Milly Alcock first appeared as Supergirl in the epilogue to Superman (2025). Her Supergirl is a brash “party girl” — an immediate contrast to David Corenswet’s squeaky clean rendition of Superman. Based on the comic book Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow (2021) by Tom King and Bilquis Evely, she is a traumatised character, dealing with the destruction of her home planet of Krypton. “I have no people,” Supergirl laments in the trailer.

However, Supergirl was not always so introspective. The character and her alter ego, Kara Zor-El, first appeared in 1938 to cash in on the popularity of Superman. She was a preppy teenager who played a supporting helpmate role, allowing Superman to display his paternal side.

Publishers DC Comics also flirted with the concept of Superwoman. A 1943 story had Superman’s girlfriend, reporter Lois Lane, dream that she was Superman’s female counterpart. In her book Supergirl: Contemporary Feminist Reboot of a Hapless DC Comic Helpmate (2022), Batya Weinbaum suggests this moment reflected the “changing position of women in wartime.”

Why DC Comics is betting big on a hero long stuck in Superman’s shadow: Supergirl

In a 1947 story, Lois Lane, Superwoman! from Superman Issue #45, Lane is convinced she has superpowers, only to discover she is the victim of a ruse where Superman is using his influence to simulate the experience. This prompts her frustrated exclamation: “You men who try to keep women weak and defenceless — I hate you!”

Lane may well have been addressing the DC editors who published her adventures. In his cultural history of comic book heroines, comic book historian Mike Madrid outlines an excerpt from 1950s-era DC Comics’ editorial policy, which reluctantly accepts stories featuring women, but only if the female characters are “secondary in importance.”

The ever-changing Supergirl

Nevertheless, as Supergirl developed through the 1960s, there were signs that she could develop an identity of her own.

Two years after her secret arrival on Earth, in issue #285 of Action Comics, Superman finally reveals Supergirl to the world. She appears in public in an act that cultural historian Gerard Beritela interprets as her “emergence from male domination.” But ultimately, Madrid’s take on this era is that “she is a girl, not a woman, and therein lies the secret of her appeal.” Supergirl isn’t a threatening Superwoman who might develop ideas of her own.

This was the model followed in the 1984 attempt to bring Supergirl to cinema screens. In his DVD commentary, director Jeannot Szwarc discusses his intention to convey Supergirl’s grace and intelligence. Whereas Superman (played by Christopher Reeve) was introduced in 1978 by the same producers with a daring rescue of a plummeting helicopter, Helen Slater’s Supergirl performs an aerial ballet and frolics with woodland creatures.

In comics, Supergirl fared even worse. The character was killed off in 1985’s Crisis on Infinite Earths storyline, partly because of her threat to Superman’s unique status as “the last son of Krypton”, and partly because of the film’s disappointing box-office takings.

Various incarnations of Supergirl have been explored following the obliteration of the original version. This regular rewriting has encouraged creators to experiment. Danny Fingeroth describes a 1996 example, when fellow comic book writer Peter David developed a version of Supergirl to explore Jewish identity, revising the character as an Earth-bound angel based on the concept of Shekhinah, or the divine feminine. This Supergirl’s stories integrated themes of redemption and spirituality.

However, in comic books, death is never permanent. Kara Zor-El and Supergirl were resurrected in 2004 in The Supergirl from Krypton. There was an attempt to add nuance to the character, with a greater emphasis on the trauma she suffered from witnessing the loss of her home planet. But this was rather undermined by various revealing costumes clearly designed to satisfy the male gaze.

It wasn’t until 2015 and the six-season Supergirl television show that creators began to deal head-on with the character’s agency. Another updated origin story saw Kara (played by Melissa Benoist) being sent ahead to help her baby cousin acclimatise to life on Earth. But after her spaceship arrives late, she has no clear purpose, finding an already adult and established Superman.

In the pilot episode, she finally strikes out on her own with the dramatic rescue of an airliner, assuming the mantle of Supergirl. In a show that employed several female writers and became known for its positive representation of LGBTQ+ issues, problematic topics such as Supergirl’s infantilising name and costume were directly addressed.

Kara refuses to wear revealing versions of the costume from the character’s comic book past. In discussions with her employer, CatCo Worldwide Media CEO Cat Grant, she is told, “I’m a girl. And your boss. And powerful. And rich, and hot, and smart. So, if you perceive Supergirl as anything less than excellent, isn’t the real problem you?”

Significantly, Grant is portrayed by actor Calista Flockhart, known for the Ally McBeal series — a show that sparked debates about feminism and women in the workplace in the late 1990s.

The 2021 comic book Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow follows the young alien Ruthye Marye Knoll, who recruits Supergirl to seek revenge after her father is murdered. The story is told from Ruthye’s point of view, the fractured narrative lending the story a fatalistic quality. The narration also emphasises the mythic quality of Supergirl, “who lost everything and kept walking.”

It remains to be seen how closely the film will follow the philosophical source material.

Meanwhile, in the pages of the latest DC comic book, writer and artist Sophie Campbell has returned to the brighter tone of the 1960s version of the character, merged with the sensibilities of the 2015 television series.

The many interpretations of Supergirl continue to reveal the character’s durability and versatility.

The writer is Principal Lecturer in Film and Media at the University of Portsmouth in the UK

Republished from The Conversation

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

It was not that he had never heard of Amitabh Bachchan or Kaun Banega Crorepati?. But for someone who has grown up watching YouTube videos instead of television, the reference held no meaning.

My generation, and the one before it, built a repertoire of knowledge through active seeking: we searched libraries, waited for TV programmes, read newspapers and engaged in conversations to learn about the world. Perhaps that is why we valued information differently and retained so much of it. Today, children have access to knowledge at their fingertips, yet the shared cultural experience that connected generations is gradually fading away.

It was at the turn of the century that Gen-X and Gen-Y were introduced to the Indian adaptation of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, the British television game show that debuted in 1998. Successful versions soon followed in the United States and India, with Pakistan eventually joining the trend as well.

Children today have access to knowledge at their fingertips. Yet, the shared cultural experience that connected generations via television shows is gradually fading away

In 2000, Bollywood superstar Amitabh Bachchan was chosen to host the Indian version, Kaun Banega Crorepati (KBC). At the time, Bachchan’s career was at a low point, yet the decision proved to be a master stroke. Bachchan’s towering presence, coupled with the show’s slick production and high-stakes format, turned it into an instant phenomenon.

Audiences would eagerly await each episode, discussing questions and contestants long after the credits rolled, and counting the time until the next broadcast. The show’s style of questioning became part of everyday conversation, while Amitabh Bachchan’s trademark laugh etched itself into our collective memory. On and off, the programme continued for nearly 25 years!

Interestingly, KBC even found an indirect connection to the Academy Awards. In 2008, director Danny Boyle drew inspiration from the show’s format for his Oscar-winning film Slumdog Millionaire, in which the protagonist’s appearance on the Indian show forms the backbone of the story. The film went on to win eight Academy Awards, while its signature song, ‘Jai ho’, became a global phenomenon.

Speaking of popular shows and memorable songs, I am reminded of a day in 2005 when our entire office staff — stationed in Dubai — witnessed a rare citywide power outage. The outage lasted only a few hours and, with little else to do, employees from both the morning and evening shifts gathered to find a way to pass the time.

The choice was not KBC but Antakshari — the immensely popular Zee TV musical game show that had become a household favourite during the 1990s. Before long, colleagues were divided into teams, singing songs and recalling lyrics with the same enthusiasm that viewers once reserved for the show.

During family picnics, Antakshari had largely replaced traditional board games such as Ludo and cards. Interestingly, this marked a significant cultural shift, as just one generation earlier, singing in front of elders was often considered inappropriate and actively discouraged.

The post-1993 era undoubtedly brought a wave of Indian television content into Pakistani homes, influencing viewing habits across Pakistan. Despite this influx, there were still local programmes that held an irresistible attraction for audiences.

One such show was That’s It!, hosted by Qureshpur, with the formidable duo of Ghazi Salahuddin and Obaidullah Baig providing intellectual sparring and insightful commentary. The programme encouraged curiosity and knowledge and made its debut at a time when television was expected to educate as much as it entertained.

A few years later came Kasauti, aired on Pakistan Television. The format was simple yet captivating. The Ghazi-Baig duo had to identify an object, person, place, animal or historical figure by asking no more than 20 questions. Their vast knowledge, sharp reasoning and remarkable ability to deduce the correct answer from the smallest clues transformed the programme into both an educational experience and a source of entertainment, making it a favourite with viewers of all ages.

What many viewers did not realise then was that Kasauti was actually a revival of a programme that had originally aired on PTV during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Poet Iftikhar Arif used to accompany Obaidullah Baig in the show which, when televised, led to deserted streets.

And finally, there was the show that began with “Ibtida hai Rab-i-Jaleel ke babarkat naam se [Beginning with the blessed name of God]” and ended with “Pakistan Zindabad! [Long live Pakistan].” You have probably guessed it by now: Neelam Ghar, later renamed Tariq Aziz Show and Bazm-i-Tariq Aziz.

Tariq Aziz was the first face that appeared on PTV when it started transmission in 1964. After a stint in films, he decided to return to television after his own film production, Saajan Rang Rangeela (The Flirty Beloved, 1975), failed miserably at the box office. Fate then brought him to Karachi.

In 1975, Neelam Ghar was launched on PTV and Tariq Aziz’s name became synonymous with it. For decades, he entertained generations through a format that combined prizes, knowledge, humour and audience participation. Whether it was testing the mind or memory, recalling prose or poem, or meeting celebrities, the show was one of its kind.

The programme continued under the name Neelam Ghar until the turn of the century, before becoming the Tariq Aziz Show and later Bazm-i-Tariq Aziz. Phrases such as “Mere bhai, mera sawaal hai [My brother, my question to you is]” and “Inka daawa hai [His claim is]” became a part of everyday conversation. Long before people were imitating Amitabh Bachchan, they were imitating Tariq Aziz!

The show remained closely associated with Tariq Aziz throughout his life and continued, in one form or another, until his final years. Even when it was taken off-air for a while, it never truly disappeared from the public consciousness, remaining an integral part of our cultural memory for more than four decades.

With life becoming increasingly fast-paced, families rarely have the time to sit together and enjoy such games the way they once did. The programmes that inspired them have either disappeared or evolved, while entertainment itself has become a far more individualised experience, consumed on phone screens rather than in shared living rooms.

The writer is a vintage cinema enthusiast. He can be reached at suhaybalavi@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

Aik Mohabbat Aur | Green TV, Mon-Tues 8.00pm

Farooq Rind shows us Faiza Iftikhar’s script through a light, whimsical lens, much like his previous blockbuster hit Ishq Murshid, and so far it is working.

Haroon Malik (Ahad Raza Mir) is the kind of journalist we all love to hate: he has all the scoops, the contacts and the charm to persuade his subjects to listen to him and spill secrets. He creates content and entertainment with cleverly edited sound bites but, this time, he has picked the wrong woman to manipulate: Khushbakht Naz (Maya Ali). Assistant Commissioner Khushbakht has worked hard to become an independent woman after a terrible, abusive marriage and divorce. Not bitter but withdrawn, she had moulded a protective shell of efficiency and distance from emotional entanglement that has kept her safe and happy over the years.

Maya Ali excels in this role, giving us a portrait of a woman hiding in plain sight in order never to feel pain again. Ahad Raza Mir mostly fits the role, but his anglicised Urdu and fast delivery can sometimes miss the mark. Other than that, he plays the mischievous and perhaps over-confident newsman well.

Zanjeerain | Hum TV, Wed-Thurs 8.00pm

After a slow start, Hum TV’s investment in this Farhat Ishtiaq script is finally paying off, with strong social media attention and a bump in the ratings. Torsum’s (Usman Javed) arc from neglected child under all the wrong influences to complete villain stands out. We understand how his nature was forged, without reducing accountability for his crimes.

Usman Javed shares the acting credits with Sajal Aly (Rabiya), who brings the grief and helplessness of a woman relentlessly hunted and destroyed by an obsessed stalker. After facing criticism for underplaying his role, Danyal Zafar justifies his casting as Sar Buland, as a man who responds rather than reacts and uses strategy, not immediate violence.

Burning with hatred and jealousy, Torsum murders Rabiya’s husband Mudassir (Ameer Gilani) who, even as he dies, leaves Rabiya in a distraught Sar Buland’s care. Sher Bano (Sahar Hashmi) is ruled by her insecurities and suspicions, ignoring Rabiya and then complaining that Sar Buland is too close to the grieving widow. Sar Buland’s restraint, compassion and respect are used as a stark contrast to Torsum’s claims of love that fuel nothing but cruelty, reminding us what a real hero is.

Dr Bahu | ARY, Fri-Sat 8.00pm

Writer Sanam Mehdi shows us a new level of feminism when Dr Mina (Hajra Yamin) is so angry at her cheating husband Faraz (Adeel Hussain) that she builds solidarity with Dr Amber (Mira Sethi), the woman her husband cheated with.

Dr Amber is an aggressive, determined woman who knows how to emotionally blackmail, but she has a point about the lack of any real affection between Faraz and Mina. Hajra Yamin gives a moving performance as a woman who, despite looks, education and many compromises, has lost her husband. The rest of this script should have been called: ‘Dr Sania is always right — even when she is wrong.’

Dr Sania (Kubra Khan) is a social justice warrior and, with all the energy of youth, she is determined to take down anyone in her way, whether it’s her in-laws or her own sister. Salman (Shuja Asad) has been called a “green flag” or “simp” on social media, according to the netizens’ perspective. Shuja Asad and Adeel Hussain play their parts with conviction and restraint, counteracting some of the story’s less believable turns and motivations.

