“What are you doing on a bicycle? No one brings a bicycle here.”

That was the first response Aurangzeb (a local shop owner) gave to us as we cycled through Neelum valley all the way to Muzaffarabad. The inhabitants of Neelum valley were not accustomed to seeing bicycles, let alone three boys in shorts riding them through the mountains.

Neelum valley is quite simply a piece of paradise. The mountains are accessible and everything in the valley; from flora to fauna, from the people to the forests, has a softness in it. When the river gushes down the incredible green slopes, time slows down and everything has a calming effect on the senses.

Taobat.

Our humble vehicle.

The road from Taobat to Kel.

Our journey began from Taobat, the eastern most place on Neelum valley. It is a small outpost with three very small guesthouses, surrounded by a pine forest. Perched on the mountainside and overlooking the Neelum river, it is one of those spots which makes it to postcards.

The road to Taobat is almost nonexistent. The only way to get here is by jeep or by a bus, and not without constant bumps. This proved to be the toughest part of the cycling journey, as it started raining as soon as we left Taobat towards the town of Kel, 43km away. The constant rain on the dirt tracks slowed us down as we had to cycle through heavy mud.

Our journey was cut short in places when the rain would pick up and we had to find shelter. The rain clouds had covered the top of the peaks, and there was no sign of respite from the constant downpour. But that did not dampen our spirits; the scenic views and fresh mountain springs were too inviting to resist. So onward we moved, with the weather wet and chilly, and our rain jackets on.

After a few tough hours of cycling, we managed to reach Kel in the evening. Kel is a picturesque small town surrounded by snow peaked mountains. There is a bazaar where we enjoyed hot chicken corn soup, a welcome respite to our sore legs after the six-hour ride. The road from Kel onwards becomes better, but it was not until Sharda (another 20km) when we get to see smooth asphalt roads.

The scenic Kel.

Cloud-covered peaks.

A shack next to a glacial stream.

We passed Sharda in the evening and we stopped the night in Keran, a town 37km from Sharda. Keran is a slightly bigger place with a number of hotels and access to ATM machines. A cozy room will cost between Rs3000-5000 a night here. Keran is easily accessible by car as the roads are well-maintained. The weather is pleasant, but when in the mountains, it’s better to keep a jacket close by. As we were absolutely drained from all the cycling, we welcomed the rest and the food.

After a serene night in Keran, the next morning, we moved onwards, our cycles squeaking relentlessly. Given their protests, we decided to stay over in Athmuqam, a town one hour away from Keran. The hospitality of the Kashmiris, plus their curiosity of why anyone would attempt such a task, bought us a free lunch and dinner in some homes. We even had time to go on a hike up the mountain and look at the valley from above.

Keran.

Neelum river in Keran.

Neelum river in Keran.

One of the cycles had to be fixed in the neighbouring town, Kundal Shahi, where we had arrived after dark. Kundal Shahi is a town perched on the side of a mountain, and the lights from the houses make it look something out of a storybook, like elves living in a giant tree.

By the time we started our return journey, the whole valley was bathed in silver moonlight, and the river was gleaming. Throughout the entire journey, I felt as if I was traversing through some untold fairy tale, perhaps one that needs to be told more and more often. It is hard to describe the magic this land possesses.

View from the top of Athmuqam.

Another view of Athmuqam.

The river in Athmuqam.

The next morning, we left for Muzaffarabad. The road kept climbing uphill and then downhill. Much to our dismay, every joyous descent followed an arduous and painful ascent. But every time we felt out of breath, there was a cool, fresh mountain spring and a refreshing breeze to rejuvenate our spirits.

They are constructing a dam at the end of Neelum valley, where there is also a hotel that supplies food to the people working there. That hotel made us the best fried roti.

Athmuqam in the valley below.

Leaving Neelum valley.

As we approached Muzaffarabad, the sight of a mountain cut by a knife startled us. This is the after effect of the 2005 earthquake – a stark reminder to us of the Nature’s bold and humbling strength.

That image, we carried with us as we got on a bus to Islamabad. That mountain sliced like cake, and a calmness we will not forget.

—All photos by author

Tesla Motors believes it has a solution for our energy needs that requires thinking outside the grid.

The California-based company recently announced a new line of commercial and residential batteries to store electricity onsite, that could either supplement power from the grid or, when used in combination with solar power, could free the households of their dependence on the power grid.

Elon Musk, Tesla’s CEO, introduced Tesla Powerwall, a 10 kWh battery costing $3,500 and a 7.5 kWh battery costing $3,000, for residential consumers. Households could use the stored power when the electricity from the grid is either not available or available at expensive rates.

The State’s response to power shortage in Pakistan has been focused on mega power generation projects based on coal, oil, hydel, and some solar. A combination of domestic solar power generation in combination with intelligent batteries, such as Tesla Powerwall, might provide a fast and inexpensive solution that is likely to save the additional grid expansion and maintenance costs.

Named after the legendary inventor, Nikola Tesla, Tesla Motors’ claim to fame has been the electric-powered vehicles who offered remarkable acceleration and a speed that is comparable to gasoline-powered vehicles. Tesla Motors’ innovative battery design has been behind the success of the company. With Powerwall, Tesla has broadened the use of its innovative batteries from cars to powering houses, businesses, and even cities.

The sleek-looking Tesla Powerwall is shipped in a self-contained, space-saving unit that can be mounted up on any wall, even in a closet. One can combine two or more batteries to get even more power.

“The fact that it is wall-mounted is vital, because it means you don’t have to have a battery room … filled with nasty batteries … It’s designed to work very well with solar systems right out of the box,” Mr Musk said, while unveiling the products.

Tesla also introduced the commercial version of their 100 kWh batteries called Powerpack, which is priced at $25,000. Mr Musk thinks these batteries could be chained together to offer a “gigawatt hour solution.”

Is Tesla the panacea for power-starved developing countries?

Developing countries are starving for electricity. Even where the willingness to pay exists in the middle-income urban economies, governments have failed to provide mechanisms for public and private sector companies to generate, transmit, and distribute electricity. More often than not, the response has been to embark on large-scale power projects that are too complex to design and build, and take a much longer time to bring the newly generated power on line.

See: Why Pakistan's power woes will get worse

Governments in developing countries have only recently recognised renewable energy sources, such as wind and solar, as viable components of the energy mix.

Adding onsite storage, powered by locally-generated solar power, can be part of the solution as it would reduce the immediate need to expand and maintain the national grid in Pakistan.

Pakistan’s electricity crisis faces a double whammy. The high fertility rate resulted in a rapid increase in population over the past five decades. This generated the excess energy demand that was not met by a proportionate increase in the infrastructure for power generation and distribution.

At the same time, the per capita consumption of electric power also increased significantly over the years. From about 100 kWh per capita consumption in the mid-'70s, the per capita electricity consumption increased to 450 kWh by 2011.

Source: Tradingeconomics

I recently visited the neighbourhood in Rawalpindi where I spent part of my childhood. While the streets and façades have aged and deteriorated, the insides of homes have been upgraded with additions to floor space and new amenities, such as computers, microwave ovens and air-conditioners. 40 years ago, when I played cricket with my friends in the same streets, air conditioners did not protrude from windows. It is not the same today. As we have opted for creature comforts, our energy consumption has increased manifold.

What is left unchanged is the quality of power infrastructure; a web of electrical wiring struggling to stretch from one utility pole to the next, where chronically ill transformers strive to keep up with the surge for power, is still the scene today as it was forty years ago.

Also read: Solar energy production fails to take off despite electricity crisis

As Pakistanis add more computers and appliances to their homes, the infrastructure connecting us to the grid becomes increasingly inadequate to meet our growing needs. Thinking outside the grid may be a partial answer to the complex power crisis.

Can their batteries manage the load?

Before hooking ourselves to Tesla’s batteries, we must ask if they are capable of being a viable alternative.

Consider a typical American household that consumes 10,900 kWh of power per year. Given that there are 365 days in a year and 24 hours in a day, 10,900 kWh roughly equal 1,240 watts (1.24 kW) of average power demand. Let’s assume that with the adoption of energy efficiency measures, the average demand declines to 1,000 watts.

Tesla’s 7.5 kWh battery is capable of providing 1000 watts for 7.5 hours. It implies that the battery can power a typical house for 7.5 hours. The rest of the time one would still need power from other sources, including the grid and solar.

Now let’s turn to Pakistan. Assuming that a typical middle-class household generates a constant demand for 500 watts, half that of the typical American household, a 7.5 kWh battery will provide power for roughly 15 hours.

This sounds great. But how would one charge the battery in the first place? Grid and solar are the two options. Given the advances in solar cells, it is possible to charge the battery with solar and power the house during the day. One can get residual power from the grid to meet any shortfall.

Tesla-nomics

The success of onsite storage with solar power rely largely on the total cost of power generation and storage. Even at $3,000, Tesla’s solutions are prohibitively expensive for low-income American households. In addition, the installation costs and the costs of an AC to DC inverter could add another two-to-three thousand dollars to the total costs.

Writing in the Forbes, Christopher Helman believes an all-Tesla solution of solar power and storage will cost 30 cents per kWh.

“I think 30 cents per kWh is bonkers. At my home in Texas I pay 10 cents per kWh to Reliant Energy for electricity that is mostly generated by natural gas burning power plants,” wrote Mr Helman.

In an earlier article for the Forbes, Mr Helman explained that despite the innovations in solar power generation, which have significantly lowered the generation costs, coal would continue to play an important role in power generation in the US. Since Pakistan has vast (unproven) reserves of low-grade coal in Thar, the potential for lower cost power generation with coal also exists here.

Given the willingness to pay among the lower middle-class, a storage-plus-solar solution should cost no more than seven to 10 Cents per kWh. Tesla may not be able to deliver at such low costs because its innovation supply chain is based in the US, where labour and other costs are very high.

At the same time, Tesla might be tempted to test the scalability of its solutions by picking up the challenge to power a mid-sized city in Pakistan. The scale of operations, even at lower tariff, could have the potential to be profitable.

Otherwise, Pakistan can always to turn to China or South Korea to explore interests in a large-scale implementation of onsite storage and solar power generation. Since a large number of urban households have already installed battery-powered UPS solutions, the willingness to adopt a similar, yet comprehensive, solution should exist in Pakistan.

Tesla or no Tesla, the onsite storage plus solar solution offers two distinct benefits. First, it adds renewable solar energy to the energy mix. Second, it allows for a non-grid based expansion to power generation.

It is perhaps time to think outside the grid to power Pakistan.

Us and them

When the word ‘multiculturalism’ began echoing in the West after the collapse of communism in the late 1980s, many on the left sides of the ideological divide suspected it to be yet another expression of ‘post-modern capitalism.’

However, in 1991, when the new Soviet regime crushed an attempted coup by the defeated forces of Cold War communists, and broke the Soviet Union into pieces, many young people in developing nations did manage to find certain aspects of multiculturalism to their liking.

To them, it meant that now the West was opening up to allowing immigrants to live (in Europe and the US), according to their (the immigrants’) cultural mores, without having to entirely integrate to the mores of Western societies.

The idea of multiculturalism was welcomed by immigrant communities in the West.

Multiculturalism peaked in the mid-2000s when it became institutionalised in various Western countries.

The idea was to demonstrate and welcome cultural diversity and draw from various cultures their finest economic, sporting and artistic attributes, and to respect (rather than suspect) their distinctiveness.

This was to be done for the benefit of the countries in which the men and women of different nations had come to settle and work.

However, some two decades after the arrival of the idea of multiculturalism in the West, it has started to be questioned, and even scoffed at for creating political and social turmoil in Western societies. So what happened?

Multiculturalism invited social, religious and cultural diversity and assured to give it respect. This part was well understood by most non-Western immigrants who had arrived to stay in Western countries and appreciated a new openness in their attitudes.

But the other aspect of multiculturalism was about forming unity through diversity, for which it required people from different religious and cultural backgrounds to wholeheartedly interact with and integrate into the overall cultural dynamics of the society that they had chosen to be a part of.

This aspect seemed to have gone missing in the attitudes of a number of men and women who have otherwise made full use of multiculturalism’s tolerant ways in countries where they have settled.

Instead of even nominally integrating into a multicultural society, many have simply used it to ghettoise themselves, refusing to learn their adopted country’s predominant language or exhibit a similar respect towards that country’s cultural norms.

An anti-immigration rally in the US.

It’s become a one-way traffic, in which large sections of immigrant cultures in a multicultural country ghettoise themselves, and then throw up their arms and complain how they were being discriminated against when asked to integrate. According to them, being asked to be assimilated, runs against the whole concept of multiculturalism.

Usually critics of multiculturalism simply grumble if a people from an immigrant community demonstrates this kind of behavior.

However, things get terribly sensitive when a community uses the principles of multiculturalism to settle in Western societies but after ghettoising itself it not only begins to describe the demands for integration as an attack on its cultural mores, but sometimes even threatens to respond more vehemently.

This dilemma seems to be particularly testing in the UK. The South Asian Muslim communities in the UK, though not alone in triggering the ghettoisation fall-out of multiculturalism, seem to be one of the leading exponents of voluntary cultural segregation.

There to stay

From the 1980s onwards, as Muslim countries across the world were flushed with petro-dollars from conservative oil-rich monarchies, they saw a surge in religious conservatism in their societies. The surge’s impact was felt by the Muslim diaspora in non-Muslim countries as well.

Consequently, during the heydays of multiculturalism, large sections of South Asian Muslim communities in Europe, US and Canada actually began using multiculturalism as a license to shun integration! They expected their cultural mores to be accepted and respected, but refused to do the same regarding the mores of their adopted countries.

For example, one often hears about how immigrant clerics in some prominent European countries are openly enticing the young Muslim Diasporas to attack symbols of ‘moral corruption’, ‘sin’ and ‘vulgarity’ in countries where this diaspora was allowed to settle and earn its livelihood.

Stand-up Muslim comedian Humza Arshad works alongside Scotland Yard to help fight radicalisation in UK’s Muslim communities.

Rather bizarrely, liberal principles ingrained in the socio-political set up of the adopted countries are being challenged and even attempted to be brought in line with the agitated diaspora’s idea of morality.

What’s more, it is also being noticed that when members of this particular South Asian community return to their own countries of origin for a visit, they scorn at the lax attitude of their countrymen towards faith and morality!

They want their surroundings to be according to what they believe is the correct path. And if they are not, then the surroundings need to be aligned with their idea of righteousness.

There are numerous young Muslims in South Asia who have what it takes to strike a constructive give-and-take deal with Western multicultural societies. And they are likely to flourish in many fields if given the chance to become a part of these societies.

But their path is being sullied by the ghettoised mindset of many of their their contemporaries who, unlike them, have managed to find a spot in these countries, but are hell-bent on destroying the very idea that first gave them the chance to exhibit and live by their cultural identities in the West.

However, according to the idea of multiculturalism, this can’t be done in a vacuum or in a segregated manner. But this is the aspect of multiculturalism that does not count in their understanding of the idea.

Multiculturalism has become the new white man’s burden, and also a cultural deterrent in the hands of those who plan to devour its more tolerant and progressive notions with their zeal to impose their own skewed and myopic beliefs — ironically, expressed as ‘multiculturalism.’

The natives return

Years before the mid-1980s, Pakistanis who had lived in a western country and then returned home, were usually perceived to have become more informed and ‘modern’.

One way of observing this is to study how the country’s once-thriving Urdu cinema scene portrayed such Pakistanis.

For example, across the 1950s and 1960s, most Urdu films that had in their plots a character who had returned from Europe or the US, was usually portrayed as being an enlightened person who had been intellectually enriched by his stay in the West.

In those days the narrative in this context went something like this: An educated city dweller was seen to be more level-headed and less religious than a person from the rural areas. And such a city dweller was usually a Pakistani who had gone to the West for studies or work.

Pakistanis in the UK in the 1960s: They were considered to be ‘enlightened’ back home.

Then, in the 1970s, Pakistan chose its first elected government led by the left-liberal populist, Z. A. Bhutto.

Bhutto's populism was a concept of social democracy that was supposedly positioned to be more rooted in the common wisdom of the ‘masses’. It is even more interesting to note how Pakistani films treated this new phenomenon.

As the 1960s radical social youth movements in the West exhausted themselves, they became more faddish in content. These emerging fads and fashions also arrived in Pakistan.

