it, to make it a cliché.

If you really think about it, that character in my collection doesn't have a story of his own. Instead he appears over and over again in various other stories.

It is how the presence of that one man impacts other characters. And these other characters impacted by him are at various stages of their life.

There is a kid, in The Path of the Man-Eater, who sees this guy beating up other people, and trying to enforce his own will on others.

And then there is an old man at the end of the book who has suffered a great personal tragedy due to the hatred spread by the cleric. So that one character is an influence and a presence hovering around the other characters.

Another theme that you deal with is characters not knowing their place in life. In The Third One from the Left, it says that Bubloo does not understand his own purpose. And that is his problem in the entire story, that he doesn't know what the “right sort of things” to do are.

This is a character who has never been able to ask himself what he wanted. He always had answers given to him.

First by his dad. Then by his father-in-law. And then life itself just kind of grabs hold of him. So there is a point where he thinks, “when my father was alive he used to beat me, but that was better because at least I knew where things were going. Now I have no idea.”

And in the end he finds some kind of spiritual solace in becoming more religious. But throughout his life, he can’t resolve that question of what he wants. And that is because he is not free enough to do that.

He never had the options?

He never had the options. And to understand this character we also have to look at the other boys in the story. They seem to know exactly what they want. They just want to get out of this place.

But it doesn't work out for them either. So you end up questioning whether it was even any use to them to know what their purpose was.

What experience is your material tapping into? Many authors say that if you are a novelist or a fiction writer, you have a problem finding material, because fiction writers write about their childhood, their family, their marriage, and after the first book you have said it all. And then you have to find new ways of saying the same thing all over again.

That is perhaps true. I have also heard something like that said, that every writer just writes one story. But if you look at this book of short stories, if you go through it, I think I have not written about my life yet, at all.

And perhaps I will never write about my life. That would be fine. There are some other lives I know that I could write about. Maybe.

The decision is taken not by me but by some character. If a character comes and is so powerful that they drive the narrative, then I will end up writing about that. And of course certain themes are always interesting.

Also, I think the format of the short story allows you to write the peripheral narratives, the narratives on the edges of literature.

For example, it would be difficult for me to write a novel about a trash-picker. But for seven pages I don't care. Let me get into his head and let me write about him.

I can get into the head of the harmonium player. So all these peripheral narratives on the edges of society can easily take centre stage in the short story format.

So for those seven pages — where are you drawing those from?

I think a bit of that is natural. Because I feel that if I have a character to write about then that character will come to me talking. He or she would not be sitting quietly. I just have to listen to them and they will tell me their story.

Can you elaborate?

Personally, I primarily conceive characters first — of course these are characters I feel for or that intrigue me — and then the narratives follow as circumstances, situations and other characters arise around them. It might work differently for different writers.

For me, certain settings are also more fertile, you may say inspiring, than others. The trash heap, the doonga ground, the roof of Heartbeats hospital, the Lucky Turkey Circus and Jojo ka Snooker Club are places brimming with stories.

Which characters were easy to write for you? Which were more difficult? For example, I noticed that women don’t narrate any of these stories.

Outside of this collection, I have written other stories where a woman is telling the story. But this collection is about these street folk who are mostly men. And the women in these stories are really representations of what those men are making of the women in their lives, rather than me portraying a woman.

I was joking to my publisher that we could have named this collection “Men Without Women 3”. I haven't gone into the head of a woman in this collection. Maybe at some point as a writer I will.

What are some of the challenges that you anticipate in such an undertaking? How do you think you might be able or not able to do that?

This might be a disappointing reply to your question, but I’ve never quite been able to challenge myself to do a particular type of writing or create a certain kind of characters.

I can only write what I can envision, what is of interest to me and takes me along. This wouldn’t change even when the central characters are female.

Just as it doesn’t change when the central characters are different from me in other respects than gender.

And the other characters — I think from the perspective of this collection most of them are just these street guys.

The kind of people who will talk to anybody, if you approach them. The kind of people who will make a comment even if you don't want them to make a comment.