What To Watch Out For (Or Not)

Marg-i-Wafa | Hum TV, Mon-Thurs 9.00pm

Usama Khan and Mirza Zain Baig star opposite Sabeena Farooq in a family drama and in a game of emotional musical chairs.

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

At first glance, their formula seemed straightforward; catchy music, bold personalities and an explicitly commercial brand. This helped the Spice Girls to dominate the pop charts of the 1990s and 2000s. But their approach was very rare for British female artists — most girlbands relied on matching outfits and a unified look, as opposed to the Spice Girls brand of individual personalities. The strategy resulted in huge success but also reflected, and arguably was the catalyst for, deeper shifts in the music industry and society at large.

The Spice Girls arrived at a moment when “girl power” (a phrase they popularised globally and which now features in the dictionary) tapped into a growing appetite for female autonomy and visibility.

Unlike many pop acts before them, each member of the Spice Girls had a distinct identity: Mel B (Melanie Brown) as Scary Spice, Melanie C (Melanie Chisholm) as Sporty Spice, Emma Bunton as Baby Spice, Geri Halliwell as Ginger Spice and Victoria Beckham as Posh Spice. These personas were often caricatured, but they provided a lens through which fans (particularly young girls) could see multiple versions of femininity represented in mainstream media.

The Spice Girls burst on to the scene 30 years ago and became the biggest selling girl band in history. But the band’s significance cannot be measured by sales alone

Another significant element of the Spice Girls’ audience is the LGBTQ+ community. The group has often pointed to the importance of this audience for their success. Many of their LGBTQ+ fans have pointed to the ‘loud and proud’ message of the band as an important part of their self-acceptance and positive self-esteem.

Later generations of female and LGBTQ+ artists have attributed Spice Girls as inspirational figures, including Adele, Billie Eilish, Olly Alexander, Charli XCX and Dua Lipa. These artists, in turn, continued to keep the Spice Girls legacy alive with younger audiences, helped by the easy access of legacy music catalogues on digital streaming platforms.

The Spice Girls legacy

The band’s debut album, Spice, is the best-selling album by a girl group in history. Their global reach helped solidify the late 1990s and early 2000s as a peak era of British pop culture exports. Throughout their career, the band had nine UK number one singles as a group and eight solo number ones. No other girl group comes close to that total.

But the band’s significance cannot be measured by sales alone. The Spice Girls helped normalise the idea that female acts could dominate the global market on their own terms, without conforming to male-defined industry expectations. For example, they sacked a male manager in the maelstrom of their success and managed themselves, while enjoying several more number-one singles, platinum album sales and sold-out tours.

The Spice Girls also exerted an unusual degree of control over their music; notably cowriting all of their songs and challenging the industry norms that often sidelined female artists in decision-making processes. In doing so, they anticipated later debates about authorship, authenticity and agency in pop — decades ahead of modern conversations about music ownership and power, such as Taylor Swift’s journey to owning her own master recordings.

However, the legacy of the Spice Girls is not without tension. “Girl power” has been both celebrated in that it made feminism accessible to young people and critiqued as a commodified slogan that reduced complex political ideas to marketable soundbites. At their last reunion tour in 2019, Geri repackaged “girl power” into “people power.”

Beyond the music, the Spice Girls have become an omnipresent element of British pop culture in recent years, with Royal Mail stamps, Royal Mint official British currency and a collaboration with the English female rugby team. This shows that the Spice Girls’ iconic imagery is well and truly canonified in the British pop culture vernacular, much like The Rolling Stones, Oasis and The Beatles.

Three decades on, the Spice Girls continue to be revisited in ways that alternate between celebration, nostalgia and critique, reflecting ongoing debates about gender, commerce and pop culture in the 1990s.

The writer is Associate Dean of Learning, Teaching and Student Success and Lecturer in Media, Art and Communication at Sheffield Hallam University in the UK

Republished from The Conversation

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

Now, I’m not saying that Disclosure Day is a bad film — Spielberg doesn’t make bad films. Though it has been years, I even enjoyed his big, unfunny, Second World War disaster 1941. But that was 1979, and Spielberg was just starting out. This is 2026, and Spielberg has long turned the curve on his prime — the era spanned from 1993 and Jurassic Park, to 2017’s The Post (with a few less-than-stellar entries, such as The BFG).

Disclosure Day, after the good-enough — though unsatisfactory — West Side Story and The Fablemans, tells a tale we’ve all seen before. By itself, the seen-it-before wouldn’t have been a problem if it didn’t carry a great, big dose of hokum — one that undermines the seriousness of what could have been a truly unique, time-relevant story.

Starting in the unlikeliest of locations for a Spielberg film — a wrestling ring and its riled-up audience — we meet Daniel Kellner (Josh O’Connor, Wake Up Dead Man), a cybersecurity expert working for a US government-sanctioned agency.

Director Steven Spielberg’s Disclosure Day would have been better and more engaging if he had chosen seriousness over unimaginative, childish ideas

Jumping right into the thick of it — an aspect I love about Spielberg, since it forces us to learn who these people are as the narrative unfolds — we learn that Daniel has stolen extraterrestrial tech, along with the entire library of classified footage confirming the presence of aliens on Earth. By proxy, Daniel’s girlfriend, Jane (Eve Hewson, Jay Kelly), a former nun-in-training who lost her calling, is also caught up in the mess.

While the two escape Noah Scanlon (Colin Firth), the head of the Wardex Corporation that exclusively handles ET research for the US government, we switch to the second main character: Margaret Fairchild (Emily Blunt). Margaret is a local TV meteorologist/weather girl in Kansas City, who doesn’t like the shimmying she does on TV.

As Daniel escapes, Margaret realises that she can speak in different languages — including a chittery one that only Daniel can understand — look into people’s minds and, when caught, “convince” them to let her go by taking on the guises of loved ones (yes, it’s a stretch!). When Scanlon’s authorities arrive, she flees like Daniel; their destination and aid is Hugo Wakefield (Colman Domingo), another former defector from Scanlon’s outfit.

The escapes get a little tiring after a while, and the big reveal in the climax — especially the explanation of the reasons why Daniel and Margaret have these abilities — and this feels like a by-product of The X-Files. Pretty soon, one realises that there’s little to ‘disclose’ in Disclosure Day.

I expected more from screenwriter David Koepp — someone whom I absolutely love (Jurassic Park, Carlito’s Way, the first Mission: Impossible, the first Spider-Man, Panic Room, War of the Worlds, the last two Indiana Jones films). Koepp’s screenplay has many really cool scenes that give Blunt, O’Connor, Hewson and Firth room to deliver strong performances. However, there is also a lack of ingenuity and genuine intrigue.

Every so often, you get a number of those ‘really cool scenes’ with good ideas that Spielberg delivers with perfection. But they lack the expected technical panache of the director and his go-to cinematographer, Janusz Kamiński.

The intrigue of Spielberg’s camera moves has lost its sharpness and sheen in the last few years. Most of what we see here is an emulation of his good ol’ days. Emulation doesn’t cut it when we’re talking about the greatest living director in the world.

Rather than choose the adventure-format — one lacking in gravity and stakes — Disclosure Day would have been a better, more engaging film, if it chose seriousness over unimaginative, childish ideas. Now, I’m not talking about infantile wish-fulfilment — that’s something he used to ace (see aspects of it in Catch Me If You Can, Hook and A.I. Artificial Intelligence), with ‘used to’ being the main term here.

Released by Universal Pictures and HKC Films, Disclosure Day is rated PG — the film is made for families but, like all aspects of the story, one didn’t need to disclose it.

The writer is Icon’s primary film reviewer

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

We agree with Meera when she demands respect from people who seek her opinions about her life and work in front of a camera or for a newspaper. Here’s a bit of background. During a conversation in relation to her film Psycho, the man who was interviewing the actress called her “Pakistan’s biggest psycho.” Meera was quick to shrug off the remark, but pointed out that she should be given respect. With the advent of social media in particular, a large number of podcasters and bloggers have emerged who often are more interested in eyeballs than ethics. One can only hope they learn to respect the people they want to get close to and achieve borrowed glory from.

The Daughter Speaks

A couple of years ago, writer Khalil ur Rehman Qamar was much maligned for the honeytrap episode in his life. Now, his daughter, Hijab Khalil, has opened up about the whole saga. She says that the issue was sensationalised at a time when it was close to being resolved. She pointed out that people had become so vile that they even prayed that her father would die. We think Hijab K has a point. While there have been occasions where her dad’s behaviour has been more than questionable, especially when it comes to his comments on women, no one should wish that someone should die. Period.

Insensitive Paltrow

This is the kind of hypocrisy and inconsiderateness that Hollywood A-listers (not all of them, mind you) show towards the genocide that has taken place in Palestine. Oscar-winner Gwyneth Paltrow chose to appear in an advertisement highlighting a luxury residential project in Herzliya, Israel, totally ignoring the fact that, since Oct 7, 2023, the apartheid state has killed at least 73,000 innocent people, including at least 20,000 children, in Gaza and injured nearly 173,000 men, women and children. The actress has faced sharp criticism for doing the ad campaign in the middle of an ongoing genocide, but we know it will probably make no difference to her. As someone remarked, Gwyneth P is either completely disconnected from reality or a really nasty piece of work.

Meeting the Monarch

Recently, actress Mahira Khan was invited to the British Asian Trust annual dinner held in London at a hotel. Other prominent Asian figures who were there included the likes of entertainers such as Dame Meera Sayal, Sanjeev Bhaskar, Kunal Nayyar and Jay Sean. The highlight of the event was King Charles’ appearance, who met with all the invitees. And when he met our very own Mahira K, he made her uber-happy. Why? Here’s the answer in her words, “I was pleasantly surprised that he knew about the work I have done with the British Asian Trust and was aware of the causes I have been supporting.” Well, he is the king after all — he’s supposed to know about all of his subjects.

Words of Wisdom

The Nawab of Pataudi, Saif Ali Khan, says his career as an actor took a definitive direction two decades ago when, on the sets of Kal Ho Na Ho, Shah Rukh Khan gave him a piece of advice. SRK asked him who is the first person he acted for, to which the Nawab replied, “The camera.” Then came the king of Bollywood’s pearl of wisdom: “It’s the director. You act for him. People watch his movies because he’s the storyteller.” Hmmm… Why can’t SRK practise what he preaches?

Levitating In Love

After somewhat suddenly getting married to British Fantastic Beasts actor Callum Turner in London on May 31, pop star Dua Lipa is having a whale of a honeymoon in southern Italy. The two — who were apparently seeing each other for two years — were spotted by the Amalfi Coast, taking pictures of themselves with a great deal of PDA (public displays of affection). In one photograph, the couple is seen lounging by an inflated doughnut in the sea. In another, they’re squeezed together in a beach chair. Congratulations Dua L and Callum T, may you always have “glitter in [your] eyes” and may you keep Levitating in love.

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

“If I had to perform concerts in one city for my entire life, I would choose Karachi.”

— Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, singer

“Instead of testing things on animals, test them on rapists.”

— Mariyam Nafees, actor

“Your life’s goal should be to live rich, not be rich. Enrich your life with knowledge and be decent to everyone.”

— Emmad Irfani, actor

“Women also spend on men — emotionally, financially and through everyday efforts — but many do it quietly without constantly mentioning it or expecting praise in return.”

— Rahma Irfan Malik, influencer

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

We begin the conversation by talking about the TV serial Dr Bahu, which she has directed and is currently on air, receiving rave reviews. I ask her how the project came about. She tells me that, a couple of years ago, the idea was first brought to her by actor and producer Humayun Saeed, who heads the production house Six Sigma and who believed it had the makings of a strong commercial drama. At the time, she had little interest in returning to long-form television.

“I wasn’t doing long-form serials those days,” she says. She had been dabbling in miniseries such as Nadaan and Jurm. But then director Nadeem Baig, who’s also part of Six Sigma, persuaded her to read the script and told her that if he weren’t so busy, he would have directed it himself. “Nadeem kept telling me, ‘Just do this. Trust me.’”

Not Just a Gharailoo Drama

Although Dr Bahu initially appeared to revolve around familiar themes of family politics and in-laws’ relationships, she discovered a far more layered narrative beneath the surface.

“Yes, it is a story about a family and a bahu [daughter-in-law],” she admits, “but there were so many different threads and issues running through it. It wasn’t typical. It was fast-paced and the characters were interesting. I thought, why not?”

Director Mehreen Jabbar has returned to long-form television after a long time with her latest serial Dr Bahu. What enticed her back? Why hasn’t she made a film in 10 years? What does she think about the changing dynamics of the industry? How does it feel to split her life across the globe? And how is age affecting her?

What also attracted her was the fact that it featured a strong female lead.

“She is a progressive, proactive woman and not a goody-two-shoes and nor a victim. She makes mistakes and is headstrong. It’s a blessing to find female characters who are proactive and who have agency. Honestly, it’s very difficult to come across well-written serial scripts and I felt it was worth doing.”

The More Things Change…

Since she has been working in the industry for more than three decades, I ask Mehreen how she thinks it has changed.

She says that, while the technical aspects of television production — such as equipment, cameras and production design — have improved considerably, there is still significant room for progress. In some cases, outdated equipment is still in use. She remarks, “How we do things on such limited budgets and crew members compared to productions abroad is nothing short of a miracle.”

In terms of content, however, she believes the industry has become less adventurous.

“When there were only two or three channels, there wasn’t this rat race for ratings,” she says. “There was more room to experiment because ratings didn’t dictate content in the way they do now.”

