On Tuesday this past week, the execution of Shafqat Hussain was halted again. This was the second time it happened.

According to reports, in March, Shafqat Hussain had once before been readied for death, dressed in the white clothes that those about to be executed are supposed to wear and write out his last will. The first stay came at the last minute.

The Federal Investigation Agency would look into the disputed issue in the case: Shafqat’s age at the time the crime was committed. Shafqat and his counsel have consistently held that he was 14 at the time of the offense and that he is hence ineligible for the death penalty.

Also read: Would we hang a 14-year-old 'terrorist'?

In granting this last stay, the judge noted that the Federal Investigation Agency was the wrong institution for carrying out the investigation into Shafqat’s age. He ordered that a judicial agency should be asked to conduct the investigation instead so that it would truly be the “independent inquiry” that Shafqat’s attorneys had asked for in the case.

Shafqat is accused of having kidnapped and then having killed a seven-year-old boy from an apartment building in 2001. He has been tried under the Anti-Terrorism Act.

Appeals to mercy are difficult ones to make in Pakistan’s current gallows-happy period. Since the moratorium on the death penalty was lifted (in December, the day after the attack on schoolchildren at Army Public School), many in Pakistan have embraced the belief that a lot of executions will rid the country of terrorism.

From then until this April; less than four months, over 100 executions have been carried out. According to Amnesty International, the country is fast gaining the reputation of the leading executioner in the world.

Also read: Shafqat Hussain’s case

In a prescient irony, around the same time as Shafqat was held back from the gallows, another former child prisoner was finally freed on bail in faraway Canada. Omar Khadr, a Canadian Muslim, was captured by US forces after a firefight in 2002.

He was 15 years old and severely injured. For the next eight years, Khadr was held at Guantanamo Bay Prison Camp where he was tortured and interrogated for information on Al-Qaeda. In 2010, Khadr plead guilty to conspiring with Al-Qaeda to commit terrorist acts making roadside bombs to target US troops in Afghanistan spying on American military convoys and providing material support for terrorism.

Omar Khadr thus became the first person to be tried before a war crimes tribunal and a military commission for a crime committed when he was a juvenile.

Interviews with other prisoners who were incarcerated with Khadr revealed that he was treated worse than other prisoners; severely injured when he arrived at Bagram; he was also denied medication. In their appeal, Omar’s lawyers argued that the Convention on the Rights of the Child and the Optional Protocol, an international treaty prohibited the conviction of a child by a war crimes tribunal. He was finally transferred from Guantanamo Bay to a Canadian prison after serving nearly 12 and-a-half years.

On May 7, 2015 a judge in a Canadian court decided that until adjudication of the charges (which hold that somehow he, a severely injured teenager, had thrown a grenade at a US soldier) should be freed on bail.

Canadian politicians, for whom Khadr has served as a poster child of the lurking evils of terror, are livid.

“Omar Ahmed Khadr is a convicted murderer," railed Conservative Ryal Leef, adding that "streets”. Khadr does not face execution even if he is found guilty.

It seems that Khadr, despite his many misfortunes is luckier than Shafqat Hussain. Even with the weight of Canadian public opinion hanging heavy on the eventual outcome of his trial in Canada (he was the last citizen of a NATO country to be sent back to his country of nationality), it seems that there is room for some possible fairness.

Shafqat Hussain, on the other hand, seems doomed to never getting the independent investigation that his counsel have repeatedly asked for and which is required for a fair determination to his case. Before he issued the latest stay order, presiding Judge Minallah rightly remarked that haste in executing Shafqat Hussain would result if it was later found that he was executed and it was found that he was underage.

In the meantime, Minister of the Interior, Chaudhry Nisar Ali Khan said in a speech on the floor of the National Assembly that “an inquiry was underway” to determine Shafqat’s actual age.

Read through: Tale of two non-hangings

I have written about Shafqat’s case before. Each time, a barrage of questions comes my way insisting on his guilt and on the necessity of punishment.

It is useful therefore, to end this appeal with noting that an argument against Shafqat’s execution is not the same as an argument for his innocence. When a man – in this case a likely child at the time of his crime – is put to death, there is no possibility of undoing the act. Since the state carries out the act; the culpability falls in its own lap.

The Pakistani state, with its morass of parallel jurisdictions, weight of stalled cases and generally groaning wheels of justice is already beset with the burdens of too many mistakes. The imperative then is to recognise that with this much doubt and uncertainty regarding the age of a man to be put to death; the just solution may be to search for an alternative punishment, instead of one that can never be undone.

If Pakistanis mourn and mutter at the injustice of Guantanamo, the mistreatment of men like Omar Khadr, so must they think critically, skeptically of their own pronouncements of guilt.

Hollywood has its Freddy Krueger and Frankenstein’s monster, but here, in Pakistan, we have another phenomenon whose very mention can strike terror in the hearts of every man, woman and child – the monster “loag” and its mighty weapon, “laatein”.

Who amongst us can claim not to have been terrorised by loagon ki baatein?

Our lives are lived in fear of public opinion, in matters big and small; in decisions social and personal, the question 'loag kya kahen gay' (What will people say)? reigns supreme over individual desires, much to the detriment of personal goals and aspirations.

“Ammi, I want to learn to play a musical instrument,” a cousin of mine said to her mother one day.

“Beta, what will people say?” her mother asked aghast, and that was the end of that.

Also read: Chasing the rockstar dream in Pakistan

For a collectivistic setup like ours to function, it is crucial that the roles assigned by society to each individual are lived up to. More often than not, social obligations take precedence over personal needs.

Collectivism has its advantages of course. But the standard rules of life we are all made to adhere to sometimes seem very arbitrary and needlessly stifling.

What possible harm to society could a teenager cause by learning a musical instrument? Except maybe, that it might be seen as her striving towards greater personal freedom; it would start with music but might end with her deciding not to get married at the arbitrary age picked as the right age, or to pursue a career women are deemed 'unfit' for.

In short, it might make her give up her ‘girl from a nice family background’ role. So it’s best if the fear of loagon ki baaten is put in her at an early enough age.

People manage to make it more or less unscathed through this minefield of public opinion until their mid-20s if they are smart enough to pick a socially acceptable career (medicine, engineering and if you are not that smart, business administration).

Explore: The doctor brides

After the first job has been found (the government sector is most preferable), the pressure to get married builds up and all the baatein that people have been saying for years start piling up, their voices rising to a din that can no longer be ignored.

And what caustic baatein they are. It’s no wonder that opinions expressed solely to wound are so feared. When a friend of mine secured her first job, her parents were told by well-wishers to find a suitable husband for her as soon as possible, lest people start thinking that they were relying on her income.

Sure enough, six months later, her father was asked point blank whether he was delaying his daughter’s marriage because of the money she brought in.

From reminding women of their fading youth and reminding young men of their receding hairlines, to reminding parents of their responsibilities, public opinion is geared toward directing each and every individual towards their predefined role in a timely manner.

The mold of a bahu, damaad, saas and susar is already available. All we have to do is step into it and conform.

One wishes that these pressure tactics would stop once a couple is married, but then begins the inevitable march towards parenthood. If the ticking of your biological clock is not loud enough, loagon ki baatein will ensure that soon that tick-tock is all you hear.

You must have children and you must have them now!

See: When society blamed me for my miscarriage

On a personal level, most people feel the need to break out of the mold, yet, on a larger scale, we are unable to comprehend this and not willing to make way for those who wish to live differently.

In the end, the feared loag is ourselves. We chafe and fret when our decisions are criticised and our choices hampered because people don’t find them acceptable. Yet, when we hear that the neighbour’s son decided to become an artist or that khala’s daughter wants to learn the piano, we question the morality of their choices.

The fear of loagon ki baatein might seem easy enough to escape – just don’t listen. If only it was that simple. The pressure of all the choices and conformity is exerted not just on ourselves but also on those nearest and dearest to us. If we fail to live up to societal expectations, we might have to face very real consequences of being ostracised.

The only way this pressure can be toned down is if we all open up our minds to the idea that not everyone has to live the same cookie-cutter life; try and start by not looking askance at the 35-year-old bachelor or the couple who is not having children.

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• Musings of a 'full-time' mum
  
• Five ways Pakistan degraded women
  

Like billions out there, I am a devout Salman Khan fan. My first Bollywood memory is of Andaaz Apna Apna.

As a toddler, I took it upon myself to nickname Salman Khan, my first crush, ‘Samsung’. Then, there was the time in elementary school, when we road tripped from Vancouver to San Francisco with just one cassette in our car – the soundtrack of Hum Apke Hain Kaun. Everyone was cool with having it on repeat for two whole days.

In all honesty, I don’t want Salman Khan to languish in jail for five years.

But, if there is anything I have learned after years of studying law, it is severing personal emotion and recognising (and hoping) that through the justice system, saner heads will prevail.

The very first line of the recently released decision of Judge Shri Deshpande begins with the most important fact of this hit-and-run case: the accused is famous.

With all due respect, I find this introduction to legal judgment absurd.

Above all else, Khan is a citizen of India. This makes him very much subject to the Indian law – which carries a maximum 10-year penalty for the crime he has been given only five years for.

I would argue that Khan has been shown leniency by the courts; and this leniency should come to no one’s surprise. It’s almost a de facto, unspoken right afforded to the wealthy, prestigious, elite, and powerful.

Also read: Salman Khan gets brief respite as court suspends his sentence

In an era of celebrity worship, leniency is the time-honoured tradition chosen by judges who find themselves confronted with the revolting duty of deciding the fates of reckless, irresponsible celebrities, while bracing for the inevitable public backlash.

Nowhere is this trend more rampant than in Hollywood.

In 1986, Mark Wahlberg was charged with attempted murder and assault following an attack that left a man permanently blind in one eye. Originally sentenced to two years, Wahlberg went home after serving a mere 45 days behind bars.

In 1997, Christian Slater was charged with violently assaulting his girlfriend while drunk. He was sentenced to three months in jail – of which he served only 59 days.

In 2012, Amanda Bynes was arrested for drunk driving. Although she was stopped before she could harm herself or others, her punishment was a casual one-night excursion in jail.

The notorious rapper Snoop Dogg was tried for the murder of a member of a rival gang. But with legendary lawyer Johnny Cochran spearheading his defence, the rapper walked away free of all charges and on towards a lucrative career.

A quick survey of my Twitter feed and global media outlets since the release of the verdict against Khan is indicative of one thing: fame breeds familiarity. And with this familiarity comes an inevitable body of fierce loyalists.

Simply put, when someone in a spotlight so large as Khan is implicated of questionable or criminal conduct, the public’s moral compass goes awry.

When Khan, adored by millions, came under attack, the lives, livelihoods and limbs lost in the carnage he caused mattered little – as if the death of the sleeping, impoverished innocents in the way of Khan’s SUV were the real problem.

But even though the public’s opinion is severely divided, and diehard supporters are having over-the-top reactions, the law must do all it can to remain a source of sanity by being what it is expected to be – impartial.

Also read: From solidarity to justice served, celebs react to Salman Khan's sentencing

Without spilling more wasted ink on the overly dissected merits of the case, the unvarnished truth is that Khan was horribly negligent every step of the way on and after that fateful 2002 evening.

