Rethinking gastronomy: Khaalis Food Market

It all started with food. Creation of the world, that is. Eve couldn’t keep her hands off of that one delicious apple and here we are, a few millennia later, still a bit baffled about each new flavor we experience, and craving for the more familiar ones as if our life depended on it. Well, our lives do depend on food, but somewhere in the middle we all seemingly lost the plot. Living for food was an idea that caught on as civilizations rose and fell, so much so that gluttony was even chalked in as a deadly sin some two thousand years ago. Now, with the world’s population exceeding seven billion mouths to feed, resources dwindling, and even the most food secure nations falling prey to several different kind of ailments related to food consumption patterns (obesity, heart disease, diabetes, cancer to name a few), there is a call to be reasonable again. The solution? A farmers’ market with wholesome products. The good news? It has come to Lahore.

 

 

Have you ever wondered where the tomatoes you are putting in your salan or salad came from? Is it only dirt that covers your potatoes or something else, something your eyes can’t see? The lamb, the beef, the chicken and the mutton that you so joyfully consume and serve to family and friends – what went into the animals from which these prime cuts were obtained? How can you maximize on taste and nutrition without eating a cocktail of chemicals in the packaged stuff? It is for these reasons, and to introduce the traditionally gluttonous city of Lahore to a healthier lifestyle that Khaalis Food Market was started by entrepreneurs and business partners Rizwan Naeem and Asma Shah. Rizwan’s love for food and Asma’s concern for her family’s health compelled them to expand on an idea which has captured the imagination of Lahoris.

 

Khaalis Food Market is a farmers’ market where vendors selling fruits, vegetables, meat, poultry, spices, honey, the traditional ghee and much more are brought together under the proverbial “one roof”. The freewheeling event which doesn’t have a home (yet) caters to a section of the society that is sick and tired of “the artificial stuff” and wants healthier options when it comes to food. It is also a social venture which, as Rizwan puts it, was designed to inculcate a sense of community in Lahore’s disparate population, bringing together people who value food and like knowing where the ingredients are coming from. Asma Shah, who started out as a concerned mother wary of her young daughter’s eating habits, also insists that there are people who are dedicatedly growing organic fruits and vegetables and raising free range chicken and consuming their eggs, but they only do so for their families and, at most, their friends. Khaalis, for her, was a way to literally unearth vendors who could be compelled to grow organic produce in larger quantities to cater to a growing clientele base.

 

“Khaalis Food Market is a practical way to return to some of the old-timey goodness when we didn’t have to worry about chemicals, waste, additives, preservatives and other artificial things ruining food,” says Rizwan. “I did research and found that even the fruits and vegetables that we get are full of chemicals. They are grown in urea, pesticides and herbicides, and the water used to help them thrive has untreated chemical waste in it, particularly in Lahore’s environs,” adds Asma.

 

So far, three Khaalis events have been organized, each in a new location, with steadily increasing level of interest, vendor participation and patronage. The most recent event was a marker for Asma and Rizwan’s pensive words as nearly 45 vendors gathered in the vast grounds of a local school (Beaconhouse TNS) in Lahore and hundreds of families – with children and grandparents, even newborns, in tow – visited the stalls that had a variety of goods on offer. From organic and home grown vegetables, fruits and herbs to ostrich meat and exotic dips and salads, the variety of products was interesting enough to keep the visitors amused and make believers out of skeptics.

 

 

At a stall selling pots of fresh organic basil, Seher, a young medical student, was buying nearly half of the stock, citing her love for Italian food. “I didn’t think it would be so fragrant and fresh. Best part is, I get to buy the whole plant, which will keep thriving,” she added enthusiastically. Another buyer informed me that she stocked up on fresh figs and jalapenos at the last event. A small crowd was sampling ostrich meat burgers, which were apparently uniquely delicious. Umer, a rugby player, admitted that he had joked about the ostrich meat stall at the first Khaalis event but was now convinced it was the best alternative to traditional red meat because of high protein content.

 

This is exactly the kind of response Asma and Rizwan had envisioned when they conceived the idea of Khaalis. The market provides food enthusiasts with hard-to-find ingredients not easily available in Pakistan such as fresh figs, cherry tomatoes, avocadoes, kale, rocket, jalapenos, banana peppers, fresh mushrooms, celery, organic honey from and fresh cheeses to name a few. Allegations of things being overpriced are brushed off by both co-founders, who maintain that the vendors who participate in Khaalis Food Market are small growers whose produce and products are personally tended to and taken care of, available only in the proper season, and are far healthier than what people usually buy in cans. Asma is particularly somber about this and states that most vendors especially grow their produce for the market and, apart from charging a basic premium, neither vendors nor the organizers of Khaalis are interested in pricing their products exorbitantly. “The aim is to sell the products and produce at the end of the day. Good things come at a price but are not entirely out of reach,” she says.

 

 

According to Rizwan, his team is in touch with more than a hundred vendors who participate in the market on a rolling basis, when their produce and products are ready and available to be sold. Asma, on the other hand, is proud of the fact that Khaalis is partnering with a women’s collective supported by Aurat Foundation in Okara and Deepalpur who have committed to grow vegetables organically. We will buy the stock from them directly which will give them the benefit of selling their produce without the nuisance of dealing with a middleman as well.