I ask her to elaborate. She points to some of her own early work as evidence of a period when television was willing to take greater creative risks. In the 1990s, she directed projects such as Faraar, which followed three independent women living in Karachi, Putli Ghar, a psychological thriller and Sham Se Pehlay, a story about two older people who fall in love.

“At that time, there were lots of different themes being explored,” she recalls. “Writers such as Bano Qudsia and Ashfaq Ahmed were creating very interesting and unconventional stories.”

She adds, “I don’t think a project should be judged by the number of YouTube hits. I’ll give you the example of a fantastic series, Aik Aur Pakeezah, which is brilliant. It did not get as many views on YouTube as some of the more commercial series, but it was critically acclaimed and widely talked about. So that should not be the barometer of whether projects should be produced or not.”

Payments, she feels, have not significantly improved either. People frequently complain that payment delays exist because advertisers do not pay channels on time. As a result, channels delay paying production houses, which then cannot pay actors and crew promptly.

I ask her if she thinks things could be moving towards improving.

“I think they’re worse,” she replies emphatically. “It wasn’t like this before. I don’t remember begging or pleading for money — for myself or for crew members. Everyone is blaming everyone else. An industry like this, which employs thousands of people and generates so much revenue, should figure out how to conduct its business professionally. There should be a set payment cycle and people should just be paid on time. I don’t know why it can’t be done.”

I think I generally try to stay as realistic as the scene requires. I’m more aligned with the school of thought of realistic cinema — neorealism — so I like that kind of filmmaking…” She adds: “I love one-takes. I feel that sometimes, when you cut, you lose the intensity of the scene.”

The Case for Realism

I steer the conversation toward more pleasant topics and note that one of the defining aspects of her work has been realism. For example, her characters are never overly made up, and certainly not styled as if they have just woken up all dressed up in the middle of the night, which is still the case in many dramas today.

Similarly, Saba Hameed looks far more natural and less made up in Dr Bahu than she did in Noor Jehan, even though both characters come from similar upper-class backgrounds.

“Well,” she surmises, “her character was very different from Noor Jehan, in which she was the head of the house. In this, she is a victim of her husband, the head of the household.”

She attributes the realism to her team and assistant directors, as well as to her own brand of filmmaking. “I think I generally try to stay as realistic as the scene requires. I’m more aligned with the school of thought of realistic cinema — neorealism — so I like that kind of filmmaking.”

Has her style or how she approaches filmmaking changed over time, I wonder.

“I don’t know if the style has changed,” she responds. “I would say I’m more confident in the day-to-day craft of filmmaking. Having done it for so long, I kind of know where to put the camera and how to make a scene work quickly.”

She adds: “I love one-takes. I feel that sometimes, when you cut, you lose the intensity of the scene.”

She does admit that she is perhaps too entrenched in TV. “When I make my third film, I’ll have to really challenge myself to get out of TV mode and think cinema, which I can do because I do love films, and I think I have the eye.”

Return to films?

I was going to ask her about her long hiatus from cinema but she preempts me. She says her next dream project is to make a film, and she is currently dabbling with a couple of subjects — one a psychological thriller, and the other a social drama.

“I have to decide which one I want to go with. And I want someone to give me the money to make it. While I’m waiting for someone to give me money to make it, I will continue working on serials.”

I ask her why she hasn’t made a film recently. In fact, her two ventures on the big screen were 18 years and 10 years ago — Ramchand Pakistani (2008) and Dobara Phir Se (2016) — but she has always spoken, in her understated way, about her passion for cinema. The reason, she says, is partly practical.

“The movie business is a tough one,” she says. Unlike television, where projects move relatively quickly and payment structures are still relatively predictable, filmmaking demands years of commitment. She also believes films require complete creative immersion.

“A film has to be a passion project. You can’t do a hundred other things alongside it. You have to stop and dedicate yourself entirely to it.”

It is this immersion she misses most about making movies. “I think what I miss about making a film is that you can just drown yourself in that one story. It’s a labour of love.”

This is one of the differences she says between the two media, as a TV drama may occupy a director for a few months, but a feature film can remain with them for years. “A film is a process from writing, all the way to the final product,” she explains. “It lives with you for a minimum of two years, if not three or four.”

Another distinction she draws between television and cinema lies less in aesthetics and more in how audiences consume stories.

“People grow with television,” she says. “Especially long-form TV, where you can take your time telling a story over four or five months.” This gives viewers time to form connections with the drama. Cinema, by contrast, offers no such luxury.

“In a film, you have to captivate the audience within a very short span of time,” she says. “You have to be good enough to make people sit through it and then tell others to go and pay for a ticket and popcorn. The stakes are much higher.”

Contrary to periodic declarations that cinema is dead, she believes the problem is more structural than creative. She notes that there is a renewed interest in cinema, with initiatives such as Punjab Chief Minister Maryam Nawaz’s proposed film city as well as a growing number of institutions training aspiring young filmmakers providing evidence that interest in the medium is steadily building.

“There are a lot of young people who want to build a future in film,” she says. “That’s a good thing.”

But she stresses the need to expand cinema infrastructure beyond a handful of multiplexes in major cities, making theatres more widely accessible. “The biggest hurdle is that there are not enough cinemas,” she says. “And there are not enough cinemas because there are not enough films being produced. It becomes a vicious cycle.”

One criticism frequently levelled at Pakistani films is that they often look like extended television dramas. Mehreen, however, rejects the distinction. “I’m not a believer in people who say, ‘This looks like a drama’ and ‘This looks like a film,’” she says.

For her, the visual language of a film is determined by its story rather than by arbitrary notions of scale. A science-fiction film, action blockbuster or historical epic naturally demands a larger-than-life canvas. A family drama, on the other hand, may require something far more intimate.

“If you’re telling the story of a family in a house, you’re not suddenly going to make it look grand just because it’s a film,” she says. “Cinema doesn’t need people running through forests and singing songs,” she says with a laugh. “It’s all about the script.”

She is equally dismissive of another common complaint: that Pakistani films rely too heavily on television actors. Given the absence of a robust film industry, she argues, filmmakers have little choice.

“We don’t have a film industry, so where are we going to get our actors from? “You can cast a completely new actor,” she says, “but people are more likely to buy a ticket if they see a Humayun Saeed, a Fahad Mustafa, a Mahira Khan or a Mehwish Hayat.”

THE PASSION TO TELL STORIES

Despite all the frustrations, what keeps her going, I ask. “Because that’s the only thing I know how to do. Otherwise, what would I do? I don’t know how to make money otherwise,” she says, self-deprecatingly.

I remind her that during our previous interview, a decade ago, she said that telling stories drives her — does she still feel the same?

“Yes, obviously. Because there are so many stories to tell, and so much maza [fun] in telling them. There are so many facets of human relationships and human character to explore — it’s endless.”

And although the ingredients in most stories are the same — love, jealousy, heartbreak — she believes there are infinite ways to tell them, because the context can always change.

“I just love delving into people’s dark, secret lives,” she says with a laugh.

She is currently working on another serial with Sanam Saeed and Emmad Irfani. “It’s going to be interesting. It’s very, very contained. Unlike Dr Bahu, it’s a much more streamlined story.”

NEW YORK VS KARACHI

Mehreen has long settled into a life split between New York and Karachi over the past 24 years. Broadly speaking, New York is where she lives a more unstructured, personal life (although she does some of her post-production work there), while Karachi is where she works.

What she loves about New York, she says, is the presence of friends who have become like family, and the sense of independence it gives her in everyday life. The city also keeps her connected to a wider cultural world — “world cinema, world theatre, exhibitions.”

On the other hand, Karachi offers comfort, family, and work. “I love working here,” she says. I ask her if living away prevents her from feeling the pulse of audiences here. She replies in the negative, saying she remains closely engaged with Pakistani television, makes a conscious effort to stay updated, and watches the latest serials.

I ask her whether she is a workaholic. She says no, “I used to be, not anymore. What I love to do now is go to the gym. Because I feel more and more, as one is growing older, it’s so important to learn about building strength for later on in life.”

Alongside this, she speaks about a growing desire to travel more and see more of the world. With fewer familial obligations, she feels a certain freedom in shaping her time differently. “As I don’t have a family, my responsibilities, thankfully, are not that many,” she says.

When asked if that was a conscious choice, she is matter-of-fact. “It just never happened. Never wanted kids, never happened. Zero regrets.”

She also speaks about wanting to return to reading. “I definitely want to restart reading,” she says. “I’ve become too involved in video games on my phone, which I play to relax.”

She remains deeply drawn to television and film and wants to watch more of them — no surprises there — and is also a foodie. “I love going for brunch with friends,” she says. She is also a long-time vegetarian, although not vegan. “I love cheese and eggs. I love food.”

As the conversation winds down, I ask her if there is a question she has never been asked but feels she should be. She pauses, then says it would be: “How does one’s state of mind or general attitude change as one grows older?”

Her answer to her own question is nuanced and reflective. “There is more tehraao [calmness],” she says. “One becomes more self-assured and has fewer conflicts with oneself. There is a greater appreciation of self-worth and a tendency to live life on one’s own terms, rather than worrying about what random people think. There is also a humbler approach to life. That’s what comes with age.”

It is this calmness within her that seeps into her work, which has long been anchored in restraint rather than spectacle. That quiet self-introspection, too, feels inseparable from her craft — shaping her not just as a director, but as a storyteller who observes more than she imposes, and trusts silence as much as dialogue.

The writer is a member of staff. Instagram: @mamunadil

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 21st, 2026

In Greek mythology, a fair maiden named Amaryllis falls in love with a handsome but cold-hearted shepherd named Alteo. Alteo, who cared only for wildflowers, declared that only a flower unlike any seen before could win his affection.

Amaryllis sought guidance from the Oracle of Delphi. The Oracle told Amaryllis that, to attain Alteo’s love, she would have to sacrifice her blood to win him over. For the next 30 days, Amaryllis stood outside Alteo’s cottage dressed in white, piercing her heart with a golden arrow each night as her blood dripped on the pathway.

The legend says that, on the 30th day, two miracles occurred. On the pathway grew a stunning, crimson flower from her blood. Seeing the beautiful flower, Alteo fell in love with her, and their story gave the plant its name.

The legend may be romantic, but the real amaryllis operates on a less dramatic timetable. A bulb takes at least six to eight weeks to bloom, though this timeline depends on the bulb’s size and the planting phase. As bulbs sprout and green shoots emerge, the gardener knows the hidden bloom is finally on its way.

From Greek mythology to modern gardens, the amaryllis combines a romantic origin story with surprisingly simple care requirements

Once the bulb sprouts, the amaryllis needs minimal care. The plant can remain in its original potting mix and, being relatively slow-growing, does not require frequent repotting. However, if the roots emerge from the drainage hole, the plant should be moved to a bigger container. The composition of the soil stays the same, but a light layer of compost can be added to the surface of the soil.

Even in watering, the amaryllis is less demanding than most plants. It should only be watered when the soil turns dry, and only enough for the soil to become moist. A solution of one part compost tea and four parts water can be given to the plant every fortnight to boost growth.

In climates similar to that of Karachi, it is critical to ensure that the plant gets bright, indirect sunlight throughout its life cycle. Direct sunlight exposure leads to brown, crispy patches on leaves, a condition known as sun scorch, and causes flowers to wilt and have a shorter lifespan.

Depending on planting time and local conditions, the amaryllis usually flowers in spring, producing large trumpet-shaped blooms that can last for several weeks. Whether it sprouts and blooms early or late, one of the best aspects of the amaryllis is that it continues to flower for many years during the right season.

With proper care, an amaryllis bulb can remain productive for more than a decade. Individual amaryllis flowers typically last from several days to two weeks, though extreme heat can shorten that period considerably.

A healthy amaryllis plant may produce at least two to three stalks, with two to four flowers on a single stalk. Amaryllis flowers are prized in bouquets and floral arrangements because of their large size and striking colours. However, unlike some edible flowers used in salads and desserts, the amaryllis should never be consumed. The plant contains the toxic alkaloid lycorine, particularly in its bulbs.

The bulb of the original plant continues to grow in size throughout the plant’s life cycle. It produces baby bulbs, which can be harvested to grow more plants in the upcoming season.

For gardeners willing to wait, the reward is a plant that returns year after year, producing dramatic blooms and a growing collection of bulbs that can be shared, gifted or replanted. Unlike the legend that gave it its name, the amaryllis does not bloom overnight — but its beauty is worth the wait.

Please send your queries and emails to doctree101@hotmail.com. The writer is a physician and a host for the YouTube channel ‘DocTree Gardening’ promoting organic kitchen gardening

Published in Dawn, June 21st, 2026

You would be hard pressed to find an authentic shawarma in Karachi. Most shawarma variants offered in the city contain an overflowing amount of mayo when they should have toum (a sauce that makes you think you are snorting garlic), ketchup when it should have pickles, and a thick pita when it should be enveloped in a thin, lightly toasted bread called saj.

But pizzas are a different story.

The city has POMO and Redbrick Pizzeria for authentic wood-fired Neapolitan pizzas, a style known for using fresh tomatoes in their sauce and having a crispy, airy, charred crust; Famous O’s for the authentic New York slice that is thinner and foldable with a more seasoned tomato sauce; Xander’s for the brick-oven pizzas; and Venti, which draws on both New York and Neapolitan techniques, is now also making a comeback. And then, of course, there are the localised Karachi-style pizzas that are known for their deep pan crusts and heavy toppings.

But what happens when a new pizza place opens in a city that has plenty to choose from?