Getting behind the wheel drunk was only the first of his many mistakes.

Fleeing the scene of the crime, not reporting himself to the police, never visiting the victims or arranging for compensation and lying in contempt of the court consistently throughout the past decade are just some of the many things that make it incumbent for decision makers like Judge Shri Deshpande to neutrally set right the many wrongs committed by Khan.

The greatest irony to stem from this case, is the interview given by one of the victims who lost a leg when he was trampled under Khan’s car that night 13 years ago. When asked if he still watched Salman Khan films, he appeared stupefied as if that was the most ridiculous question. Yes, in fact, I do – was the reply.

Such is the power of superstardom. The law can only try to feebly wield its sword before the frenzied throngs guarding the temple of celebrity worship.

The car had a serious negative social consequence for me.—Photo by author

The year is 1968 and I am getting a haircut at the Ideal Hair Dressing Salon, main market, Satellite Town, Rawalpindi. A Mercedes Benz drives by. The barber looks admiringly at the car and comments, “What a car the (expletive) Germans have created! You can put a dog in it and he would look like a prince!”

I am an impressionable 14-year-old and the seeds of desire for a Mercedes have just been sown.

Twenty years go by. I am driving with a friend in Karachi when he notices a lovely blonde head in the back seat of a Mercedes. Blondes being a rarity, this is a viewing opportunity not to be missed. My friend accelerates to come at level with the car and turns his head to get a good view of the blonde beauty.

To his utter embarrassment, it is a well-heeled dog with golden tresses!

Mr Ideal Hairdresser’s prophetic observation comes back to me and my resolve to buy a Mercedes is further strengthened.

See: An unusual collection of classic cars in Syria

My dream to own a Mercedes finally comes true when I am a ripe 50-years-old. I am in Islamabad while my wife is still in Canada, and I have money in my pocket. Such an alignment of stars happens rarely, so I grab the opportunity to finally look like a prince.

After much running around, I find a suitable candidate looking resplendent in maroon. At the used car dealership, a young man named Afridi shows me all the fine features of the car. He is particularly proud of the retractable cup holder that works with a switch.

“Sir, this is a COMPLETE Mercedes!” he declares emphatically a number of times. I am left wondering what an incomplete Mercedes would be like: one without an engine or a gearshift?

The ownership of the car is a mystery. Initially, Afridi claims that the car belongs to a wealthy cousin of his who is actually more like a brother. Later, he confidentially mentions that the car is currently being used by a Tehsildar of Kalar Kahar, in Punjab, but is actually owned by a doctor in the UK. The plot thickens further when the car registration book reveals that the car is registered in a name that belongs neither to the Tehsildar nor to the Doctor.

That's not all.

When the time comes to pay the commission, there is now utter confusion as to who even the real car-dealer is. The best I can figure out is that the young man called Afridi is a sub to a sub-car broker who is in turn a middle-man between the owner and the original broker ... or something like that.

After a complex process in which another car dealer gets involved, I sign a few papers and am told that I am the proud owner of the car. I am left with a lingering feeling that I just bought a stolen or a smuggled car and as soon as I drive out I will be arrested and the car impounded.

Nothing of the sort happened, though. It seems that the system of buying a used car, although entirely opaque and convoluted, actually works.

Also read: Three former PMs using government bulletproof cars

In the evening, as I am reversing the car out of my rather narrow driveway, I manage to crash its tail into the gate. This is truly a baptism by fire. Next day, my driver is devastated. He shakes his head sadly, then looks at me accusingly and declares:

“This happened because you did not give Sadqa [offering] as soon as you bought the car!”

A month later, my niece comes over for a visit. She is not used to cars with automatic transmission and as she reverses, she presses the accelerator thinking it is the clutch. The car shoots like a bullet and hits the raised pavement with a loud bang. The damage incurred is a destroyed tire and the wheel bearing.

But for my driver, the worst thing to happen is when someone steals the Mercedes Silver Star logo from the hood.

He is livid and declares, “Sir, the car is now a big zero. But do not worry, I will get one for you.”

“And where will you get it from?” I ask.

“I will steal it from some other car. It is only fair.”

I have to summon all my powers of persuasion to stop him from this criminal act. A month later, when I am going for a visit to Canada, he pries out a promise from me that I will get him a genuine replacement. I do so and the car is rendered “complete” again.

The Mercedes with my typically well-dressed driver.—Photo by author

Then, there is this little problem of finding the “right” mechanic. Going to the snotty Mercedes dealership is like committing financial suicide, and I have to seek less costly options.

“Go to Pappu mechanic, and tell him I sent you. You will find him near Peshawar morr”, advises a relative who owns one working and four un-working Mercedes Benzes. The directions to Pappu's workshop are simplicity itself:

“Just take a left at the petrol pump, then a right on a small street that has an advertisement for Dentonic tooth powder, go into the lane where they sell spare parts, then finally turn right again and ask anyone for Pappu the Mercedes mechanic.”

I am foolish enough to try; I return two hours later after having made acquaintance with a Pappu who is a Honda specialist, a Pappu who is a whiz with BMWs and a simple Pappu who runs a bicycle ship; but not Pappu the Mercedes guru. I hear murmurs that he has packed up and left for Dubai.

Explore: Hot wheels: Karachi's car wizard brings 1965 Mustang back to life

In general, the car does not suit me. Being more casually dressed than my well-turned up driver (who looks great in the fake Ralph Lauren shirt I have bought for him from China), I am often taken for the driver and the driver for the boss. The fact that I often stop at a roadside dhaba to order a doodh patti further erodes my image as the owner of a Mercedes.

The car has a serious negative social consequence for me. I am denounced roundly by my socialist friends for joining the bourgeoisie, even though the used Mercedes has not cost me any more than a new Honda Civic.

There is one advantage though: I am never stopped by a policeman. I am waved along high security zones when all the 'lesser' cars are stopped and checked.

After spending a year with the car, crashing it one more time in the driveway; my brother breaking the axle as he hits a raised road barrier; the car overheating and stalling when my sister and brother-in-law take it for a joy ride to Murree; and paying rather large amounts of money for fuel and maintenance, I decide that the complete Mercedes is a complete nuisance.

Thus died my dream of looking like a prince sitting in my Mercedes. They say “every dog has his day”, but alas, it was not to be so in my case.

I have since moved to Karachi, the kidnapping and carjacking capital of the country. And I anyway cannot afford the ransom that will be demanded of the owner of a Mercedes.

So, I promptly return to my white collar roots and buy an anonymous Honda Civic in grey.

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When I was little, I began noticing the difference between my Pakistani-Punjabi mom and the quintessential white American mother.

Kyle's mom was cool according to elementary-school standards: She'd sport her shades, stand by the SUV and wait for Kyle to leave the playground without showing much eagerness to see the kid. My mommy? Well, she was a different case. She would meet me after school as though I just returned from a war zone.

She would be waiting by the glass door with a second serving of lunch for me in a bright shalwar kameez. By the time everyone asked me, "Hey, is that your mom?" I changed my ethnicity from Pakistani to Mexican to eskimo.

Years flew by and I morphed into a haphazard mixture of contrasting cultures. I looked brown but I thought white. To me, the ebullience, warmth and instant bonding in the Punjabi culture was overwhelming. I found a certain comfort in the aloof environment of domestic white life. Mom, however, would not approve of such an approach. That was when I began feeling the strength and beauty that Pakistani mothers have.

Today, I am proud to tell everyone that not only am I a product of American values but I also follow and cherish the traditions of my forefathers. But that's not the focal point of my post. Today, we’ll be skimming through a few of the many habits our Pakistani mothers display.

And we love them for it.

Curry Olympics:

If you ever want to know how fast your mother can run, simply say, "Ammi, salan jal raha hai" and presto! Pakistani mothers win my admiration for the skillfulness they display during house chores. I almost thought there was a secret Olympic game for our moms where they race each other to the kitchen to save karahi gosht.

Polyglot mommy and her colourful scolding:

In our house, we sisters had understood the pattern of our mother's anger. When we grew up, we realised that it is pretty much the same in other Pakistani households. The difference, however, may remain between the numbers of languages chosen. You must be confused by now. It's simple. A Pakistani mother usually has escalating levels of anger and the intensity can be understood by the language she uses to snub you with.

We understood that English was our mother's colonial manner of teaching us a good lesson or two. By the time she reached Urdu, we knew her anger had increased to a higher level which meant that we were in semi-serious trouble. But when she chose Punjabi, we knew that hell had been unleashed on Earth.

(It could vary for every Pakistani though. Sindhi, Pashto and Baloch mothers follow the same method.)

A Pakistani mother's point faible:

Hyperboles are accepted and practiced in our culture to hilarious extents. Deep down inside, every Pakistani child knows that once those golden words are uttered, he or she is effectively immune to all sorts of punishments, ear-pulling, duties and, most importantly, school.

Those golden words are: "Mumma jee, mai beemaar hoon." As soon as a Pakistani mother hears that, her tough-love mechanism falls to zero and her unconditional protection system wakes up. In addition to her unquestionable love and concern, there's something else that is evoked as well: exaggerating the beemarin to dangerous extents only because she loves her little one so.

But by the time we reach the age of 10 or older, our smart mothers no longer acknowledged our golden words and we were briskly sent to school.

Excellent storytellers:

Pakistani mothers know that Pakistani children have supernatural amounts of energy and zest for life. That is adorable until it's 2 a.m. in the morning and their story doesn't help the kids drift off into slumber-land. What do they do? They chop up the fairy tale to one-third of it, spice it up with suspense and add the legendary warning: "Jinn baba agaya, aankhain band karo!" It works for the first six times but then we know what's going on and thus, a cynic is born.

Jokes aside, Pakistani mothers are tremendously optimistic, beautiful and resilient women. Regardless of their ethnicity, education or creed, they remain a cogent constituent of our society because they raise us in a country like Pakistan.

I will always respect the mothers who choose to protect their children from the economic woes and political lunacy of this country.

To raise a daughter in a patriarch's heaven is indeed a painful task but our mothers do it efficiently. Many of them place their children as top priority while neglecting themselves. I dedicate this post and the laughter generated by it, to every Pakistani mother or mommy-to-be (you know you're going to do the same things your ammi did) and to their prosperity.

—Illustrations by the author.

As Farzana Saleem struggled between life and death in a hospital, her family wondered how it had suddenly gone so wrong. She was admitted for what was understood to be a routine operation: removal of a cyst from her ovary. When she was discharged from the hospital, she was still in severe pain, and three days later, her condition had deteriorated to a point where she had to be admitted to the hospital in critical care.

Farzana’s daughter Ayesha watched her mother lying motionless and wondered if the family would ever be a happy unit again.

“It is not easy to stand outside the ICU and look at your mother’s face, and wonder if she will ever smile or even talk to us,” she recalls. “The doctors were all being so evasive. No one was telling us anything.”

Farzana’s case is not unique; there are dozens, if not hundreds of cases every year across the country that are similar. There are bound to be mistakes in surgical procedures; after all, doctors are human beings too. The problem isn’t that there is medical negligence; the problem is how it is tackled.