 

 

The list of vendors involved with Khaalis Food Market includes entrepreneurial foodies such as Insha Bukhari of Hunger & Haw Hai blog/The Pantry (dips & snacks), Ghar Ki Murghi (fig jam, pre-made desi entrees), Salad Cauldron, Torsh Shirin (homemade kulfis, jams & pickles), Organic Delights (Almond & Elaichi sherbet), and the teams behind Manzoor Mehndi (offering organic henna), Bam-e-Bala Produce (whole wheat flour, desi ghee), The Ostrich Company (fresh and frozen ostrich meat products), PODA (handicrafts from underprivileged women) and Roshni Foundation (fresh bakery items and organic honey). At the event, these vendors were also joined by a few professional food vendors such as Wasabi (selling sushi) Hunter’s Cottage (selling game meat; rabbit) and the folks selling the distinctly un-organic boba tea, which was a hit with the younger crowd anyway.

 

 

Rizwan states that the organic food movement is in its infancy in Lahore. And while strict standards are maintained about the freshness and quality of items being sold, not all the vendors at Khaalis are selling 100% organic items. However, as Asma states, their aim is to go completely organic in the future, with a permanent store inspired by Whole Foods Market. The Khaalis team is currently working on taking the market to Islamabad next and is hopeful they’ll be able to inspire the whole lot of us to become conscious consumers who won’t ever take what goes into our mouths and to our stomachs for granted, and will fight for our right to eat good food.

 

Vendor’s Take

Insha Bukhari of the Hunger & Haw Hai blog is an amateur chef and food writer who makes her prepared food products specially for selling at the Market under the name “The Pantry”. This is what she had to say about Khaalis and why she is a part of it:

 

“Being a vendor at Khalis is a fantastic experience! Because I’m primarily a food blogger, setting up The Pantry by Hunger & Haw Hai exclusively for Khalis Food Markets is a great way to meet readers and food fanatics alike to give them a taste of the food they see in the pictures. It’s also a great way to introduce people to products that aren’t otherwise available in the market. By the way, that’s why I insist on setting out tons of samples for folks to try before they buy. From a vendor’s perspective, I think the organic, home-grown and home-made movement is also creating a space and opportunity for small-scales and artisanal producers to bring their products into the market in a cost-efficient manner and develop a personal relationship with customers who actually care about what they’re consuming.”

 

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A modified version of this article was published in The Express Tribune Magazine here.

How to Vote Successfully and Live to Tell the Tale.

This is a simple (if a little profanity laden) guide to voting successfully and living to tell the tale.

1. Don’t be chawwal. Confirm you have your National ID Card in your possession RIGHT NOW.

2. Send an SMS (Rs. 2 + tax) to 8300 to get your voting information (Sr. No., block code, polling area and constituency, polling station name). I hope you have already done this and your vote is registered. If it isn’t, read no further and go watch a Punjabi stage drama on your cable TV.

3. Confirm your polling station’s location. You should know your area and the directions. If you don’t, Google Maps – or even Apple Maps – is now your friend. But don’t curse me if your Apple Maps app still looks like a set from Inception.

4. Make a gameplan with your family. Sit them down and decide the morning’s schedule: when you are all waking up, who’s going to make breakfast, when you head out to vote. If you are in the same polling station, excellent! If you aren’t, discuss logistics TONIGHT and carpool with friends if your family goes in the other direction and you have to go into another.

5. If your family’s polling station is different, make sure you share the address of the place with your family members, so everone knows where everyone else is. Share landline numbers of emergency contacts because cell phone service MAY not be available.

6. To avoid the rush, plan on going to vote earlier during the day. Polling stations will be functional from 8:00 am in the morning till 5:00 pm in the evening.

7. Get your clothes ready tonight. There’s likely going to be loadshedding in the morning and you don’t need to be scrambling around in the morning to get your clothes straightened out.

8. Pack essentials in a pouch: NIC Card, polling station information, your voter’s information, essential medicine, emergency contacts list (cell phone and landline BOTH).

9. As Norbert Almeida stated in his brilliant checklist for elections day, pack water bottles and light snacks to help you keep the energy up as you wait in the line to vote. Take an umbrella which will save you from sunshine and rain both.

10. When at your polling station, be patient and get into the line right away. Don’t try to be a smart alec and push past the line or ask for favors. If you’re aiming for real change in the country, the voting line is where you need to start from.

11. See this handy graphic about the voting procedure so you don’t get flustered and lost tomorrow.

 

Voting Process. (Source: Express Tribune)

12. If your vote is already cast (a likely thing in Pakistan), go to the polling agent, verify your NIC, get another ballot paper, vote. The polling agent will seal your vote in an envelop and this vote will override any others cast in your name.

13. Stamp your ballot paper and then blow on the ink. If the ink runs or smudges while folding, your vote will be considered null and void. Fold your ballot papers (national and provincial) LENGTHWISE, from left to right, and then fold it down into three folds. Put the ballot papers in their respective boxes. DON’T SWITCH OR YOUR VOTE WILL BE WASTED.

14. Many polling stations are going to be mixed gender places. There might be some harassment, cat-calling, staring, comments and general batameezi from men or boys. Do not tolerate this behavior and alert the polling station staff and security immediately. Do not engage in a verbal or physical altercation. If, however, someone touches you inappropriately, you are entitled to call them out on it and make a fuss.

15. Exit the polling station as soon as you have voted and don’t hang around if there is really no need for you to do so. Don’t crowd up the place. If you are waiting for family members to finish voting, go and hang out in your car or outside the polling station at a safe distance, at a pre-determined assembley area that you have discussed and decided with your family.

16. If you can help someone weak or confused with the voting procedure, please do so. Be kind.

17. If you can afford it and see that there is a need, get some water bottles and distribute them among the older lot who have come out to vote.

18. Do not take anything unnecessary or extra to the polling station, such as a large bag, laptop, valuables, tablets and flashy phones. You should have the bare minimum necessary on you like some cash, simple phone, your NIC. Amongst a crowd, there is a VERY high chance of you becoming a victim of an artful dodger, otherwise known as a pick-pocket.