So, whereas in the 1960s most Urdu films had celebrated the US or Europe-returned Pakistani as a bastion of enlightened modernity, in the 1970s he/she usually began being portrayed as a guitar-slinging and dope-smoking hippie!

In Urdu films during the Bhutto era, though the ‘level-headed’ US/Europe returned Pakistani was still perceived as being broadminded, many of his more socially ‘liberated’ contemporaries began being seen through the prism of the so-called ‘masses’ (rather, through the prism of the petty-bourgeoisie).

This did not mean that the Pakistani society had shifted to the right. It was just that the urban liberal tenor of the Ayub Khan dictatorship (1958-1969) had mutated (through Bhutto) into becoming a more populist (‘awami’) notion.

Thus, Pakistani films of the 1970s came up with a new narrative in this context that now suggested that it was fine to be liberal, as long as one remained in contact with the traditions of his/her ancestral and folksy surroundings.

That’s why, whereas the Europe-returned Pakistani hippie was portrayed as a bumbling hippie buffoon in most 1970s Urdu films, an urban Pakistani who was equally liberal but managed to slip in a dialogue or two about ‘eastern values,’ became an admirable aspiration.

Scene from 1975’s Mohabat Zindagi Hai in which Waheed Murad (second left) played a UK-return Pakistani who was ‘wise’ because he held on to his ‘Eastern values.’

1974’s Miss Hippie in which the more ‘socially liberated’ youth impressed by Western fads were portrayed as being bumbling hippie caricatures.

The 1970s were also a time when a larger number of Pakistanis began traveling abroad.

The only difference this time was that whereas most Pakistanis used to travel to Europe or the US for work and studies in the 1950s and 1960s, many now began moving to the oil-rich Middle-Eastern countries (mostly for work) from the mid-1970s onwards.

Up until about the late 1970s, Pakistan was a lot more pluralistic and ‘modernised’ than most Arab countries. So, for example, Pakistanis going to these countries were actually going to places that were squarely under the yoke of puritanical monarchies and autocratic regimes whose states — though rich — were still in the process of being ‘modernised’.

Soon, these Pakistanis began sending impressive amounts of money to their families back home, triggering the emergence of a prosperous new urban middle-class in Pakistan.

The process that saw these Pakistanis being exposed to the stands of the faith practiced by Arab populations. Also, after enjoying a sense of their rising economic statuses back home, all this generated a whole new component of Pakistanis, who now began relating their former (more folksy) religious and social dispositions as something associated with low economic status.

This is, at least one reason why from 1980 onwards, a large number of urban middle and lower-middle class Pakistanis began sliding towards various shades of puritanism. This puritanism became like a badge exhibiting their economic advancement.

The process was also hastened by the policies of a staunchly conservative regime that had grabbed power through a coup in July 1977.

A successful middle-class Pakistani in the 1980s became to denote an educated urbanite who was a trader, businessman, banker or white-collar employee, but who, at the same time, was now more likely to observe religious rituals and attire than not.

A scene from 1979’s Dubai Chalo. The film parodied the obsession of Pakistanis wanting to reach oil-rich Arab countries and the nouveau riche class that emerged after money from the UAE and Saudi Arabia began to pour in.

Two decades later (especially after 9/11), Pakistanis living in the West too, began to go through a similar transformation.

No more were West-returned Pakistanis being associated with cultural modernism.

And interestingly, though this transformation had been more gradual and slower among the middle and lower middle-classes within Pakistan, it became more pronounced within the Pakistani diaspora in the Middle-East, Europe and the US.

This was mainly accelerated by the popularity of travelling preachers catering squarely to South Asian Muslims living in the West.

Anecdotes abound about how the offspring of Pakistanis who had been living like ‘true Muslims’ in Europe and the US from the 1980s onwards were shocked to discover that Pakistan was not the kind of a republic they had imagined it to be.

This is an intriguing development. West-returned Pakistanis are now perceived (or rather perceive themselves) to be 'better Muslims’ than those living in Pakistan. That’s how they like to distinguish themselves.

Had Pakistani cinema been thriving today, I’m sure the films would’ve now been portraying the new West-returned Pakistani not as a ‘modernist’ or a hippie buffoon, but as a shocked Muslim wagging a righteous finger at his countrymen and advising them to repent — in an American/British accent, of course.

Sitting in the shade at the change of ends, I towelled down my dripping forehead and took a prolonged sip of cold water.

“Just two more games,” I told myself as I made eye contact with my father, who was present courtside.

In the searing mid-day heat of July 2009, top-seed and fellow Lahore player Ushna Suhail and I had been battling away on the fast, cemented Court One of Karachi’s Creek Club in front of a crowd of about 20 people, my father and Ushna’s mom included.

The national ladies’ singles title was on the line – a first for either one of us.

I don’t remember doing much wrong that blustery day, a rare occurrence, considering my luck in the previous three finals. So, when my mid-court backhand slice drew an error into the net from Ushna’s racket, there was more relief than elation as I bagged my first national title.

It had been a long time coming.

I have been playing tennis for as long as I can remember, since the age of four to be precise. Growing up with two elder brothers, both decent players, and a keen father who introduced the sport to us, it was inevitable that I would get into it one way or another.

I have been playing tennis for as long as I can remember.

From sitting through five-set long Davis Cup home matches in my diapers, as I've been told, to inventing sports like ‘balloon tennis’, where you basically whack a balloon with your bare hands, and practicing against the backyard wall, I was always around the sport.

Little did I know as a four-year-old swinging away my 'junior', light blue wooden racket at sponge balls on the green lawns of Lahore Gymkhana Club, that I would be hitting tennis balls on a daily basis for so many years to come.

Getting up for drills at hours when most people are cozy in their beds, practicing in the afternoons, working out in the gym, travelling to tournaments all over the country, scheduling everything around tennis and repeating the routine everyday; this is the life that I chose for myself.

After a while you get used to the ugly tan lines on the arms, owning more tennis gear than formal clothes, the early morning wake-up calls, the long hours on the court and functioning like clockwork.

I was never in it for the money or the fame because when you’re spending three times the amount of the prize money to play a tournament, it all comes down to tennis being your passion and not really a profession.

As for the fame, tennis players in Pakistan are not exactly household names just because of the way the sports hierarchy works in this country. It took Aisam-ul-Haq Qureshi a run to the US Open final and a win over Roger Federer in a doubles match to finally make a name for himself in a cricket-obsessed nation like ours.

Gruelling rallies

It’s funny the way the brain of a tennis player works. I can’t recall what I ate last week, but I know exactly which shot I hit or missed on match point some five, six years ago. Match scores are etched in my mind.

The 2009 National Clay Court semi-final in Islamabad is one that always comes to mind. Pakistan number one, Sarah Mahboob, had only lost one match on the national circuit ever since claiming the top spot in 2005.

I was two points away from recording my first win over Sarah in Karachi a year before, but squandered the opportunity. It was followed by a heart-breaking third set, tie-break loss to her the previous week in the National Hard Court final.

Tennis, with its individual nature, can be a very lonely sport.

This time, leading 6-3 and 5-4, I reached match point. A perfectly executed backhand top-spin lob by Sarah denied me the second set and we were back on level terms. It felt like history was repeating itself all over again. I tried not to let the disappointment of dropping the second set get to me.

The Center Court at the Pakistan Tennis Federation (PTF) Complex began to fill up as the players on site sensed an upset brewing. We went toe to toe at each other, engaging in extended, gruelling rallies in the third set.

Another tie-break, and this time lady luck was on my side. A match that started in the afternoon finished under the rarely used floodlights as Sarah’s second serve landed long. It was an anticlimactic end to an otherwise high-quality match.

Having exhausted all my physical and emotional energy in getting that win, I was completely flat in the final against fourth-seed Sara Mansoor the following day, losing in straight sets. It wasn’t the result that I wanted but I was glad to see all my hard work, on and off the court, finally beginning to pay off.

I tried to hide my disappointment at the prize distribution. The four-hour drive back home on the motorway always seemed a bit longer after a loss. While my mom tactfully chose to remain silent in those situations, my dad was always ready with a post-match analysis laced with pep talk.

Losses are never fun. Some hurt more than others, especially since I am so hard on myself and national tennis in Pakistan can be so unforgiving at times that you can’t even bounce right back. Uncertain when the next tournament will come around, that extra time for self-reflection often does more damage than good.

Pictured here with Pakistan's most well-known tennis player Aisam-ul-Haq Qureshi (second from left) It took Aisam a run to the US Open final and a win over Roger Federer in a doubles match to finally make a name for himself.

Tennis, with its individual nature, can be a very lonely sport, especially if you are on the road all the time, which is why I was always glad to have at least one parent accompany me to tournaments. Both of them have played a huge role in my career. Their emotional, moral, physical and, not the least, financial support, is why I have been able to continue playing for so long.

I think I can say the same for almost all the other girls on the circuit. We might have changed coaches and practice partners or switched around rackets, but the one constant feature in our camps has been our parents – always courtside, taking off work to travel to tournaments, cheering us on, sitting in the heat through long matches and consoling us after tough losses.

Bombs, long lay offs

My coach Mohammad Khalid, a former national champion-cum-Davis Cupper, and I had just finished warming up on the first court at Model Town Club. We sat down for a quick chat and some water before we could start the drills. Suddenly a deafening noise shattered the club’s glass windows and a huge puff of black smoke rose high above in front of our eyes.

A vehicle carrying explosives had driven into a government agency’s office hardly a few hundred meters away from the club, leaving some of the debris on our court. Clearly shaken by what had just unfolded and uncertain if there was more to come, I cut short my practice and rushed home.

There have been a few near misses in Karachi too. While the 2006 suicide car bomb outside the Marriott Hotel only disrupted my pre-match practice at Karachi Gymkhana, the 2010 twin bomb sectarian attacks forced the organisers to schedule perhaps the earliest start to a ladies’ final in Pakistan history at Modern Club.

The country’s political instability and security situation have had far-reaching effects on all aspects of life and I have experienced, first-hand, the damage it has done to our tennis.

There have been no international tournaments in the country since 2008, no Davis Cup home ties since 2005, national team camps were regularly getting cancelled amid the election saga and tournaments postponed any time there is a security threat.

I think one of the biggest challenges is to stay motivated. Playing tennis in Pakistan will test your patience and perseverance like no European clay court could and when months go by without any tournaments to look forward to, it becomes harder and harder to force yourself to train everyday.

With the Fed Cup team.

Uncertain when the next tournament will come around, that extra time for self-reflection often does more damage than good.

A financially handicapped federation, incapacitated by a shortage of sponsors, no outside support, as well as a lack of opportunities can all add up and wear you down. I would be lying if I said I never considered quitting the game. However, I am glad I talked myself out of it.

The obstacles make you appreciate the highs even more. International junior events were an annual feature in Pakistan, but in the winter of 2008, Islamabad hosted the first ever International Tennis Federation (ITF) women’s futures, the lowest rung of the professional circuit.

Players, mostly from the Asian region, made the trip and all of us local girls received wildcards into the main draw. After having flown across continents to Egypt and taken the bus to India, all self-funded trips, in search of much-needed international exposure and valuable rankings points, it was nice to have the foreign competition come to us for once.

The revival of the Federation Cup team in 2011, after a decade-long lapse, has been a very positive move for women’s tennis in Pakistan. For me personally, there is nothing more satisfying as an athlete than to be able to represent your country and wear your national colours on the international stage.

I have been fortunate enough to do it for three years.

Making the team the first year is one of my proudest tennis memories. I was involved in a typical three-set tussle with my old rival and good friend Sara Mansoor on the only hard court at the PTF Complex. The winner was certain of a place in the four-member squad going to Bangkok later that month.

I recall not being able to sleep too well the night before, and having difficulty eating breakfast. When the occasion means so much to you, anxiety and nerves take over. I have been at the receiving end of that nervous energy more times than I would have liked throughout my career.

However, I overcame whatever emotions I was feeling that day, the weight of my own expectations, a determined opponent and a minor choke at the end to cement my place in the team.

For me personally, there is nothing more satisfying as an athlete than to be able to represent your country and wear your national colours on the international stage.

The drive back home, with my father besides me, was especially memorable because, as much as I realised my own ambition of making the national team, I knew at the back of my head, that I was living out my dad’s dream too. We had a come a long way from the little, blue wooden racket and sponge ball days.

With history being made, there was a big hype around the team's departure.

It was interesting to see reporters flock in for interviews at Lahore’s Bagh-e-Jinnah during our training camp. I think we were all out of our comfort zones with multiple cameras and microphones documenting our practices and every move. At the same time, it was nice to finally get the recognition.

Our results in the Asia/Oceania Zone's group II have been far from spectacular. Pakistan’s best showing since 2011, has been a modest sixth position out of eight nations. I think it’s a lot to expect from a team, mostly comprising of girls who play within the country, to outshine their more seasoned and well-travelled opponents.

For now, we can be thankful the federation has enough faith to continue sending the girls each year. That experience alone may bear fruit in the future.

Priceless memories on the road

While tennis has allowed me to travel to some beautiful places around the world, the opportunity to explore my own country has greater meaning for me. The higher altitude and gravelly clay of Islamabad took some time to get used to, while Karachi with its fast hard courts and humidity has always been a happy hunting ground for me.

The Chenab Club in Faisalabad, which provides hospitality to the players, is one of the nicer venues on the national circuit. The Khyber Cup, played on the grass courts of the Pakistan Air Force base, hosts players, as well at its officer’s mess. But there's always that added anxiety travelling to Peshawar considering how the security situation in the city is perceived sitting miles away from it.

I couldn't have done it without the courtside support.

I was pleasantly surprised to find an international airport in Multan when I arrived in the city for the WAPDA inter-unit matches back in 2008 but it was the extremely hot weather that I did not appreciate.

When you’re not making a fortune, staying at sub-par rest houses and hotels becomes acceptable and out-of-town relatives, who host you during tournaments, seem like a blessing.

I love how we are always able to have a good laugh and get dinner together even after a hard-fought battle.

Taking weeks off from school and then later juggling under-graduate, self-study with tennis meant I had to lug around books along with my rackets wherever I went. I was forced to learn the art of time-management by completing assignments and squeezing in some reading on the 30-minute drive to the club and also between matches.

I have also made a lot of friends along the way. The familiar faces and friendships on tour make competing fun and being away from home bearable.

Despite all the rivalries, we have a mutual respect for one another. I love how we are always able to have a good laugh and get dinner together even after a hard-fought battle. With already such a small tennis circle, the last thing you want is animosity rearing its ugly head.

I have devoted a lifetime to this sport, logged many miles on the road, hit countless tennis balls, won and lost matches. I might have the silverware and flattering newspaper headlines to show for it but it’s the priceless memories and the incredible experiences that I value the most.

I wouldn’t think twice if I had to go back in time and do it all over again.

I was very recently admonished by an old friend, Wali Mohammad for ignoring the prominent figures of the right-wing in my writings, which, he says, otherwise are reasonably good.

This reminded me of how before Partition, although politicians had formed a right and a left wing by then, they were judged for their political actions and leanings, and not for their religious characters; someone espousing secularism would not automatically become a left-wing politician or vice versa.

Shaikh Adbul Majeed Sindhi too, is among those politicians who are remembered for their political position rather than religious manifestations.

Pir Ali Mohammed Rashidi writes on page 69 of Rodaad-i-Chaman, a collection of his columns:

“Shaikh Sahib was never given an opportunity to serve Pakistan. As soon as Ayub Khan, having collaborated with the officialdom, usurped the power, this 85 year old man was thrown into a jail only because he had drafted a ‘Petition of Rights’.”

The petition, a piece of stinging satire, is indirectly-quoted by Rashidi on the same page. It reads:

“O Sultan bin Sultan, currently the Emperor of Pakistan, General Ayub Khan, Field Marshall (without fighting a single war) Time and Earth, and the Inventor of the sham Basic Democracies, may God bless both your victory over Pakistan and your tyrannical rule, because it was you who had originally carved out this country by defeating both the British and Hindus on the battlefield with your sharpest scimitar (when the politicians and the Muslim voters of India had only been talking nonsense).

“For the moment, we, the wretched, the lesser beings of the earth, and the guns of the Paigah aristocracy, only want to petition to you that the voiceless anthropoid insects living in Pakistan (whom we sometimes call the citizens of the country) should not be further deprived of their basic human and democratic rights. Instead of being duped with false promises and political trickeries, they should be tossed at a morsel of human rights, which would save them from an unending humiliation before the nations of the world.”