In Farzana’s case, the doctor who was supposed to perform the surgery did not show up and someone else replaced her. When they realised that they had botched up the surgery, the doctors disappeared. They did not take the patient or her family into confidence. Instead, they began avoiding them altogether.

Get more details here: Medical negligence

“Our medical training prepares us for treating and diagnosing diseases, but it does not teach us how to talk with patients; our education does not deal with bioethics,” says Dr Aamir Jaffrey, who is a professor of biomedical ethics and culture at SIUT in Karachi.

What happens when a patient suffers because a doctor has been careless? Apparently, not much …

“A person commits mistakes, inadvertently I am sure, but then they would be expected to own up to it. They should have told the patient and the family. [Otherwise] it causes a major trust deficit with the patient and their family. It is important for the doctor to keep the trust.”

Farzana’s husband, Salim, spent days running from one hospital to another hoping that someone would take up her case, but no one was willing to intervene given her situation. Once she was out of the ICU, the hospital released her and Farzana found herself bedridden for three months at home.

“She couldn’t even go to the bathroom; I couldn’t leave her for a second,” says Salim, who is still very emotional about the situation. Salim lost his job and the family began to struggle financially. As the medical bills mounted, he became frustrated and depressed and the entire family suffered.

“Our society ... the kind of conditions that we live in ... if a doctor admit to his mistake, he’s scared that he would be beaten up, his car would be burned, and there wouldn’t just be professional consequences but also a danger to his life,” explains Dr Jaffrey. He is now lobbying for more colleges to teach ethics to their students.

Also read: Imane Malik died due to negligence

“Doctors are still very much respected in our society, and the doctor would have been wise to live up to the trust given by the patient.”

Several months passed and Farzana was living with a urine bag attached to her; she was barely able to move. Salim found a doctor at Shaikh Zayed Hospital willing to help.

“A doctor finally sat us down and explained to us what had gone wrong and what we needed to do to fix it,” says Ayesha. “They didn’t even charge us any fees.”

“Doctors are still very much respected in our society, and the doctor would have been wise to live up to the trust given by the patient.”

Farzana was taken in by the hospital and they began treating her. Ayesha, who had been disheartened by the whole process, began trusting doctors again.

“I had completely lost my faith in the profession of doctors,” she says. “But now I am studying to become a doctor and I know I will be a better one because of what my mother went through.”

Pakistan provides little recourse for patients who have been victims of medical negligence, but Farzana is determined to bring the doctor who botched up her surgery to justice so that others do not suffer the way she did.

“I lived in the ICU for about 50 days, and when they stitched me up, they asked my family to pray for me, and hope for the best …” she says.

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, May 10th, 2015

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In a country where the odds are stacked against most women, Reham Khan’s scolding them for not taking responsibility for their plight is disingenuous.

It happens more than one would expect, but it is always confounding when women of power and privilege choose to patronise other women; all in a bubble of arrogance over their personal successes.

Reham Khan, media personality and new wife of politician Imran Khan, is the latest offender to do this.

As she basks in the glory of her celebrity and gushes about her famous husband in a fawning India Today interview by Mehr Tarar, she suddenly throws this zinger toward women: Stop whining about your problems.

This advice comes from an independent, successful career woman who has overcome certain hardships in her own life (she has alleged that she was a victim of domestic abuse in her first marriage).

It would have been laudable if given her new-found influence, Mrs Khan had chosen to stick up for millions of women in her home country who are fellow victims of domestic abuse, as well as of myriad forms of discrimination and sexism at home, as well as in the workplace.

Also read: Five ways Pakistan degraded women

And yet, all she chose to say when asked about the place of women in the Pakistani society was:

I really think women need to stop complaining. I’m very unsympathetic to whiners. Stop making excuses for yourself.

Cover of India Today.

While her words seem to chide women for accusing men for their failures and ask them to take responsibility for themselves, they also seem to come from a very limited understanding of the very real challenges women, who are not as privileged or fortunate as she, face throughout their lives, from birth to death.

Reham's words fail to take into account all that could possibly go wrong in the life of a woman brought up in a traditional, average Pakistani household, that is not her fault.

After all, an average Pakistani household is highly likely to control, oppress, and discriminate against female members in the choice of their education, healthcare, nutrition, marriage,and career; all factors that could cause them to fail in life in spite of their best efforts.

At least 90 per cent of Pakistani women get half of the wages of their male counterparts though they work the same hours. The number of incidents of violence against women in Pakistan increased at least seven per cent in 2011-2012.

Statistics abound to show the inherent disadvantages girls face while growing up and throughout adulthood that pretty much ruin their chances of becoming, say, a successful anchorperson or a self-sufficient single mother of three, like Mrs Khan was before her recent marriage.

More often than not, they are doomed from the get-go, just by virtue of being born female.

Also read: The continued abuse of the Pashtun woman

So, should the response to such failures, that do in fact, have very specific blameworthy causes outside of women’s control, be to shut up and stop whining?

What if complaining is the first step toward giving future generations of women a chance, or really, the only fight some women can manage in their circumstances?

What if staying silent and not calling out the culprits only empowers the upholders of the South Asian norms of patriarchy?

You don’t need the feminist label to be empathetic toward the very real, very serious problems of gender disparity in the society you live in now, Mrs Khan.

It seems by saying what you did, you are trying very hard to steer away from that label. But in your efforts, you end up sounding more like the infamous royal Marie Antoinette, as a friend of mine aptly puts it, than the role model you wish to become.

Not only did you ask your less fortunate peers to “go eat cake,” you lost out on a powerful opportunity to stand out among a host of privileged, politically prominent women who have equally failed to show the empathy and drive to help their fellow women rise above the limitations imposed upon them by an oppressive culture.

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In the developed world, policy-making is a rigorous, educated and a well-thought out process. All aspects of the issue are taken into consideration, research conducted, surveys carried out, ground realities debated and finally, a decision taken to address the grievance in question.

In Pakistan, unfortunately, most decisions are taken only after a crisis has surmounted, to resolve the issues temporarily or assuage the masses by a diversion – irrespective of the harmful aftereffects.

The latest of such brainwaves – if one can call it that – is the newly decreed closing time of commercial centres by 8pm. It would have held some water if it had been applied uniformly to the industrial cities of Karachi, Faisalabad and on the zinda-dilan-i-Lahore, but surprisingly, it is only being implemented in the capital. After the clock strikes eight, the administration and police are out and about to implement the decision.

It is sad to see that in the late years, the Pakistan Administrative Service and Police Service of Pakistan seem to be doing little more than playing gimmicks to their political masters.

Read the editorial: Early closure of shops

Yes, the executive is there to execute, but perhaps a part of their job is to update and give some insight to the decisions for a smoother running of the district?

On the contrary, with postings at stake and the threat of inquiries that pop up at the slightest resistance (the dharna would ring a few bells), the 'elite service' now amounts to those chanting ‘yes sir hojayega’ and ‘hukam ki tameel hogi’. Anyone who dares to raise a query is summarily shoved aside.

I have nothing whatsoever against the closing of shops earlier or later. I just want some thought process to go into this.

A few factors need to be considered before coming up with an impromptu decision on a matter which has important repercussions for small businesses and traders who have no other source of income to fall back on.

The couple of malls that we have here are least bothered if they are closed by 8pm or not; for the people who shop there, reach the shops in their air-conditioned cars, shop in air-conditioned outlets only to return to their air-conditioned rooms. It is the small scale traders that seem to be suffering the most.

Mazhar, a waiter in a small eatery was relieved to know that the "police and magistrates that come and threaten us every day, haven't come today. We serve our guests out under the sun; no one comes to eat in the blistering heat of May at two in the afternoon. People come at night. If we can't be open at night, we can't do business, if we can't do business, the owners will only fire us."

Know more: Islamabad’s traders refuse to close shop early

Such is the state of affairs in Islamabad that police and administration threaten shop-owners pretty much every day with "grave consequences," and with the threat of getting "locked up". Of course, there is no law under which shop-keepers can be legally locked up for not closing their shops.

But then again, the "yes sir" attitude runs from top to bottom. The boss commands and the minions obey. The public? Who cares what they think?

Those of us who live in the suburbs of Islamabad and happen to work, reach home after a full day at the office, freshen up and go out to find that the city has officially become a graveyard.

So what exactly, I ask, were the policy makers thinking?

Whimsical ideas that spur up randomly like mushrooms in the brain of some guy sitting bored in the corridors of power become law and the public is left baffled, scratching its heads, asking: why?

Let me tell you, we don't live in New York, where temperatures do not cross 30 degrees in the summer, and where it is still bearable to move around, eat out, shop or just have a good time even in the afternoon.

We live in Islamabad, it is already touching 40 degrees and it is only going to get worse as days go by. Everyone stays in, or at least those of us who can, do not go out when the sun is out in all its glory and right at the top of our heads. Don't force us to.

Instead, you know what's a smart move? Utilising our country's sunlight for solar energy, like that initiative in Bahawalpur. Now, that's a smart move! Forcing people out of their homes in the scorching heat on the other hand is not.

If the genius idea of closing commercial centres by force is to be taken seriously and implemented effectively, a law or ordinance needs to be made that specifically addresses the issue, defines the penalties and the details of who can impose these.

In addition, uniformity throughout the country would be a fair step.

Take a look: Traders go on strike today against early closure of markets

Lastly, I would just request the capital's administration to put their thinking hats on and while at it, pass them on to the men in the white building as well.

Cinderella’s carriage turned into a pumpkin at midnight because the spell wore off, but it seems that in Pakistan, every hour is a pumpkin hour for the thinking mind – the minute you try to introduce innovation and change, you are turned into a pumpkin and everyone starts carving into you.

We don't have electricity. Admitted. But Islamabad's few lonesome shops will barely make a dent in saving the watts. Why not catch those who steal electricity and dodge the bills?

Increase the rate of commercial electricity after 10pm, so those who can afford to keep their shops open can keep them open. At least give them a chance. This will generate you income as well.

Make dams. Innovate. Strategise. Improvise.

I won't suggest thinking out of the box, but for crying out loud, at least think.

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As the legend goes; a torrid love affair ended when Pakistan's first Test centurion, Nazar Mohammad had to, in haste, jump out of a window upon being caught by his lover’s husband. He broke his arm as he hit the ground.

The injury also ended his career.

Cricketers in Pakistan have perhaps always been the most desired stars in the country. Women have wanted to woo them and men have wanted to be them.

Pakistan's cricket sprung off from a school and college system, supported by clubs in the bigger cities.

Most cricketers came from educated middle and upper class urban families that had the opportunity to play the elitist sport the British had left behind.

The schools nurtured Pakistan's best cricketing talent and to be the university's cricket team captain was the most prestigious position in the fraternity.

In 1952, when the first Pakistani eleven walked out to play international cricket, they were already stars — at least in their clubs or schools.

The school boy hero Hanif Mohammad, partnered by the graceful Nazar Mohammad opened the innings for Pakistan.