19. Collect all family members and friends who have come out to vote with you. Leave for home.

20. Do a little celebratory dance that you have made it out safe and alive.

21. Wait till Tuesday. Get elections results. Know your part is done. Get back to work. Because that’s what’s really going to change Pakistan: you and your resilience; you and your commitment to shoulder your responsibilities in a civil, law-abiding manner.

22. Do not stand for any injustice, whether in personal or public sphere. Ever. Hold people accountable. Hold YOURSELF accountable. That’s how your vote gets real validity.

23. Follow traffic rules.

24. Don’t be an asshole. In any situation. Ever.

25. Thanks.

 

Pakistan Zindabaad.

 

 

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Video by Khurram Siddiqi | Studio Sapuri | @TheRealSapuri

Post inspired by the original, somber post by Norbert J. Almeida | norbalm.com

 

 

Regarding the White Tigress.

Much has been said and misconstrued about the alleged death of a white tigress belonging to a PML-N supporter/party member.

The facts are these:

WWF-Pakistan, being a non-partisan, apolitical organization is concerned only with the conservation of endangered species, and endorses the Guidelines of Acquisition and Management of Big Cats in Captivity which were approved by the Ministry of Climate Change as part of the CITES Management Authority in 2011. These guidelines prohibit taking big cats to public places in a cage or on a leash.

All wild cats species, including tigers and lions, are listed under the Convention of International Trade of Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES). Pakistan is a signatory to this convention and ratified it for formulating Pakistan Trade Control of Wild Fauna and Flora Act, 2012, the clause 6 (2) b requires that an import permit of a CITES listed species is granted after ensuring that it will be housed and cared for properly.

Presently, the issue of endangered tiger species being used in political rallies was brought to the attention of media. Media reports based on sources within the University of Veterinary and Animal Sciences (UVAS) emerged that a white tigress, aged 1.5 years, which had been present at many rallies of a particular political party, was brought in emergency at the UVAS Pet Centre to be treated. Condition of the tiger was quoted as ‘serious’ and pulmonary effusion was diagnosed. She was released after initial care as the UVAS does not have any facility to hold big cats. This was followed by the news of the death of the tigress.

The media are advised to compare the animal’s stripe pattern with that of the animal whose photographs were taken at the UVAS yesterday. Please note that each tiger has a unique stripe pattern, similar to a human fingerprint. The stripe pattern on the live tiger presented to the media should be compared with stripes of the attached photograph for verification purposes.

Furthermore a petition was filed by artist and concerned citizen Ms. Faryal Gohar at the Lahore High Court before the Green Bench a few days before the recent incident and does not specifically zero in on the alleged death of the tigress, rather it speakes of the issues discussed previously in this statement from a species conservation and public safety point of view. The hearing of this petition was today, May 9th, 2013, at 8 am.

Any media personnel wishing to add the perspective of WWF-Pakistan in their stories regarding this issue are requested to contact us directly and not reproduce alleged quotes from other stories that have already been published.

References:

Red List of Species Database: <a>www.iucnredlist.org</a>

Convention on the International Trade ofEndangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora: <a>www.cites.org</a>

Guidelines for the Acquisition andManagement of Felids (Big Cats) in captivity, Ministry of Climate Change: Available upon request.

Pakistan Trade Control of Wild Fauna andFlora Act, 2012: Available upon request.

ETA: 

 

A few journalists & people on social media are erroneously reporting that the tigeress is a Siberian tiger or even a snow leopard (completely different species & gene pool). The tigress is a Bengal tiger (Panthera tigris tigris); her colour is due to a recessive gene mutation.

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My own personal two cents.

 

A tiger is a magnificent, majestic animal. In a world so mundane and full of dull things, of course it moves us in odd, strange ways to experience this sort of exotic magnificence and majesty up close. This is why we go to zoos. This is why circuses have their charm. But there is, and must be, a limit to what we expect from these creatures, big and small. There must be restraint, caution, and even a dignified wryness to approaching even the idea of “owning” these big cats.

We do not and cannot “own” a live creature with a soul of its own, and with a mind of its own. Just because they cannot talk does not mean they are not intelligent, sentient beings. Chaining a tiger or a lion and parading it around like a show poodle is the most degrading thing we can do to it. Dragging it away from its habitat and hoping to mould it to a “human-friendly” state of being by slowly dulling its senses and inflicting upon it the humility of taunts, jeers, loud noises, the fear of pain and hunger.

Anyone who has ever owned a pet knows what a heartbreak it is to watch them die. Take that feeling and multiply it with the fact of the slow, painful demise of an animal so big and full of grace. It surprisingly hurts more, because there are so few of them left; because they were not made to be playthings of bored and privileged human beings.

A lion or a tiger does not belong on top of an SUV, just like a human being does not belong in the middle of a pride. There is a way nature laid out things. And if only we follow them, we’ll be better off for it, whether we have two legs or four.

Saving a Snow Leopard.

Three years ago I met a fabulous man named Richard Garstang. I had just quit a cushy job at Mobilink and joined World Wide Fund for Nature in Pakistan – an NGO/NPO (horror!), and one working on the most neglected issues in Pakistan: environment and conservation (double horror!). It was the official orientation session for employees. Richard, a lanky, wizened South African who had been working in Pakistan for the past thirty years or so in conservation, was one of the Directors speaking to us about what it is like to work for WWF. He gave us all nature and wildlife facts about this country that enthralled us. In the end, when it was time for asking questions, I asked him why he had given up South Africa to adopt Pakistan as his home. He looked at me with narrowed eyes for a few seconds and then asked, “young lady, do you know the local name for a snow leopard they have in Gilgit Baltistan?” I shook my head in negative, a little embarrassed.