In a city that already has Neapolitan, New York and everything in between, what does a new pizza place need to do to stand out?

Enter Braci.

This is a small space which, when stretched out to the max, only accommodates five tables, two of which are two seaters and confined to the wall. What makes up for the limited space is the vibe. There is a brick wall, a bold orange-framed mirror to reflect the brand colours, a photo wall that carries barely visible polaroid photos and a small kitchen space that lets you see how your order is being prepared.

When you enter Braci, you think it is going to one of those places that focus on doing just one thing right and might have five to six offerings in total on the menu. But their menu is fairly extensive. There is, of course, pizza (eight flavours in total and Neapolitan style) but then they also have pasta (though these were unavailable the second time I went) and dessert, including eclairs and tiramisu.

As you read through the menu, you find the familiar margherita, pepperoni and ‘hot honey’ (a flavour that has taken over nearly every pizza menu in Karachi). It also has a flavour called ‘The Firecracker’, which — according to co-owner Saif Brohi —has “a desi taste.”

As we settle into our seats, my friend and I decide to order “everything on the menu” — a decision that makes me think I choose my friends well.

We order margherita, pepperoni and hot honey (half and half); we also get the Italian, which has chicken breast and spinach over marinara; and the ‘Showstopper’, which has roast beef, rocket, balsamic glaze and stracciatella cheese (half and half). Also, a full pie topped with mushroom, pesto and ricotta.

Someone decides to also add an order of pesto gnocchi to the mix and, of course, two chilled glasses of lemon and peach iced teas.

The pizzas come one after another instead of all at once. It gives us time to really appreciate each flavour. We start off with margherita and pepperoni, my friend and I each taking a slice, biting into it and, after a small pause, doing a respectful nod of approval in unison. The cheese, the crust and the sauce are exactly where they should be at. We decide to drizzle some hot honey over the pepperoni and take another bite — it holds up.

As more flavours gather around the table, we start reaching for different pies. The mushroom and pesto slice gets an audible “whoa”, with an appreciation for its punchy pesto resounding on the table. The Italian, which has spinach and grilled chicken, doesn’t impress. As time goes on, we start to feel a bit lukewarm about the margherita too but, admittedly, it now also has gone cold.

The pesto gnocchi is the least liked thing on the table, with the pasta being a bit dense and its presentation a bit gloopy.

The slice of the ‘Showstopper’ emerges as the clear winner. The salty roast beef and the soft stracciatella cheese complement the airy crust, while the rocket leaves and balsamic glaze offer a sweet sharpness. On my second visit to Braci, with a different group of friends, the Showstopper gets chosen as the best flavour again.

In a city that is not hungry to find new pizzas because there already exists a list of options, doing a good margherita, albeit appreciated, is not enough. What you need is a showstopper and, from the looks of it Braci, has got it.

The reviewer is a food writer and a digital content creator. Instagram: @GirlGottaEat

Published in Dawn, June 21st, 2026

Dear Auntie,

I would appreciate your advice regarding a situation that has been affecting me emotionally for many years.

ABC is a distant relative of mine. We first started talking regularly in 2012 and became very close. During that time, I developed strong feelings for her and eventually told her how I felt.

She got married in 2015. After her marriage, we stopped talking for about three years. During that period, I tried to contact her several times, often from different phone numbers after she blocked the previous ones. She repeatedly told me not to contact her, although whenever we did communicate, she would often give me advice about life and seemed to care about my well-being.

Over the years, there were periods when we reconnected and spoke again. Each time, I felt that we still shared a strong emotional connection and understanding. However, after some time, she would block me again and communication would stop.

The last time we were in regular contact was in August 2025. After that, she blocked me once more and we have not spoken since. She now has a daughter also and told me that her daughter is the most important person for her from now on.

I find myself struggling with the loss of someone who was an important part of my life for many years. I am trying to understand how to process these feelings in a healthy way. Please don’t advise me to leave her because it’s not possible.

What would you advise someone in my situation to do?

Unable to Let Go

Dear Unable to Let Go,

There is something very interesting in your letter. You ask me not to advise you to leave her “because it’s not possible.” Every time someone says that in their letter to me, it is usually because they know what the advice is going to be.

Let’s take a look at the series of events to understand what ABC has been telling you through her actions, if not her words. She got married, then she repeatedly blocked you and then she asked you not to contact her. And yet, because she occasionally appeared warm and concerned, you continued to hope that ‘your story’ was still unfinished.

Let’s get one thing clear. Caring about someone and choosing to be with them are not the same thing. She must have cared about your well-being, but then most decent people care about those who have been important in their lives. Being concerned about someone is not the same as wanting a relationship with them.

More troubling is that you have spent almost a decade living between hope and reality. Every time she surfaced in your life, you became hopeful and, every time she blocked you, you were hit with reality.

Here is the reality. ABC is a married woman and a mother. She has also told you that her daughter is her priority. Her life has well and truly moved forward.

The question is not whether you can stop loving her. You can, but feelings don’t switch on and off like that. The real question is whether you can stop building your life around the hope that she will return.

I am not asking you to flip a switch and stop caring about her. You are human and we all know that’s not how feelings work. All I am suggesting is that you stop obeying your feelings. You can care about her and still accept that she is no longer available to you.

For now, just stop wondering when, how and if she will come back and start asking yourself what kind of life you want for yourself… without her.

Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis and/or feeling suicidal, please go to your nearest emergency room and seek medical help immediately.
Auntie will not reply privately to any query.
Please send concise queries to:
auntieagni@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, June 21st, 2026

Samuel Huntington is making a comeback.

In his 1996 book The Clash of Civilisations, the American political scientist deeply divided academic opinion by arguing that culture, rather than ideology, would drive post-Cold War conflicts. In 2019, the British political theorist Christopher Coker wrote that the contemporary concept of the ‘civilisational state’ serves as a real-world evidence of Huntington’s core thesis. According to Coker, culture, rather than ideology, has become the primary currency of international politics.

Indeed, Coker’s observation was the outcome of the increasing use of the term ‘civilisational state.’ But it was originally coined by American political scientist Lucian Pye in 1990. He viewed China not as a nation state in the European tradition but rather “a civilisation pretending to be a nation state.”

In 2009, the British academic Martin Jacques wrote that the West continues to misread China by treating it purely as a nation state. He asserted China must be understood as a civilisational state with different cultural values compared to those of the West. So what exactly is a civilisational state?

As the post-Cold War order fragments, countries such as China, India and Pakistan are increasingly defining themselves not as nation states but as heirs to ancient civilisations

Briefly put, it is a country that claims to represent not just a specific territory or linguistic group, but an entire, distinct civilisation. It stands as the antithesis of the standard nation state. The latter was a European concept, where political borders are designed to align neatly with a single national identity.

The idea of the nation state is barely three-and-a-half centuries old. It dominated the 20th century. Yet, this does not mean that the concept of the civilisational state is older. In fact, the term did not even appear until the 1990s.

Today, a growing number of countries, most notably China, Russia, India, Türkiye, Iran and Egypt, are framing their identities as civilisational states. Ancient sites that were exhibited as detached pasts, are being reclaimed beyond exhibits for tourists.

As the old international system recedes in the face of a shifting global order, more and more nation states are gradually beginning to redefine themselves through a civilisational lens. This trend signals a vital swing in global politics. It is a direct symptom of a fragmenting global order, marking our transition into an increasingly multipolar world.

Following the end of World War II in 1945, global power was split into a bipolar configuration, dominated by the Soviet Union on one side and the United States on the other. While the Soviet Union sought to expand its sphere of influence by proliferating communism, the US pushed back by championing capitalism and liberal democracy.

This bipolar order finally collapsed with the crash of the Soviet Union in 1991, giving rise to a unipolar world, where the US stood unchallenged as the world’s sole superpower. This is when the Western model of the nation state reached its zenith. By the early 2000s, however, the model began to falter. Democracy failed to take root across various former dictatorships that had adopted it.

Compounding this decline was the fact that democracy within its Western heartland began to face a serious crisis of legitimacy. This was laid bare by the devastating impact of the 2008 financial crash. This triggered the global rise of populism. Indeed, it emerged through the ballot box, but manifested as a demagogic indictment of struggling democracies. Populists eagerly adopted the concept of the civilisational state.

Viewing standard democratic mechanisms as incapable of addressing local crises, populist movements rejected ‘universal truths.’ They rebranded their countries as the modern custodians of ancient civilisations, asserting that their laws and values were products of a unique social, economic and political DNA.

So, the question arises, is a civilisational state inherently a right-wing idea?

Not really. Its content is determined by those who steer it. At its core, the concept merely argues that governance should be rooted in a nation’s historical DNA, rather than imposed through a universalist, ‘Western-centric’ lens.

When rightists embrace it, they use it as a defensive bulwark to manufacture ‘cultural purity’ and insulate themselves from international human rights standards, and enforce nativist policies. In their hands, the ‘civilisation’ becomes a regressive artefact, used to police boundaries. Examples of this include Narendra Modi’s India, Benjamin Netanyahu’s Israel, Donald Trump’s Make America Great Again (Maga) base, and various electorally influential far-right parties in Europe.

The same civilisational framework has been used by progressive post-colonial thinkers as well. They use it to dismantle the legacy of ‘cultural imperialism.’ To them, indigenous, non-Western systems and values are legitimate and often more authentic and egalitarian.

The distinction between the two is in whether one treats their civilisational heritage to exclude others, or as a foundation upon which to build a more dynamic multicultural society that fits inside the framework of a civilisation.

Pragmatism forms the third pillar. For example, China perceives itself as a civilisation anchored in centuries of realistic, flexible statecraft that has preserved its continuity through multiple global changes.

Pakistan is now also increasingly adopting a similar civilisational identity. It seeks to loosen the grip of the rigid, state-imposed ideology that it shaped after 1971. It was a framework that ultimately fuelled ethnic and sectarian polarisation and was becoming too inflexible to aid Pakistan navigate a rapidly evolving multipolar world.

Pakistan is gradually planting its foundational roots back in South Asia. The country’s military triumph against India in 2025, the rise of Hindu nationalism in India, and the manner in which Pakistan’s status recently surged in international relations, provided the state a sense of freedom to manoeuvre outside ideological rigidity and increasingly adopt pragmatism.

It has begun to construct a new national narrative that explains multicultural Pakistan as part of a chain of civilisations that emerged along the Indus, the country’s largest river. This means that Pakistan is ‘reclaiming’ these civilisations cut across 5,000 years.

India sees these civilisations as inherently ‘Hindu’, at least till the proper entry of Muslim dynasties in South Asia from the 13th century onwards. But India can’t ignore the fact that Indus civilisations are all located in what today is Pakistan.

Also, according to the noted Indian historian Romila Thapar, the term ‘Hinduism’ as a uniform religion is itself a modern construct. She suggests that pre-colonial India contained an overlapping set of religious sects and practices that were collated into a uniform ‘Hinduism’ by British colonialists to fit Western, Abrahamic definitions of what a ‘religion’ should be.

The rise of the civilisational state marks a departure from the post-Cold War unipolar era, signalling that the West’s experiment in universalising its specific model of the nation state has reached its limits. Whether this shift heralds a more pluralistic world order, or a new age of insular, identity-driven conflict, remains to be seen.

Published in Dawn, June 21st, 2026

The exhibition ‘All That Was Left Behind’ at VM Art Gallery brought together two artists whose works deal with traces of the past and impermanence, through very different approaches.

Throughout the history of painting, artists have used colour not simply as embellishment but as a way to construct emotion, atmosphere and psychological depth. From the dreamlike landscapes of Peter Doig to the emotional intensity of Mark Rothko’s colour fields, colour has often carried meaning beyond representation. In ‘All That Was Left Behind’, colour becomes the strongest link between the practices of Zahabia Khozema and Nain Tara, shaping mood, memory and emotional experience across their works.

Khozema’s works take a more narrative turn. Drawing from memories of an industrial town in central Punjab, her paintings reconstruct fragments of a fading place by narrating the story of a boy and his connection to the town. Landscapes and traces of the industrial town appear throughout the works, but they do not function as documentary images.

Instead, they resemble remembered scenes, suspended somewhere between reality and imagination. Her energetic use of colour gives the paintings an almost dreamlike quality. Blues, oranges and greens collide across the canvas in triadic contrasts, creating works that feel strangely alive even with the absence of any human figures throughout her works.

Through varying visual vocabularies, two artists used colour to capture and preserve emotional landscapes at an exhibition in Karachi

This is particularly visible in I Will Return After Dusk, where colour intensifies this lack of human figures and the partially desolate nature of the landscapes. Khozema’s use of drawing as a method becomes important here. The drawn line carries a sense of immediacy and intimacy, allowing the works to retain traces of the artist’s hand. In many ways, the drawings blur the line between private memory and public image.

The art critic John Berger once wrote, “A drawing is essentially a private work, related only to the artist’s own needs.” That private quality remains present in Khozema’s practice even when the works are placed within the public space of the gallery. At the same time, the vividness of her palette highlights the bleakness of the histories she references. The industrial town at the centre of her practice is shaped by environmental change, labour and gradual disappearance, yet the paintings refuse to collapse into despair. Instead, colour becomes a way of preserving emotional intensity, even as places begin to fade.

In contrast, Tara’s works lean towards abstraction. Her colour palette is comparatively softer and closer to the tones of the natural world. Greens, muted yellows and pale blues flow freely across surfaces, creating works that feel atmospheric and meditative. Unlike Khozema’s paintings, Tara’s works do not rely on identifiable imagery. They ask the viewer to spend time with texture, surface and movement, rather than to view in passing.