This 85-year-old man faced persecution until circumstances forced Ayub Khan to quit as president, though the people of the country still didn't get their rights. It was only a change of face: Yahya Khan replaced Ayub.

Shaikh Abdul Majeed Sindhi's ancestors had left Sehwan Sharif to settle down in Thatta. His family belonged to the Noyani clan of the Amil Hindus, who were known for their bookkeeping skills.

Sain G. M. Syed writes in his book Janab Guzaryam Jinseen (The People in My Life):

“Shaikh sahib was born as Jethanand on Sunday 7th July 1889, [according to the Hijri calender it was] 8th Dhu al-Qi'dah 1306 AH. On 10th February 1908, he converted to Islam and was given an Islamic name, Abdul Majeed. When Hindus protested [against his conversion] he was sent to Ludhiana, from where he soon returned to Karachi. He took up residence in Hyderabad when Karachi, too, proved hostile.”

Shaikh sahib had a good grasp of the politics of Sindh and India; he was also a keen observer of international political issues. More often than not, his political analyses would turn out to be accurate. Sindhi’s in-depth knowledge of politics earned him a prominent status amongst his contemporary politicians, who held him in high esteem as their guru.

He understood the inner-workings of electoral politics, and his electoral strategies always guaranteed success.

Once, he decided to run in the provincial assembly elections against Sir Shah Nawaz Bhutto from Larkana – a stronghold of the Bhutto family and won. Sindhi had a close association with, and a public appeal among, the working class. His supporters campaigned by traveling on ox-carts, while those backing Sir Shah Nawaz drove around in jeeps, the popular off-road vehicles.

Pir Ali Mohammad Rashidi writes on page 162 of his book Ohaydeenhan, Ohayseehan (Those Days, Those People):

“He was elected to the Sindh Assembly after defeating Sir Shah Nawaz Bhutto in the latter’s home constituency. Sir Shah Nawaz was ousted from the politics of Sindh for good; later, he got a situation with the government in Bombay (Now Mumbai).”

However, Sir Shah Nawaz’s great-granddaughter Fatima Bhutto narrates the same event differently in her memoir Songs of Blood and Sword. On page 43 of the book, she eulogises her great-grandfather Sir Shah Nawaz Butto, and uses some unsavoury epithets for Adul Majeed Sindhi, such as a “complete-unknown” and an “outsider”.

This is what she says:

“In 1935 the India Act created councils within the various provinces in the Raj and elections were held in October 1937. In those days there were no political parties in Sindh, so it was an election that was open to very few – the powerful — and no one else. Sir Shahnawaz Bhutto, son of poisoned Ghulam Murtaza and controversially knighted by the British occupiers, stood for election from Larkana, his home town. He was a large landowner, a respected man and a local of great influence. But he lost. A complete unknown, Shaikh Abdul Majeed Sindhi, defeated Sir Shahnawaz at the polls. Sindhi was not a resident of the district; he was an outsider with no reputation to fall back on. It was rumoured at the time that Sindhi was brought in and backed by a section of Bhuttos themselves who were desperate to relieve Sir Shahnawaz of his local power.”

Fatima Bhutto adds that “Sir Shahnawaz was an old-fashioned man. He felt betrayed by the loss of what should have been an automatic win, but did not push the issue further. He simply packed up his family and left Sindh” in 1938.

Mohammad Ayub Khuhro, Shaikh Abdul Majeed Sindhi and G. M. Syed.

It is unclear which criterion Miss Bhutto has applied to declare Shaikh Abdul Majid Sindhi a “complete-unknown”; on the contrary , he was well known among his contemporaries for his acumen, and as one of the leading politicians of the time, he had presided over an All Parties Conference.

Sindhi was active in the provincial politics and subsequently, became a member of the Bombay Council.

Moreover, working as a journalist, he edited the Al-Waheed, Sindh’s sole daily newspaper at the time, and played a key role in the movement to separate Sindh from the Bombay Presidency.

Shaikh sahib was a simple person, with an emotional attachment to the Muslim League, which he truly wanted to see well organised. He decided to establish the Sindh branch of the All India Muslim League and invited some political leaders to his home to discuss his initiative.

The details of this meeting are narrated by G. Allana in his foreword to Shaikh Abdul Majeed Sindhi: Life and Achievements (edited by Khan Mohammad Panhwar). Allana says:

“I was one of the persons invited. In all, above 12 persons attended this meeting. Shaikh sahib did not have 12 chairs in his house and we all sat on the floor. Shaikh sahib explained to us the importance of organising a branch of the All India Muslim League in Sind. He made a very forceful and convincing case for it. We all agreed with his proposal. We unanimously elected Shaikh sahib to be the President of the newly created Sind Muslim League. The question arose as to who was to be the Secretary General of the Party. It was agreed among us that the choice should be left to Shaikh sahib himself.”

Pir Ali Mohammad Rashidi writes in his book Ohaydeenhan, Ohayseehan that at the 1938 Karachi Muslim League Conference, Shaikh sahib presented a historic resolution that paved the way for the Pakistan Movement in the region.

Nonetheless, once Pakistan had come into being, he was subjected to political victimisation.

The man who had converted to Islam, added his voice to that of his Muslim brethren, and joined in their efforts for a separate homeland, instead of being rewarded for his services was declared a political outcast.

Shaikh Abdul Majeed Sindhi’s multifaceted personality cannot be fully captured in a book let alone a blog; my attempt to highlight just one of its aspects is but a barely adequate one.

Translated by Arif Anjum from the original in Urdu here.

Five years have passed since that fateful Lord's Test, yet the events from the fourth game of Pakistan's 2010 tour of England stand out like a vivid nightmare.

Pakistan were 2-1 down in the series and the prospects of levelling the four-match series appeared bright, when the News of the World sting operation shook the cricketing world to its core.

Captain Salman Butt, star seamer Mohammad Asif, and young prodigy Mohammad Amir were banned from all forms of the game for arranging deliberate no-balls during the Lord's Test in return for money in a deal with an undercover reporter from News of the World.

I distinctly remember, the news spread like wildfire in the middle of the night.

To me, it was almost surreal to watch the faces of these three sportsmen plastered all over international channels such as the BBC, as well as those which did not cover cricket. As I absorbed the reports, my heart grew heavier.

It was difficult to sleep that night.

I have always been a loyal supporter of the Pakistan cricket team, even rubbishing most rumors of corruption, perhaps to a fault.

Yet, at that moment, I couldn’t help but recall three moments in my life; arguing against my friends in high school in 1996, who after the eventful quarterfinal defeat to India, claimed that the captain had sat out of the match at the last minute due to a payout; arguing with different friends, this time at university in Canada, who were attacking the same captain for fresh allegations; finding it hard to defend the same skipper after it was leaked that Justice Qayyum had only taken it easy on the legend because he had a ‘soft spot’ for him.

Perhaps, had justice been served when Rashid Latif and Basit Ali had started making noise in the 90s, Butt, Asif, and Amir would not have risked maligning their country for some extra money in 2010.

Also read: Butt, Asif eligible to return to international cricket in September: ICC

But, as can be deduced from the amount of money spent by Butt and Asif on their legal defense, these modern cricketers were well paid. While the legends of the game often had to scrap by (in 1992 the Pakistani World Cup team struggled to maintain their own upkeep), these men were earning well, maybe not as well as their peers from across the border, but earning decently enough.

Aside from the reputation of their nation, the tainted trio had also hurt the reputation of the sport. As the expression goes, cricket is a game of finer points.

Small, naturally occurring, random, and unpredictable events can change the course of an entire game to the glee of those watching.

Timeline of the spot-fixing case: How it all unfolded

As a result of their actions, numerous serendipitous cricketing moments which have occurred in matches involving Pakistan, were called into question.

Was one wicketkeeper really capable of missing dozens of catching, stumping, and run out opportunities in a match? And, if he was so incompetent why was he still part of the playing eleven?

One could recall the name Ata-ur-Rehman, not exactly the best of seamers in the world, who the board fought to have removed, but was kept only on the insistence of the captain. Later, the same seamer provided a testimony against the captain, claiming he was only kept in the team to help fix matches.

A few months from now, Butt and Asif will once again be eligible for international cricket, and they desperately want in.

I believe in forgiving those who have carried out their punishment and are truly remorseful, but I must side with legends such as Javed Miandad when they say that Butt and Asif must be kept as far away from Pakistan cricket as possible.

Also read: Miandad asks PCB to keep tainted trio away from the game

On the other hand, I feel Amir can be given a second chance. He was young, impressionable, and should be rewarded for coming forward so that other young cricketers will also encouraged into coming clean without fear of bringing their careers to a complete halt.

Ata-ur-Rehman, after blowing the whistle in the 90s, instead of being treated like a national hero, was reportedly hounded and threatened with violence, and ended up relocating to another country.

No sympathy for Butt or Asif

While Amir immediately came clean, (though, who knows, it could have been a legal strategy), Butt and Asif continued to toy with the sentiments of the nation by claiming it was a conspiracy.

It was only after they had exhausted all legal options did the two utter shallow apologies.

Also read: Repenting Amir urges youngsters not to destroy their lives

Personally speaking, I was not as angry at Butt and Asif for committing their crimes, as much I was for the media circus they initiated afterwards. Butt made repeated appearances on television pleading his innocence, in a performance which can only be describe as shameless.

The only cricket Butt and Asif should play now is in a Lollywood film.

Related:

• I have completed my punishment, Asif tells angry fans
• Will Amir's return hurt Pakistan cricket? No.

I was at my apartment in Clifton, waiting for a friend. He did not show up on time, so I rang him up. My friend told me that he was here but the apartment chowkidar was not letting his Vespa enter the compound.

I went downstairs and resolved the matter. Climbing up the stairs, I asked my friend Wali where he had bought it from, and he told me that he bought it from a dealer in the Tyre Market on M.A. Jinnah Road. He said that it was Piaggio Vespa’s 1968 model, but that he intended to buy another ‘62 model Vespa.

We sat down to discuss work, but my mind was still stuck on the Vespa. Finally I cut him short and blurted out:

“I want to buy one too.”

“Great decision!” Wali said. “What’s that saying ... a four-wheeler transports the body, while a two-wheeler transports the soul.”

He went into detail, explaining how the rider of a two-wheeler is somehow more connected with his vehicle and the surroundings, which the driver of a four-wheeler could never understand.

Of course, all that philosophy went way over my head. I clarified my intentions to him:

“I want to buy it without an engine. As a showpiece, for my lounge”, I said.

There was a brief silence in the room.

“Still a great decision; but you should buy one with proper documentation and engine, you never know when you might need to sell it,” Wali said.

It was a Friday evening and we decided to embark on a Vespa hunt the day after.

On the hunt for a Vespa

We drove towards the Tyre Market and parked our car somewhere near Urdu Bazaar. Wali knew a Vespa mechanic, Shehzad, who was also the proud owner of a 1983 model Vespa. He had painted it pink and installed two speakers below the handle. The seats of his Vespa and the spare tyre cover had pink leather covers too.

Shehzad took us to the shops around, where we found various Vespas in different conditions. Wali began to inquire about a ‘62 model from the vendors. Someone from an auto-parts shop overheard our conversation and told us that he had one at his home, but could only bring it on Monday.

Shehzad shows us different Vespas near his workshop.

Wali negotiates the price with a mechanic.

An operational Vespa.

A ‘68 Model Vespa on display.

Vespas undergoing refurbishment.

We spot a lot of people going about their business in Vespas.

A Vespa skeleton ready for refurbishment.

Shehzad poses with his pink ‘83 model Vespa.

Wali later told me that most of these Vespas were spread across different locations, waiting on consideration from vendors for refurbishment before they could be put on display for sale. We could not afford to go too far to check out just one Vespa, so Shehzad suggested that we visit the dealer with the largest collection in the area. I asked him if we could walk, but he asked us to take a ride on his Vespa.

“All three of us?” I was hesitant.

Shehzad and Wali ignored my concern and had already settled on the Vespa. I squeezed in somehow between Wali and a spare tyre, and vrooom we went.

Also read: Men and their motorcycles

We rode down Burns Road. Wali spotted a few Vespa riders along the way and it made him immensely happy. At one of the signals, Wali spotted an aquarium shop and asked Shehzad to make a stop. He told me that he had bought a pet snake and needed an aquarium for it, a rather basic one without all the fancy fixtures of a fish aquarium. We inspected various aquariums but failed to reach a consensus with the shopkeeper on the price.

Resuming our journey, a few more twists and turns took us to a shop tucked between auto repair shops, off M.A. Jinnah road. Abdullah bhai, the dealer, had stuffed his shop with various Vespa models. He seemed to have just opened the shop for the day, and a helper was taking the bikes out to put them on display.

Various models of Vespas inside Abdullah's showroom.

Abdullah's showroom.

A Vespa with truck art at Abdullah's shworoom.

Abdullah has one of the largest collection of Vespas in the city.

People have customised their Vespas according to their liking.

A ‘70s model Vespa repainted in black.

As we negotiate with Abdullah, a helper starts taking Vespas out on display.

An old Piaggio poster.

Wali, Shehzad and Abdullah bhai engaged in an exhausting negotiation, which shifted from one model of the Vespa to another. Wali asked me if I liked any in particular, and I told him that I loved all of them but I couldn’t picture any in a finished state.

Wali told me that the prices are a little jacked up, perhaps due to the fact that a lot of foreigners and affluent collectors have started taking an interest in vintage models, and some have even started exporting them to Italy and beyond after refurbishment.

The negotiation shifts from one model to another.

A Vespa repainted in silver.

We bid farewell to Abdullah and start our journey to Ranchor lines.

We walked out of Abdullah bhai’s shop when someone mentioned that Tahir mistri (mason) in Ranchor Lines had a larger collection, but that most of his Vespas were in a dire condition and would require a lot of re-hauling. We decided to pay him a visit.

Crossing M.A. Jinnah road, we took a route through the flower vendor market in the Eid Gah area. Shehzad was manoeuvring his Vespa expertly, though I feared for my legs, which were dangling from the back seat. We crossed Bohra Pir and finally pulled over in a narrow street full of auto repair shops.

Tahir Mistri’s shop was at the end of the street. We walked towards it and told Tahir that we needed a ‘62 model. He took us through another narrow but rather dimly lit lane, which looked like a graveyard of Vespas. Somebody told me that here, you could find all the parts of any vintage model.

Most of the Vespas in Ranchor lines are waiting for refurbishment.

The street is full of auto repair shops.

The proud mechanic tells me that he has restored this CD50.

A Vespa waiting in line for refurbishment.

A mechanic repairs a Vespa.

We spot a ‘62 Model!

In this heap of ancient machinery, we found a ‘62 model Vespa. Tahir told us that he could get it restored to to an impeccable condition should we decide to buy it. He further said that he had a few vintage Vespas parked in Hyderabad, which we were welcome to check if we were willing to accompany him to Hyderabad the next day. We looked at each other, but then decided against it.

As we stepped out of the shop. Wali and Shehzad engaged in a debate on the merits of purchasing the ‘62 model from Tahir Mistri. Finally they decided to wait until he brought the rest of the models from Hyderabad.

An assortment of colorful Vespas.

The narrow lane looks like a graveyard of Vespas and its spare parts.

A mechanic looks on.

Tahir mistri is an expert at repairing Vespas.

After negotiations, we break for lunch at a roadside nihari walla.

Wali announced that he was hungry and we should break for lunch. Shehzad said that there was a nihari shop nearby which served the best nihari in town. We all agreed instantly – a first for the day.

At the nihari shop, quite a few workers were sitting on benches, having lunch. We squeezed in on one of the benches and ordered a plate of nihari and 'chanay ki daal'. We finished our meals in minutes and asked Shehzad to ride us back to our car.

As soon as we reached M.A. Jinnah road again, I spotted cane shops on my left and told Wali that I needed a few cane blinds for my house. We got off the Vespa and bid farewell to Shehzad, who drove straight to his shop.

Wali already knew the shopkeeper, Mehboob, who made blinds at a very reasonable rate. His shop is at the start of a small street off M.A. Jinnah Road. While we placed the order with Mehboob, I noticed a stone gate tucked between new cement constructions. There was a plaque installed on the top. I left Wali and Mehboob deep into bargaining and walked towards it. It read:

“This Dharamshala for poor travelers was built at the joint cost of Haji Mahammad Moledina and the Karachi Municipality, 1983, J. Strachan M.I.C.E, Architect.”