“Guldaar,” he said. “That’s the name. It means ‘one with rosettes’. Because the markings on a snow leopard’s fur resemble rosettes. Thirty years ago when I found this out, I knew I wanted to work for and live in a country where the hardiest of people can have the most poetic of names for predators.”

I haven’t forgotten that story. It keeps me going at times like these when my work with WWF feels meaningless because there’s so much else going on in the country.

And this is why I am recalling it right now

Guldaar.

We’re trying to save a female 3 month old snow leopard cub who was injured and abandoned. She was rescued by the Khunjerab conservation community and WWF-Pakistan. She is not old enough to eat meat, so she is being fed milk by a group of volunteers from the GB WWF – Pakistan office and the Wildlife Department. But she is growing and pretty soon she will need a change in her diet, a larger space to live and when she is old enough, she will be able to participate in a breeding program as well.

Snow leopards are shy, precious creatures that live on extreme heights in cold weather. They cannot roar like other big cats. They scat or hiss. They are being driven to extinction because of loss of habitat to human beings and because climate change is slowly but surely making temperatures rise, hence making their habitat scarce. It is thought that the cub followed her mother down to a human settlement while her mother tried to hunt for food, got injured in the process and was left behind. So she needs our help.

I know there are plenty of things that need fixing in this country and saving animals may not be high on many people’s agenda, but here’s what I believe. I believe that it is the severe disconnect between human beings and the natural world that has driven us to commit heinous acts of violence against other human beings. This severe lack of empathy that we have for other species manifests in our negative behaviour against other human beings at different stages in our lives. We have forgotten that we do not own the earth, or the sky, or water and that the creatures big and small that dwell within these were not put on this planet for our sport and pleasure.

Of course we believe our religion put us up as ‘Ashraf-ul-Makhluqaat’, and science pitches us as the dominant species, but it is also true that within the same religion, the beloved Prophet Muhammad (S.A.W) chose to cut his own prayer rug rather than disturb a cat that had casually slinked up to it and had very frankly slept there. If evolution had played out differently, maybe dolphins or other primates would be the dominant species. Cruelty to animals is forbidden in our religion. Cruelty to plants  is forbidden in our religion. In other religions as well. So really, we have no excuse there.

As far as this snow leopard cub is concerned, as I said, she needs all the help she can get. We do NOT presume that we will be able to provide her the quality of life she may have had with her mother, but by God we are trying to find a solution that is as close to it as we can humanly get.

So please. Consider a donation. It doesn’t matter how big or small. The real fact of it for me is that with all the violence happening in our country presently, any odd vestige of something good and wholesome feels like a lifeline to me. This is something good. We keep hearing about Government Institutions being corrupt but I would like to tell you that the local Wildlife Department is willing to donate land to build a leopard conservation sanctuary. The people who were directly involved in the rescue treat this beautiful cub like an orphan who needs all the love and attention she needs lavished upon her. The people who have come to see her are delighted at seeing a snow leopard up close, because the chances of seeing a snow leopard in the wild are slim to none because of illegal hunting.

You can pitch in by donating any amount you wish to the following bank account numbers if you’re based in Pakistan:

Standard Chartered

Title of Account: WWF Pakistan

Account Number: 08-7932677-38

Branch Code: 074

MCB Bank Limited

Title of Account: WWF Pakistan

Account Number: 0100802010065797

Branch Code: 1008

United Bank Limited

Title of Account: WWF Pakistan

Account Number: 0010003070

Branch Code: 0863

For people who are not in Pakistan: I’ll get you a SWIFT code soon. Please also share this note with friends who may want to help.

So that’s about it.

Thank you, if you have read this far. You’re awesome. I can be contacted at nsaadia @ wwf. panda. org for any comments, suggestions, concerns and queries.

The Grand Multi-Continental Epistolary Adventures of Kaku & Happu. Letter #II.

Grey. Clouds. Grey. Sums it up.

Dear Happu,

Your letter smells of the samosa chaat of Main Market. Might I suggest you get into the habit of washing your hands before wielding your pen? Science has proven that washing your hands before and after every meal decreases your chances of contracting a multitude of ailments, some of which can be permanently debilitating. If you dare to visit the scientific journals section of the Library, and can be bothered to part with your Progressive Writers and Beat Generation rubbish for a few minutes to go through the aforementioned scientific journals, you will find that out for yourself. You will thank me.

Regarding your troubling discovery: you are ten and eight years old. What’s ailing you so? You are but a babe utterly wet behind your ears and you come to me with these heavy philosophies that seldom become your age. The book theft and the incessant fixation upon Salman’s Mustang are both understandable and acceptable conditions of youth – but grief is a country you must not visit just yet. Or, may I suggest, never? Through your words, you have naively put grief in the nooks and crannies of human physicality, painting it as something romantic that God bestowed upon us by design so that we would remember our exit from Eden. Such are the trappings of youth that you feel anything untoward or sad that occurs must’ve been pre-ordained, forgetting in your drawl that where there is grief, there is also history weighed down by tragedies that have chipped away at any semblance of an escape. We have not yet reached that pit. Not yet.

You pretentious little twerp.