This slower engagement becomes central to the experience of her work. The paintings reveal themselves gradually through layered surfaces and shifting forms. Two works made on mesh move beyond the rigidity of the square canvas altogether, allowing the material to bend and extend into space. In doing so, Tara breaks away from conventional painterly boundaries and introduces the idea of repair, as both process and metaphor.

For the artist, repair is not simply physical but also emotional, cultural and political. This understanding enters the work through layering, tension and material interaction, with surfaces carrying traces of care, exhaustion, fragility and continuity simultaneously.

However, while the textures and materiality successfully draw the viewer in, these ideas do not always fully translate through the works themselves, making some of the paintings feel equivocal in their narrative direction. The abstraction creates openness for interpretation, but at times also distances the viewer from the emotional and conceptual concerns informing the practice.

Together, the two artists approach memory from different directions. Khozema reconstructs it through narrative and place, while Tara approaches it through abstraction and material tension. Yet, both rely on colour to hold their works together emotionally.

‘All That Was Left Behind’ succeeds in showing how colour can preserve atmosphere even when memory itself remains incomplete. The exhibition leaves the viewer with questions that remain unresolved, but perhaps that is where the beauty of this exhibition lies. Some stories are not meant to arrive at fixed conclusions.

‘All That Was Left Behind’ was on display at VM Art Gallery, Karachi from April 18-May 13, 2026

The writer is a university student with an interest in urban history, culture and public spaces. He can be contacted at pakistaniumer04@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, June 21st, 2026

The now famous song by the Bee Gees ‘Staying Alive’ ushered in the disco era. It was actually written in response to the desperation in the wake of the brutal economic and social breakdown of New York in the 1970s. With lyrics such as, “Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’ and we are staying alive, staying alive!” the song was a social statement, a plea — “Somebody help me!”

It was composed for the iconic film Saturday Night Fever, itself carrying a dark message of survival, inspiring young men across the world to strut down the street in white suits. The message of the film was that giving up was not an option. Medical first responders are trained to use the song to get the rhythm of CPR to the 103 beats per minute, literally ensuring people stay alive.

The Karachi of today shares with the New York of the 70s a sense of the city unravelling. That mix of glamour and urban decay, a primarily working-class city facing economic desperation, crime and drugs. To Karachi, one can add ripped up roads, a limited supply of electricity and gas, and a dysfunctional city administration. Yet, like New Yorkers, the people of Karachi are resilient and find ways to rise above the despair.

The most common weapon of combat is dark humour — comparing the city to the ancient ruins of Mohenjo Daro and generating memes about street crime. Lyari, the oldest, yet most deprived locality of the city, epitomises the spirit of Karachi. As the football World Cup approaches, the drab streets are filled with Brazilian and Argentinian team colours and murals. For a while, the boxing clubs and donkey cart races take a back seat. Young teenagers compose rap music, mixed with lewa and dhammal dances by the older generation.

While New York recovered with state and federal help, Karachi stays alive with a parallel citizen-led governance, creating dignity when formal systems fail. They pave their own roads, arrange their own security, instal generators and solar panels. Philanthropists build free hospitals and schools, provide ambulances, distribute food twice a day for the needy, and form committees of the concerned who hold press conferences to shake the government out of its stupor.

Amid urban breakdown and political uncertainty, the people of Karachi rely upon humour, community and citizen-led governance in order to soldier on

Meanwhile, restaurants and street food flourish, small workshops hammer out products, embroider delicate fabrics — as the electricity supply allows — and families flock to the seafront for respite. It still attracts economic migrants from across the country.

Yet, there is a grim reality that looms behind the refusal to let the powerful define their existence. The drums of war are only a heartbeat away. With rising global uncertainty, governments and armies spring into action to save the state. In the larger scheme of things, death is a statistic, whether civilian or soldier.

For individuals, life is relationships, personal ambitions for an imagined future, a home, a city or village of shared memories. As peace is invaded, we wonder how does one stay alive? Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally? A series of Instagram posts show cameos of everyday life — a pregnant woman, an artist painting a new canvas, a family dinner — against a generic backdrop of the flames of war. The river flows onwards, regardless of forest fires.

Poets such as Habib Jalib, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Kishwar Naheed, N.M. Rashid and Shakir Shuja Abadi, speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. Freedom is a state of mind, a way of protecting one’s inner narrative.

Once Pakistan’s folk music aired on radio and television in 1960s and 1970s, the voices of Zarsanga, Faiz Muhammad Baloch, Reshma, Mai Bhagi, Pathanay Khan and Saeen Marna reached every household, carrying the pain, the joy and the longing of Pakistanis beset by poverty and powerlessness, yet choosing life, if only for small moments of happiness. It set the musical tone for subsequent generations of pop groups, ghazal singers and qawwals. Sajjad Ali sings “Mein doob raha hoon, abhi dooba tau nahin hoon [I am drowning but I haven’t drowned yet].”

Survival is a basic human instinct to avoid death or meet physical needs. Staying alive has a much wider ambition — to lead life with meaning, passion and purpose. It is also the art of staying human under pressure.

Durriya Kazi is a Karachi-based artist.
She may be reached at
durriyakazi1918@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, June 21st, 2026

Around him lay sacks of freshly harvested pine nuts from the Koh-i-Sulaiman Range — a crop that sustains thousands of families across northern Balochistan. But unlike previous seasons, traders and forest owners gathering outside were not celebrating the harvest. The price of pine nuts — locally known as chilghoza — had collapsed, threatening the livelihoods of communities that depend almost entirely on the crop.

Qutubuddin, a trader for four decades, attributes multiple factors to this price collapse — disruption in exports, decline in rainfall in the area and a lack of cold storage facilities in the town. “We were forced to sell our produce prematurely at low prices,” he tells Eos. “Poor storage adversely impact the nuts’ size, taste and quality.”

Pakistan’s growing chilghoza trade generates millions of dollars annually. Yet on the slopes of the world’s largest pure pine forest in Balochistan’s Sulaiman Range, the people who depend on the trade for survival are facing their toughest season in years…

PRICES IN FREEFALL

Mehmood Khan Kharoti, a trader with a decade of experience, says pine nut prices plummeted to Rs2,000 per kilogramme (kg) in 2025 from Rs7,000 a season earlier. “If we had a storage facility in town, one kg could easily have been sold in Lahore for 7,000 to 8,000 rupees,” he tells Eos.

It is equally bad for growers, says Faizullah Khan, who lives on the foothills of the Sulaiman Range. “I used to sell around 4,000 kilos of chilghoza, but this year I managed to sell only 1,200 kilos,” he tells Eos.

The intermittent closure of the Afghan border also reduced the demand for pine nuts, driving down prices further. Trader Abdul Qayyum, who moved his business to Zhob after the border closure, tells Eos that he has been selling nuts at half the price from last year.

A bumper crop in South Waziristan — a separate and better-performing region that is home to almost 100,000 hectares of pine forests — has also affected prices. Traders from Waziristan say that prices have gone down from Rs10,000 per kg in 2024 to Rs3,000 per kg in 2025.

FORESTS UNDER PRESSURE

The vast mountainous belt of the Sulaiman Range is home to extensive pine nut forests. The pine cones are harvested in September and October, and brought down to the Zhob market. The shelled nuts are extracted from the cones and then transported, mostly to Lahore, for export.

According to the Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO), the Sulaiman Range is home to the world’s largest pure pine forests, occupying an area of approximately 26,000 hectares. But an FAO survey conducted in late 2023 documented a staggering decline in pine nut production from the Sulaiman Range. Output plummeted to merely 98 tonnes, a sharp fall from the 675 tonnes recorded in 2020.

The survey was conducted after the catastrophic wildfires of 2022 in Sherani, Musakhel, and Dera Ismail Khan forests destroyed an estimated 3.2 million mature, fruit-bearing pine trees, severely eroding the region’s ecological stability and economic resilience.

Yet even as production in the Sulaiman Range collapsed, Pakistan’s overall pine nut exports continued to rise, reflecting stronger harvests elsewhere and sustained demand from overseas buyers.

The majority of Pakistan’s pine nuts export is destined for China, the world’s largest producer and consumer of pine nuts. According to state data from China, Pakistan’s pine nut exports nearly doubled from 579.8 tonnes in 2023 to 1,147 tonnes in 2025. However, export earnings — which rose from $8.2 million to a peak of $18.8 million in 2024 — stood at $17.9 million in 2025.

While export volumes increased, traders say the benefits were unevenly distributed and failed to offset the sharp decline in domestic prices caused by oversupply and market disruptions.

MARKET BOTTLENECKS

Traders and forest owners argue that the sector suffers from a chronic lack of institutional support.

Unlike other export-oriented agricultural products, pine nuts pass through a fragmented supply chain with limited storage, processing and quality-control facilities. As a result, producers often sell immediately after harvest, when supply is highest and prices are weakest. Industry stakeholders say that improving post-harvest handling and strengthening direct links with buyers could help stabilise incomes and improve export competitiveness.

Abdul Haleem Nangyal, a research officer in the provincial agriculture department, says that limited market access and lack of value addition are also challenges, while limited language skills prevent local traders from connecting to national and international buyers. He adds that climate-induced changes in weather, particularly rainfall, and lack of storage spaces for the sensitive and perishable product are also challenges, “as they reduce the quality and size of the pine nuts, thus deterring buyers.”

An FAO official, speaking on the condition of anonymity, alleges that certain traders would mix premium-quality Afghan pine nuts — which have Geographical Indication (GI) certification — with local nuts of lower quality before exporting them as premium quality nuts to China.

A GI certification serves as an intellectual property right that prevents unauthorised competitors from imitating the product or misleading consumers. “This ‘adulteration’ prompted Chinese authorities to temporarily halt nut imports from Pakistan,” the official tells Eos. He adds that, with FAO’s technical assistance, Pakistan’s GI registration process for pine nuts is now at its final stages.

Growers and traders deny the allegation, instead accusing police and customs officials of systematic harassment. “In Lahore, Rawalpindi and several other cities, official teams stop trucks without reason, re-check documents unnecessarily and pressurise traders,” alleges trader Khayal Gul.

LIFE AMONG THE PINES

Despite supplying a high-value export crop that reaches markets in China and the Gulf, many settlements in the highlands remain disconnected from basic services. Residents say access to healthcare, education and clean drinking water is limited, while poor roads and rugged terrain make travel difficult for much of the year. For many families, the annual pine nut harvest remains the only significant source of cash income.

The pine forests of the Sulaiman Range are traditionally owned by the Sherani tribe, whose communities live across both Balochistan and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Pine nuts are harvested manually from steep mountain slopes, with workers climbing tall trees and removing still-green cones using hooked poles. The work is dangerous.

“Harvesters fall from trees every season,” says Abdul Wadood, a harvester from the area. “Many are injured and some lose their lives.”

A FRAGILE FUTURE

For growers and traders, the immediate need is not higher yields but better market access. Many argue that investments in cold storage, transport infrastructure and transparent export channels would help stabilise prices and reduce post-harvest losses.

Experts say protecting the forests themselves is equally important. The devastating wildfires of 2022 exposed the vulnerability of one of the world’s largest pine forest ecosystems, making conservation inseparable from economic survival.

Nangyal, the research officer, believes that the establishment of a research institute in the town would help identify and resolve yield-related issues in a suitable manner. Without such interventions, communities that depend on pine forests fear that both their livelihoods and the forests themselves will continue to decline.

Back in his Zhob godown, Qutubuddin was worried less about export statistics than the next harvest season. Around him, sacks of pine nuts awaited buyers in an increasingly uncertain market.

Unless prices recover and long-standing bottlenecks are addressed, he fears many families who depend on the forests of the Sulaiman Range may not be able to withstand another season like the one last year.

The writer is a Balochistan-based journalist.
He may be contacted at mandokhail.rafi@gmail.com.
X: @Rafi_Mandokhail

With editing and input from Hussain Dada. X: @hydada83

Published in Dawn, EOS, June 21st, 2026

This is the 23rd edition of the football World Cup since 1930. In all these World Cups, Brazil has remained the most successful country, having lifted the World Cup five times — in 1958 (Sweden), 1962 (Chile), 1970 (Mexico), 1994 (USA) and 2002 (South Korea and Japan). In all of Brazil’s World Cup outings, however, it is their 1970 victory in Mexico that remains the most memorable.

There are several reasons for this — such as their flawless run in the tournament, winning all six World Cup matches, scoring a staggering 19 goals in those six matches and averaging more than three goals per match. They also had the most fearsome five playmakers/forwards in the same starting line-up — Pelé, Tostão, Rivellino, Gérson and Jairzinho — never seen before or after in any World Cup.

They didn’t just win, they created a masterpiece showcase of football. Brazil provided magical spells in every match in Mexico.

In the opening match, they came from behind to beat the erstwhile Czechoslovakia 4-1. Their goals were captivating. The legendary Pelé brought a high ball down with his chest before slamming it in. Jairzinho chased a long high ball and, with his first touch, lobbed it over the goalkeeper and then calmly found the empty net. Then, Jairzinho again, dribbled past two defenders, moved away from the third and put the ball in the far corner of the goal.

Brazil are not among the favourites at this year’s World Cup. But their very presence is a reminder of the greatest football team ever to grace the global sporting event

Then there was Pelé’s audacious shot from the halfway line. Spotting the Czech goalkeeper far outside his penalty area, his precise chip from behind the centre line caught the keeper completely off-guard.

The second tie, against England, the defending champions, was the most anticipated of all the pool matches. Brazil triumphed 1-0 in an exciting encounter. An excellent ball from the left by Tostão found Pelé in the penalty area, whose deft pass to Jairzinho on his right found him in an ideal position to put the ball in.