In their ranks were Punjab University heroes Waqar Hassan and Khan Mohammad, the eloquent writer and journalist Maqsood Ahmed; the first editor of The News (Rawalpindi), and the fearless Lahore college wicketkeeper Imtiaz Ahmed among others.

The team was lead by patrician Abdul Hafeez Kardar and spearheaded by Pakistan cricket’s first real ‘poster boy’ and nation’s heart throb, Fazal Mahmood.

The gentry of Pakistan cricket was already of a high breed and them adorning national colours in the country’s favourite sport made these gentlemen the most adored and admired band of men in the country.

Through the years, Pakistani cricketers remained extremely popular, not just by turning out great performances on the field but also with the style and swagger they displayed off it.

Through the 60’s and 70’s the likes of Majid Khan, Zaheer Abbas, Asif Iqbal, Javed Burki, Wasim Bari, Saeed Ahmed and many others enjoyed high social status.

Many of them becoming county captains and almost all of them with a fan following that idolised them.

They were not just heroes in their own country, but had a dedicated and sizable fan club abroad, especially in the English counties they represented.

At one time, the Pakistani squad was adorned by as many as five county captains; Asif Iqbal was captain at Kent, Zaheer Abbas at Gloucestershire, Intikhab Alam at Surrey, Majid Khan at Glamorgan and Mushtaq Mohammad at Northamptonshire.

1973, winning the Benson & Hedges Cup, Asif Iqbal was absolutely loved by the Kent fans. —Photo courtesy: PA Photos

A position of great honour and dignity traditionally reserved for the noble elite; for excellent cricketers and respected gentlemen.

The female following of cricket was also sizeable in Pakistan. College and University girls turned out in large numbers to watch their heroes perform in stadiums.

However, out of all the star icons produced by Pakistan cricket, perhaps it was Imran Khan who stood out as the nation’s most loved son and eligible bachelor.

Imran was forced by the then President General Zia-ul-Haq to take back his retirement before the tour of West Indies in 1988.

Taslim Arif, Majid Khan and Sikander Bakht featured in a West Indian News paper as the Pakistani Team visited a nightclub in Jamaica. “Are these movie stars? No .. they are touring Pakistani cricketers,” the paper reported

Imran’s popularity can be judged in an interview taken by the late legend Moin Akhtar.

Even when he retired at the age of 40 in 1992, apart from the World Cup victory, the Pakistani public was most interested in who Imran would marry.

The media went into frenzy with talk of Imran Khan and Indian Actress Zeenat Aman’s sizzling but short-lived affair.

Soon after, Khan was married into a high socialite British family, the Goldsmith’s.

Imran’s brother in-law Ben Goldsmith was married into the Rothschild family, one of the richest and most powerful families in the world.

As cricket spread to the smaller towns and villages of Pakistan, players from all walks of life and a vast variety of back grounds appeared on the scene; most importantly, the talent pool had become much larger.

A new generation of Pakistani idols exploded on the scene, some of them came from humbler backgrounds, but under Imran’s watch, they grew into a well groomed bunch of men, extremely confident — on and off the pitch.

The 90’s produced arguably Pakistan’s most talented cricketers, but while their predecessors had reached fame by causing great upsets and winning against the odds, the skilled cricketers that Imran Khan left behind never produced the results that were desired from them.

Pakistan team celebrating after its one-wicket historic win against Australia in 1994 at the National Stadium Karachi.

A team full of individual brilliance was found wanting as a unit. Infighting that had always existed in the Pakistani team had dropped to an all time low. And, unfortunately, the plague of match fixing had also seeped into the Pakistani dressing room.

The epidemic of high treason found Pakistani colours up for auction one too many times.

By the turn of the millennium, after match fixing investigations in the summer 2000, Mushtaq Ahmed, Wasim Akram, Waqar Younus, Saeed Anwar and Inzamam-ul-Haq had all been financially reprimanded by Justice Qayyum, with life bans on Salim Malik (who was at the end of his career) and Ata-ur-Rehman (who was not a permanent member of the team).

In the longer run, the financial punishment for these mega-stars was too insignificant to put a dent in their bank accounts and past accolades for Pakistan too valuable for the nation to forgo.

While a larger part of the populous continued to portray them as heroes, a significant number of people targeted them as villains.

But almost everyone had lost the blind love and trust the Pakistani cricketers always enjoyed.

It was a generation of match winners that brimmed with confidence and had experienced the high flying life of international cricket stardom.

Out of pure art and genius they registered some memorable wins during the decade and their fame and fortune continued to grow.

While their popularity and fanfare was at an all time high, the very fabric of the sport was being diluted at its roots.

Out of all the ills and malignancy the Pakistani dressing room went through, it was the loss of faith in their intent that had reduced their infallibility to suspicion in the eyes of their followers, and more importantly, in the minds of their own team members.

The Holy Quran was brought out and the entire team took an oath of loyalty to the Green flag, before every game.

After Pakistan’s abysmal World Cup performance in 2003, Chief Selector Aamir Sohail, one of the witnesses in the Qayyum Report dropped all the prominent names from the squad, making fellow whistle blower Rashid Latif captain.

However, Inzamam-ul-Haq soon returned to the team, with his senior teammates all gone, he was captain as last resort. This marked the start of a new era in Pakistan cricket.

Earlier, Saeed Anwer had joined the Tableeghi Jamaat after losing his young daughter to cancer. Now, Pakistan’s new captain also turned to the Jamaat looking for answers.

Perhaps in an attempt to not just find direction but also 'cleanse' what had previously passed through the corridors he led his men into.

A new breed of Pakistani cricketers was nurtured under the guidance of Inzamam.

Regular congressional prayers were held on the outfield and a separate room was usually reserved in hotels of touring cities, serving the purpose of a mosque.

From marijuana smokers on Caribbean beaches to a team full of practicing Muslims, Inzamam had not just seen the long journey unfold in front of him but had steered it in the direction it had taken.

While most of Inzamam’s team followed him, there were still those who had been a part of the Wasim Akram generation, highly social and integrated into the cultures that they interacted with.

Shoaib Malik played with Wasim Akram at PIA and then made his ODI debut under Akram in 1999. In a strong and long batting line, Malik was slotted to bat at No.10 in his first outing.

Shoaib Akhtar remained the bad boy of Pakistan cricket even under Inzamam’s captaincy.

Mohammad Asif was also to follow Akhtar’s route, involved in constant controversies and always getting into trouble off the field.

His affair with Pakistani TV star Veena Malik made headlines, especially when she claimed that Asif had taken money for his car and never paid her back.

“He would get drunk and thrash me. There have been occasions when the next morning, oblivious of everything, he would ask, ‘Maine lagaya kya yeh zakhm’ (have I given you these bruises)?

“On another occasion, he hit me hard when the food that I had prepared for his friends wasn't sufficient. I told him, ‘Sirf aadha ghanta doh, main aur khaana bana deti hoon’ (just give me half an hour and I will cook some more food). He didn't listen to what I said and slapped me instead,” claimed Veena.

While exceptions like Shoaib and Asif existed within its ranks, a larger part of the Pakistani team was polarised into right-wing fanaticism under Inzamam.

Initially, the Pakistan Cricket Board saw the positives of the ideological shift in the Pakistani team, it later advised Inzamam to tone down the religious factor in the team.

As some players complained that they were being pressured by the skipper to join the Tableeghi Jamaat.

After retiring, Inzamam past the mantle to his fellow Tableeghi Jamaat recruit Mohammad Yousuf. But, very soon, half the team was fighting over captaincy.

Six players were reported for taking oath on the Holy Quran in Mohammad Yousuf’s hotel room that they would not accept Younus Khan as captain.

In 2010, captain Mohammad Yousuf and Younus Khan were banned indefinitely, Shoaib Malik and Rana Naved-ul-Hasan were banned for a year, while Shahid Afridi and the Akmal brothers were fined and placed on probation for six months.

Most embarrassingly, coach Intikhab Alam reported: “There is a mental problem with our players. They do not know that they are representing the country. They don't know how to wear clothes and how to talk in a civilised manner.”

The team was in shambles, not just on the field, but also off it. And, the worst was still to come.

In 2010, a media sting operation uncovered the faces of some of Pakistan’s best talent.

Convicted of spot fixing, the Pakistani captain Salman Butt, ace fast bowler Mohammad Asif and budding young paceman Mohammad Amir were put behind bars in the United Kingdom.

Misbah-ul-Haq took charge of the Pakistani team at its lowest point and steadied ship gracefully. However, the damage to the Pakistani team would leave its scars for time to come.

The last truly star-studded Pakistani team took the field with Wasim Akram leading the way and the left arm fast bowler feels that his long locks had not just added to his persona, but also his performance.

“We wanted to tell the players through Nabila’s — a renowned stylist — lecture how to present yourself as a person which is very important for international players as they are ambassadors of the country.

“A good hairstyle and good dress add to your confidence and it can play a very good role in giving someone much-needed confidence. As a person you need to look presentable, which I feel has been missing in some of our players.” said Akram.

Team Misbah gave some great results in Test cricket, perhaps over achieving and surprising everyone, given the resources at disposal.

But their approach was visibly timid, they lacked the glitter and glamour the Pakistani Team was once famous for.

A large part of the general fan base yearned for the flamboyance and craved for the swagger that Pakistan cricket once was.

Shahid Afridi adjusts his sunglasses during a training session. —AFP

Pakistan cricket team was now finally devout of superstars, barring one.

The last of the enigmas of the 90’s era, Shahid Khan Afridi has been adored by the Pakistani public like no other.

Of ‘Wasim Akram’s men’, he was the youngest and brattiest; he grew up like the spoiled child of a fallen kingdom.

No rules applied to him, and he followed none.

While Afridi was a product of an era of flare and flamboyance, he was also as much a part of Inzamam’s team of religious redemption.

In fact, he was their regular ‘Imam’, often leading the congregational prayers.

Afridi has led a colourful life on the cricket field, off it, he has had a stable and conservative family. He has four daughters and a wife who takes a veil.

After Afridi’s ODI retirement there appears to be a void of stardom in the Pakistani team.

Though Afridi continues to play T20 Internationals but the low frequency of these fixtures indicates the near-end of Pakistan team’s last surviving celebrity.

Umar Akmal, Pakistan’s next style icon?

Among the current lot, Ahmed Shehzad and Umar Akmal are the two cricketers who appear to have a liking for glitter and glamour more than their peers.

But, are they seen as the new style icons in Pakistan?

Umar Akmal was locked up by the police after getting into a brawl with a traffic warden in Lahore. Later, a ‘sessions court’ in Lahore issued arrest warrants for Umar not appearing in the court.

Both Ahmed Shehzad and Umar Akmal have been dropped from the squad after the World Cup. According to reports their attitude needed improvement. The same could be said about their modeling skills as well.

As Pakistan was on the brink of being knocked out of the World Cup, the fake twitter account of Big Nas, kept the Pakistani public entertained with its command over the English language.

At the age of 20, Nasir Jamshed was put behind bars after being caught cheating in a ninth grade English exam. He was later released on Rs 20,000 bail.

Pakistani cricketers have gone from being the most loved, adored and aspired men in the country to being the laughing stock of the nation, not just on the field, but off it too.