Talk to me about the length and breadth of the home that we are finally going to have, where there is enough room for all of us to keep our own counsel and not blindly stumble into each other’s beds at night because they are all within a twenty feet radius of the  bedroom us five brothers share(d?). Before you start writing to me about how grief is set like gelatin within the joints of the human skeleton or some other colourful variation upon that line of thinking, I would like to draw your attention towards the fact that I am hundreds of miles away, in a place where the sun seldom shines and it rains as if I am in a post-colonial re-enactment of Noah’s Flood. I am in a place so grey that, if I chance upon a bright, primary colour, I have trouble recognizing it. I am so terribly entangled in the struggle to survive that I cannot tell where my day began and where it ended. If it wasn’t for the dou sunnat, duo nafil of Fajr and char sunnat, char farz, dou sunnat, dou nafil, teen witr, dou nafil of Isha’a, I would not be able to tell the difference. I am so far away that Aba Jaan’s roar of a voice can’t reach me, and I can’t see Ammi sitting in the sunlight in winter, reciting Surah Yaseen, her graying hair oiled and wound up in a tight braid. On that note, stop referring to Aba Jaan as ‘The King’. He’s Aba Jaan. And you’re no more a prince than Ayub is the rightful President of the Country.

Moving on – is it cold there? I keep missing news bulletins on the radio and the reception for the Urdu Service is absolutely ghastly here. I guess you will be able to tell it is really winter when Choti religiously starts her visits to Landa Bazaar near the Railway Station. I think she thinks that we don’t know, but she doesn’t know that you and I have always known. It is commendable, though, her ingenious trick to buy the coats and the jumpers for their beautiful buttons, and stitching them onto the things she herself knits. Those long forgotten trinkets become beautiful and necessary once again. The cast-offs of random gora sahibs and mem sahibs serve her purpose and pride to a certain extent, and who are we to find fault in this?

Be kind to her. She is a disgruntled artist. I dare not compare her to the other Disgruntled Artist we know (the one who started World War II, if you are forgetting) – but it would be wise to be cautious. And considerate. The next time you commend her on her mustache fuzz being as prominent as yours may be your last. I will not be there to save you.

And so we come back to grief.

It is an acquired state of mind, Happu. We nurture it out of masochism; perhaps hoping someone would come and save us from whatever it is that ails our beating, bleating hearts. But no one will come. Why should you presume you would matter enough to someone else, when you have not extended that courtesy to yourself? Apa may be the happiest out of us all; so contained she is in the universe of her own making. She has accepted her fate and so she has mastered it. There is neither shame nor sadness in that.

The only thing stitched to our seams like our shadows is our desire to keep moving forward, past what may hold us down. Think about that during one of your bicycle rides around the Gates of the City and write again to me.

Again: I prefer unscented letters, even if the scent is of the samosa chaat that I once loved so much.

Practically shaking my head at the places your imagination drags you to,

Your Brother,

Kaku.

______________________________

*Photograph by Anis A. Siddiqi. Touched up by Khurram A. Siddiqi.

The first letter in the series can be read here.

Exit seraphim & Satan’s men.

You think about girls like Sylvia at 1:24 am. There’s just something so sternly quite yet disconcerting about the hour that resonates so well with the chaos contained within the compact body of someone like her. The night reminds yo of her eyes, right after she has stopped laughing, mid-laugh, at something Ted has said, so casually and handsomely, as he always does.

 

You think about her with cautious love and abundant resentment.

 

Girls like Sylvia measure their despair in sighs shared with pages of books. They bury their children’s pets neatly and fastidiously underneath the Yew tree in the garden, and murmur, ‘it’s a tribute to you, Ted.’ They stab strange men sizing them up in their heads with such clarity of purpose and intent that they can smell their blood on their hands, taste it, almost, on their lips. They wake up every morning and put on powder and lipstick, which grants them the right of passage through the ordinary world. Their world is populated by ghosts that won’t quit banging in the attic of their despair. They cannot smile for fear the djinns that possess them – HAVE always possessed them, will peek through the gap between their front teeth and scare away potential heartbreaks in the shape of polished British men with their left hand casually set upon their knees (a little too close to the crotch, as always). They wish they were shaped like bottles of wine so they would be more welcome  to the lips of lovers. Their wear pearls and imagine themselves at the bottom of the ocean, from where the pearls originated. They feel proud that no one knows what their bloated, blue faces underneath the waves would look like. Only they know. The nightmare repeats itself over and over again every night; almost takes the pen and the typewriter away.

 

But, you know, there are girls like Sylvia, and then there is Sylvia herself.

 

You are sixteen and you are too full of life and Ted is a bastard but you read all of their wild passion coughed out across the pages and then you learn how Sylvia died and you throw away the book with such vehemence across the room that it hits the window sill and dents the paint on the wall; cracks the spine of the book.

 

‘You victim, you!’ you yell. ‘You give-upper. You cooker of your own head. You inhaler of gas. You writer of poems. You graceless, guileless hand that birthed so many metaphors.’

 

But then, after some years, when the blood in your own veins has started running a bit slowly: ‘You mother of these two children sleeping so soundly and peacefully in the room next door…as you never ever did. You are partially forgiven.’

 

There really is no way out of the mind. Sorry.

Not much running in Lahore.

Every day I wake up with dread lodged in my skull cavity where there was once a thinking, feeling, reasonably functioning brain. It has all evaporated. Why? Because Shahbaz Sharif’s Grand Plan to turn Lahore into Paris is relentlessly backfiring in the public’s general direction (much like a less sophisticated gaseous fart from a bully), and Feorzpur Road has been ravaged beyond belief. So the dread is basically, “which route will I take today to work and how much time will I waste on the road?”

My once-good-luck-now-bad-luck is that my office, the center of my most hopeful aspirations and execution thereof, is located in a peaceful enclave on Ferozpur Road. This used to be a cause of celebration. Before getting married, from my parental home, it used to take me fifteen minutes to get to my office, even with heavy traffic. I used to pass the sabzi mandi (fruit & vegetable market) on my way. I often stopped there to buy the season’s freshest guavas, the first lot of strawberries from up north or the juciest carrots while going back home. I didn’t have to go to Hyperstar or Al-Fateh to buy things like broccoli, iceberg lettuce or romaine lettuce. It was right there on my way. My office’s infamous – and messy – mango parties drew strength from the fact that I could get supplies from the mandi, or send an enterprising Tea Boy to do it on my behalf.