Ironically, this match is also remembered for a goal not scored, again involving Pelé. Off a high cross from the left, a perfectly positioned Pelé’s perfectly placed header bounced just before the goal line. The great English net-minder Gordon Banks miraculously dived backwards to his right and scooped the ball over the bar. Pelé had already shouted “Goal” but it is universally recognised as the most outstanding save in tournament history.

The last pool match was against another strong European side, Romania. Brazil won 3-2. The wonderful playmaker Gérson, after a defence-splitting run down the left flank, sent a cross to Jairzinho, who easily availed the opportunity. The South Americans also displayed mastery over set-pieces. Pelé’s excellent free hit beat the wall for the first goal.

In the quarter-final, the Brazilians met a fellow South American side, Peru, coached by the former Brazilian star ‘Didi’ (Waldyr Pereira who was a member of the World Cup-winning teams of 1958 and 1962). Peru did cause some problems but, eventually, the Brazilians were home 4-2. Tostão (twice), Rivellino and the irresistible Jairzinho were the goal-getters in another excellent exhibition of spectacular football.

The semi-final was also against a South American country, Uruguay, twice World Cup winners. Uruguay went ahead in the 19th minute. The equaliser only came one minute before half-time. Defensive midfielder Clodoaldo, surrounded by defenders, somehow found the target. Brazil then went ahead with a delightful team goal in the second half: first-time passing and deft touches, finished by Jairzinho. It became 3-1 only in the 89th minute. Pelé’s superb pass from the left was struck into the net by the rampaging, moustachioed Rivellino.

Yet again, a stunning Pelé act was witnessed. His dummy against Uruguay in the 1970 World Cup semi-final is considered one of the most audacious and legendary non-goals in football history. Pelé ran into a Tostão through-ball. As the goalkeeper ran off his line, Pelé surged forward but didn’t touch the ball. He overstepped the ball, which rolled to the goalkeeper’s left. Meanwhile, Pelé circled around the goalkeeper from the right. The bemused goalkeeper dived in the empty air. A backtracking defender closed down on Pelé, whose curling shot went narrowly wide of the far post. Though there was no goal, the spellbinding act is permanently engraved in sports lore.

Italy, the other finalist, was apart from Brazil and Uruguay, the only country till then to have lifted the World Cup twice. A crowd of over 107,000 was present at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City. Despite the venue’s neutrality, the Mexican crowd, enamoured by Samba football at its finest, had a clear favourite.

Brazil took the lead in the 18th minute. Pelé jumped to head in a Rivellino cross from the left. A rare blunder by the defence enabled Italy to draw level in the 37th minute. It stayed 1-1 with less than one-third of the time left. Then the attacking Brazilians exploded for two goals in five minutes. Gérson fired in a powerful, well-directed left-footed shot. Then Gérson’s long free kick was headed down by Pelé into the path of a rampaging Jairzinho.

The final scoreline of 4-1 was completed by what is remembered as the greatest ‘team goal’ ever scored in the World Cup. The Brazilian squad orchestrated a flowing, multi-pass move involving eight players that cut through the Italian defence and ended with a thunderous strike from their captain Carlos Alberto.

The Jules Rimet Trophy was the original Fifa World Cup prize, awarded from 1930. By winning it for the third time, it was permanently claimed by Brazil in 1970. Since then, the teams have competed for the Fifa World Cup Trophy. The winners now keep the replica instead of the original.

In 1970, Mário Zagallo became the first person to win the World Cup both as manager and a player. Pelé is still the only player to win three World Cup titles. Winger Jairzinho became the only player in history to score in every single match of a World Cup tournament.

Records aside, the Brazilians displayed everything for the ordinary fans as well as for the connoisseurs: dribbling, body swerves, feints, sublime passes, intricate flowing moves, precise crosses, stunning finishes, the greatest team goal and three most memorable no goals. There have been books written and movies made on them.

BRAZIL’S CHANCES IN FIFA WORLD CUP 2026

All of this seems a far cry from the Brazil team at the present World Cup. And their opening match, where they scraped through to a 1-1 draw against Morocco wouldn’t have given supporters great hope.

Fifa’s latest world rankings show Brazil at No 6. Brazil qualified for this World Cup by finishing fifth in the South American Football Confederation standings — their worst qualification campaign in history, with most defeats (six), least wins (eight), and most goals conceded (17).

In May 2025, Italian Carlo Ancelotti was appointed the manager of the Brazilian team. With a record five Champions League titles, he is considered one of the most successful strategists in history. He is also the only manager to win league titles in all of Europe’s top five leagues. But his only experience with a national team was as an assistant manager with the Italy national team between 1992 and 1995, and reaching the 1994 World Cup.

The Brazilian side is not bereft of sublime individual talent. Forwards Vinicius Jr and Raphinha were Ballon d’Or nominees in 2025. Igor Thiago was nominated for EPL’s Player of the Season this year, Alisson Becker is regarded as one of the greatest goalkeepers of all time and Neymar Jr is his team’s all-time top scorer, although injuries have kept him out of international soccer for the last three years. Captain Marquinhos, the great centre-back, also the captain of Paris Saint-Germain, recently lifted the Champions League Trophy and Endrick is one of the world’s best teenage talents.

Looking at their history, Brazil can never be discounted. But a lot will depend on how Ancelotti marshals his gifted charges.

The writer is a freelance sports journalist based in Lahore.
Email: ijaz62@hotmail.com X: @IjazChaudhry1

Published in Dawn, EOS, June 21st, 2026

Arrests for betting on the US military operation that removed Venezuelan leader Nicolás Maduro. Death threats from gamblers to a journalist reporting on an Iranian missile attack on Israel. Fears of government officials manipulating world events — including the Iran war — to make a quick buck.

These are some of many concerns that experts have raised about how prediction markets — online marketplaces that allow people to bet on world events — might be affecting national security in the US and abroad.

But prediction markets may not be only influencing international affairs. They could also affect the US 2026 midterm elections.

We are social scientists who study gambling, public policy and national security. Here are four things you need to know about how prediction markets may be changing American politics:

As political betting moves into the mainstream, critics warn that prediction markets may do more than forecast elections, wars and public policy. They could also create incentives to influence the very events being wagered on…

Prediction markets turn politics into a game

Prediction markets offer people the opportunity to bet on political events by purchasing “shares” — like stock in a company — of different potential outcomes. If an outcome takes place, the market pays out for each share purchased by those who guessed correctly. More betting activity in favour of an outcome raises its price and lowers its payout, and vice versa.

Prediction markets are different from casinos and online sportsbooks because there is no “house” — like a casino — that determines the size of the payout for correctly guessing who will win or lose a sporting event. In a prediction market, players “bet” against one another, not the house. The markets make money by charging transaction fees on each trade.

Betting on prediction markets allows users to turn many aspects of US politics into a game. For example, betting on election outcomes is very popular on prediction markets. Kalshi — a popular prediction market platform — has a portion of its site specifically designated for election-related markets. That includes the chance to bet on the eventual winner of the 2028 presidential election, the margin of victory in the 2026 South Dakota primary elections and which of two Dan Sullivans could become Alaska’s next senator.

Kalshi also offers opportunities to bet on non-election outcomes, such as whether or not the Supreme Court will ban transgender girls and women from competing on “female sports teams”, or whether the government will confirm before September 2026 that aliens exist.

The gamification of politics through prediction market betting is not new. Predictit, a self-described “political prediction market”, has been operating in the US for over a decade.

What has changed in recent years, however, is that prediction markets are no longer an obscure pastime enjoyed by political junkies. Prediction markets have become quite popular, and media organisations are even integrating betting market data in their political analysis.

For example, Kalshi is CNN’s “official prediction markets partner.” In a segment called “The Odds”, CNN commentators often use Kalshi data to make predictions about candidates’ electoral performance.

Insider trading could affect US elections

Insider trading on prediction markets occurs when people with non-public information — like internal polling, military intelligence etc — place wagers on events. While some prediction markets are trying to crack down on the practice, insider trading could already be affecting the upcoming US midterm elections.

In spring 2026, for example, National Public Radio (NPR) documented several cases where campaign staffers working on statewide campaigns admitted to using inside information about candidates’ performance in the polls to “buy low” on their candidate’s electoral prospects, prior to the release of favourable polling data. Additionally, although prediction markets usually prohibit betting on one’s own campaign, both Democrats and Republicans running for political office have come under fire for betting on their own campaigns.

Betting on one’s own campaign could create a scenario where a candidate’s electoral performance seems more robust than it actually is to prediction market users or watchers, including media organisations who report on prediction market data.

This may in turn generate more favourable media coverage, which could affect public sentiment toward the candidate. Unlike polling, which is not typically prone to the same kind of meddling by campaigns, betting on one’s own campaign could ultimately change voters’ minds regarding the viability of a candidate.

Policymakers are paying attention

Given concerns about insider trading and its potential consequences, we asked Americans whether US government officials should be forbidden from trading on prediction markets.

In a nationally representative online survey of 1,000 US adults, conducted via the survey platform Verasight in March 2026, we found that nearly 70 percent supported banning government officials from trading on prediction markets, while 20 percent supported a more limited trading ban — when government officials have “inside” information.

Lawmakers in Washington are beginning to respond to public opinion. The Senate recently banned senators and their staff from trading on prediction markets, although how this policy will be implemented remains uncertain. However, members of the House, employees of the executive branch, military officials and other government employees can still bet on prediction markets.

Some lawmakers have proposed limiting trading when government officials have insider information about an event, such as internal polling or fundraising data that members of the public do not have access to.

Others in Congress have made an effort to ban all trading on “death markets”, which include war, assassinations and related topics. Known as the “DEATH BETS Act” – its title is an acronym that stands for “Discouraging Exploitative Assassination, Tragedy, and Harm Betting in Event Trading Systems Act” — the legislation has been introduced but is pending committee review.

State governments are also taking action to regulate prediction markets.

Massachusetts, for example, is suing Kalshi for allowing “backdoor betting” on sports.

Backdoor betting refers to wagering through less regulated channels such as prediction markets, rather than highly regulated state casinos and sportsbooks. Backdoor betting has been estimated to cost states over US$1 billion in tax revenue since prediction markets first began allowing sports wagering in early 2025.

Minnesota became the first state to ban prediction markets altogether, while Illinois has sent cease and desist letters to prediction market operators that it claims are operating without adhering to state gambling laws.

Trump wants control over prediction markets

In a recent Truth Social post, US President Donald Trump blasted the idea that states should be able to regulate prediction markets. Referencing their recent regulatory actions, Trump referred to Minnesota Governor Tim Walz and Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker as “SCUM” in the post.

Trump also expressed enthusiasm for prediction markets in the post, saying that the US is “at the top” of a “new form of Financial Market.” The president and his family have deep financial ties to the industry. For example, Donald Trump Jr serves as a prediction market adviser to Kalshi and Polymarket and is an investor in Polymarket.

Following Trump’s post, the administration began reviewing a proposal to give the Commodity Futures Trading Commission (CFTC) the exclusive authority to regulate prediction markets.

While the CFTC has repeatedly asserted regulatory authority over prediction markets, some — like former CFTC Chairman Gary Gensler — believe that states, not the CFTC, should be in charge.

Matt Motta is Associate Professor of Health Law, Policy and Management at Boston University in the US

Robert Ralston is Lecturer in Political Science and International Studies at the University of Birmingham in the UK

Republished from The Conversation

Published in Dawn, EOS, June 21st, 2026

We are only at the beginning of the age of artificial intelligence (AI). Every powerful new idea arrives twice: first as a provocation, then as a problem.

It is not surprising to see that popular and scholarly responses have lurched between uncritical enthusiasm and reflexive alarm. But before we mourn what AI threatens, we should ask what we’ve been defending — and whether it deserves defending.

In Philosophy in a New Key, American thinker Susanne Langer argues that powerful ideas initially generate exaggerated hopes and fears before society settles into confronting the real problems they create. AI appears to be following precisely this trajectory.

Scholars and researchers are warning that overreliance on AI undermines independent thinking and erodes key cognitive and executive functions. Even literature professors are worried about AI. Micah Nathan, a fiction writing professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), described feeling hurt upon discovering that two of his students had used AI to write their workshop stories. Meghan O’Rourke, a poet and creative writing professor at Yale, wrote of an unease she struggled to name — a sense that AI produces writing that is “mimetic of thought, but not quite thought itself.”

Critics worry that AI will erode the cognitive benefits of writing. But beneath those concerns lies a deeper assumption: that writing is the privileged medium of thought. History tells a more complicated story

However, the scholarly literature on AI and both professors’ essays share a common assumption that is so deep that it goes almost entirely unexamined. Their essays implicitly elevate writing as the highest and most authoritative form of thinking. That premise deserves scrutiny, especially at the beginning of the AI era.

Writing as an Instrument of Control

Scholars, including archaeologists, historians and anthropologists, have argued that writing did not emerge primarily as a vehicle for individual expression or cognitive development. Writing first developed as a tool of administration and accounting — not expression.

For instance, of all the written texts recovered from the early Mesopotamian kingdom of Uruk, 85 percent were economic records, such as tax receipts, population lists and cadastral maps of taxable land. As Belgian-French anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss observed: writing “seems rather to favour the exploitation than the enlightenment of mankind.”