A Dharamshala, that too built by James Strachan, one of the eminent architects of his time, who has landmarks such as the Merewether Tower, the DJ Science College, Karachi’s first sewerage system and many others to his credit.

Also read: Mr Strachan and Maulana Wafaai

Mehboob who has tiny shop for cane blinds speaks with a fellow worker.

The plaque on the 'musafir khana'.

View from Mehboob's roadside stall.

An assortment of cane blinds.

As Wali and Mehboob negotiate, I spot an anomaly in the cement-built landscape.

Mehboob told me that there used to be a musafir khana (rest house) here, which had been demolished to pave way for constructing more dwellings for people.

“And what about the poor travelers,” I wondered aloud.

Mehboob shrugs his shoulder. In city a where most of the citizens struggle to find reasonably priced accommodation, not much thought is spared for the poor travelers. The musafir khana is gone, but the shopkeepers around the area still use it in their verbatim when giving out directions.

We decided to drive back home and get in our car. Wali and I could not decide on the Vespa, but in the process we had learnt a little more about the city.

— All photos by author

Every year, I go through this: celebrations and bereavement in parallel. This year too, the CIE result day saw my Facebook timeline flushed with posts by my students — the ones who had scored well in their examinations.

So one-sided was the picture being painted that my friends thought every one of my students had scored ‘A’ and ‘A*’ grades only. For the teacher and parents, those wonderful letters on A-4 sized cream-coloured paper sheets, call for celebrations. And rightly so.

But what about the students who hadn't posted their results?

I waited the whole day for those who were guarding themselves from the judgement of adults, and had decided not to share their results publicly. Eventually, late at night, the ‘B’ graders and below, inboxed me their results quietly.

They thought they deserved the humiliation and taunts they were getting from their relatives and friends respectively.

Also read: Tales of A, A* and unwanted grades

Let us analyse a few things. In any society, roughly 70 to 80 per cent of the human resources that come under the definition of skilled workers belong to people who had performed average and below average in high stake examinations.

This manpower excels in every part of life. They are fighters; they learn to perform even with the few options that society limits them to, as a consequence of the traditional model of education (e.g. how a high school student, who is unable to perform on any examination day will not be admitted into a top-notch college, and may not go on to get the ‘best’ job as predicated by the society’s standards).

Ironically, adults who humiliate and disrespect these “low-achievers” themselves mostly belong to the same class.

Over the centuries, we have developed the machinery for mass education, but the schooling model needs to be revamped now. In many parts of the world, it works exactly like a machine, run by heartless operators looking to churn out 'certified' students for parents on a conveyor belt. After the Industrial Revolution, there was surge in the demand for these 'products', and the demand still outstrips supply.

The big question is, at what cost?

At the cost of the several lives in Japan, where students committed suicides over bad grades? At the cost of forcing all the brilliant minds who couldn’t perform well on exam day?

The problem is not in the transcript but in the understanding of the transcript, or in other words, its misinformed glorification.

See: 47 As in O, A levels: Pakistani student beats world record

Most people misinterpret what these grades mean. They don’t realise that these grades are just one snapshot of a whole process of learning, a multi-dimensional and unending one.

In fact, examination boards must provide a complete rubric for the parents that should interpret grades in layman language to minimise the intensity of misery faced by low achievers.

Starting from their very first exams, we, the adults, start panicking them; dragging the harassed students into a ghostly death valley where they go not for exploration but to survive a nerve-wrecking rat race. Those who successfully survive are recognised, while the others are casually dismissed. thrown in the trash bin. My worry is about these “others”.

What did we do with them? We started restricting their options to grow and excel since the first snapshot.

Teachers celebrate the fine products and dismiss the “others” as worthless. The cruelty is magnified when, instead of providing the opportunity for them to improve, we just push them to the next level of misery.

With emotional setbacks they strive, with taunts they live, with hatred they survive and then they enter in to practical life with possibly damaged personalities. In developing countries, this misery is even more intense.

Top listed education models, such as the one in Finland, do not emphasise on these tests and their results, but focus on providing equal opportunities for diverse learners. They factor in that every individual learner comes from a different background with different motivation levels, learning styles and needs to be treated in a differentiated environment. Being a developing country, this understanding still needs to grow in Pakistan.

Read on: Advice: Say goodbye to exam phobia!

We need to realise that these discarded “others” are what, in fact, form the major portion of our nation-building resources. These students are neither blank slates nor raw material for our machine. In fact, we don’t need machines; we don’t need to chop intellect if it doesn’t match with the frame of the machine.

We need to transform, gradually. Ken Robinson says rightly that the need is not to reform education but to transform it.

Education must be organic, not mechanical. It must be organic if one intends to teach to humans. Schools should be like educational greenhouses which provide the right climate and temperature for learning to grow like plants. We don’t need factories manufacturing brains but merely the right, nurturing environments.

Examinations are not education but merely a part of it. We, the adults, have no right to use these transcripts as lethal weapons; mind it, a single word may make or break a person.

Let us allow our children to explore this world on their own terms, and let them add their own meaning to our understanding of it.

Somewhere, in between all the politics of the state, we have forgotten the one thing that binds us all together – humanity.

Raed, a 30-year-old refugee from Syria, points to a bullet wound on his upper left arm. “Daesh [Islamic State] is not good,” he says. “Shot family. Shot my uncle. See a man – boom. See a woman – boom. See children – boom.”

Raed’s story, sadly, is not a unique one. More than 200,000 refugees have landed on European shores in 2015 alone, fleeing devastation and death in their war-torn countries. At least 38 per cent of them are from Syria, a country torn apart by civil war. The Syrian civilian population faces no easy choices, with government brutality on one side, and jihadist groups like Islamic State on the other.

Also read: Books not bullets: Malala opens school for Syrian refugee girls

In the face of such dire conditions, Raed and thousands others made the arduous journey to Europe in the hope of a better future.

Hayat Asrat, a 21-year-old female refugee from Eritrea, lost her mother in the crossing to Europe – she drowned in the sea off Libya. Another asylum seeker, a 34-year-old Syrian who preferred to remain unnamed, floated in the open sea for 45 minutes after his small rubber dinghy punctured, before he was finally rescued. “If I live 200 years, I will never forget it,” he said. “This is the first time in my life I felt I will die.”

And yet, these survivors are the lucky ones.

Just last Saturday, 40 migrants were found dead in a boat crossing the Mediterranean, having inhaled poisonous fumes. Another 50 died the week before after their rubber dinghy sank.

Also read: Europe responsible for refugees ‘drowning in the sea’: Erdogan

In 2015 alone, 2,300 people, fleeing desperate circumstances, have already died trying to cross over to Europe.

But amidst such tremendous human suffering, sympathy for non-European lives seems to be in short supply these days. In Calais, France, near the border crossing to the UK, over 3,000 asylum seekers take refuge in a camp where tear gas and beatings from the police are common, but showers and sanitary facilities are in short supply.

Further south, on the Greek island of Kos, around 2,500 mostly Syrian and Afghan refugees were locked into a stadium, without food or water, for over 18 hours in the piercing heat. Refugees inside the stadium fainted at the rate of four people an hour.

Even the language from some European politicians indicates an utter lack of compassion. British Prime Minister David Cameron referred to the asylum seekers as a “swarm”, a term more regularly used for parasitic bugs, while their Foreign Secretary, Philip Hammond, termed them “marauding migrants” from Africa who the UK needed to protect itself against.

While some other EU countries have been far more accepting of refugees, the general indifference over non-European lives and the support for nationalistic movements has rapidly manifested itself in most European countries over the past few years.

In the UK, the UK Independence Party (UKIP) won the third most number of votes in the past general election by focusing on immigrants’ supposedly coming in and stealing benefits. In France, the Front National (FN) has risen in popularity due to its anti-immigration stances.

Also read: The world’s unwanted

Even the traditionally tolerant and liberal Nordic democracies have shifted to the right. Both Denmark and Sweden recently voted parties into power that campaigned on the platform of limiting immigration and the return to the “good old days” (when only Nordic people lived in their countries, of course).

Nationalism, it seems, has the ability to unite countries, but also create divisions between a common humanity.

And unfortunately, Europe is not the only place suffering from this problem. Across the Atlantic, Donald Trump has drawn plenty of condemnation for calling those fleeing poverty and war, “criminals” and “rapists”. But at the same time, he has soared in popularity on the back of those comments, with many Americans considering him the true protector of American values and the American people.

Moving further east to the refugee situation in our very own country, Pakistan, also illustrates parallels with the rhetoric and prejudice used to taint foreign nationals in other parts of the world.

Just a little over a month ago, the CDA Islamabad razed the homes of over 30,000 people based in a slum in sector I-11, dubbed Afghan Basti, because it claimed that they were illegal. And that there could be “terrorists” hiding amongst the Afghans and Pakthuns living in the settlement.

A few months before that, in the wake of the APS attack in Peshawar, authorities went door-to-door in various settlements, apparently telling Afghan nationals to go back to where they came from.

Such stories of anti-Afghan sentiment are not uncommon in Pakistan, where Afghan refugees often complain about facing intimidation and harassment because they are viewed with suspicion. In reality, they are a largely peaceful people being demonised because of the actions of a few; the irony is apparently lost on Pakistanis who unfairly face similar labels abroad.

Also read: Most Afghan refugees return home due to fear of arrest, harassment

Sadly, all of us are complicit in this to a certain degree. When our politicians roar about certain policies being best for “our country and our people”, we all cheer our approval without ever really pausing to ask ourselves — what is it that makes us prioritise the lives of those around us more than others?

Why do we care more about those people who live in a socially constructed boundary around us? After all, we are but mere accidents of birth.

A European born a few hundred miles further south could have been a desperate Libyan trying to cross the Mediterranean for a better life. A Pakistani born a few hundred miles to the west could have been a poor Afghan refugee trying to make a living in a slum in Islamabad.

In such a case, would we then appreciate the same nationalistic rhetoric of our politicians?

Over the last century or so, fundamental human rights have been advanced significantly in most parts of the world. Many have begun to recognise that accidents of birth should not determine one’s entire life trajectory; that caste, colour, creed, sex, and sexual orientation, should not be grounds to discriminate against people.

Yet, when it comes to nationality, our minds hit a stumbling block.

The nation-state, it seems, is still something we refuse to see as discriminatory; something that perpetuates the self versus other binary, defeating the common bond of our humanity.

Climbing mountains is an annual ritual for me; sometimes it’s even bi-annual. My siblings inherited the travel bug from our father, but for me, the decisive year was 1996, when I took my first ski course with Adventure Foundation Pakistan (AFP).

For the next 10 years, a multitude of treks and adventure activities followed. Then, in 2006, my focus shifted to mountains.

What began with trekking peaks only in Shimshal, gradually expanded to other destinations. But I keep going back to Shimshal; it is, what I like to call, my training ground.

For people who are not familiar with Shimshal's location, it is a cluster of villages 55km off the Karakoram Highway (KKH) east of Passu (Gilgit Baltistan), accessible only through a narrow jeep road that runs through a rocky gorge perilously along a tumultuous river. It is from this cluster of villages that many major trekking trails and their variations sprout forth.

The road from Gulmit to Passu with Passu Cones (Tapapdunn) in the backdrop.

The wooden suspension bridge that connects Shimshal to all places beyond the mighty Shimshal River.

Mountaineering is a highly neglected sport in Pakistan. In mid-Ramazan, when all my sponsorship bids failed, I launched a Facebook event in the hopes of finding a couple of like-minded adventurers to share the expedition expense with. It was now going to be a budget expedition, but I was still ambitious – I wanted to attempt multiple peaks and the plan was to cross a high pass for pre-summit bid acclimatisation.

As the deadline approached for my fifth trip to Shimshal in nine years, I was able to find only one other travel partner able and willing to go with me. And that too, probably because he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

So on July 23, 2015, around 10pm, Shahzaib and I left from Pindi in a chartered Corolla with the intention of landing in Hunza via Babusar Pass around noon the next day. Naraan was a blitz of lights and empty cars parked to both sides of the road and every empty space possible – early next morning. We kept going and did not stop for breakfast until after we had crossed over to the KKH.

By 10am, we had bypassed Gilgit and were on our way to Hunza. In Hunza, we decided to keep going and took a drop to the Attaabad Lake around 1:30pm. We loaded our luggage onto a boat and were across the lake around 3pm.

The jeep road into Shimshal, at places, has been cut through solid rock.

There are quite a few hanging bridges on the Shimshal-Passu jeep road.

The wait for a jeep bound for Shimshal, on the other side of the lake, was pretty long. Akhter from Aminabad Village in Shimshal was getting married, and all the transport (three 4x4s) meant for Shimshal had gone to Chapursan (another high altitude village cluster in Gojal - GB) for the baraat. This meant that despite our rapid progression, we’d be stuck in Gulmit or Passu for that night.

I used my connections and was eventually able to arrange a chartered jeep, for the price of an arm and a leg, for the rest of the journey.

By nightfall, we were in the vicinity of the first village, but could not cross the gushing glacial stream blocking our path. Thus, we had to spend the night at an abandoned roadside hut, which the road maintenance workers use occasionally when duty calls.

Somehow, we made the best of our circumstances. We dug into our food supplies and found some biryani masala to spice up the rice we cooked. It was not until the next morning that we arrived at our motel in Central Shimshal Village. The next day was spent arranging porters, acclimatising at 3,000m and trying to replenish our slightly depleted camp rations. Of the 24 eggs we needed, we managed to find only eight in all three nearby villages.

Passt Furzein Hut - the mud and stone shepherd's hut at Passt Furzein (lower clump of juniper trees) is not much to look at from the outside but is still a welcoming sight.

View of Central Shimshal and Khizerabad Village with the Sunrise Peak (Yeerghatak) in the backdrop. The small green patch across the Shimshal River is Band-e-Ser Village.

Life in Shimshal is tough and both the men and womenfolk tend to the herds.

The Yak population in Shimshal has grown dramatically over the past few years. This particular specimen is an Alpha male.

The first day’s trek was tough. It took us between six to seven hours to gain 900m up the very narrow gorge to Zarthgarbein. All day long, the sun scorched us, but by late evening, it started getting cloudy and by nightfall, it was drizzling heavily. In the morning, it was still raining and at around 9am, the low-hanging clouds had started to scatter, opening up vistas of the rock towers surrounding the breathtaking meadow.

The second day was relatively easier and we reached Shpoadeen (where there are lots of wild Rhubarbs) in less than four hours.

Zarthgarbein is an awesome campsite; it is ideal for Shimshali cricket, rock climbing and basic ski courses in winters.

Looking back at Shimshal Valley a couple of hours into the trek.

Resting before making the final push for Shpoadeen Pass.

Light mood: Gup shup over a cup of black coffee before we start climbing the Shpoadeen Pass.

The third day, however, was grueling; we climbed 900m up the high pass and while the rest of the party descended towards Maidoor, I decided to solo Peer Peak (over 5,700m).

I had done it back in 2008, but this time, the snow condition was very different. I was also under-equipped for the task and had decided to climb it only in a spur-of-the-moment decision.

I had to abandon the attempt at around 5,600m and had a lot of catching up to do as the rest of the team had descended down rapidly. The attempt was, nevertheless, very good for acclimatisation. It took us a total of 13 hours that day, including my failed solo attempt, to get to Maidoor Camp. Both Shahzaib and I had heavily blistered feet and utilised a much needed rest day.

On top of Shpoadeen Pass 5,328m with Peer Peak 5,700m in the backdrop.

The rest of the day has its perks – like this mountain handi pizza.

Nigoar Preiyn - the Juniper stairway to heaven. It is named after lady Nigar, which is pronounced "Nigoar" in local Wakhi dialect.

The Juniper staircase at Nigoar Preiyn is keeping the fragile mountainside intact despite the human traffic.

During the rest of the day I, Wazir (my friend and local guide) and High Altitude Porter (HAP) Izhar Ali, crossed a river and climbed a couple of hundred metres to get a better view of the virgin peaks that we intended to start climbing the following day. We discussed the route and decided to start climbing early next morning.