Who are incorrect about things. Who are not really concerned with what is right.

And also who are kind of open about the hypocrisy and embrace the hypocrisy that defines them.

And in some cases are proud of it, proud of how they have perfected the art of being hypocritical while at the same time making it work.

Can you give me an example of one of these characters?

For example, the quack. He thinks he is really doing something for society.

He starts off the story by saying I am a quack but —

“I am a quack but when the disease is incurable what is the difference? I am giving people something, I am selling people hope.” So he has justified it, whereas, of course, he is giving people steroids. Although, he does lie about the steroids, so he knows at the same time that he is wrong.

And then a similar character, Uncle Zuber —

Yes. Actually a lot of people who have read this collection like that character. That character came out of a grievance that I have with our society, which is that there is nothing here for single men. Or for single women.

You go anywhere and everything is for families. So this guy is the ultimate example of a guy who cannot penetrate the family structure. There is no place for him, there is no home for him.

Like that trash-picker boy, he has kind of stolen a family for himself. He goes to these places when someone is in an emergency situation and everybody is being very kind to everybody else. He goes and inserts himself into those situations. He feels like he is in a family.

You said that you were also influenced by Urdu literature. When you started writing, was there ever a decision to write in English? Was there a question mark? Or was it just natural that this is what you were going to do?

You know, I am a typical trilingual mess kind of a person. It’s difficult for me to speak two paragraphs in a single language. All my schooling was in an English-medium school, university life again in English, books in English. And so I think my Urdu is just not good enough. Simple as that.

Did you ever think of writing in that trilingual mess?

If you are writing in English here in Pakistan, or even in India, you are writing about people — particularly in these stories, for example — people who do not speak English, people who do not think in English, they don't describe the world around them in English.

But they do all those things in your stories. So obviously there is some transformation that is taking place. And I don't understand the dynamics of that transformation.

But it is a transformation that only a writer writing in English experiences. If you are writing in Urdu, or in Punjabi, you can just convey the language of that character directly onto the page. But if you are writing in English, what do you do?

So, for example, I love the early Naipaul, his books set in Trinidad, writing about the Indian community there. And that Indian community in Trinidad speaks a certain kind of English. If you take that dialogue out of his book, those books would die.

Now I think about my problem. If I walk into, say, Lohari Gate, those people are speaking Punjabi, but it is not the same Punjabi they are speaking in Liberty. Or in my own house.

They are speaking a different kind of Punjabi. How do I convey that difference in English? One option is to leave it out. The other is to let that feeling somehow seep into the language. Somehow. I like to think that I try to do that in this collection.

What’s next for you? Is there another project that you are working on?

I am just going to let my own writing evolve in whichever direction it wants to go. I have no particular formats in mind. I think at the end of the day all these formats, like short stories, novels, plays, they are imposed on the act of creating fiction.

I will let my writing evolve in whatever way it does. If at all. This could be the only book I write.

And you don't have a problem with that?

I don’t have a problem with that. If I don't write another book, it’s okay.

Any last thoughts?

I want to give a shout-out to independent publishers. I think they are very important. And we also need our own local editors. Who can make the editing calls — that this is good writing, or good Pakistani writing.

More indie publishers will allow more people like me to write and get published. They will allow greater freedom.

And more authenticity?

I am not sure what authenticity is. But more diversity for sure.

Read an extract below from Sarim Baig's debut novel

"You never know what you’re going to find in the garbage," the old man warned. “Oh, and you can’t unfind it. No way in hell. It’s going to be yours forever. Nobody’s going to come to you and say, 'Here boy, let me take it from you.' No. If they cared for those things, they would never throw them out. What’s more, you can’t get rid of the things you’ve already picked. What I’m saying is this: there’s no garbage for the garbage. Once you picked something up, you can’t toss it out. Coz there is no 'out' for you, damn it, you are the out! It's going to stick with you. You could throw it away if you wished, but then, some other day you’d come across it again. Are you listening to me?"

The boy never listened.