The bliss ended when the ‘Khadim-e-Aala’ decided to shift the market several dozen kilometers away on Ferozpur Road. This was done in part to start off the Rapid Bus Transit Project, because he apparently received Divine Instructions while on on official trip in Turkey that their Bus Transit system should be replicated in Lahore as is, and like a frenzied Joan of Arc, he marched back to his home country, foaming at the mouth, putting his entire cabinet in a tizzy about getting this thing done.

Kalma Chowk: Resting in Pieces. (Photo: Khurram Siddiqi.)

There used to be luscious old trees all along Ferozpur Road. The Road was neatly divided by a subtle green belt which housed said trees. The Khaadim-e-Aala ordered those trees to be uprooted and carted away, possibly to fire an oven in which laborers make cakes for his beloved daughter all day and all night. Or maybe something else. If you have a more plausible reason, please let me know. Then he got the PHA to plant really fancy, exotic date palms in the same green belt. He also got towering street lamps installed. Wow!, said the amazed awam. But before they could adjust their eye-balls back into their sockets, the Khaadim-e-Aala ordered for these trees to be uprooted as well. Why? No one knew at that time. When some environmental agencies made a rattle, he shut them up by saying he had bigger plans in store and the trees were being taken care of at Raiwind. ‘That makes all sense in the world!” exclaimed the people.

Then the green belt was destroyed systematically. Then the footpaths along Ferozpur Road, in front of my office, were smashed to atoms. Then diversion signs were put in. Then the Kalma Chowk, the dry-land equivalent of a shining lighthouse among a sea of vehicles, was destroyed. Then more diversion signs were put in. Then big concrete blocks started obscuring our view. Then traffic confusion started happening. Then the busiest intersection in all of Lahore lost its traffic lights. Then more traffic police was called in. Then more accidents started happening. Then a bridge – sorry, flyover –  started materializing before our helpless eyes. Then we realized there was a gap between the flyover, like a gap between Madonna’s front teeth, only not half as charming. Then we realized they were digging an underpass and making a flyover in Kot Lakhpat, which already had a flyover. Then traffic became really troublesome from that point as well. Then they made a little park underneath the flyover at Kalma Chowk, but the diversions were still there and the big giant diggers used in construction didn’t move away. Then they eradicated whatever green belt was left, pruned the green belts on the side to extinction, installed ugly container offices right in front of my office, divided Ferozepur Road and installed tall metal grills to shape up the Rapid Bus Transit Road. Then they built the stations. Then they built the overhead walkways. Then they put signs up like, ‘Jangla Phlangnaan Jahalt Ki Nishani Hai‘ (‘jumping over the grill is a sign of stupidity/illiteracy’), knowing it’s like telling a donkey he’s a donkey because, guess what, the Rs. 100 Bn cost of building this entire project could’ve gone to educating people who, in a generation’s time, become better citizens who did not, in fact, find it necessary to jump over the grill and used the over-head walkways, but who am I to suggest this.

 

making roads and breaking roads and then making them again is our provincial sport. (Photo: Khurram Siddiqi.)

Anyway, so then they closed up Model Town instersection as well. Because that too needs an underpass, fools. But why, you may ask, because a Rapid Bus needs to travel Rapidly and it can’t stop for any traffic anywhere! Does that mean there would be no turns on Ferozpur Road from Gajumta till Shahdra, then? Yes. It’s our Berlin Wall. Then they started building a flyover BETWEEN the two flyovers at Kalma Chock for the Rapid Bus. Then they dug up the Ichchra intersection. Then the area around Samnabad. Beyond that, I neither have the strength nor the capacity in me to go and look at what else is happening.

I’m just a common citizen of this wonderful city, who doesn’t know what the fuck is going on in this city anymore. Every day I play a game of Super Mario Bros. styled running about in which I devise new routes to my office from my new home in Faisal Town, and then to my University, which is a whole different story. Commuting has become a hazard. I want to get supplies and build a bunker and go underground and come out only when this pre-post-apocalyptic-apocalypse has passed. When the dust-cloud-before-any-real-nuclear-winter has settled.

 

Climb all the way up and if it is raining, get a jolt of electricity to awaken your senses too. So refreshing. (Photo: Ali Hasnain Syed.)

I’m not against development, and I am not one to deny poor people the right to get cheap and effective public transport. Hell, I want to burn all SUVs, Mercedezes and BMWs and bring all residents of this city to participate in a collective travelling experience more than anyone else. But not like this. It’s being said that once the Rapid Bus Transit system is in place, all other public transport will be taken off the route. That will, in fact, make the road less congested. That’s good, you say. I give you a lollipop. Why? Because the hundreds of thousands of poor people may not be able to afford a RBT ticket every time. Some may be physically unable to use the over-head walkways installed as a part of the RBT. Pakistan is, after all, one of the two champion countries in the world that still have polio. And has an utter disregard for making public places more accessible to people with physical disabilities. Additionally, maybe the Khaadim-e-Aala has forgotten his public bathrooms scheme in which, rather than using the bathrooms, people stole all sanitary ware and absconded with them and continued to pee on the roads. What guarantee is in place that the public at large will not completely reject the idea because they don’t understand it or are not comfortable with it? There are no public committees engaging with the masses on this subject. No door-to-door surveys being done. No civic interaction and input. There’s just the benevolent face of Shahbaz Sharif shining down on me from giant billboards that tell me how sorry Papa is for causing you this minute trouble for the greater good and how Papa knows best, after all.