The next morning, I took off earlier than the guide and the HAP, but they caught up with me at the big yellow eroded rock. Shahzaib had decided to stay back and explore the Kachkaur Valley for wildlife sightings. We climbed almost 900m before we could find any snow for our hydration needs.

The trail is rugged, remote and as dry as a desert.

Purple marks the climbing route and green marks the descent route.

Contrary to the deeper valleys of Shimshal, Maidoor has seen very little snow fall during last winter/spring. The terrain was very hostile; the rocks, it was clear from their look, had borne the brunt of some very extreme weather. The ones still intact could hardly be called rocks; they were cracked up into paper thin wafers, which would disintegrate under mild pressure.

The mountainside was made up of mostly small and medium-sized rocks that resembled shards of broken glass and even sounded similar when stepped upon. I had experienced similar terrain on the way to Camp I of Spantik back in 2012.

Ice compression is a good remedy for blisters.

Shards and paper thin wafers of rock close to 5,000m and above.

At 5,160m, we established Aiza High Camp and I was very keen on getting some ice under my blistered feet. The view from the high camp was awesome. We could see the various seven thousand metre plus peaks of Shimshal, all lined up across the horizon to the South and South West.

These include the likes of Yazghil Dome, Kunyan Chish, Malanguti Ser, Yukshin Gerdan, Shisper Ser and the smaller but very striking Shimshal White Horn (6,400m), which looks like a mini Gasherbrum IV.

The view from the high camp was simply out of this world.

Panoramic views are a common sight here.

The next morning, 30th July 2015, all I could digest was a cup of instant coffee and by 6:30am, we had begun to climb. The first summit was reached at 08:30am and the three of us were ecstatic on having safely made it to the top. We took some photographs and started prepping for the other peak.

We roped up and descended onto the connecting ridge between the two mountains. The snow up there was old, and there was a small semi-frozen glacial pond in the centre of the ridge. The climb up the second summit was moderately technical, but the snow there was particularly bad; it was neither compact nor fully soft and had a thin layer of sleet all over.

On the summit of Moamee Mariya Kataria Ser - 5,457m.

Hunting for satellites on top of Moamee Mariya Kataria Ser at 5,457m.

I was not sure about roping up in such conditions on such a steep gradient, but I had to make do.

The second summit was reached at 10:40am. Thus, not only had we climbed the two virgin peaks but had also done them in alpine style and in tandem (traverse), which is an unheard of achievement in Pakistani mountaineering circles.

On the summit of Ra’na Kook Ser - 5,525m.

I was hoping to catch a glimpse of K2 from the summit, but the clouds on the horizon did not allow me to do so. We stayed on the summit for 20 minutes or so, and then started descending back towards high camp. On the way back we bypassed the summit of Moamee Mariya Katariya Ser and took a totally different route from the high camp back to Maidoor.

It took us another two days to get back to Shimshal Village and yet another two to get back to Rawalpindi. I was lucky to be able to shoot a lot of footage during the expedition and hope to produce an adventure docu-drama of the same.

— All photos by author

If you have recently joined the legions of working men and women in this country, congratulations! It is not an easy feat given the unemployment rates and level of competition. And if you are now struggling with some aspect of your work life, relax. We’ve all been there. You will get the hang of it soon.

But until then, here are some pieces of advice based on my own work experiences at a nine to five(ish) job that may help.

How to: Gather information

My initial impressions of my workplace and coworkers relied heavily on the first few people I came into contact with and trusted. It was only months later that I realised that while they may have been honest, their opinions were coloured by their own experiences, both good and bad. By relying on them, I had inherited their biases and potentially missed out on positive work relationships I could have formed with other people, including my manager.

So while it is a great idea to have a mentor who teaches you the ropes, when it comes to opinions about people, its best to form your own rather than relying on office gossip.

How to: Develop a work ethic

A gentleman at my office has an elaborate system to get out of doing anything other than the bare minimum. He complains, argues and behaves badly, all the while pretending to be busy with some inane task. This usually works and he is not assigned additional responsibility. Other people have other systems. The reason they give is that they are dissatisfied and as their efforts aren’t appreciated, there is no point in working hard.

Early on in your career, you have to decide what kind of work ethic you are going to have. Many of the duties you are assigned will be thankless. Your efforts may go unrecognised, which is disheartening. But that is not a good enough reason to stop doing what is required of you. In the spirit of honesty, you have to keep doing what is laid down in your job description even if you do nothing more. You are, after all, getting paid for it.

See: Office productivity: Work smart not hard

So every day when you go to work, commit to doing what is needed. Even on the bad days, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you did your best.

How to: Reduce the negativity

There are good and bad parts of every job. Even if you are lucky enough to land your dream job, some days are going to be a struggle. There are going to be annoying people and you may have a terrible boss who makes life miserable.

At these times, it’s very tempting to go into a negative spiral and join the dissatisfied majority which spend more time complaining about work than actually working. Venting is a good outlet at times, but try to avoid doing too much of it. It can actually raise your level of dissatisfaction and leave you feeling empty.

Try to find the good parts about your work and focus on them at least for part of the time. And if there is nothing good, then remember that you do have a life outside of your job. Fill the hours you spend outside of the office with enough good things that you are able to bring that positive energy to your workday.

How to: Stay healthy

If you have a desk job and spend most of your day sitting down, then I have some bad news for you. You are going to get fat, and sick. So try standing up and walking around more. While taking long phone calls, filing papers or doing any other little thing that doesn’t require you to sit in front of your computer, stand up or walk around. You will have more natural energy and also not acquire the potbelly that is the hallmark of office workers.

And if you are strong-willed enough, then don’t fall prey to the chai culture. If you are in need of more energy, sleep more, eat better and punctuate your work day with short walks or stretching exercises rather than guzzling down lots of caffeinated drinks.

How to: Communicate

Observe how your coworkers communicate with each other. Every organisation has its own jargon and that can be learned in a few weeks, but there is another layer of complexity: people in Pakistan rarely say what they actually mean, so unless you magically land in an open and honest work culture, the convoluted way in which communication happens will take some getting used to. You want to fit in first before you try to stand out.

As a general rule, avoid straight refusals as that really rubs people the wrong way. You may pride yourself on being a straightforward no nonsense person, but a lot depends on how you say things. You do not want to make people feel that they have been slighted. This doesn’t mean you have to be a pushover, but be careful about the tone of your responses. It can make a world of difference.

And finally…

How to: Work better

Once you get the hang of things, most office jobs are relatively simple. There are established work practices that you can follow. But inevitably, there are going to be mistakes. It’s impossible for anyone to produce perfect output every single time, so don’t beat yourself up if you make a mistake. Distance yourself from the embarrassment or anger and try to understand why the mistake happened. It will help you become more efficient.

Also read: Mediocrity: The Pakistani dream

Often, the problem is a lack of focus. Stress, distractions or a negative working environment take our focus away from the task at hand and we end up making mistakes. To improve your focus, pause for a few seconds before you start a task, and in your mind, spell out what you are going to do and how you are going to do it. If it’s a larger project, write the steps down. Also, stop checking your cellphone every two minutes.

These are some simple tips you can apply day-to-day to have a better work life. Like most other things in life, your job can be a struggle, but it can also be rewarding. The important point is to keep going and maintain a positive outlook.

Late into the night, as traffic begins to disappear on the roads of Hyderabad, the streets are all but abandoned. Only a few stone-loaded trucks are seen chugging along; and the occasional car, land cruiser or bike whizzing past at such a speed that one cannot even see them easily.

At this hour of darkness, when a number of Hyderabad's citizens are desperately looking to hitch a ride from one spot to another, there are two people who offer to do just that ... for free.

Aashique Ali lives in the village of Allahdad Chand, Paka Qilla, Hyderabad. For a living, he repairs motorbikes at his shop in Khokhar Muhalla. After closing shop, he takes up a second job, one that yields no profit except what he earns in solace and peace of mind.

Everyday, Aashique and his friend, Zafar Ali, rev up Aashique's motorbike to offer free transport to those who who cannot rent a rickshaw.

Aashique stands at Giddu chock, a spot where roads go out to different parts of the city: Kotri, Qasimabad, Latifabad, Hussainabad, etc. He picks and drops people wherever they want to go.

“I work at shop to make a living, but that’s not what I came for in this world,” he said. “Doing what I do for these people makes me feel that I’m also useful in this world, and my life is not of no avail. It makes me happy.”

The free rides begin after 11pm, and end at 2am. But in Ramazan, they go on till Sehri. There are now 20 to 25 people whom Aashique and Zafar pick from different places and drop at their homes on a regular basis.

'Zindagi Gulzar Hai'

Aashique's friend Zafar Ali is blind, not by birth but since childhood. At the age of four, he fell from the stairs and critically injured. His parents were uneducated and decided to cure him at home instead of taking him to the hospital. The mistake wreaked havoc on his life. His eyesight began to wane slowly, and within six more years, he was completely blind.

That was the point Zafar left school, in grade five. After that, he and his friend Aashique Ali, too, stopped his studies.

Zafar Ali is now married and the father of two sons. He previously thought he was living an aimless life because he could do nothing but sit at home all the time, but when he joined his friend’s company he found new meaning to the life.

“I have found a way to give meaning to a life which was useless. Despite my handicap, I’m able to lend a helping hand to the helpless. I have escaped attacks, including one where a bullet scraped my finger. But I’m dedicated to the work. It makes me happy,” he says.

Zafar and Aashique were born in the same week, lived in the same neighbourhood, played and studied together, and are now doing social work together which they want to continue as long as they keep having the strength to do so.

Since Zafar can’t work, Aashique Ali buys used motorbikes for him, and helps him repair and sell them, so that his friend has a livelihood.

“I don’t want to leave him alone,” said Aashique Ali. “He can’t live without me, neither can I without him.”

Rs250 every day for 10 years in a row

Every morning, Aashique Ali puts aside Rs250 for his night rides. The money is enough to run his bike for three to four hours continuously.

Where did the idea for this service come to him?

“Some ten years ago, in 2005, we were returning to home from Kotri’s Baba Salahuddin shrine late at night. On the way, we met a lonely young boy who requested for a ride to Hyderabad. When we dropped him off at his home, he wept and prayed for us. On that day, we decided to start this service, and be it rain or cold, we haven’t missed a single day, except Saheed Benazir’s assassination incident, when the police did not allow us to work for 15 days.”

Aashique Ali said that they did not have a car, or they would even pick up people from the more remote areas of the city.

In a city like Hyderabad, where every bike owner has his own tale of mugging, how were these two surviving, I asked.

“We have been attacked by muggers several times, including the time a bullet grazed Zafar's finger,” says Aashique. “No doubt its dangerous. Initially, the policemen also disturbed us; they would inquire about us from everyone we dropped off. But now we know the policemen and they know us.”

Aashique said that at first, people would laugh at the two; relatives called them crazy and parents advised them against it. But they kept it up, and now they are known for their work. Their phone numbers are spread all across the city and people can ring them up from anywhere in the city at any time to set up a ride.

In these ten years, they have used the same bike, whereas some 15 other people whom they once lifted from one place to another, had now bought their own motorbikes.

“In a society where no one cares about others, offering such a service looks very odd; which is why, in the initial days people would shy away from us,” says Aashique.

“We asked people where they want to go, so that we may offer them lift. Many of them grew suspicious and tried to avoid us. To solve that problem, we put a tape recorder on the bike and would play na'ats, which made them trust us more.”

But for most people who meet these two Good Samaritans for the first time, they are still too good to be true.

—All photos by author

My introduction to khatti daal was made at my best friend’s house. Her aayaa, who we lovingly called Amma, was from Hyderabad Deccan.

My own household hardly ever served khatti daal, and I cannot help but wonder how ethnic backgrounds play a significant role in determining our choices for daily cooking.

My research has led me to understand that the cuisine of that region has a strong lean to southern cooking. Their creative methods of cooking vegetables, lentils and beans, baisan (gram flour), coconut milk, imli (tamarind) and peanuts amongst others, blends into a flavour that is uniquely Hyderabadi.

Food Historian Lizzie Collingham, in her book titled Curry says the following about the evolution of Hyderabadi cuisine;

Southern India has a long history of outsiders bringing in culinary influences. In the area of India known as Deccan, Persian Shi’ites found employment with a Bahamanid sultan during the fourteenth century. The Bahamanid kingdom eventually broke up into a number of satellite states, one of which was Golconda, which later became known as Hyderabad.

Here, the pilaus of the Persians combined with Hindu Deccan cookery, in which shredded coconut and coconut milk are vital ingredients and the tang of curry leaves, the astringent bite of fresh fenugreek leaves, and the sharp sour note of tamarind impart flavor.

The meeting of the two styles gave rise to an elegant cuisine with unusual combinations, such as lamb cooked with beans and tamarind, [lentils and vegetables cooked with tamarind to give a tangy twist].

However, a wider history of the region suggests that the Hyderabadi cuisine as we know it today, evolved to be so in the 17th century. The Mughul Emperor Aurangzeb marched to Deccan and lay siege to the Golconda Fort in hopes of conquering the region.

The Deccanis resisted the Mughul ruler for eight long months. As the Mughul Army sat waiting, the besieged cooks inside the fort and their counterparts outside provided the gestation period for the modern day Hyderabadi cuisine.

Hyderabadi khatti daal can be made with masoor or urud, amongst other daals.

Vikram Doctor in his article published in The Economics Times has the following to say;

Lentils charred by fire, indicating some kind of cooking, have been found in cave remains in Greece dating back 11000 BC. The Eastern Mediterranean is where lentils were first planted, along with early cereals, as the first farmed crops. Ken Albala, in his history of legumes, explains that lentils were important because they need little rain and can grow on poor land, which they make better by binding nitrogen into the soil. A person can subsist mainly on this vegetable-based diet and it will support a large population in a way that gathering and hunting cannot.

K. T. Achaya, in his pioneering history of Indian food speculated that the word masoor originated in aboriginal Indian usage, but this is one case where there's another possibility: the Egyptian fame of lentils stuck to it as it travelled, so we get the name from misri, the old name for anything Egyptian.

Achaya points to a record of these daals in Sanskrit writings that might predate direct Egyptian contact, but words can be surprisingly persistent as they spread, and the name got a boost when the Muslims arrived in India and found a food they were already familiar with.

Lentils are loaded with iron and vitamin B, and some varieties of lentils are enriched in protein, in equal or greater value than meat.

When it was time for me to make khatti daal, I turned to Shazlee Auntie’s customised cookbook yet again. Unfortunately, Amma’s khatti daal recipe could not be traced, and it was not because of lack of trying.

Here it is, from my kitchen to yours.

Ingredients

1 cup masoor daal or toor daal (I used masoor or red lentils)
1 tomato
½ tsp. fresh ginger
½ tsp. fresh garlic
½ tsp. turmeric
Red chillie powder to taste
Salt to taste
¾ tsp. coriander powder
1 inch by 2 inch block of tamarind (soak in approximately 1 to 1 ½ cups hot water), let cool, rub/mix with hand to remove fiber/pulp from seeds.

Ingredients for fried garnish (bhagaar)

2 dried red chillis
2 green chillie, slit lengthwise
½ tsp. cumin seeds
3 cloves garlic, chopped
3 to 4 curry leaves

Method

Wash lentils and soak in water for ½ hour. Drain, rinse and add 3 to 4 cups water.

Bring to boil adding all ingredients, except tamarind.

Let it cook, once tender, add 1 cup (or to taste) of tamarind and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, adding water for desired consistency.

Heat oil, adding garnish ingredients, temper for a few seconds and pour on dal.

Mix and serve with white rice, topping with cilantro.

—Photos by author.

Some five years ago an obscure band called the Bayghairat Brigade (the Dishonorable Brigade) rose to sudden prominence when their song 'Aaloo Anday' appeared on the then still-not-banned YouTube.

The song immediately clicked with millions of Pakistanis who viewed it on YouTube, turning it into a quirky phenomenon of sorts, enough to also begin attracting the attention of the country’s mainstream TV news channels.

The timing of the song was just right. All the factors that have contributed the most to what today is being explained as ‘Pakistan’s existentialist crises’, had begun to hit the peak of their negative influence.

These factors spawned political and social maneuvers that in the next few years mutated into becoming exactly the kind of existential turmoil the state and government of Pakistan is now trying to resolve on a war footing.