And the ODI whitewash against Bangladesh has not done their popularity any favours either.

It seems, even today, cricket heroes of the past, at the age of 62 and 48 respectively, Imran Khan and Wasim Akram were the more eligible bachelors than most of the current cricketers.

Pakistan has been a country with a shrinking middle class population, deteriorating educational systems and an economy where over 60 per cent of the population has gone under the poverty line (if $2 per day is taken as minimum wage, in line with international standards for middle income countries).

There has been a steady deterioration of the gentry that runs Pakistan; the politicians, bureaucrats, government banks, airline carriers and most other civil service institutions.

And, the Pakistan Cricket Board is no exception.

Every girl grows up wishing for her life to be like it is in fairy tales — happily ever after. Most of the time, it doesn't work out that way.

There’s that one girl who craves an education but isn’t given one.

There’s that one girl working days and nights in a house where she isn’t happy.

There’s that one girl who’s forced into a marriage she doesn’t want.

Which girl would you be?

She was only 12 when I first met her. I came home from school to find her sitting in my room as my mother told me she was going to be our new maid. Today, Isma is 24-years-old.

She comes from a small village outside Karachi — her parents always told her they were proud of her for her work, proud that she goes out into the city to represent herself, to represent her family.

She was educated as well. I still remember the day she told me she hadn’t passed her metric exams but she would take them again. She wanted to graduate — she needed to, for her family.

She came from a big family: five sisters, four brothers. They all lived in a small two-bedroom apartment. I remember the day of her sister’s wedding, she had invited my entire family because by then, she was family too.

My mother, my khala and I walked through the winding roads leading up to her apartment, roads too small for cars, too small for people. I recall asking my mother to carry me in her godi because there was so much keechar on the ground.

But the one thing I remember vividly, the one thing I’ll never forget is the moment I walked into the house. There were so many people — too many people crammed within the four walls of the tiny brick house. Even though they didn’t have enough place for everyone to stand — the smiles on their faces lit up the entire space; their happiness so contagious.

Isma soon became a constant for my family. When I left for college she had started working at my nani’s house, always offering a helping hand when I came by.

When I came back home for my winter break, I found that Isma was offered a job to work at my khala’s shop. She would be handling the hisaab, and organising the display. If there was one thing she was — it was organised. Precise. Immaculate. I remembered how she would always colour code my clothes while cleaning my cupboard — everything had a place.

I went by the shop one day, to see her in her element and to ask how she was doing — she said she loved it. She had never had a job like this before, in a place where her work was calculated by her performance. She said it was hard, but then again, change always is until you get the hang of it; it was heartening to see her this way.

Days passed, weeks passed. I saw her occasionally at my grandmother’s house on the weekends to help out. I saw her take the kitchen by a storm — from utter chaos to a chef’s heaven in under five minutes. Watching her there, I thought back of the days when she would stay up late at night telling me stories of witches with twisted feet, and fairies that flew all the way up to heaven. Remembering the way she taught me what a thumka was as Sharara Sharara echoed through the walls of my childhood room.

It’s funny how so much of my childhood takes me back to that place, that moment with a girl who came to be not just someone working at my house, but my friend as well.

Yesterday, I went to my khala’s and in the midst of our conversation, somehow Isma came up. She told me that Isma had quit her job today. I stared back at her in shock. At a loss of words because she had told me she loved her job, and every moment that was dubbed in change.

My khala went on to tell me how Isma had come up to her crying. How her voice was encapsulated by a broken verse of empty syllables as she recounted her parents forbidding her from working there. They said it was not safe anymore for a young girl to come home later than her brother, to roam the streets of a fiery Karachi alone at night.

She cried as she gave up what she wanted most — a life that didn’t revolve around cleaning up after somebody.

I think of her now — back at my nani's. Washing dishes and ironing clothes — an environment that has become so comfortable to her now that it was hard for her to see beyond it anymore. Except, she wasn’t that 12-year old girl anymore.

I wonder how many girls are out there — wishing to be something they can never be because society doesn’t allow it. Because parents forbid it. Because we live in a city where girls can’t wander around alone after the sun sets because of the four letter word that instills fear in the very bane of our existence. The word that we are too afraid to confront — one that forces our girls to hide their dreams, to forget their passions.

This isn’t the story of just another girl working her days cleaning up after the middle-class of Karachi — it’s the story of every girl who leaves home to become something more than she already is.

A girl who’s never given the chance. She could be working at your neighbour’s house, or living under your roof — she could be you, or me.

The Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf recently marked its 19th Foundation Day. In my opinion, and without any doubts, Imran Khan has worked hard to propel the party from one seat in 2002 to over 30 seats in the National Assembly.

The PTI’s performance in the recent Cantonment boards' elections has also proved that the party has representation in all provinces, even if weak in some regions.

However, the Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf has a lot more to do if it wants to be in winning position in the future elections.

Reorganise the party:

The first thing PTI needs to do is better organisation, an area it lags behind in, compared to its opponent parties If this wasn’t the case, it would have shown a much better performance in the cantonment boards’ polls.

In the general elections of 2013 too, party candidates confined their campaigns to banners and posters, and avoided mingling with the public. As a result, they failed to prevent the tried and tested incompetent candidates from winning in their usual constituencies.

See: Main contenders seen flouting law in campaign for cantt election

If Imran Khan is too busy to act on the lack of organisation in his party, he should hand over the responsibility to someone else, or be prepared for even worse results in the next elections. Chaudhry Sarwar can be of invaluable assistance in this regard.

Resolve internal rifts over 'unfair' tickets:

Other problems with the PTI are its internal conflicts and the unjust distribution of tickets. This resulted in the PML-N sweeping the cantonment board elections in NA-56 Rawalpindi, from where Imran Khan had won in 2013. The PML-N succeeded in winning all 20 seats.

According to a report, the PTI had set up a committee comprising of local leaders for ticket distribution in Rawalpindi. The committee selected three candidates from each ward, and then asked them to withdraw in favour of one candidate voluntarily.

Read on: Analysis: PTI party poll dilemma

When the candidates failed to reach a consensus, the committee, based on its own likes and dislikes, awarded tickets by itself, irking the PTI workers.

PTI supporters. —AP

One other reason of the PTI’s defeat from this area is that Imran Khan has never visited the constituency, even though he had won a seat from here.

Make no more foolish demands:

Imran should learn from his mistakes from the past. It is true that his politics and ‘dharna’ did instill greater consciousness in people; it eventually did end up in the establishment of the judicial commission, but one has to accept the fact that demanding the Prime Minister to resign was an outright ludicrous thing to do. It would be a fair demand only if the rigging had been proved.

The dharna should have restricted its talking points to electoral reforms and an investigation into rigging; not toppling the democratically elected government. This nonsensical demand only made the entire party look like fools.

Explore: 5 things Imran Khan did wrong

Imran Khan, with his constitutional right of protesting, should have taken the parliamentary/legislative route for electoral reforms; in the end, what counts is the precedents you set.

Pay special attention to language:

Last but not least, Imran needs to be careful with the words he chooses for his opponents, not just for political reasons but because a highly educated figure like him should be polite in his language, at all times.

I think it is safe to say that all PTI supporters, like me, look forward to Imran Khan fixing the above mentioned. If he does, they just might put up a good fight in the next elections.

Related:

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• Open letter to Imran Khan, from a PTI voter
  

Translated by Bilal Karim Mughal from the original in Urdu here.

When there is nothing else to eat in the house, there is always Qima (also commonly spelled Keema, Qeema); an assumption I have lived by as a child. Hence, qima alloo (mincemeat and potatoes) with a side of boiled white rice became my favourite food of choice (and convenience).

The masala-flavoured alloo and depth of the mincemeat is a delectable combination, a common favourite in sub-continental households. Qima, on its own, or with a side of vegetables is a favouite street food also, and is popularly found in the menus of street dhabas and snack bars across Pakistan.

Lizzie Cunningham in her book titled, Curry says;

The meat dishes relied heavily on Qima (minced meat), a favorite ingredient among Persian cooks. Mincing meat was a good way of dealing with it in hot countries when it tended to be tough because it had to be cooked soon after the animal was slaughtered. The Muslim roots of many of the dishes can be seen in their heavy handedness with onions and garlic.

The cooks of yesteryears discovered an effortless way to cook meat dishes, for variety, tenderness, and a melt in the mouth texture of the meat; they pounded meat and made kababs, kofta and qima with it.

The best qima and kebabs were made by the nanbais (bazaar cooks) of Lucknow. Large Muslim families where parents, several sons, and their wives and children all resided together in a joint family system were too big to cater for in one kitchen. As a result, a few dishes were made at home and the rest were ordered from the trusted bazaar cooks known as nanbais.

Cunningham further adds,

Each nanbai specialised in a particular dish and the streets of Lucknow were lined with shops where the cooks could be seen basting keebuabs over a charcoal fire on the ground with one hand, and the beating of flies with the other, and the cauldrons of curry, pillau, and platters of qima, were made to forward as delicacies at the appointed hour to some great assembly at noble households.

Kofta and kebabs were made out of finely minced and pounded meat known as Qima. While westerners tend to mince meat as a way of using inferior grades, the Mughals would often mince the best cuts. Qima is frequently referred to the recipes given by Akbar’s courtier, Abul Fazl, as an ingredient for pilaus. The Mughals liked minced beef but in Lucknow, the cooks preferred lamb, which produced a softer mince.

They would grind the meat into a fine paste and then add ginger garlic, poppy seeds, and various combinations of spices. Rolled into balls or lozenges, spear them onto a skewer, and roast them over fire, and at times just leave them as a platter of cooked Qima.

The Qalyah Recipe (modern day Qima) as chronicled by Abul Fzal in Ain-e-Akbari

Thick curry made with minced mutton, onions, peppers, ghee, cloves, cardamom, and salt.

10 seer meat
2 seer ghee
1 seer onions
2 dam pepper
1 dam each: cloves, cardamoms
1/8 seer salt
(1 seer equals 2 ½ lbs., 1 dam equals ¾ oz., 1 misqal equals 6.22 grams)

Qima is a real household favourite, and it can be made in a variety of ways, with or sans vegetables. Alloo qima, palak qima, meythee qima, Hyderabadi achari qima, matar qima, mirch qima, needless to say mincemeat (chicken, turkey, mutton or beef) can be made in as many ways as there are languages, cultures and ethnicities in the subcontinent.

When it was time for me to make qima, I decided upon the largely preferred qima alloo from my mother’s recipe. Here it is, from my kitchen to yours.

Ingredients

2 lbs (ground meat of choice)
3 to 4 medium-sized potatoes (chopped in 1 inch squares)
3 to 4 medium-sized tomatoes (chopped)
1 large onion (thinly sliced)
1 ½ tsp ginger
1 ½ tsp garlic
½ cup oil
½ to 1 tsp cumin seeds
1 to 2 tsp coriander powder
Salt to taste
Red chillie powder to taste
¼ to ½ tsp turmeric
1 tsp garam masala powder

Note: if the mince is chicken or turkey increase the masala proportion to taste, since white meat requires extra masala for desired taste.