The elementary form of statecraft, American political scientist and anthropologist James C. Scott argues in The Art of Not Being Governed, is the population census, which is the basis for taxation and conscription. The hill peoples of Southeast Asia called Akha, whom Scott studied, understood this perfectly well. When the Akha people recall their ancestral oppressor, the great crime they remember is not military conquest but a yearly census. Writing, in their experience, was not a tool of self-expression. It was the instrument through which they could be counted, taxed and controlled.

Historians argue that many of these people, such as the Akha, the Hmong, the Karen and the Lahu, were not pre-literate; rather, they were post-literate. They had known writing, been close to literate lowland states for 2,000 years and, in many cases, actively moved away from it as a survival strategy.

An oral culture, Scott shows, is a “jellyfish” culture, meaning it is constantly shapeshifting, adaptive, resistant to being fixed and administered. This is a deliberate choice. In contrast to orality, writing freezes; it makes you legible to power. Orality keeps you mobile.

This is not to romanticise oral cultures, which have their own hierarchies and constraints, but to recognise that literacy has never been a politically neutral technology.

A tradition mistaken for universal

AI, ironically, may be doing something similar to the written word itself — revealing who the essay form was really built for.

When Nathan writes in his essay that “writing is both vehicle and vessel for thinking — abstract made concrete, feelings translated into words”, he is describing something real about his own tradition. The Western philosophical canon, such as Plato, Montaigne, Descartes and Orwell, built its identity around written thought, around the essay and the argument and the revision. O’Rourke puts it even more plainly: “…language is our most human inheritance: the space of richly articulated perception, where thought and emotion meet.”

These are beautifully composed sentences. But they are sentences written from within a specific civilisational tradition, and they universalise that tradition without acknowledging it. The griot of West Africa, who preserved genealogies and histories in memory, and the Akha phima of Southeast Asia, who recited law and lineage at ceremonial gatherings, performed the same cognitive labour Nathan and O’Rourke associate with writing, only through oral forms.

The assumption that writing occupies a privileged place in human cognition is not a neutral observation about how people think. It is a civilisational claim, one that, historically, has been used to stigmatise non-literate peoples as “barbarians without history.”

What writing has done to us

The deeper problem with the two literary professors’ essays is that they ask what AI does to writing, but not what writing has done — historically, structurally, in terms of who it has included and excluded, what kinds of minds it has rewarded and which it has quietly failed. The workshop that Nathan defends is a powerful institution. Critics have long argued that it produces a relatively homogeneous literature, shaped by the tastes and tolerances of those who could afford to sit in its rooms and suffer productively.

This is not incidental. Written literary traditions, including the essay, the workshop story, the lyric poem, have always carried within them a set of implicit cognitive and cultural requirements. For instance, a relationship to solitude, linear argument, and the belief that one’s inner life is worth recording. The griot did not need these things. The phima did not need these things. They had other requirements, other disciplines, other ways of making thought audible and transmissible.

What they did not have was a tenure committee, a literary journal or a workshop. If literacy has historically been bound up with institutions of administration and authority, it is worth asking whether modern literary institutions carry their own forms of gatekeeping.

When O’Rourke writes that language is “our most human inheritance”, the possessive is doing a great deal of unacknowledged work. Whose inheritance, exactly? The Hmong oral poet’s? The Lahu elder’s? The first-generation college student who thinks in one language and is required to write in another, whose cognitive life has never mapped cleanly on to the essay form, and who has been told, implicitly and explicitly, that this gap is a deficiency to be corrected rather than a difference to be reckoned with?

The workshop has not been neutral about these questions. It has had answers, mostly unspoken, about what good writing sounds like, what a reliable narrative voice is, what counts as precision and what counts as excess. Those answers have not been universal. They have been particular — specific to a tradition, a class, a language, a set of institutions that developed in specific historical circumstances and then forgot that they had.

None of this means writing is merely an instrument of domination. Writing has enabled forms of reflection, preservation and critique that would be impossible otherwise. If AI disrupts that institution, the disruption is not only loss. It may also be, for some people, a kind of freedom. The question worth sitting with is not whether AI threatens the culture of the written word. It clearly does, in some ways.

The question is: which parts of that culture are worth defending, and which parts have we been defending — without quite realising it — because they were always already doing the work of keeping certain people out.

Farah Adeed is a PhD Candidate in Political Science at Boston University in the US

Dr Muhammad Zubair Abbasi holds a DPhil in law from the University of Oxford. He is based at the School of Law at Royal Holloway, University of London in the UK

Published in Dawn, EOS, June 21st, 2026

[Advance with utmost reverence and decorum,
For this is the procession of the Martyr of Karbala.
Lifted is the earthly remains of the King of
Faith, Whose [blessed neck] was severed by the blade of Shimr]

— The voice of the naqeeb [heralder]
in Muharram mourning processions

“Grief is the price we pay for love.”
— Queen Elizabeth II

From the dust of Pakistan’s independence in 1947 emerged a sonic revolution that would permanently rewrite Karachi’s spiritual DNA.

Rooted in classical Urdu, Arabic and Persian literary traditions, the noha — a profound elegiac lament commemorating the tragedy of Karbala and the martyrdom of Imam Husain (AS) — travelled across a fractured Subcontinent in the hearts of millions of families that migrated to Karachi. Over the last three-quarters of a century, this localised ritual of displacement morphed into a defining cultural powerhouse.

Driven by global shifts and technological eras, 12 trailblazing master orators of the noha [elegiac lament] arose, not merely as reciters, but as architectural anchors and boundary-breakers who fundamentally re-engineered the soundscape of devotion.

This is a tribute to those 12 legendary noha khwaans [noha reciters] who shaped Karachi’s Muharram.

Soul-stirring, heartbreaking, and melodically and poetically inventive, the noha occupies a central place in the Subcontinent’s Muharram mourning tradition. The masters of this form of elegiac lament found in Karachi a fertile ground to further increase the popularity of the noha in the post-Partition landscape…

THE LEGACY OF CHAJJAN SAHIB: SYNTHESIS AND SPIRITUAL RIGOUR

A monumental pillar of Pakistan’s cultural history, Chajjan Sahib (Ustad Sadiq Husain) was the foundational pioneer of organised Urdu noha khwaani [noha recitation] in Karachi. Born in Lucknow in 1905, his journey began at the age of 10, reciting during the historic Gomati River floods. After decades of devotion, he migrated to Karachi in 1950, transplanting his newly founded noha group, the Anjuman-i-Abidia Kazmia.

During Karachi’s inaugural Ashura (10th of Muharram) procession, his voice anchored the congregation, leading the mourning from Jahangir Park to the Husainia Iranian imambargah in Kharadar — establishing the enduring blueprint for the city’s spiritual landscape.

Even after his death in 1986, the enduring power of his artistic and spiritual legacy is preserved in several of his timeless and legendary compositions. His famous nohas, such as ‘Tumhare sajdon ko’, ‘Hasliyon walay merey ho chukay’, and the deeply evocative ‘Hum se mat poochho’, continue to serve as historic touchstones for devotees and cultural historians alike.

Chajjan Sahib’s recitation style was defined by a strict adherence to classical, old-school structures that prioritised immense literary weight, emotional devotion and extreme caution in delivery. Chajjan Sahib’s foundational work created a resilient framework that allowed subsequent generations of legends to bring innovation to the tradition.

IZZAT LAKHNAVI: THE SIGNIFIER OF MINIMALISM AND MAJESTY

Few figures command the reverence accorded to Agha Muhammad Izzat-uz-Zaman (1932–1981), universally celebrated as Izzat Lakhnavi. Born in Lucknow, India, he migrated to Pakistan in 1958, permanently transferring the pristine traditions of his homeland into the cultural fabric of post-Partition Karachi, where he established the Anjuman-i-Zafar-ul-Iman.

He would be clad in a traditional sherwani with a wristwatch on his right hand as he appeared on Pakistan Television Corporation (PTV) during the solemn days of Muharram — it defined his performance of Shahid Naqvi’s classic noha, ‘Ab aaye ho baba.’ Delivered with utmost seriousness, this iconic masterpiece remains Lakhnavi’s absolute magnum opus. This noha holds a monumental place in Pakistani media history, and is widely recognised as one of the very first nohas to be broadcast on air.

Lakhnavi’s other seminal noha is ‘Karbala aik aftab.’ Through a masterful command of vocal modulation, he utilised the ups-and-downs in pitch and pace to immerse the audience in the agonising pain endured by Imam Hussain’s loyal companions. His heart-wrenching recitation of the noha ‘Bano ne kaha’ captures the profound isolation of Imam Husain’s first wife Bibi Rubab as she calls out into the wilderness for her youngest child.

A master of elegiac minimalism, Lakhnavi’s pristine vocal purity and soul-touching voice helped him carve out an enduring legacy as a noha khwaan.

SYED AFAQ HUSSAIN RIZVI: THE STYLISTIC PIONEER

Whether it was blisteringly hot or bitingly cold on the streets outside Shah-i-Khurasan imambargah on Youm-i-Ashur, all weather-related agonies routinely dissipated the moment the voice of Syed Afaq Hussain Rizvi, the legendary Sahib-i-Bayaz [a master elegy reciter] of the Anjuman-i-Muhammadi Qadeem (an azadaari or mourning group), pierced the air.

His recitation of the iconic noha ‘Haye Karbala walon’, written by Najm Afandi, alleviated any physical exhaustion during Karachi’s historic Muharram procession.

He started noha khwaani during the early days of Pakistan and his passionate voice ruled the landscape of noha recitation for 50 years. He was the most sought out noha khwaan after Sachey Bhai (see below). His evocative recitations anchored the historic shab-bedari [night of mourning] processions, breathing life into compositions such as ‘Bey-watanon ka jo qafila aaya’, a classical lament that chronicles the heart-rending return of the surviving, displaced captives of Karbala back to their desolated homeland. His rendition of ‘Na lashkaray na sipaahay’, written by Sahir Faizabadi, highlights the agony and the loneliness of Imam Hussain at Karbala.

Rizvi shattered traditional stylistic boundaries and pioneered sophisticated vocal modulations and innovative rhythmic frameworks.

SACHEY BHAI: ACOUSTIC MAJESTY AND DEVOTION

Born in Azamgarh, India, in 1941 into the illustrious literary cradle of marsiya [elegy] poet and reciter Yawar Azmi, Syed Ali Muhammad Rizvi — immortally revered as Sachey Bhai — was destined to become the trendsetter of Karachi’s Muharram landscape.

In 1953, at just 12-years-old, he unleashed a voice of soaring pitch, emotional gravitas and profound mastery of rasai adab [elegiac literature]. His journey was deeply intertwined with the raw, acoustic textures of post-Partition Karachi. As documented in Prof Syed Imran Zafar Ali’s book Karachi Ki Azadari, it was the fierce cry of a local street-malang [derwish] chanting “Sahib-i-Zulfikar almaddad” [O’ possessor of the sword of Zulfikar, grant me aid] that sparked Sachey Bhai’s creative genius. He wove those very words into a verse and birthed his signature Anjuman-i-Zulfiqar-i-Haidery, thus carving a sanctuary for communal grief.

Through the searing heat of successive Ashura processions until the late 1980s, the sight of Sachey Bhai clad in a simple shalwar qameez became iconic. He commanded the sonic geography of Karachi, moving thousands to tears, both with the defiant ‘Ooncha rahay apna alam’ and ‘Museebat ki gharri’, or the classical, Arabic-infused masterworks ‘Ameer lashkar-i-Husain’ and ‘Taqqadam waladi’ — both penned by his revered mentor, Maulana Imdad Husain.

The art of noha khwaani remains inextricably bound to the monumental legacy of Sachey Bhai, who passed away in 2000 and who left behind the following prayer:

[I am a narrator of the tragedy of Husain Ibn Ali, pray for me, That this supreme honour never departs from my lineage, until the Day of Resurrection.]

JAFFAR HUSAIN: THE SILENCED VOICE THAT REFUSED TO STOP

For veterans of the 1980s Ashura processions, the image remains indelible: a man clad in a pristine white kurta pajama, commanding the procession with his soulful recitations, his voice amplified by traditional mosque-style loudspeakers mounted on a simple, hand-driven cart.

The man was Ustad Jaffar Husain, affectionately known as Jaffar Dada. Leading the renowned Anjuman-i-Al Abbas, Jaffar Dada was widely recognised in Karachi as the third-largest crowd puller during the solemn Youm-i-Ashur processions, following closely in the footsteps of giants such as Sachey Bhai and Afaq Husain.

Jaffar Dada’s legacy is defined by his profound vocal delivery and three defining masterpieces. His recitation of ‘Ja ke keh do ke, darya pe hum aayein hain’ captures the unmatched courage of Imam Husain’s brother Hazrat Abbas with fierce, epic cadence. Conversely, ‘Shaheedon zindabad’, portrays the eternal victory of the martyrs of Karbala over tyranny and institutional oppression. His emotional depth peaks in ‘Ae Sakina, ab na baba aayein gey’, a heartbreaking lament that perfectly captures the profound grief of Imam Hussain’s youngest daughter.

His immense popularity and rising influence reportedly made him a target of professional jealousy, leading to a dark chapter, where he was allegedly poisoned. While the poison severely damaged and distorted his voice, it could not break his spiritual resolve. Defying the physical limitations of his damaged vocal cords, Jaffar Dada refused to stop reciting, continuing to read nohas with the same burning passion until his final days.

SYED NASIR JAHAN: THE VOICE OF NATIONAL HERITAGE

For decades, the airwaves of PTV and Radio Pakistan bore a signature resonance that became the definitive soundtrack of national religious broadcasting.