Well.

Papa doesn’t know what it feels like to zoom and bump around in a rickshaw, trying to get to classes or to the office on time. Nawaz Sharif, Uncle-e-Aala, came close to feeling this pain when his Mercedez and entourage of two dozen vehicles got stuck in this garbage a few days ago, oh my God, and extra traffic wardens were called in to help Uncle-e-Aala reach his hotplate of maghzi nihari before it got cold. So he really didn’t feel THAT much pain. But…half-hour stuck in traffic! SHOCK AND HORROR! Yeh kaisay ho gya?! Kabhi kisi Sharif ko aisay sarak pey phanstey dekha hai? Hamza Sharif ko call karo woh inn logoan par kuttay nahi, sher choray ga!

Ji dekha hai. I’ve seen hundreds of sharifs (with a small ‘s’) stuck on the roads in traffic for hours upon end in the last few months because Khaadim-e-Aala can’t make up his mind how fugly he wants Lahore to become.

It took a thousand years or so to make Paris what it is today. I hope Shahbaz Sharif takes a little less time to give Lahore extraordinaire glamour Parisien. And while he’s at it, maybe some development professionals can share with him how Delhi got a groovy metro system and how our own cities once had the metro rail system. You know. In Karachi. That city we in Punjab pretend exists only in frenzied Muhajir minds and in the paeans of Altaf Bhai.

Do we HAVE any development professionals? No, I mean the ones who don’t spend most of the time measuring the circumference of their Golf putts and such at the Gymkhana?

And speaking of THAT – I assume this pagal khana (mad house) has got the right sardar (chief), and all the time you spent reading this is equivalent to one traffic jumbled up jam on Ferozpur Road.

Lahore ka Allah hi Hafiz.

The Grand Multi-Continental Epistolary Adventures of Kaku & Happu. Letter #I.

It takes a lot of money to develop a roll of film, you know.

Kaku,

 

After much consideration, I have realized that the secret ingredient in the core of human creation was grief. A bit of clay and a huge fistful of grief, placed in odd places like underneath the heart, at the back of the brain, at the slanting corners of our eyes…somewhere down in the pit of our stomachs. In the fat of our buttocks. In the curve of our ribs. We can’t function without it. We seek it everywhere we go and every which way we look. We search for it in fading photographs of the people we once loved, and we sense it out in others – potential new lovers. A parent’s raised voice drives us into the arms of imagined grief. Newsprint and newsreels familiarize us with it. It’s inside us and outside us. It exists because an Angel didn’t take a knee to the first of our kind, or because it took us so long to shed our matted fur and walk upright and grow opposable thumbs. It’s everywhere and anywhere like those pick-pockets on the Volvo buses.

 

Life originated in water, and grief originated in the first tear of the first person who realized that in this great creation the burden we bear is that even though there are so many of us around, none of us understands the other fully. We are all just one-in-a-few-billion, and that’s not something to celebrate. That’s something to be terrified of.

 

I went bicycling along the railway track with these thoughts, with my tiffin packed and my satchel slung across my body, which is, as you know, not more than an extremely minor interruption in someone’s view of the countryside. I can imagine your furrowed brow now, and you mumbling under your breath: Lahore is not countryside!

 

It isn’t.

 

But the place where The King has decided to build his empire surely is. There is grass upon grass upon grass as far as the eye can dare to see. Then there is this railway line. Then there is more grass and trees, and among this wet dream of green, there are termite mounds that threaten to swallow the whole of our possessions at a minute’s notice. I do not understand why The King is investing all of his life savings in this wilderness-on-the-left-side-of-Civilization-called-Lahore, but I am young, and it is not for me to question, lest my princely domain is invaded by some royal decree. I take the Canal as my guide and go to the expansive reminder of how some of the Colonial Masters really didn’t mean us any harm. I study. I spy on a few of the lads, one of whom just received a Mustang – a Mustang. I imagine great scenarios of his ultimate humiliation, imagining his vehicle will run out of fuel at some point and I would go paddling on, swerving past him with a hat-tip and hello. What joy would that be!

 

But before you pick up that phone and ask the operator to dial a quick one to Pakistan, I want to tell you that I am only occasionally petty. Most of the time I study at the Library, scale the steps of the Minar, and espy the population with my bird watcher’s binoculars. I am also proud to report that I no longer feel the need to steal the books from the Library. The librarian just lets me take them with a promise of return.

 

I do return them. When I remember.

 

I suppose my unrelentingly crass attitude towards the Library rules causes much grief to the Old Man. I try to control myself from overanalyzing his state of mind, though. He eats paan with only katha, chuuna and supari. He must be tough enough.

 

Otherwise things are well and in order, if a bit noisy at home sometimes. Apa reads her Urdu classics with quiet grace while stirring the daal concoctions with a wooden ladle in the kitchen and Choti keeps tearing down the silence with both hands raised up to the heavens with constant demands of immediate release from this monotonous life. I don’t suppose that upsets Apa much at all. I will know it has upset her when I eat some Aatish flavoured moong-masoor. Till then, all is well. Her grief is confined in her books, and that keeps everything in order. Like clockwork.

 

I end this with a request. Think about what I said when you are out and about in the Land of the Queen. Test my fractured theory. Let me know if you feel the way I do thinking about it. Quite honestly, two people believing in the fact of grief being sewn to us like our shadows would be better than one person believing in it. Loneliness and grief? A combination that could kill even the mightiest.

 

And I have never claimed to be mighty.

 

Raising this anda paratha roll in salute to you,

Your brother,

Happu.

Satan said, “Dance.”