Garnish

2 to 3 tbsp lemon juice
2 to 3 green chillie
Fresh coriander

Method

In a pot put all the ingredients together (except for the oil) and cook on medium heat.

When the meat is half done, add potatoes. Once potatoes are almost done, add the oil and cook on high heat, until the oil separates and the potatoes are tender.

Add lemon juice and stir, sprinkle green chillie and coriander.

Enjoy with naan or boiled rice.

Explore more food stories here.

—Photos by Fawad Ahmed

Zehra*, an old friend of mine tells me:

"When I started at school, the kids asked each other if they were Shia or Sunni. I have no idea why a first-grader would start off an introduction like that, but they did. And, as soon as I told everyone I was a Shia, no one wanted to befriend me."

“I wished I could disappear when girls would make teams to play and no one would pick me for their team… I was told every day by the little girls that I prayed wrong, that I was crazy for doing ‘maatam’ and more.”

Zehra's experience of religious discrimination as a child hit me particularly hard, because while she was being bullied and labeled a ‘non-believer’, I remember kids in my class raising the Shia-Sunni debate as well. I remember being asked which of the two I was. I did not even know what Shia or Sunni was at the time.

Growing up, I had the hardest time figuring out why someone’s religious practices were up for debate and why it had become a custom for so many to vilify the beliefs and practices of others.

As a member of the religious majority in this country, I am aware of the privilege I enjoy, having been, for the most part, sheltered from religious discrimination and the threat of violence that targets many other religions and sects in Pakistan.

Also read: 43 killed as gunmen attack bus carrying Ismaili passengers in Karachi

When you are in the majority, it is easy to become blind to the kind of discrimination your friends, acquaintances and fellow citizens face regularly and in the most unexpected of places, even from people they have known for a very long time.

Maria*, a Pakistani Christian tells me, “I have friends – really old friends – who still try to convert me: ‘Maria, you know I love you, but I don’t want you to go to hell’. I’m so used to it now, I can’t even pretend to act surprised,” she says, smiling wanly.

Speaking to Maria and Zehra, I felt not only incredibly ashamed and guilty, but also incredibly angry.

Also read: Twin church blasts claim 80 lives in Peshawar

It takes a great deal of patience to withstand a near-constant barrage of ‘guidance’ and questioning of one’s religious beliefs, no matter how well-meaning it may seem.

Being a religious minority in Pakistan means constantly having to be on your toes, to be always anticipating the happening of something tragic.

Almost everyone who narrated their experiences to me spoke about the constant threat of danger to their and their family members’ lives, which lingers in the back of their heads daily.

In the wake of terrible attacks of religious violence (like the Karachi bus attack targeting Ismailis, the recent twin church bombings in Youhanabad and a bombing outside a Bohri mosque during Friday prayers), the fear is not unfounded.

Some argue that in this country, each of us is fair game for terrorists, but it would be both blind and unfair to deny that some of us seem to be more so than others.

According to the South Asian Terrorism Portal, there have been 20 incidents of religiously-motivated violence in Pakistan in 2015, which killed 143 and injured 214 others.

Can you imagine living each day with the fear that someone you love may be taken away from you just because of their surname?

Because you express your spirituality a certain way?

Because you frequent a certain place of worship?

Rashna* told me about a boy at work who, after inquiring about her religious beliefs, began extolling the virtues of his own religion, and asked her why she didn’t convert.

She says, “I wasn’t scared of practising my religion or visiting our places of worship until all these bombings targeting various places of worship started.”

Ayesha*, a member of a major religious sect in Pakistan, married a boy who is not. She has mentioned the possibility of moving abroad because she’s afraid he may be targeted for his religious beliefs.

“I'm afraid every time he steps out of his house, especially knowing that he's an extremely pure-hearted person and that he doesn't think of himself as a member of a particular sect. So yes, it is sad when he is defined by a particular label.”

Fiza* says she feels lucky to not have experienced discrimination firsthand, but adds that a number of her friends express curiosity about what happens in their community mosque, and why she attends so often.

“I never went about revealing more than I was asked. Living in Karachi, anyone can be victimised, unfortunately – and members of our community have been. We are not involved with any [political] parties, nor do we wish to be. Peace and a ‘live and let live’ policy is our motto.”

Iman’s* family has always been afraid of revealing their identities, preferring to adopt ‘neutral’ names. She has this to say:

“Being a member of a particular sect, my family has faced a lot of security issues. For the past five years, there has been a constant threat of being targeted. My father has stopped going for morning walks. The males in our family try not to leave their houses in the same car and restrict their movements. Boys are asked not to stay out too late.”

Fatima’s* family has fallen victim to sectarian violence many times over the years.

“Recently, a close relative was shot dead,” she says. “We don’t know for sure if it was because of a business rivalry, or a religiously-motivated attack. However, most of us believe it is because of the latter.”

She said several of her relatives were casualties in attacks on her community and their places of worship, while others had been victims of target-killing, most of them young men who were a support for their families.

“My brother was sent to Australia because of security issues, and my parents want to shift our entire family to a much safer foreign country,” she concludes.

Fatima told me one of the most horrifying stories I came across in my research for this article. She told me about her experience as a schoolteacher in an impoverished settlement.

The community where the school is located consists largely of a group of people who are quite radical in their interpretation of religion.

While speaking to students about the brutal Army Public School attack, they touched upon the topic of targeting people for their faiths. A child, one she had tried hard to instil racial/religious tolerance and compassion in, said outright that all people of a certain religion should be targeted because they are ‘infidels’.

“It felt like a punch in the gut,” she says.

These may not be experiences you or I have to face, but they are the realities of many people in Pakistan – about 4,832,140 people.

How would you feel if one person in your family was perpetually subjected to discrimination? To harassment? To death threats? Around five million people in Pakistan feel like this on a near daily basis.

Why do we discriminate? I've come across a number of opinions ranging from ethnocentrism and stereotyping to “we fear what we do not know”. Perhaps greater awareness and religious literacy could help us get past discrimination.

Drawing from my experiences as a child, I don’t believe discrimination that leads to violence, or enables violence, is an inbuilt impulse. It is a social construct. And social constructs can and should be challenged.

*Names changed to protect identity

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It is supposed to be safe for the children, but it isn’t. Piped water in urban Punjab is inferior in quality than other sources.

Despite the state being the source of piped water, the incidence of waterborne diseases is more prevalent among young children in urban Punjab among households that rely on piped water supply. Cross-contamination from ill-placed sewage pipes is the likely reason for unsafe piped water.

Maliha Cheema analysed the 2007-08 data from the Punjab Multiple Indicator Cluster Survey (MICS) for her doctoral dissertation at the North Carolina State University. Her research revealed that piped water is less safe than other sources in urban Punjab. In rural Punjab, piped water, where available, has no discernable impact on the health of children under five.

Dr Cheema’s findings have far-reaching implications for public health policies and priorities in Punjab in particular, and Pakistan in general.

First, the very assumption that piped water is safer than other sources, such as water obtained from wells and streams, may not hold. Second, it is imperative to improve the quality of piped water.

Also read: 8 bottled water brands found to be ‘unsafe for consumption’

Public health experts believe waterborne diseases cause 1.2 million deaths each year in Pakistan; the worse-affected are young children. Diarrhoea caused by consuming unsafe water results in the death of an estimated 250,000 under five children in Pakistan.

These numbers are indicative of a national emergency. Yet, the governments across Pakistan appear unmoved by the millions dying from consuming unsafe water.

MICS is an excellent source of data to understand public health indicators in Punjab. The 2011 data set revealed that 17 per cent of rural children under the age of five, reported episodes of diarrhoea in the two weeks prior to the survey. The incidence was lower for young children living in urban areas. Only a fraction of the children suffering from diarrhoea received ORS fluids to maintain levels of essential salts and chemicals.

Source: Punjab Multiple Indicator Cluster Survey, 2011.

The incidence of diarrhoea was more frequent for children less than a year old and declined with the age of the child. Children raised by educated mothers were less likely to have experienced diarrhoea than the rest did. Similarly, children born in the lowest income strata were the most likely to suffer from diarrhoea.

The 2007-08 data, which was analysed by Dr Cheema, comprise responses from over 91,000 households, of which 65 per cent respondents lived in rural households. She was particularly interested in determining the impact of the source of water supply on the physical well-being of young children.

Explore: Herald Exclusive: Tapping into trouble

In her sample, the households obtained water from piped water supply; motorised pumped water; a public tap located in a public place; other improved sources (covered wells, bottled water, etc); and unimproved sources. Almost 73 per cent of the households obtained water from pumps, and another 15 per cent used piped water. The percentage of households using piped water was higher in urban Punjab.

Test results indicated that almost 50 per cent of the households received contaminated water, which rendered it unsafe for drinking. It was further discovered that a mere 5 per cent of the households treated water before consumption. The number of households using ineffective water treatment was much larger.

The systematic analysis of water supply revealed that piped water supply had no effect on the incidence of diarrhoea in rural areas in Punjab. At the same time, piped water correlated with a higher incidence of diarrhoea among children under five years of age.

“In urban areas, piped water is associated with increasing the probability of diarrhoea in children by an average of 2.2 percentage points,” Dr Cheema concluded. She further observed that households with higher incomes households and presence of educated mothers reduced the probability of diarrhoea.

Also read: Over 150,000 diarrhoea cases reported in Sindh last year

The reason behind the unsafe piped water supply in urban areas is the antiquated design standards followed by the Public Health and Engineering Department in Punjab. The design standards call for locating water and sewage pipes equidistance from the surface. The design standards recommend burying water mains three feet below the surface and sewage pipes 2.5-feet beneath the surface.

“This increases the possibility of cross contamination of water and sewage pipelines,” noted Dr Cheema.

Piped water is inadequately priced in urban Pakistan. Water of any quality is in short supply, potable water is even harder to find at affordable rates. Dr Cheema believes higher willingness to pay exists for better quality water, a point we also made in an earlier blog.

The donor agencies have pressed governments in Pakistan to improve the coverage of piped water supply. This is a desirable, yet insufficient objective.

Apart from expanding the coverage, the goal should be to supply safe drinking water so that the burden of disease in Pakistan can be reduced.

I am telling nothing but the truth when I tell you that Indian mangoes are better than Pakistani mangoes. It infuriates me when Pakistanis don't agree. That makes mangoes an India-Pakistan dispute just like Kashmir.

Like a good Indian, I don't think this needs a referendum. Of course our mangoes are better. How could anyone even think that isn't the case?

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Pakistan. I am a card-carrying member of the candle-light-at-Wagah-border club. I think India and Pakistan should make love not war. I am all for solving Kashmir, demilitarising Siachen, ending terrorism, increasing trade ties, visa on arrival and so on. Since I have zero interest in cricket, India-Pakistan matches fail to arouse any anti-Pakistan sentiment in me. Pakistan is a place where I have my roots and some very dear friends. Yet, there is this little thorn between us: their claim that their mangoes are better.