The song, constructed over and around a light-weight but instantly melodic composition, took some clever witty potshots at many of the influences that were on their way to weighing down the country’s politics and society: Terrorism, extremism, intolerance and corruption, and how these were actually being uncannily aided by the anarchic and self-centered actions of the populist media, some sections of the intelligence agencies, and certain ‘messianic’ political personalities.

But that was then. Five years later a young Major in the Pakistan army has penned a song which, surprisingly, may as well have emitted from the playful minds of the guys who had penned and sung Aaloo Anday.

Though the song, ‘Aisi Tesi Hypocrisy’, was predominantly penned as a response to the Indian song, ‘Aisi Tesi Democracy’, its lyrics reflect a lot more than just that.

The Indian song that last week became an internet sensation mocks the state, politicians and military of Pakistan for failing to make peace with India. However, in the same breath it also pokes fun at some of India’s own political and social idiosyncrasies that have contributed to the eternal impasse between India and Pakistan. But, of course, the words of the song (though pretty funny), do present Pakistan as some war-mongering nation that ironically looks quite like its enemy (Indians).

Hassan Miraj, apparently a talented young Major in the Pakistan armed forces, was not amused. So he penned a lyrical response to the Indian song and offered it to a group of musicians to sing it.

‘Aisi Tesi Hypocrisy’ is a blow-by-blow reprisal of ‘Aisi Tesi Democracy’, but in addition to this, it is also a manifestation of the gradual change now taking place in the mindset of the Pakistan army.

For example, had this been 2010 (or the year Aaloo Anday appeared), the response would more likely have been penned by a completely humorless and annoying fellow to whom more than half the population of Pakistan was treacherous and on the payroll of one enemy country or the other.

But after experiencing the now year-old and intense operation against extreme outfits in the mountains and the cities, and regenerating itself through the dictates of what has come down to be called ‘The Raheel Sharif Doctrine’, a gradual but major paradigm shift is taking place in the country’s armed forces.

It’s quite there to be seen, but curiously, there are still many on both the liberal as well as the rightest sides of the divide who are stubbornly holding on to what may have been true before 2013.

The new scenario is not compatible with the outraging cynicism of yore that some liberals continue to carry. They are now dealing in repetitive clichés.

India seems to be stuck in an outmoded understanding of the state of Pakistan as well. This understanding needs to be drastically updated. But such a restructured understanding will not bode well with the kind of politics Indian PM and his party, the BJP, have been shaping.

On the other end, those on the rightest sides of the split who are failing to notice the change seem disorientated and bemused, even by the very thought of the mentioned paradigm shift.

After all, their whole ideological narrative and political existence was constructed on the pillars of the bygone paradigm, and the fear that it might come crashing down is making them pray that the ‘Raheel Doctrine’ ends up being just a flash in the pan. They too are dealing in repetitive clichés, the sort that now stand obsolete.

Interestingly, India seems to be stuck in an outmoded understanding of the state of Pakistan as well. This understanding needs to be drastically updated. But such a restructured understanding will not bode well with the kind of politics Indian PM and his party, the BJP, have been shaping and sharpening.

The song ‘Aisi Tesi Hypocrisy’ cleverly weaves all this in its lyrical narrative. Because it is not the song’s taunting of what the Indian song was suggesting about Pakistan, but rather, a striking observation that should tilt the balance in Pakistan’s favour (in the context of this little musical banter).

And it’s a damning observation, and entirely accurate. A weighty portion of the song suggests that indeed, both Pakistan and India have had volatile characters who have peddled militaristic and chauvinistic fantasies, but the fact now is, that whereas Pakistan is well on its way to phasing them out, India is plunging head-on into embracing them!

The observation is reinforced when the song suggests that whereas Pakistanis are sidelining the reactionaries, India has gone on to vote for them (BJP). In other words, India is now embracing what Pakistan played with a long time ago (and for a long time), but after finally realizing that it had begun to eat away the country’s very existence, the country has begun to shun it.

But India, instead of learning from Pakistan’s example, is creating its own monsters in the name of Hindu nationalism. The song reminds the Indians that we’ve been there, and done that, and are now changing. It’s just too bad India is refusing to see this. It seems Modi and his party’s raison d'etre remains to be to continue exhibiting Pakistan as a nation that is condemned by the world, when the truth is, in this pursuit, he is creating within India exactly the kind of monstrous nuisances he is blaming Pakistan for.

The morning I left home to wander in snow and meet the great Saif-ul-Malook Lake in its frozen glory, the mountains of Hindu Kush had seen the last snow shower of the season; mild rays from the sun had just kissed the eaves of the roof of my house; a fresh red rose in the flower pot had just blossomed; my wristwatch told me it was eight o'clock.

Somewhere far away, a song seemed to be playing:

"Awara hoon yaa gardish mein hoon. Aasmaan ka tara hoon"

(Vagabond I have become, or have I fallen into turbulence. A star of the sky I am).

The previous night, a firebrand leader of a political party had given his marathon televised address; in the morning, TV channels were running an ISPR statement denouncing the incendiary speech. The whole episode had me in stitches.

All this had already happened when, cursing hypocrisy, politics, and society, I packed up and embarked on my journey.

As soon as my car left the city behind, the sunlight turned a little too hot. Wilted wheat crops stood on both sides of the road. The spikelets had bent down from their stems. Looking at the shrivelled crops made my heart sink. The continual deluges had tested the patience of farmers in Punjab.

What can man can do but bow his head before Nature?

The River Chenab.

Sunrise at Abbottabad.

Before the fields of the lifeless crops could end, I found myself at the bridge over River Chenab. Down in the middle of the River, a boat was being rowed by a lone sailor. He must have been singing, but sitting in the car I could not hear him. It was a holiday and the boatman must have been enjoying his moments of leisure with the waters of Chenab.

The sun was looking at its reflection in the River, where the boat floated down with such ease that it put a smile on my face. I suspect that the boatman had seen me, for he, too, was smiling; the joy of the journey is the same for someone travelling on waters and someone travelling over land.

In this bright morning; the sunshine sprawling itself on both sides of the Grand Trunk Road, which was being trodden with traffic from all sorts of vehicles; my car continued to travel, and then, there was Potohar. The Potohar Plateau.

The River Kunhar.

Jalkhad.

It is a region with friable clay hills, with pathways traversing these hills, with bushes guarding wild flowers, and with many small forests of acacia. A few herons had perched on three or four of the acacia trees, making it look like they were laden with fruit. The herons were silent and still, completely lethargic, drowned in thoughts, and digging their beaks in their bodies; perhaps, the entire drove had lost the desire to fly.

Speeding along the road, I caught a glimpse of two blue wild flowers that broke the pattern created by orange-coloured flowers. Perhaps, they were oblivious to the touch of butterflies and would glow only when they had travellers in sight. Beautiful but without fragrance. A soft smile from me to them.

The car passed by several cities – tired and sleepy on the holiday – and arrived in Rawalpindi's Pirwadhai area, where I changed the vehicle. It was May Day, the day of the working class and the poor. A number of posters had appeared everywhere at the bus terminal. Some well-known politicians and factory owners were to speak on the labourers' rights at a seminar scheduled for that evening at the PC hotel. They were to flood the podium, set under a German chandelier and decorated with narcissus flowers with their tears, but only after having high-tea of course.

Under one of those huge posters, I saw a life form, bent and knock-kneed with the heavy bundle it carried to earn a day's living. An uncontrollable laugh was subdued by the hubbub of the surroundings. Who would have heard it? Who was the subject, who knows?

A young woman watches the sun set in Paye.

Paye meadow.

A horse rider in Paye.

A horse rider in Paye.

Then came the Hazara region; crowded as usual; people busy and yelling; vehicles gridlocked; buildings with colourful window panes, most of them green and blue. When the population centre was left behind, wheat fields filled the landscape.

The health of these crops rejuvenated my spirits. They waved in the breeze with their spikelets full of wheat berries, like a host of healthy damsels. The wheat had grown in abundance and everywhere – in a plot of land between two shops, in backyards, on the banks of a stream, and even in a graveyard, where passages between the graves had been sown.

Wheat crops in the Hazara region.

The health and abundance of these crops made me wonder if the people here grew wheat instead of hair on their heads. A smile for the Hazaras, too.

The vehicle sped up the curvy mountain roads, passing by Army Burn Hall College, Kakol Military Academy, and then Mansehra. It left the city of blue roofs, Balakot, behind. It ran along Kaghan Road and arrived at Paras, where I saw a marble gravestone with a weird inscription, which read:

"He died in an accident while beating drums in the middle of the road."

I rubbed my eyes, but the inscription, instead of revising itself, became more vivid. I laughed so hard, doubled down over myself, that it seemed the world around me had spun over upside down, and that the River Kunhar was flowing upstream – from Balakot to Naran.

Balakot had been left behind, down the mountains somewhere. The curvy road had become steeper. My driver pulled over at the Shogran Stop for a tea-break. Outside the shabby restaurant, a couple of sunflowers had blossomed. A sudden déjà vu hit me; I remembered having travelled up from this spot to Shogran and Siri Paye.

Shogran had seen an influx of tourists, who trampled over its beauty, leaving it jaded. Siri Paye, nonetheless, still retains its strong attraction for tourists as a green plateau on top of the Hindu Kush. Engulfed in clouds and fog more often than not, it entices me as a rendezvous which allows one to observe Nature play peek-a-boo.

Here, you see numerous small ponds filled with freshwater, meet horse-riders wandering about, and smell wild yellow flowers blooming everywhere. With the Makra Peak set as a backdrop, the beauty of the Siri Paye meadows comes to life.

The road to Kaghan valley.

A view of Nanga Parbat from Babusar Pass.

A view of Nanga Parbat from Babusar Pass.

I resumed my journey. Kaghan went by quietly. The Kaghan Valley gets its name from the village of Kaghan. The River Kunhar flows in the centre of this valley, which spreads over 155 kilometres from the height of 2134 metres, at the Babusar Pass, to the height of 4173 metres. The entire region is dotted with forests and meadows, replicating paradise on earth. It has mountain peaks with heights up to 17,000 feet, including Makra Peak and Malika Parbat.

After crossing over the Naran Bridge, I got a clear view of a hill resort. With the dusk setting in, lights in Naran began to gleam. The bazaar was crowded beyond expectation. Naran had not changed; it looked the way I never wanted to see it. Its clamouring roads, polluting river banks, over-decorated shops, people debating non-issues, commotion, noisy laughter, flamboyance, hollowness, and expensive hotels left me uncomfortable.

All the hotels in Naran had already been booked by tourists swarming this resort.

A skinny girl, strapping a pair of jeans and wearing her hair down, was walking in front of me in the middle of the road, like a model walking on a ramp. I overtook her only to discover that it was actually a boy, who had grown his hair long and decided to wear it down. I found myself giggling; it was the first source of joy in Naran.

Naran bazaar in the winter.

The Naran valley.

I wanted to spend the night in anonymity. My destination was not Naran but Lake Saif-ul-Malook, still frozen and covered with snow, and accessible to the sons of Adam only by virtue of all their strength and determination, and after fighting their way through the snow. The jeep track to the Lake was closed because of the snow. Only once you had gone through this cycle of affliction, did the goddess of water allow you to be dazzled by her beauty.

In Naran, however, anonymity was hard to come by. Hotel rooms were fully occupied and the only way to get accommodation was to introduce myself; I had to put on a show of my craft; I had to reference national interests. And then, finally, a lodging for the night was provided.

A village in Naran Valley.

The Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation motel in Naran.

As I lay in the room, I recalled my previous odysseys. In the summer, you would find this vale daubed in a hue of green and freshness. After leaving the Naran bazaar, you see a track bending upwards and leading to Lalazar, a picturesque spot.

It’s a narrow and dangerous jeep-track, but the moment you arrive at your destination, fright succumbs to overwhelming happiness. You're welcomed by towering chir pines surrounding a small plain covered with green crops. Potato and beans are the major produce here.

However, from Naran if you do not take the turn to Lalazar and, instead, continue to travel along the same road, you will arrive at Jalkhad, where the River Kunhar spreads its limbs out into the open. Next, you arrive at Baisal. It is from this spot that a trail leads you to a lake cupped in the mountains and covered with wild flowers, the Lake Dudipatsar. An entire day’s arduous trail brings you here.

The Dudipatsar Lake.

The Lulusar Lake.

Dudipatsar with its natural beauty, preserved by its remoteness, sits in the middle of lush green mountains, and with its green transparent water, can cast more than a spell on you. Even the trail leading to the lake mesmerises you with its greenery, wild flowers and brooks.

Again, if you continue to move along the main road from Baisal, you will be welcomed by the Lulusar Lake. Stretching over two and a half kilometres, this Lake, with its dark waters, looked so mysterious even in the daylight, that my heart wouldn't stop thumping against my rib cage.

Moving alongside the spooky Lake, you arrive at the Babusar Pass. Throw a glance below and you would see the Gaitidas meadows and a polo ground. Every year, a polo tournament is held here, with teams from Chilas competing against each other. Perhaps, the game of polo is the only source of entertainment for the locals, including children and old men. After traversing Babusar and crossing-over the Thak Nala, the roads connect itself with Chilas on the Karakoram Highway.

Babusar Pass and Gaitidas.

Babusar Pass in the winter.

An evening in Babusar.

After a night spent reminiscing, I ventured out early morning with a wooden stick in my hand. From a village, around one kilometre from Naran bazaar, I hired a porter who was to serve also as my guide.

The path ahead had been claimed by snow. When I asked him how much he would charge, his response was whatever I wished to pay he would gladly accept. At this moment, he appeared as endearing as a little child, I immediately hired him.

In a few minutes, both of us became part of the snow-covered landscape. We climbed up; the snow wrapped everything, and steep mountains only went steeper. We were temporarily snow-blinded several times when the morning light, however mild, reflected off the snow. Resting, gasping to reclaim our breath, falling, and recovering, we trudged on.

I had not imagined the track to the Lake to be this steeper. The climb was unending. After every one of our stops, my guide had some difficulty suggesting that we should resume our journey. After a while, I conceded, “Yea, let’s go.”

In this snow land, a mass of whiteness, and the wilderness, only one colour contrasted with the rest of the world: the colour of our skins, because our clothes, too, were white.

A view of Naran Valley as we trekked up the Lake Saif-ul-Malook.

Naran Valley in the winter.

Trekking towards Lake Saif-ul-Malook.

In return for a four-hour arduous journey, the Lake revealed itself. But there was no water there, only a field of snow looking back at me. The Lake had been buried under several layers of snow, completely concealed. The mountains standing behind and around her were also wearing white. A red roof of a hotel barely breached the sea of whiteness.

Looking at the frozen Lake in front of me, I walked up to its shore, set up camp and collapsed. The gruelling trail had left me exhausted, but the sun was shining blindly and, consequently, the snow gave off heat, which scorched my back. It was hard to breathe. Lying in the camp, I tried to kill some time, because I wanted to observe the lake in twilight and, if possible, under a full moon.

After every hour, the guide kept returning to me and I would lay still and respond without opening my eyes: "Yes, let's go after a little while".

The frozen Lake Saif-ul-Malook.

Hotels near the Lake Saif-ul-Malook.

I spent the whole day in the camp with a deluge of memories of this lake from summertime; when its shores would come to life with tourists walking around, food-vendors chanting, boatmen modulating their songs, and storytellers whispering the legend of Badr-ul-Jamal to their listeners. But people would also pollute its shores with empty juice boxes, paper cups, ice-cream wrappers, and diapers; all of these items currently buried under the snow.

What tourists had done to the Lake Saif-ul-Malook a man would not do to his sworn enemy. The pollution is smothering the lake, its beauty already tarnished.

Lake Saif-ul-Malook in summertime.

Lake Saif-ul-Malook in summertime.

As I was absorbed in my thoughts, the guide made a few more trips to my camp and went away with an innocent face, when I refused to pack up right away. Once, when I came out to take a panorama of the entire vale, he asked, “Are you making a movie sahab?” I explained to him that it was panorama. He listened and then fell silent, watching what I was doing.

The twilight receded and the moon rose in the sky, above the frozen Lake. It hung from Saif-ul-Malook; a full moon it was. The moonlight washed the snow-covered mountains and the lake white. It was so bright that my eyes dazzled. From my toes to the moon in the sky, there was bright whiteness everywhere, as if the lake and the mountains had clad themselves in a single large piece of white cloth.