Being a student again feels full and heavy, yet I find myself moving with ease and getting amazed by the fact that, well, there is so much I do NOT know.  I’ve lowered that half-cynical mental barrier that roughs up all that is heard like a bored bouncer outside a happening club. My mind is open; I’m open to new experiences. But opening up to maniacal misadventures of a misdirected man is still a feat I cannot accomplish with quiet grace.

Mind games at the sports festival.

I showed up for classes. Instead of the expected Cultural Anthropology, Social Development and Social Psychology lectures, we were informed we were required to jointly party on the CM’s behest. Fair enough! What’s a student who doesn’t want to bunk classes to go have fun? We were then carted off to the Punjab Youth Sports Festival opening ceremony at the Hockey Stadium (which has only recently started seeing some real action, something to do with the fact that hockey’s pretty much dead). I thought, hey, we’ll get to support national and international sports stars and cheer along with hundreds of other students. That’s always nice, isn’t it?

 

Oh, how wrong I was.

 

Once inside the chaotic stadium whose entrance was lined by a large number of volunteers forming a human chain as if welcoming criminals to a jail, we were informed that the actual show was supposed to start at 5 pm – a fact that wasn’t mentioned on the invitation card. It was 1:45 pm when we heard this brilliant piece of information. With that many hours till the party really started, and to add to our hand-wringing, we were further informed that now that we were inside, we weren’t allowed to leave the premises till 11:00 pm, when the entire show was expected to end.

Now, I’m all for a good concert, and I would’ve stuck around if the organizers didn’t just stop with that proclamation. We were told that since the bathrooms were outside the venue, we would have to wait till the chief guests arrived and settled down to go use them. That is how I got a fair chance to exercise my unbridled rage and debating background with the organizers for the following reasons:

1) No student was informed of this unceremonious ceremony, hence no one had informed their parents/families they would be gone for so long. We were there under the pretense that we would be free by 6 pm at the most, which is when our classes end.

2) No student had a jersey or a shawl, and Lahore gets quite chilly now when the sun sets. No one was prepared for an outdoor adventure, even if it meant being cooped up in the stadium.

3) It was afternoon. Nobody had eaten anything and there was no food or snack carts in sight.

4) Many students live outside Lahore and commute daily to and from the University from Sheikhupura and Kasur. Leaving the stadium at 11 pm would mean the girls from these places would have to use public transport close to midnight, alone.

5) We weren’t even being allowed to use the loo. Sigh.

To all of these arguments, the organizers had only one answer, “the CM has organized this party for you! Don’t be ungrateful and sit down! You have come here of your own free will but you will leave when we say you leave!”

Right.

I politely made my point that it was unethical and, dare I use the word, illegal to hold anyone in this manner against their will. I was told to back off. When my entire class moved towards the exit, the organizers yelled for the guards to close the gate. They threw in a few bonus warning whistles. We fell back. Another ‘senior’ organizer showed up to ask what was going on, and I explained it to her in plain and simple words. She refused to let us go yet again and pushed me back. My class fellows started yelling at the woman to step off, and I told the lady to, really, step off. She glared at us all and then looked at me, telling me to ‘organize’ my ‘ungrateful mob’. I told the girls to make a line. And for a group of 45 girls who hardly know each other yet, the speed at which the line was formed was brilliant. That could’ve been a whole new world record (and we know how fond we are of our world records in Punjab). The organizer, seeing there was no choice and that she had been trumped for another excuse, asked the guards to let us go, and we started moving out in a single, straight line. I got out and told the girls to stick together outside. I had to go back to the gate again to get other girls of my class who were being held back once again. Once all of us were finally out, we moved away from the Hockey Stadium, and, having discussed the logistics, dispersed without further agitation or disruption to the proceedings.

The next day I found out that it was a fun party, all in all. Brilliant young athletes from Pakistan and abroad had shown up and they showed great spirit. The concert was also well produced and people in attendance had fun. The boys from our class danced it out. I also found out that true to their word, the organizers didn’t let students leave before the show had ended, and that the students were cold, hungry and without toilet privileges. At least the ones who weren’t clever enough to pay the volunteers managing the program to smugglr in food for them. Many of these students were from government schools who had been brought in on executive order straight after the classes at their schools had ended, throwing their parents in a tizzy as to where their kids had gone. Dawn had a news piece about this.

It was a sad thing that happened to a good enough party. I can understand the CM’s enthusiasm for these things, but I don’t understand the compulsion that comes attached with the invitation. It makes it a command rather than a request, and last time I checked, being commanded to attend and enjoy a party never really fulfilled that purpose. All I can say is that the next time something of this sort is organized, a little heads up would be nice. We wanted to have fun. We wanted to sing and dance and shout. We just didn’t want to do it with someone breathing down our necks, giving us instructions as to how.

So yes.

Dear Punjab Government,

You throw great parties. Just don’t be that paranoid, obsessive compulsive sorority girl hostess who ruins her own shinding by over-planning everything.

Cheers,

Me.

Stealing Souls.

In February last year, I visited Sukkur with a few international journalists. One of them was a fiery, towering photographer from England who rolled her own cigarettes and pushed against the often unbending will of local authority figures to go and carry out her photography assignments in ‘katcha’ areas, which are filled with notorious thugs and local mafia.

I took this photograph of her as she photographed a room full of men right next to a landlord’s traditional ‘baithak’, where the fate of some men was to be decided through a jirga meeting for stealing from their neighbours.

It was both somber and moving to watch the certain lack of humor which is usually involved in the interaction between locals and a foreigner. The atmosphere was grim and joyless, and no one cracked a smile on either side of the camera. It was a stark display of two very different cultures eyeing each other with wariness across set boundaries. There wasn’t any accommodating banter. There was just an odd sort of respect, which is more than you can ask for in today’s world.