Also read: Pakistani mango growers slice in to India market

What annoys me further is that there are Pakistanis who claimed to have tasted Indian mangoes and still think Pakistani mangoes are better. The problem with such Pakistani mango lovers is that they are Pakistanis first and mango lovers second. Which is not to say I have tasted Pakistani mangoes. Why would I do that when I get to eat the world's best mangoes? India has over 1,200 varieties of mangoes, Pakistan only 400.

Fruit diplomacy

Pakistani mango nationalism is not limited to Pakistanis. The Pakistani government uses it too. Almost every year the Pakistani government sends a box of mangoes to the Indian prime minister and sometimes the president and top ministers too. Under the guise of being thoughtful, they are actually conducting sub-conventional warfare against our egos. It is practically a way of saying that Pakistani mangoes are better. Killing the enemy with sweetness! The Indian government's silence on this is most unacceptable.

Also read: Nawaz sends mangoes to appease bitter India ties: report

The most famous Pakistani mango is known as Anwar Ratol. Half of the Pakistani mango nationalism is based on the claim that Indians haven't tried the Anwar Ratol.

It is as if Partition was a conspiracy by the Clifton-Defence-Bahria elites to retain the privilege of the Anwar Ratol. What most Pakistanis don't know is that the Anwar Ratol has its roots in a village two hours from Delhi, in what is now the Baghoat district of western Uttar Pradesh. The village is called Ratol, and its first Ratol tree is just over a hundred years old. Many years before Partition, a mango grower from Ratol migrated to what is now the Pakistani part of Punjab and named a sprig he'd transplanted there after his father, Anwar.

So, the mango on whose basis Pakistanis claim their mango superiority, even that is from India. Doesn't that settle the India-Pakistan mango debate?

Also read: A case of exploding with mangoes

In 1981, Zia ul Haq sent Anwar Ratols to Indian President Sanjeeva Reddy and Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. A week later, the angry citizens of Ratol went to Indira Gandhi and presented her a box of the original Ratol mangoes. Seven years later, the case of mangoes that exploded with Zia were probably Anwar Ratols from Bahawalpur.

Having established in my head that Indian mangoes were thus better than Pakistani ones, I wondered why this was so important to me. How could I call myself post-nationalist and believe in mango nationalism?

The over-rated Alphonso

Discussing the issue of mangoes with several people gave me the answer. I realised that even within India, people fight over which mango is the best. There's a great Delhi-Bombay divide over the Alphonso. The expensive Alphonso, we north Indians feel, is over-rated. It is too sweet, too perfect.

Also read: The raw agent

My favourite mango is the Dasheri. I grew up in Lucknow and because the Dasheri orchards of Malihabad are right next door, the markets are flooded with Dasheri every summer. When I went to Ratol and tasted its signature mango, I felt it was like a better version of the Dasheri. But I censored the thought lest I betray my loyalty to the Malihabadi Dasheri. There lies the answer. Mangoes are such a big part of our childhood memory that the mangoes we grew up with define who we are. We are the mangoes we eat. Anyone claiming that another mango is superior is assaulting our very being. That is why, I realised, I took such strong objection to the Pakistani claim of their mangoes being better, or for that matter the Bombay arrogance about Alphonsos.

Yet, there's one point which we can all agree about: those South Asians who claim not to be fond of mangoes are to be pitied.

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• A case of mediocre mangoes
  
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This article was originally published on Scroll.in

On a chaotic day in the newsroom, as the Blogs Editor of Dawn.com, I have to admit to a foolish pang of relief as I glance over at the statistics scrambling side of the room before settling down in my comparatively cozier seat of subjectivity. However, many days of this year have also taught me to not get too comfortable.

Along with those occasional days, this year has brought a profound realisation of the power of Dawn.com’s platform. The powerful global reach of this platform humbles me, utterly.

This power has relentlessly fuelled Dawn.com’s responsibility for being truthful and impartial, which bequeaths an even larger podium to you, its readers.

And that is where the dilemma for the Blogs Section begins: What should the readers be critically thinking about today?

There would have been no easy way out of this dilemma, had it not been for my phenomenally courageous team of bloggers. Especially for the kind of year 2012 has been, they have tirelessly tried to make sense of it over and over again, being eloquent in expression and meeting near impossible deadlines all the while.

There is not enough space, virtual or otherwise, to elaborate upon my association with each Dawn.com blogger. Suffice to say, voluminous correspondence, attempts at pragmatism, dogged determination, small victories and even smaller mercies later; the thrill of the writer-editor relationship is still alive.

Of course there are instances right before hitting the publish button, when my doubt-speckled mind connects with my frantically racing heart and I know that my own views lie on the opposite extreme of a blogger’s views. In other instances, I have treaded the treacherous line between a brilliant but controversial blog and editorial policy.

These edgy occurrences are sometimes further amplified by a barrage of Twitter campaigns accusing Dawn.com of being ‘Indian agents’, ‘US supporters’ and ‘anti religion’, along with threats, demands for removing published content, reprimands for hurting sensibilities and boycotts from loyal readers.

This constant "editorial chiding" has been exhausting, yet welcome.

So, how are we dealing with all these conflicting views? By simply reserving the right to disagree.

Since dialogue is always preferable to killing an opinion, we’re preserving this right by encouraging bloggers to rebut each other’s work, and allowing readers to do the same through their comments. Readers have also been offered blog spots to express themselves. We have then taken all of your feedback, cultivated this opinion and used it to shape future debate.

This has perhaps been the most crucial lesson in tolerance that both you and I have learnt this year. No matter how angry or hurt you have been, you have always left that little window open – the window that allows us to put ourselves in your shoes, understand your views and learn from your experiences. Your opinions have already contributed to the solutions of today’s problems. Even in our disagreement, your voice has been central to our progress.

Not only have you, Dawn.com’s audience, perpetuated healthy debate amongst each other, you have also extended the reach of our blogs by sharing them on social media with friends and acquaintances. Some resourceful readers have approached our bloggers to broaden their voices even further across the world, and others have drawn inspiration from our writings and acted to make a change. You have even come from feuding countries and extended your ears to each other. You have united on this platform by merely standing on it.

For every blog published, no matter the stance, minds did change and hearts did not remain apathetic.

Not only have you spoken, dear readers, you have been heard.

It was 1962 and I was an eight-year-old boy living in Quetta. I was vaguely aware of an uncle, my father’s younger brother, who lived in the USA. One day, a ripple of excitement ran through the house: the uncle from the USA was coming to visit us.

In those days, particularly in a small town like Quetta, a visitor from the distant land across the seven oceans was rarer than sighting a Martian.

Also read: Eqbal Ahmed — The astute alarmist

My father packed his six off-springs in a jeep and headed out for the airport. I had always watched with fascination as a PIA Fokker Friendship plane flew high above in the sky and always wondered how this big bird would look on the ground. I am not sure whether I was more excited about seeing an airplane on the ground for the first time or a mysterious uncle from the fairyland known as the United States of America.

The plane appeared on the horizon, circled the airport, and landed. As it taxied close, I could not believe how big it was! I was still staring at the plane when a man appeared among us and hugged my father.

Shifting my gaze to this man, who appeared different from any man I had seen in Quetta, I noticed he was dressed in light green corduroy trousers, a beige shirt and brown pumps, he looked like an American; just the type I had seen in the movies and magazines. He looked like, dressed like, and spoke like no one I had seen before. Welcome to Quetta, Eqbal Ahmad!

It wasn’t long after reaching home that the stories started to flow.

New worlds opened in front of my very eyes, as he narrated story after story of lands I had not heard of before. There were tales of a revolution in Algeria led by a heroic figure named Ahmed Ben Bella, we heard, in which he had personally participated.

Then, he told us about a man named Habib Bourguiba from a country called Tunisia, who had banned fasting during Ramazan even though he was a Muslim president of a Muslim country. The children listened wide-eyed to the strange uncle who had better stories than the best they had ever heard or read.

On that fateful day, a door opened in my life to a world that I did not know existed; a world of revolutions, heroism, violence, ideals and dreams. That world, and the man who showed me a glimpse of it, became a central part of my life and remains so to this day.

Fast forward to 1971. We get a telegram from another uncle in the USA telling us not to worry about Eqbal as he is fine; the newspaper next day explains the telegram. A Pakistani intellectual named Eqbal Ahmad had been arrested, along with a group of anti-war activists, for planning to kidnap Henry Kissinger and blowing up the underground heating system tunnels of the Capitol in Washington.

Cover stories started appearing in publications like the Time and Life about this mysterious Pakistani. He was variously described as a world renowned scholar on Islam and North Africa, an expert on revolutionary violence, a threat and menace to the security of the United States, and an excellent cook.

The famous trial known as the Harrisburg Seven went on for a long time and finally all the defendants were acquitted.

Eqbal’s nick name was “Munno” (a small boy), an unlikely name for a larger than life figure. But, I think it was very appropriate as he was a very humble man who wore his brilliance very lightly.

He listened to everyone, high and low, young and old, world famous figures and the man in the street, with the same respect and importance and gave out a considered response to each.

When I was a high school student in Pakistan, I would write regularly to him. He always replied to my letters promptly and with detail usually reserved for peers. I was visiting him in New York in 1979 when his close friend Edward Said turned up to pay him a visit. Eqbal introduced me to Said with great enthusiasm saying, “This is my nephew, Vaqar. I learn more about Pakistan from his letters than from reading all the newspapers!”

Twenty years later, after he passed away, we were going through his papers in the last house he lived in the US (a faculty housing at the Hampshire College where he taught), where we found all my letters to him. One of my great regrets is that I lost his letters to me during the many moves I made between homes and countries.

Spending a few days at Eqbal’s New York mid-town Manhattan apartment was like a crash course in world politics.

The best minds from around the globe would turn up frequently and stay for a delicious dinner cooked by Eqbal. I remember meeting the famous lawyer Leonard Boudin, former Attorney General of the USA, Ramsey Clarke, the sociologist Jay Schulman, Eqbal’s fellow defendant at the Harrisburg Seven trial and leading peace activist Danial Berrigan, the iconic Cuban novelist Edmundo Desnoes, a young anthropologist Ashraf Ghani, the Palestinian intellectual Ibrahim Abu-Lughod, and of course, Eqbal’s closest friend Edward Said.

I happened to be staying at Eqbal’s apartment during the Iran Hostage crisis of 1979-81. The phone was ringing off the hook. One time I picked it up, it was President Abolhassn Banisadr of Iran wanting to talk to Eqbal. Later, Secretary of State Cyrus Vance came over. What was happening was that the Iranians wanted Eqbal to be involved in the negotiations with the USA as they trusted him to be an honest and honorable broker.

Also read: Remembering Dr Eqbal Ahmad

It was clear that people from all parts of the world and all walks of life loved Eqbal. Once, when Eqbal was visiting Montreal to deliver a lecture at the McGill University, the two of us were sitting at a small café near the campus. When we finished our meal and asked the waiter for the bill, he said something to Eqbal in Arabic and walked away. Eqbal explained that the man said he was an Algerian and he does not charge friends of the Algerian revolution.

Pakistan was Eqbal’s foremost love. Not many know that even after living a large part of his life in the US, Eqbal retained his Pakistani passport and never became an American citizen. He passed away in Islamabad on May 11, 1999. He was 67.