The mythological legend of Badr-ul-Jamal was being played before me, but there was no fairy. There was only a giant, and it, too, was dumbfounded and silent. The splendid moonlight had obscured the stars.

Ahmed Mushtaq’s verses resonated in my head:

Chaand bhi nikla, Sitaray bhi barabar niklay Mujh sey achay tu shab-e-gham kay muqadar niklay

[The Moon is up and so are the stars
The night of grief seems luckier than I am]

The snowy loneliness of the Lake Saif-ul-Malook was shared by only two sons of Adam. It was only for this sight, which lay before me, that I had undertaken a laborious four-hour long trek in the snow, ascending and faltering all along the way. The impulse to see the Lake Saif-ul-Malook under the full moon had pushed me to do that.

Now, the frozen lake under the full moon had me transfixed.

The Lake Saif-ul-Malook — a long shot.

A frozen Lake Saif-ul-Malook under the moon.

And then, the madness of the scene became unbearable. The enchantment grew as did the chill in the air. There was no water to plunge into either.

The guide was insisting that we leave. He said he was afraid of leopards. I wondered if he was really frightened or just wanted to manipulate me into going back.

But I was unresponsive.

At that moment, I wasn't myself. Consciousness, I had transcended; a dichotomy of body and soul. I was where there was no room for thought, fear, doubt or anything of the like.

Then all of sudden, the spell broke and I told him, “Let’s go. It's getting too cold.”

His face beamed with joy, and as we were leaving. His hearty laugh shattered the silent air and ascended all the way over to the Malika Parbat peak and beyond. It was a long, long laugh, and echoed in the valley for quite a while.

Paye meadow.

Paye meadow.

On the return journey, I faced another trouble: although climbing up had been difficult, I had managed to pull along, but climbing down these precipitous slopes proved even harder. The snow was slippery. The mountains were well-lit, thanks to the moonlight, but I was beginning to panic. The wise men were correct when they said that climbing down was harder than climbing up.

It reminded me of Jon Elia, who says:

Main ess deewar per charh tou gia Utaary kon ab deewar sey

[Somehow I managed to climb up this wall
Who knows who will help me to climb down]

Who was there to help me climb down these walls of snow? The guide was a local; he would throw himself on snow and take a slide to go a few metres down, and then beckon me to do the same. I was reluctant and a bit shy to slide, but there was no other option on the table. And who was there to see this artist sahab take slides in the snow, anyway? So I gave in.

Paye meadow.

Paye meadow.

Paye meadow.

Paye meadow.

Paye meadow.

We continued to slide down for at least two hours. The snow left my body numb. I could not feel my limbs, but I still managed to walk.

You might not believe it, but after my final slide, when I sat down to rest on a rock I felt, as if I was suspended in air. The numbness had spread all over.

When we arrived back at the village, it was already 11pm. My guide’s mother had been worrying about her son and waiting for him at the doorstep, carrying a lantern. He met her as if he were a toddler. She hugged and kissed him. It overwhelmed me and my eyes watered up. After taking leave from them, I walked along a brook flowing down from the Lake Saif-ul-Malook.

The Siri Lake.

Paye Lake.

A sob was lost somewhere in the moist air flowing over the water. My eyes were burning; perhaps it was the result of a tiresome trip, or maybe the melancholy had exacted a toll. The guide’s mother had reminded me of my late mother. It felt like I had spent the entire day in a single emotional state: melancholic.

Before the Naran bazaar, I saw some Urdu graffiti on a roadside rock from a PTI supporter. It read:

Agay barh ker Imran ko choo lo
Papi chulo, papi chulo

Moist eyes and a giggle. A journey whose beginning was marked by the event of one political party was now ending with reflections on another. A smile for this political worker.

Every time I return home from my adventures and lie down in my bed to let my aching body heal, the moonlit Lake Saif-ul-Malook casts its images on my mind and brings a smile to my face. It takes away all the pain. What I had seen at the Lake Saif-ul-Malook was to pin itself to my memories like a photograph, before a new vale invited me.

Paye Lake.

Paye Lake.

My camp in Paye — Not a five-star but a five billion-star hotel.

—All photos by the author

Translated by Arif Anjum from the original in Urdu here.

Syed Mehdi Bukhari is a Network Engineer by profession, and a traveler, poet, photographer and writer by passion.

He can be reached on Facebook.

“The United States is behind the increase in divorce rates in Pakistan.”

If you live in Pakistan, you must be used to hearing – and perhaps making – such and even more outrageous statements. But not I.

I arrived in Pakistan last week. Even before PIA’s plane took off from Toronto airport, my fellow passengers had already resorted to what I know now was their favourite pastime: America bashing.

“Shuja Khanzada was assassinated because he was about to expose America’s involvement in terrorism in Pakistan,” whispered my fellow passenger, while we were delayed by an hour at the tarmac.

With hundreds of millions spent on PR, and billions more in humanitarian aid, America continues to struggle to build a positive image in Muslim countries. With extremist mullahs on one hand and Socialists and Marxists on the other, the anti-American propaganda in Pakistan thrives in madrassahs and universities alike.

What distinguishes Pakistan from the rest is how readily willing its educated class is to fall for propaganda. I was surprised, to put it mildly, when I heard a rather distinguished group of Islamabad-based male professionals nodding in agreement to the claim that the US was behind the sudden increase in divorce rates in Pakistan.

I couldn’t resist to probe, “How so?”

“Well, Americans are awarding thousands of scholarships for higher education to Pakistani women. On their return, these women are more in tune with the American values than they are with those of their homeland. They ultimately leave their husbands,” explained one.

That this statement is factually untrue is a minor concern to me. I am alarmed about the fact that it is virtually impossible for a few hundred urban women to influence the divorce rates in the largely rural Pakistan.

Let’s look at this in a systematic way. First, has there been a dramatic increase in divorce rates in Pakistan? I believe the statistics are not available to make a conclusive statement. The published research is rather shoddy.

Lawyers interviewed for recent news reports did not attempt to hide the misogyny-laden twisted logic and argued that education has led to financial independence for women, who are now increasingly asking for divorce instead of “compromising”.

It is strange that those who hold such an opinion do not question the practice where Muslim men can arbitrarily divorce their wives and are not bound to any communal or legal arbitration.

“I divorce thee” times three is the trump card Muslim men have used to break off marriages instantaneously. However, when women request for arbitration on divorce, these men see red.

Let’s analyse the claim about the Americans exclusively funding Pakistani women for higher education, which the conspiracy theorists believe is causing the surge in divorces in Pakistan.

The Fulbright program in Pakistan, for instance, provides scholarships for doctoral and Masters studies abroad. In 2015, the Fulbright program in Pakistan enrolled 180 students. A survey of 86 of the 180 revealed that a mere 27 per cent of the 2015 class were women. So from a total of 180, I expect fewer than 60 to be women.

Even if the entire lot of Fulbright women – who will eventually graduate a few years down the road – divorce their spouses, they still cannot possibly influence the 90 million Pakistani women on the matter of divorce.

Aisi Taisi Hypocrisy

An even stronger strand of anti-American sentiment comes from certain members of the military. Senior decorated army officers may be equally gullible or biased. Confidential diplomatic dispatches from the US embassy in Islamabad revealed that Anne Patterson, the US Ambassador to Pakistan in 2008, “received astonishingly naive and biased questions about America” when she addressed Army’s National Defence University in Islamabad.

“The elite of this crop of colonels and brigadiers are receiving biased NDU training, with no chance to hear alternative views of the US,” the dispatch quoted the ambassador.

Not much has changed since then. The tit-for-tat song, Aisi Taisi Hypocrisy, written in response to the Indian Aisi Taisi Democracy is yet another example of the flourishing anti-West sentiments in Pakistan. Written by Hassan Miraj, a major in Pakistan Army, and sung by my younger cousin, Mujtaba Ali, the song draws a contrast between the ills in India and Pakistan. However, the song squarely puts the blame for Pakistan’s ills on the white race (a euphemism for Americans), Arabs and the news media. Scapegoating at its best.

America should not be judged only for the misdeeds of CIA and Pentagon. The same goes for Pakistanis, who should not be seen in the narrow context of martial laws or the intelligence intrigues.

American universities may be expensive, but they are the best in the world. That Pakistani students are welcomed in the US is no intrigue. Pakistanis should welcome people-to-people contacts with the rest of the globe and resist narcissist xenophobia that feeds conspiracy theories.

As for the surge in divorce rates, maybe, just maybe, it is time for Pakistani men who beat their wives to stop doing so.

Related:

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• Pakistan's worst nightmare: A Jew, an Indian and an American walk into a bar...

Eminabad, a small town in central Punjab near Gujranwala, has some wonderful Muslim, Hindu and Sikh architecture of historic significance, besides the 'havelis' built by the Diwan family, who once ruled Kashmir and migrated to India in the turmoil of 1947.

One of the oldest towns in this part of Punjab, Eminabad has been through its share of ups and downs in history, and in the course of these vicissitudes, it saw its name changed many times.

The town is said to have been founded in first century BCE by Raja Salvahan, the Rajput ruler of Sialkot. The original name of the town is unknown, but its oldest name was Saidpur in the 16th century, when Babur invaded this part of Punjab and sacked the town in 1521. That was the time when Guru Nanak was also present in Saidpur.

Once, there must have been a parapet around the town, but now there are only a few gates left. This one was rebuilt in 2012.

The gate leads into a narrow crowded main market of Eminabad.

The other gate, which looks relatively older and leads into a locality where most of the old houses still exist.

An old structure which is called a 'dak chowki'. It is located a few yards away from the old gates of Eminabad.

Facade of Diwan haveli, the magnificent structure is symbolises aesthetic taste of the Diwan family.

There are multi-cusped arches decorated with stucco and cut bricks and intricately carved jharokas, windows and doors.

There are multi-cusped arches decorated with stucco and cut bricks and intricately carved jharokas, windows and doors.

The interior and facades were painted with different subjects, including the gods and goddesses of the Vedic pantheon.

In the hymns of Guru Nanak, we find eyewitness accounts of the havoc in Saidpur during that period. Guru Nanak and his companion Bhai Mardana were taken as prisoners along with the population of the town. Later, a meeting was held between the guru and King Babur. Inspired by the spirituality of the guru, the king released all the prisoners of Saidpur.

After that event, according to Sikh legend, the guru and his devotee Bhai Lalo stayed at a heap of shattered pebbles. This site, known as Rori Sahib, is located on the outskirts of present-day Eminabad.

According to the Gazetteer of Gujranwala District, Sher Shah Suri demolished Saidpur and founded a new city on his own name as Shergarh. Ultimately, it was Emin or Ameen Beig – a general of Humayun – who ransacked the garrison of Sher Shah Suri, and so a new town was raised on the name of that general in the reign of Akbar.

The interior and facades were painted with different subjects, including the gods and goddesses of the Vedic pantheon.

Passion for art: Dr Ghulam Abbas climbed up a ladder to wipe the dust off the fresco paintings on a facade of Diwan's haveli.

Passion for art: Dr Ghulam Abbas climbed up a ladder to wipe the dust off the fresco paintings on a facade of Diwan's haveli.

Anglo Sanskrit High School Eminabad built by Diwan AmarNath foreign minister of Kashmir.

Anglo Sanskrit High School Eminabad built by Diwan AmarNath foreign minister of Kashmir.

Ruins of a walled garden in south of Eminabad.

Ruins of a walled garden in south of Eminabad.

Shiva Temple — there are at least three such main temples, although we can’t trace the complete history of these temples, the structure does not seem very old.

Travel writer Salman Rashid, in his book Gujranwala the Glory That Was, gives the reference that in 1610, William Finch, an English merchant mentioned Eminabad as a fair city.

Over a hundred years after that, Eminabad remained prosperous due to its location, fertile lands and the Mughal Empire, which safeguarded this area of Punjab from the invaders. In Mughal times, Eminabad became the headquarters of a Parganah in Lahore governorate, bringing in a revenue of 900,000 rupees.

However, taking advantage of the administrative weakness of Mughal Empire (which swiftly exposed itself after Aurangzeb), anti-state elements began rising in various parts of the country, including Punjab, where Sikh gangs created a chaos.

In 1738, Jaspat Rai, the Diwan of Eminabad, was killed in a battle with such a band of Sikh bandits. Later, Lakhpat Rai, the brother of the deceased Diwan, inflicted a crushing defeat on Sikh bandits, and brought a large number of outlaws to Lahore, where they were executed outside Delhi Gate. The place is known as Shahid Ganj.

By the second half of the 18th century, the Mughal administration had weakened so much that it was incapable of protecting many parts of the state from rebels and invaders. The reign of Shah Alam II faced countless attacks, mainly from Ahmed Shah Abdali, Marathas, Hindu Jats of Bharatpur and the Sikhs who had trampled all over the administrative authority between Lahore and Delhi.

In 1760, Charat Singh, the grandfather of Ranjit Singh took over Eminabad. Later, in the time of Ranjit Singh, the town was bestowed on Dhyan Singh, one of the three brothers from Jammu who served Maharaja Ranjit Singh.

Shiva Temple in all its eroded glory.

The third temple in the area.

The temples are being used as cattle yards.

The temples are being used as cattle yards.

Fodder-cutting machine installed inside a temple.

Decades of negligence have eroded the grandeur of superb Hindu architecture.

The stone of Shiva Lingam found in the filthy backyard of a temple.

There's no hope for the restoration of these sites which are sacred to some people.

Going from Saidpur to Shergarh to Eminabad over the course of three centuries, the town entered the late 19th century developed as a fairly large establishment, flourished with all available facilities and signs of power and wealth. Here, it was the dawn of a new era of prosperity and exposure to modernity.

In 1880, a railway line was laid, linking Lahore with Rawalpindi. The line passes by Eminabad, so the town also got a railway station, ushering in a revolutionary change the in the mode of transport in this part of Punjab. Through Lahore – the nearest major city and the hub of education – the people of Eminabad came closer to business and employment opportunities.

Like many other suburban towns of Punjab, the Hindu population of Eminabad was wealthier than the others. They had large business setups across various parts of the country and superior jobs in state institutions, particularly in Jammu and Kashmir.

From what's left of the gardens, havelis and temples of Eminabad, it is not that hard to imagine the old, fortuitous days of this town. Although much of the splendor has eroded with time, the architecture still boasts signs of its former glory. For instance, the remaining facades of the three- and four-storey havelis of the Diwan family still fascinate. There are multi-cusped arches decorated with stucco and cut bricks, intricately carved jharokas, windows and doors.

People have settled inside the havelis.

People have settled inside the havelis.

The mosque located in eastern vicinity of Eminabad is attributed to the Lodhi period, which makes it one of the oldest surviving mosques in Pakistan.

Standing in the fields of the mosque, you can tell it is enjoying nil restoration efforts.

The interior of the mosque.

The fine cut-brick work on the interior of the dome is a unique feature of the mosque.

The fine cut-brick work on the interior of the dome is a unique feature of the mosque.

Another view of the interior.

The mosque is a 'protected monument' in name only.

Visitors to the Diwan havelis have people like Professor Dr Ghulam Abbas to thank for their experience. A fine arts professor, Dr Abbas climbed up a ladder to wipe the dusty fresco paintings on the remaining facade of Diwan's haveli. Then there was Tanvir Aslam Rawn – a student of fashion design but fascinated by the history of Eminabad – who shared with me everything he knew about the various versions of local history, though it wasn't possible to draw a clear historical sketch of the Shiva temples that grace the skyline of Eminabad.

The way these structures are being used these days, is a worrying aspect. With the exception of one, where a local Muslim prayer leader has taken his residence, most temples are being used as cattle yards, and decades of negligence has eroded some superb Hindu architecture.

One of the prayer chambers was locked up with goats inside, while another hosted a fodder-cutting machine running on full throttle. There is no hope for the restoration of these sites, which are still sacred to some people.

In fact, we cannot even hope for the restoration of that historic mosque in the eastern vicinity of Eminabad, which according to eminent architect Kamil Khan Mumtaz, dates back to the Lodhi period (1451-1526). That makes it one of the oldest surviving mosques in Pakistan. The mosque is a valued national heritage, but the heritage is crumbling and none cares.

—All photos by author

Surveys show repeatedly that Pakistanis carry and exhibit high levels of patriotism. Yet, despite this, these citizens do not fulfill an important component of their social contract with the state that they eulogise or want to strengthen: paying taxes.