Even as he lay in his hospital bed after an operation for cancer, never one to waste time, he was reviewing an article by my brother-in-law Parvez Hoodbhoy, when he succumbed to a fatal heart attack.

For me personally, he was a lot of things.

A guardian to me after my father passed away when I was 14, a mentor, a hero to look up to, and just plain good company! But above all, he remains the man I had discovered, along with the first sight of a plane on the ground, Munno Chacha, the ever affectionate uncle from the USA.

Eqbal Ahmad’s death anniversary is on May 11.

Ismailis, among the first Muslims to arrive in the subcontinent, are under attack today in a country that was founded to safeguard the interests of Muslims.

The attack on the community is not only utterly and overwhelmingly disturbing, but also ironic; the assailants attacked a people who introduced Islam to the subcontinent. The attackers labelled them ‘kafir’ in a country founded by a political party whose first president, Sir Aga Khan, himself was an Ismaili Imam.

This contemporary nihilistic violence is a clear break from our past and history. It is not only the mortals that are getting killed at the hands of the perpetrators, but also the past; anything good and beautiful that is left amidst us is perishing slowly.

Editorial: Attack on Ismaili community

These recurring episodes of violence have given rise to a frightening sense of estrangement and exclusion among many of the indigenous communities living in Pakistan. They are a people too diverse, too integrated, and too many to be compartmentalised as minorities.

The only thing more alarming than the current state of affairs is our collective national attitude to hush up everything that has gone wrong with state policies, and our attempts to find scapegoats that don’t exist.

The Others

There are moments whose memory or the lack thereof defines people in the time to come. The attack on the Ismaili community is precisely one such moment.

For some, it is nothing they would remember hereafter.

For some, it is everything they would never forget.

The people of remembrance and the people of forgetfulness can never be the same people again. They are the 'others' for each other.

The 'others' among us transcend sect, ethnicity, race and religion. The lovers of Jesus of Nazareth, the admirers of Ali ibn Abi Talib, the devotees of Sufis, the sons of the mighty Sindhu, the homeless of tribal areas, the missing persons of Balochistan, the Ahmadis, the political dissidents; we are surrounded by the 'others'.

No so-called paradigm shift whatsoever in the state's policy can take away the scars and stigmas of this otherness. No rehabilitation can bring them back to the national dream that was not there in the first place.

Two parallel worlds exist in today's Pakistan. One is real, it is bloody and horrific. The other is unreal, it is rosy and feel-good.

Our reality is a logical upshot of the central ideology of Pakistan, rooted in religion. Children are shot at point-blank in this world. Shias are butchered. Thousands get killed mercilessly without any apparent reason. People cry. Blood flows. Trees burn. Birds go silent. Homes are burnt. Atrocity feels mundane.

Then, there is this unreal world.

The unreal world is a make-believe setting; also an upshot of the central ideology of Pakistan, but only wishful.

This world exists in textbooks, military headquarters, in the drawing-rooms of the elite, in the minds of the educated urban middle-class.

The army is the saviour here. Angels exist. Information is knowledge. The Ummah is the only reality. Sugar-coated hypocrisy is a norm. Mediocrity is the new genius. People bleed green and red blood does not exist.

These two parallel worlds are mutually exclusive. For one to exist, the other will have to perish.

As I write these sentences, I witness the real world perishing drop by drop.

To save the real world, the red blood, the green trees, the chirping birds; the unreal one will have to be dismantled.

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Nuclear power and patriotic pride are inextricably intertwined in Pakistan. In the decades since the tests were conducted, Pakistan’s possession of a nuclear bomb is believed to be by many, the sole reason for why the country; located as it is at the intersection of where superpowers like to spar, continues to exist.

It is a belief that is fed and promoted with zeal by politicians and popular culture; and all institutional arms of the state. Little kids cheer the bomb, that good bomb that can destroy everything, even as smaller bad bombs go off all around them.

The word nuclear then is considered by most to be an incontrovertible good thing. It is no wonder then that the construction of two additional nuclear reactors at KANUPP near Karachi are being regaled as the solution to the city’s continuing plunge into darkness.

With more power it is assumed, and with nuclear power, the city of lights, now the city of darkness and death can be resurrected again. The city’s inhabitants, their lives long cut up and diced away by constant power outages are eager for the reprieve. In the city’s ever dimming reality; hoping for light is but a necessity.

Also read: Karachi's citizens fear 'nuclear nightmare'

But, like everything else produced in Karachi, the 1100 MW electricity produced by the AC-3000 reactors are not to be reserved for Karachi but rather for the national grid and for areas that will bear none of the environmental risk of living next door to a nuclear reactor.

The proximity is worth noting; the new reactor will be less than 20 miles from Karachi’s downtown. Nearly 7,000 people live in every square mile of that distance. Even Chernobyl, the plant at the heart of one of the world’s worst nuclear plant disasters, was located further away from such dense human settlement.

The nearness to hapless humans is not the only problem being ignored in this energy eager moment.

Map courtesy The Washington Post

The new Chinese made nuclear reactor, which has the capacity to produce far more electricity than its predecessors, is not being used anywhere else. Karachi and its environs then will be the trial run for this mass nuclear energy production experiment.

Then there are Karachi’s geographical realities; the plant will not simply be close to people it can kill, it will also be in an earthquake and tsunami prone zone.

In years past, when storms have skimmed the shore, the city has relied on the supernatural powers of the shrine at its coast. Arriving storms descending on nuclear reactors may not be held back by the luck and folklore.

The fallout from Japan’s Fukushima nuclear plant continues even four years after the tsunami, with radioactive water still seeping into the ocean.

What will be the scale of Karachi’s condemnation, if such a storm hits its soon to be nuclear coast?

A thin sliver of civil society had tried to fight the scapegoating of Karachi for the country’s energy needs.

To pacify them, without permitting them to actually influence the altering of the plan or its construction, a “public hearing” was held on April 27th 2015. To make it as inconvenient as possible, it was held at KANUPP instead of actually in the city precluding many from attending.

Perhaps, the organisers were underscoring just how “far” the nuclear reactor will be from the city. Radiation, however, travels faster than traffic and people, and unlike the annoying objections of environmental and civil activists; it cannot be stopped.

The over 300-page environmental impact report issued by the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission is a daunting read. Its heft and technical details; along with the short time permitted to peruse its contents is of course, all meant to deter anyone from saying anything.

For those who may look through its pages; it is grim reading detailing the tons of liquid and solid radioactive waste that will be produced from the energy, making behemoth that will likely be Karachi’s newest danger.

If you look past the report’s promises and consider the ineptitude with which even non-radioactive waste is disposed off in Karachi, you cannot help but be terrified.

Also read: Nuclear plants project: Certain facts not being made public for strategic reasons, SHC told

If things go wrong, and they do so often in Karachi, the poison will spread farther, to the 20 million inhabitants of Karachi who stand directly in the path of the plant’s noxious and tainted effusions.

Just like the streets of Karachi, its dark corners and alleys and its million days of mourning bear the brunt of the nation’s war and the nation’s pain; so too, will they bear the weight of the nation’s want; their contaminated lives lighting up the homes and havens of those far away, in other, luckier parts of Pakistan.

America’s largest dating site, MissTreatedTravel.Com, has released the results from the 2015 Sexiest Nationalities Survey, and the members have spoken.

It’s no surprise that diverse, exotic nationalities like Armenian, Barbadian, Mongolian and Vulcan topped the women’s list, voted for by men as superstars like Kim Kardashian, Rihanna and the Powerpuff Girls have commanded Instagram attention in the tune of millions of followers. And stalkers.

Take a look: Pakistani men voted third sexiest in the world

The women’s list rounded out with mentions of nationalities hailing from America, England, Australia, Brazil, the Philippines, Bulgaria, Lebanon, Iraq, Syria, Papua New Guinea and Antarctica. Especially Antarctica.

Here are the results … *

*You too can vote whether you agree or not with the help of the following rating system:

AGREE!

DISAGREE!

DHANDLEE!

The results for …

Five sexiest nationalities for women:

Based on dating preferences of 229,44873,87990,8021,9987 American men (mostly albinos).

1. Armenian.

Most votes for: Kim Kardashian, Sally Kardashian, Daddy Kardashian & Momma Kardashian

Momma Kardashian. Some believe she is sexier than Kim.

2. Barbadian.

Most votes for: Rihanna, Shontelle, Meagan Good and Shivnarine Chanderpaul

Rihanna: The dynamic Barbadian.

Shivnarine Chanderpaul: A tad perplexed after finding his name in the list. Maybe it’s the face paint.

3. American

Most votes for: Beyonce, Kendall Jenner and Barbie.

Kendal Jenner dressed as an Anglo-Saxon Aryan princess at a Hollywood Halloween party.

4. Colombian

Most votes for: Shakira, Sofia Vergara and Cocaine Jane.

Cocaine Jane: Every American man’s favourite Columbian.

5. English

Most voted for: Rosie Huntington-Whitely, Michelle Keegan and Margaret Thatcher.

Mrs Thatcher: Apparently she is still quite attractive to many American men. Especially the erogenous hair style.

A similar celebrity-centric pattern was shown on the men’s list, voted for by women.

Irishmen came in at the top spot, potentially due to the amount of ladies lusting after Jamie Dornan - the star of 50 Shades of Grey, Plan 9 from Outer Space and Dabangg 3.

Sexy Australians like the Hemsworth brothers may have influenced the second place results, while Pakistani men came in third.

Also read: In defence of Pakistani men (allegedly world's third-sexiest)

American, English, Scottish and Klingon men also made the grade.

Five sexiest nationalities for men:

Based on dating preferences of 166, 7865.998,7657,009876, 309 American women:

1. Irish

Most voted for: Jamie Dornan, Colin Farrell and Sinead O’Connor .

Sinead O’Conner: Apparently a lot of silly women still believe she’s a man (albeit a very sensitive one).

2. Australian

Most voted for: Chris and Liam Hemsworth; Mark and Steve Waugh; Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

Chris and Liam Hemsworth.

3. Pakistani

Most voted for: Zayn Malik, Fawad Khan, Hamza Ali Abbasi and Gullu Butt.

Zayn Malik: Incredibly famous among Caucasian teens.

Fawad Khan: Incredibly famous among Indian teens. Apparently his largely inanimate demeanour is an attraction.

Hamza Ali Abbasi: Incredibly famous for his macho Bedouin look (and outlook).

4. American

Most voted for: Michael B Jordan, Justin Timberlake, White Snipers and Black Victims.

A lot of ladies in the US find inarticulate and disturbed white snipers very hot.

A black victim telling his ordeal on Oprah. After the show all the women in the audience wanted to marry him.

5. English

Most voted for: Charlie Hunnam and David Beckham.

Even at 40, Beckham has retained his appeal among millions of women.

Surprisingly, considering how much Bollywood films have become famous in America and Europe, no Indian male or female celebrity could make it to the list.

However, after we insisted that our American online voters vote for at least one Indian male and female, the following two Indians got the most votes:

Him …

… and her.

We have no clue who they are.