Very few Pakistanis are bothered to pay what is due from them, yet, they are always ready and willing to display their patriotism at the drop of a hat.

This is nationalism minus responsibility. In addition, not enough attention is being given to Pakistan's underlying fiscal fragility that has compounded itself over 30 years.

All the issues topical today, be it child protection, increased internal security and human development needs, all need to be financed. Fixing taxation is the only solution.

A series of three in-depth studies and reports by RAFTAAR (Research and Advocacy for the Advancement of Allied Reforms) on the issue of Tax in Pakistan have shown just how important it is for the state, government and polity of Pakistan to understand the significance of this issue in the context of Pakistan surviving as a truly sovereign nation.

Take a look: Taxation issues: Pakistan's Ignored Existential Crisis

The reports’ findings are rather startling. Only 0.3 per cent of the population of Pakistan files their income tax returns. India, on the other hand, which has a greater percentage of people in poverty, manages up to 3 per cent.

Since 2003, Pakistan’s revenue collection has remained flat. Expenditures by the state have continued to grow as newer challenges to the country emerge, such as natural disasters, annual flooding, internal security, etc. How is the state to meet these expenditures without receiving much assistance from its citizens?

Pakistan’s tax to GDP ratio is just 9.4 per cent, this is close to the bottom of countries worldwide in terms of revenue generation.

The country’s budgetary deficit is crawling with debt because we do not collect enough taxes. And it’s an expensive debt. One third of it is foreign, two thirds is raised through domestic sources. Foreign debt has an interest rate of 1.9 per cent. Domestic debt has an interest rate of 10.7 per cent. Foreign debt is cheaper, but access to it for Pakistan is harder. So the cost of interest on our debt is 1.3 trillion, of which 92 per cent goes to domestic creditors, and 8 per cent to international lenders.

The reports further inform that in 2008, Pakistan’s public debt was Rs 6.3 trillion. Today it’s 17 trillion! That is a three-fold increase. And it will continue to increase unless the state can increase revenue, because otherwise, it will continue to finance through debt.

This debt is eating up our current revenue.

This squeezes the state’s ability to invest in the people of Pakistan because as debt interests are paid, there is less left for development.

We just can’t continue to depend upon the international community. The reports declare that its role is overstated. Over the last eight years, foreign project assistance in the development budget has only been 15 per cent. Overall, net external assistance has only financed 4 per cent of the budget. Pakistan’s real source of budgetary gaps is deficit financing through loans.

Pakistan’s ability to endure through unexpected crises is also dependent upon improving taxation. Right now, 60 per cent of the federal budget is earmarked to interest payments, wages, pensions and defense. 12 per cent goes to subsidies and grants. Only 28 per cent is adjustable. Thus, any unforeseen event gives the country little fiscal room. We have a fiscally fragile economy.

Despite the fact that only 0.3 per cent Pakistani file income tax returns, the people largely feel they are being taxed a lot. This is relatively correct because the government has not been able to collect direct taxes. So in desperation, it resorts to indirect taxation.

68 per cent of tax revenue in Pakistan comes from indirect taxation. Pakistanis pay more for fuel and electricity than other regional countries because of the surcharges added.

But the problem with indirect taxation is that for some items it penalises the poorer more than those with higher incomes. As one of RAFTAAR’s reports explains, for example, tax on a loaf of bread will be the same for the rich and the poor. Without improvements in the direct taxation system and more compliance there will be continued pressure to levy indirect taxes on consumption.

Because of non-revenue sources of funds Pakistan has historically functioned on loans, and aid. Consequently, Pakistan has not been compelled to develop its tax system adequately. As a result, there is no tax-culture in Pakistan.

There are now a number of groups with political clout who oppose tax reform. But tax reform is a cross-party issue that will require all parties to come together in order to ensure progress, otherwise reform-losers will shift allegiances to those promising no change.

The reports suggest that Pakistan needs to embed taxation into its education system in order to create a next generation of compliant taxpayers. Students need to be taught why taxation is integral to the state and is one of the cornerstones of citizenship as is done in many countries around the world.

A tax-paying citizen is a truly patriotic citizen; we must ensure our future generations always remember that.

The state also needs to explain how it delivers services to the people, however imperfect. The existing quid-pro-quo between taxation and services needs to be emphasised in order for increased tax literacy and to address the information deficit in the people.

The system of the FBR also needs to be simplified so that more people are able to file returns without the help of specialists.

Better and improved tax collection will pay for itself. If Pakistan can raise its own revenues to improve the quality of its infrastructure, it could mean a growth of 3.7 per cent GDP per capita

Pakistan’s development expenditure has declined from 7 per cent to 2.5 per cent of the GDP. With increased tax revenues this trend can be reversed and Pakistan will be able to invest more in education, health and other human development initiatives.

Sources:

• Pakistan Taxation Imperative: Existential Problems, Ignored Solutions (RAFTAAR, 2015)
  
• Pakistan’s Public Expenditure: Insights & Reflections (RAFTAAR, 2015)

The national security advisors’ meet fiasco has led to some graver questions.

Are both sides losing control to the hardliners?

Are they even aware of the consequences of their actions?

Is there any reset button to undo the damage done?

It is my humble view that the Indian playbook on Pakistan is at least seven to eight years old. Meanwhile, the dangerous brinkmanship on the Line of (no) Control (LoC) continues unabated. The world watches with alarm and weariness, as there is no telling if and when the escalation may spiral out of control.

See it with the eyes of a common man like me, who calls Pakistan his home and has no other place to go to. The said man has to explain to his little kids why there are power outages all the time; why there is no Disney Land in the country or in the neighbourhood; why breaking news always brings to them bad news, angry news, sad news.

He has no suitable explanation for why grown-ups attacked a school in Peshawar, and snatched from many children their right to live and innocence from the rest. And yet, that father – whose job has transformed from sheltering the delicate world of his children to painstakingly elaborate to them one tragedy after another – doesn’t have a heart to explain how close they sit to the epicentre of a possible, if not probable, nuclear holocaust; that the miscalculation of a single day can snatch from them their bright future, their health, their environment and perhaps even their beautiful forms.

Imagine the burden. The anguish and suffocation. I am sure this sense of helplessness is shared on the other side of the border.

Our legacy of hate

India and Pakistan have many things in common. Chief among them is hate. Both have extremist tendencies among their religious majorities, and yet both take incredible pains to blame it on their minorities. In India, Muslims and Christians must be responsible for everything bad. In Pakistan, it must be those wily Ahmadis, Hindus and Christians.

Both countries teach their own versions of history in schools. Recently, a significant amount of hate has been identified in Pakistani school curricula, but that is only the tip of the iceberg. Hatred in both countries does not flow from these books, considering that both states have miserably failed to educate their masses (although this problem also needs to be fixed too).

The real hatred flows from their respective interpretations of history, which finds many mediums to propagate; oral tradition, popular culture, religious discourse and even fairytales when they reach us in our mothers’ laps or in the cradle.

After three generations, the indoctrination is almost complete. And sadly, the underlying motivation is not any vicious conspiracy but the insecurity of the two states. India, which lost Pakistan in 1947, fears this can happen again and Pakistan may foment unrest there. Pakistan has always thought India is out to get it. Both have some reasons to feel suspect each other.

However, when the paranoia, hatred and craziness has reached this height, you know you have to roll back this industry.

The region can no longer afford the Abhinav Bharats and the Lashkars anymore. This has to stop. History is important but not important enough to demand future in ransom. Time is the worst place to get lost into.

Indian misperceptions about Pakistan

1. Pakistan will implode soon

During my last visit to India, I felt that a very distorted view of Pakistan is prevalent there.

Indian intelligentsia perhaps inhales too much of what comes out of the idiot boxes. It is one thing to consume television sensationalism for recreation and altogether another to form an opinion based on it.

The result is that our Indian peers think Pakistan as a country is imploding, and between Indian pressure and terrorism, it is likely to collapse soon. This can lead to some serious miscalculations. But sadly, the attempts to psychoanalyse Pakistan, based on flawed assumptions, continues unabated in Indian media and policy-making circles.

2. Pakistan's military wants to prolong conflict with India

The second misperception is about the civil-military mix. It is widely believed in India and some parts of Pakistan and elsewhere, that the Pakistan Army does not want to resolve outstanding issues with India because it derives legitimacy from the conflict among the nuclear armed neighbours.

This view was quite accurate in 1998 and 1999, when the two sides exploded nuclear bombs and then briefly went to war in Kargil, but not anymore.

Since 9/11, the residual effect notwithstanding, the country’s army has fought hard and with great valour against terrorists. Yes, it was in bits and pieces. Yes, there must be some sympathy somewhere down the food chain for the terrorists and yes, old habits take some time to die. But it is strange that the critics both at home and abroad totally refuse to see the mind-boggling transformation that has taken place.

You see a few retired generals sitting on television parroting their views, and you think nothing has changed. Here is a hint for you: spare some time and meet someone who is in service. You will be surprised.

An average soldier today is better educated, better equipped, better trained and yet remarkably practical in worldview. Ask yourself after so much fight, how can he not be. The stories narrated by the likes of Zaid Hamid and a few others are a sensationalist sideshow meant to keep people amused.

The army today derives its legitimacy from the real and current threats to the nation’s security and territorial integrity, and the vision of the future. The country’s future as a regional trade hub would always justify investment in security. The 10,000 men strong force being raised by the army only to provide security to the China Pakistan Economic Corridor is just the beginning. It is, therefore, in the institutional interest of the army too, to let détente and rapprochement between India and Pakistan take place in a dignified way.

Another transformation is in the mindset. I recently had a long and lovely discussion with a serving officer on mundane matters like tax returns, civic responsibility, best educational options for children and much, much more. He and many other officers are seen speaking vociferously in support of the democratisation of the country.

Misperceptions lead to miscalculations

The misperceptions lead to some serious and lethal miscalculations. For instance, I have gone through most of Indian National Security Advisor, Ajit Doval’s video clips available on the internet. The gentleman sadly chooses to live in his own past. He thinks that pressing Pakistan hard while it combats terrorists will easily bring it down. A few examples given include the unrest in Balochistan and Karachi. He seems unaware that the situation in these two places, while troubling, is no more life threatening for Pakistan.

So no, sir, it won’t bring us down. I am amazed that by your admission, you have spent seven years as an undercover agent in Pakistan and you have failed to see what is best in us – our ability to survive and fight back.

By believing in this nonsense, the current policy-making circles are only feeding a war hysteria that will soon backfire.

The second miscalculation is to think that the country’s civil and military leadership can be played against each other, giving the plotter a virtual walkover. The Dr Strangeloves in the media notwithstanding, the civil military leadership of the country right now is undivided on the matter, especially owing to similar domestic attempts recently.

In their simplistic interpretations of Pakistan, the Indian side repeatedly walks into traps that are bound to leave it badly bruised. They lack a holistic approach towards Pakistan, which treats it as a sovereign state. In trying to weaken the Pakistani government, the Delhi sarkaar betrays a characteristic lack of imagination and weakens its own standing, as the constituency for peace here loses faith in the process.

The way forward

Everyone in Pakistan understands that India has some legitimate concerns. Pakistan’s concerns are not less known in the Indian policy circles either. No one has any delusions that the longstanding issues on both sides would be resolved overnight or in a few meetings.

The only reason why the relatively new government in New Delhi opposes any mention of the ‘K word’ is because it wants to take maximum political mileage out of any interaction. It is perceived as yet another attempt to divide Pakistan and bring it down. It won’t work. In fact, this reckless attitude is bringing all stakeholders together. Better treat Pakistan as a single entity like our side tries to do.

Formal resumption of multi-dimensional talks could help both sides control unnecessary paranoia while renewing the opportunity to understand each other. But the only opportunity for that in sight is a month away, when the two sides can meet UN General Assembly sidelines. Somehow, even that seems a far-fetched possibility.

Then perhaps, the better way for both sides would be to take a break, let border forces and DGMOs interact in a professional environment and away from the prying eyes of the media hawks. Back-channel diplomacy can work too. But it is in the interest of both sides to do away with the war hysteria and to let things cool off.

A few months ago, I went through the worst experience of my life: my father passed away.

It was a cancer which took him, and a small part of myself as well. As I reflect on the time preceding his death, there were so many hard parts. One of the hardest was not being able to mourn in peace.

In our society, you can’t just mourn a person’s loss – you need to work. And not just at your job, but on piles of paperwork, people to notify and arrangements to be made. Finally, when I thought all of the work was over, I had to empty out my father’s apartment. Little did I know that this would be the bitterest labour yet.

Going through my father’s old things, I felt the loss of my father with each and every item I sorted. And there was a lot of sorting to do. It took weeks to clear out the lifetime of possessions in my single father’s small apartment. Weeks to sell, donate, recycle or throw out the boxes and boxes of kitchenware, clothing, furniture, office materials, and so much more.

I threw away a normal life of accumulation, the life that most of us live.

Time, money, and effort had been heavily invested in getting all of this stuff, only to be disposed of with great difficulty.

We were destroying the planet for future generations, all so that we could enjoy a short lifetime full of material possessions that in many cases were hardly used, rarely necessary and easily forgotten.

I decided that I didn’t want this to be my “normal”. And so, I embarked on an experiment lasting 200 days where I would buy nothing new.

Like many of us making a steady income, I’d never been very disciplined when it came to my purchases. If I could afford it – and even when I couldn’t – I often just thought, “why not?” Could I survive 200 days away from the mall?

I did. Excluding groceries, medicine, a pair of rock climbing shoes and basic toiletries, I borrowed and bought secondhand, or simply went without.

Here is what I learned through this experience:

1. There is already too much stuff in the world

As I toured various thrift stores, online classifieds sections, Facebook buy/sell groups and the like, I realised more than ever before, the sheer volume of stuff we humans have already created.

Mountains of clothes, tons of furniture, dishes, pans, walking sticks – an ocean of all things imaginable. As all of this stuff is being thrown away, more is being churned out. We don’t need more.

2. People buy things out of pure compulsion

Once I had decided to fulfill my needs through pre-owned sources, I was blown away by the amount of new items in thrift stores – items that were unused, complete with price tags and original packaging.

Everything from new scented candles to new clothing graced the aisles of secondhand stores. Clearly, the act of buying is often completely disassociated with actual human need, or even want. It’s much more akin to a compulsion.

3. There is an unreasonable stigma against pre-owned items

As I blogged about my experience, I received a lot of interesting feedback on the hygienic aspect of my efforts. Many felt that buying clothing, furniture and other goods used instead of new was dirty and uncivilised.

What an absurd perception.

These same people would happily donate their used goods to thrift stores. I guess it’s good enough for the poorer ones among us – but not for “us.”

4. There is so much abundance

During my 200 days, I learned that I didn’t need to go to big box stores to buy what I needed – there were plenty of resources in my own community.

Our communities have an abundance of stuff and plenty of people willing to give it away at a very low price or for free.

5. When nothing is new, nothing is expensive

My bank account definitely got a break during these 200 days. Secondhand comes at a delightfully steep discount. And I never felt that I compromised on quality, either.

6. It’s awesome paying a person instead of a corporation

Especially when, shopping through classifieds, I found that most sellers were honest and helpful.

They were normal people just wanting to recoup a portion of their purchase price by selling perfectly usable items. It was refreshing to know that my money would be going directly to someone just like me, instead of a faceless corporation.

7. I don’t really need most of that stuff

Truth is, some things you simply cannot find preowned. Lots of items, even common ones, are either impossible or impractical to find pre-owned. When I was forced to not buy them – against my strongest impulses at times – I was surprised how nothing changed. Not my health, happiness or inner harmony.

I realised that most things are really just “nice-to-haves;” real needs are generally more limited.

My 200 days was not only an optional experience in sustainable living and minimalism; it was a necessary and transformative journey.

When someone dies, you’re expected to just “get past it” and go back to normal. I did not want to feel like losing my father was an event I simply moved on from, an experience that ultimately left me unchanged.

Instead, I allowed the experience to change me deeply. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever “get past it,” because every day, my father’s passing inspires the way I speak, the way I act and the way I perceive my life.

I hope that you might allow this post to change you a bit as well. Maybe you’ll pay a visit to a thrift store for your next clothing purchase, or embark on your own 10, 30, or even 200 day challenge.

At the very least, I hope you’ll just change the way you think when you buy something new.

The article originally appeared on collective-evolution.com and has been reproduced here with permission.