That voice belonged to Syed Nasir Jahan, a towering figure who elevated na’at khwaani [recitation of praise for the Prophet (PBUH)], salaam [tribute] and noha recitation into an institution of national heritage. His impact was so profound that, in his earlier days, his recitations on Radio Ceylon reportedly prompted people to purchase radio sets just to experience his unique style of recitation.

Blessed with a deeply soulful baritone, Jahan possessed an innate ability to express intense emotional depth with an unmatched sense of reverence that made him a permanent fixture of broadcasting during Muharram. His legendary rendering of ‘Ghabraye gi Zainab’ depicted the crushing loneliness of the Prophet Muhammad’s (PBUH) granddaughter in the ruined wilderness of Karbala.

‘Ae maarka-i-quwat-i-Islam ke jauhar’, a tribute to and the portrayal of the suffering of Imam Husain’s youngest son, Hazrat Ali Asghar, highlights Jahan’s mastery over melodic pace, weaving a rhythmic, melancholic rhythm.

Meanwhile, ‘La’chaar Hussaina’ is a classical lament that captures the profound isolation and absolute helplessness of Imam Hussain on the sands of Karbala. Jahan’s soulful voice formed a profound literary alliance with master poets such as Najm Afandi and Syed Aal-i-Raza, ensuring the theological purity and poetic metre of each text that he recited.

During the Muharram in 1990, adhering to a decades-long sacred tradition, as the dust settled on the grief-laden evening of Shaam-i-Ghariban [Night of the Bereaved], he recited his customary concluding salaam on PTV, sealing the night with the poignant verses:

[If we survive, we shall return to this mourning next year, If we pass away, let this be our final Salaam]

Only weeks later, in December 1990, this towering icon of noha khwaani breathed his last, leaving the world of elegiac recitation for his permanent, eternal abode. What was meant to be a traditional recitation became his literal, immortal ‘Salaam-i-Aakhir’ [The Last Salaam], which continues to echo in the hearts of mourners to this day.

NAZIM HUSAIN: AN ANCHOR OF THE ELEGIAC TRADITION

Nazim Husain stood for over half-a-century as a monumental anchor of the tradition of noha recitation. His mastery is immortalised in his legendary recitation of ‘Shaam ka bazaar’, which portrays Imam Husain’s captive family’s march through Damascus.

Husain’s tempo makes the imagery of the exhausting drag of caravan chains seem visceral. His 1982 rendition of Mahshar Lakhnavi’s ‘Haye haye Ali Akbar’ captures the intense agony of Imam Husain’s wife Bibi Umme Laila weeping over the shattered youth of her 18-year-old son, Ali Akbar. His devastating delivery of ‘Aseer ho kay chali hoon salaam ae baba’ captures the heart-breaking farewell of Imam Husain’s daughter Bibi Sakina to her father as the caravan of the surviving holy women and children is forced to leave the burning plains of Karbala.

A staunch purist of poetic metre, Nazim Husain ensured that composition never compromised the sanctity of elegiac verse, steadfastly prioritising the weight of the subject and poetry over the rhythm itself.

SABIRA KAZMI: CHANTING THROUGH THE BURNING SANDS

Sabira Kazmi’s signature style is defined by an intimate, conversational pace that pictures a mother’s private lamentation.

Nowhere is this heartbreaking aesthetic more visible than in ‘Meray bachay ki aati hai mehndi.’ While recounting the tragedy of Imam Hasan’s son and Imam Husain’s nephew Hazrat Qasim — who was martyred in Karbala at the age of 13 — Kazmi balances a gentle, rhythmic lullaby tempo with a piercing sorrow, capturing the ultimate agony of a mother celebrating a wedding that transforms into a funeral.

Her vocal control shifts seamlessly into deep, communal despair in ‘Pukari laash pe’, capturing the agonising grief of the women of the Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) family over the unburied, shroud-less body of Imam Husain. This breathless, narrative-driven noha vividly describes the agonies of the holy women who stumbled on to the battlefield of Karbala.

‘Wawela sad wawela’ is a deeply moving and heartbreaking classical lament that wraps the soul in the raw, shattering grief of the Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) family, capturing their collective, agonising cry (wawela) over the martyrdom of Imam Husain and the profound sorrow borne by the surviving captives left behind.

Through these definitive renderings, Kazmi ensured that the historic legacy of female lamentation remained an indispensable pillar of Karachi’s religious fabric.

SYED ALI ZIA RIZVI: THE FORTRESS OF TRADITION

Syed Ali Zia Rizvi was a defining voice of Karachi’s Rizvia Society’s rich elegiac tradition. His popular noha ‘Kartay hain maatam haram Abbas ka’ stands as a monumental fortress of classical noha khwaani, as do his masterpieces ‘Aati hai gardoon se yeh paiham sada’ and ‘Asghar, haaye Asghar.’

Breaking from the era of a lead reciter supported by two back-up vocalists (bazoo), Rizvi pioneered solo noha khwaani, without any vocal assistance. Amid growing market pressures pushing peers toward commercialised grandeur, he remained celebrated for his signature simplicity. His classics include ‘Pamaal-i-sum-i-aspaan’ and ‘Abid kabhi tauq-i-zanjeer pe na roay.’

He utilised a piercing, mournful tenor that served almost as a foundational textbook for modern lamentation. As the founder of modern noha khwaani, Ali Zia Rizvi pioneered a school of recitation defined by a unique delivery style, deep vocal pathos (soz) and a vivid narrative portrayal of Karbala, all while strictly adhering to a disciplined, medium-sized Urdu poetic metre (behr).

SYED NASIR HUSAIN ZAIDI: UNMATCHED RANGE, UNDYING DEVOTION

Syed Nasir Husain Zaidi — affectionately referred to as Nasir Bhai — stood as the definitive anchor of the Anjuman Tanzeem-ul-Husaini.

Wielding a distinctive tenor that defied standard vocal constraints, Zaidi possessed an extraordinary acoustic range that could effortlessly command massive urban spaces, forever binding his congregations with the iconic noha ‘Abbas ka parcham hai, tanzeem Husaini hai.’

Born in Hyderabad, Sindh, in 1964, Zaidi migrated to Karachi in 1972, launching his sacred journey of recitation in 1976. Documented by Prof Imran Ali as the trusted right hand (bazoo) of the legendary Ali Zia Rizvi, Zaidi formally joined Tanzeem-ul-Husaini in 1981, etching his name into the city’s spiritual fabric.

Nowhere was his sonic power more legendary than under the sky at Mehfil-i-Shah-i-Khurasan. When he delivered the heart-wrenching verses of ‘Kisht-i-alaam mein Zainab ko bhala aaram kahaan’, his resonant voice would slice through the stillness. Zaidi’s dard-bhari [grief-laden] voice produced an immortal repertoire of devotion. His seminal works — including the heartbreaking ‘Na alam na chacha’ and the universally wept-over ‘Lo alamdaar, alamdaar chala’, defined an era of communal mourning.

After anchoring Karachi’s Muharram heartbeat for 45 years, this master of lament departed for his permanent abode in 2021, leaving behind a profound silence that still echoes through the streets of azadari.

NADEEM RAZA SARWAR: THE VOICE OF A GENERATION

The unprecedented global stardom achieved by Nadeem Raza Sarwar of the Anjuman Gulzar-i-Haideri remains unmatched in the history of noha khwaani. It is no exaggeration to state that he has become the most luminous star in today’s noha khwaani firmament. From his very first volume of recordings, Sarwar announced a paradigm shift — moving away from traditional slow, measured chanting toward a faster, deeply evocative and narratively dramatic delivery.

In 1986, his masterpiece ‘Ae Shion jab peena pani’, which beautifully incorporated Arabic phrasing alongside Urdu, captured the imagination of the younger generation. By 1987, his popularity had soared to such heights that tracks such as ‘Tamam aalam mein aaj maatam’, ‘Achhi nahin yeh baat’ and, later, ‘Darya hai hamara’ were memorised verbatim by men, women and children alike, irrespective of sect.

By integrating Arabic and Persian into his nohas, Sarwar globalised the genre, making it accessible to international audiences. The 1980s and 1990s were the golden age of Karachi’s famous W-11 buses, which would blast Sarwar’s nohas across the city’s streets throughout the mourning season, transcending sectarian lines, as his voice resonated in every neighbourhood.

ALI SAFDAR RIZVI: THE VANGUARD OF RESISTANCE

The voice of Ali Safdar Rizvi of the Dasta-i-Imamia emerged as a powerful shift, fusing traditional lamentation with a fierce, definitive ideological consciousness.

Heavily inspired by the structural compositions and rhythmic cadences of the contemporary Iranian noha, Rizvi engineered a revolutionary school of recitation that captured the imagination of a younger generation of devotees. His signature style stands at the intersection of spiritual grief and socio-political awakening, transforming the historical tragedy of Karbala into an active, timeless resistance against oppression.

Rizvi’s vocal delivery is characterised by a high-energy, anthem-like gravitas that completely redefined congregational dynamics in the city’s central processions. His legacy is upheld by his monumental, battle-centric recitations, including the iconic identity anthem ‘Husain, Husain sha’ar-i-ma’, alongside the deeply evocative ‘Aishiqaan-i-Mehdi ko Karbala bulati hai’ and ‘Zainab pareshan ast’, solidifying his role as the vanguard of Pakistan’s contemporary elegiac movement.

A WORD ABOUT THE NOHA AND ITS WORDSMITHS

The rich literary tradition of noha khwaani has been meticulously shaped by distinct generations of extraordinary poets. Pakistan’s Muharram landscape was thoroughly enriched by a distinguished cadre of exceptional wordsmiths, including Gohar Jarchavi, Anees Paharsari, Syed Aal-i-Raza, Najm Afandi, Mujahid Lakhnavi and Urooj Bijnori.

The academic and structural depth of this poetic genre is further elevated by the contemporary brilliance of scholars such as Dr Hilal Naqvi. While classical figures such as Sahir Faizabadi, Maulana Imdad Husain and Yawar Azmi maintained a traditionalist approach to the pulpit, Dr Rehan Azmi carved out a distinct contemporary path, cementing a unique and unparalleled legacy that continues to bridge historical tragedy with modern poetic sensibilities.

Based on three immutable pillars — masaaib [the tragedy], fazaail [the virtues] and tableegh [the message] — the noha, through the agency of the noha khwaan, is not merely a passive piece of literature and instead serves as an active producer of place.

The walking bodies of the mourners physically trace an alternative map of the city. The route itself becomes a sacred geography, marked by traditional stopping points (gali [lane], choraha [square]) that are recognised year after year, building a permanent layer of religious and historical meaning over the grid of the city.

Moreover, seamlessly archived and globally amplified, the contemporary noha has broken free from localised boundaries, transforming into a high-powered, multimedia vehicle for identity affirmation. This ritualistic heraldry serves as the acoustic foundation for an urban transformation, where grief and pain cease to be a private affliction and becomes a structured, collective remapping of the city.

The writer wishes to acknowledge Syed Muhammad
Ali Kazmi, Shakil Jafri, Syed Ali Akbar Naqvi,
and Naqvi’s colleagues Asad Agha and
Qaiser Husain for their invaluable assistance
in gathering information for this article

The writer is a peripatetic urbanite and can be
reached at mansooraza@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, June 21st, 2026

Unforgettable
By Rayhab Khan
Vanguard Press
ISBN: 978-1-83794-938-0
292pp.

Rayhab Khan, the author of Unforgettable, is a lawyer, lecturer and avid reader of dark gothic fiction. This, her debut as an author, is hot off the press, published only this year.

Unforgettable, which is set in Karachi, is a very easy read and can be completed in one sitting if necessary. This is because of the writing’s smoothness and fluency, as well as the story arc itself. It is a true page-turner. The desire to know what comes next is overwhelming.

The first part of the novel, which comprises nearly a third of the book, deals with a New Year/birthday party. The characters are all high school students who are just months away from graduation. The author’s skill comes into play in this section, as she makes it read like a young adult novel rather than adult fiction.

Khan writes convincingly and with full command as she portrays the bunch of teenage kids. She uses the language of that age group and plays with the emotions and feelings they contend with. She ushers them through believable scenes where the kids are happy, get into fights and even get traumatised.

A reunion among three former best friends unravels long-held secrets, regrets and unanswered questions in this fast-paced debut thriller

The characters she portrays come from the elite social strata. Their lives, as depicted in Unforgettable, are a far cry from those of most Pakistani youngsters. The average Pakistani teenager would be scandalised, and perhaps envious, at the way Khan’s dramatis personae behave.

It is in this part of the book that we are introduced to the main characters, made up of a trio of besties: Rania, Layla and Aliya. The story is presented from each of their points of view. Their loves, ambitions and anxieties are elucidated for the reader. We get to know their backstories and romantic inclinations. Most importantly, we become aware of the three pals’ intense closeness.

Throughout this section, references are made to omens of imminent tragedy. It is made abundantly clear that something bad is about to befall the kids. So, when disaster strikes, it is no surprise. But it is handled in the way of the rich: the police are not notified and a cloak of silence is thrown over the incident.

After a 13-year lull, the thread of the story is picked up again. The three friends have grown up and chosen paths for themselves that are radically different from each other. Unfortunately, no one is quite content with her choice and all are beset with regrets and yearnings for a different life. The death of Rania’s father becomes the catalyst for them to gather in Karachi, once again.

The sparks set off by this reunion finally penetrate the mists surrounding the misadventure of 13 years ago. The scabs of old wounds are peeled away for the first time. Secrets that have been held back to fester for years are regurgitated. We find that what we had taken for granted in the first part of the book is not quite so. The guests at the New Year’s party long ago are not what they had seemed to be.

At the end, all becomes clear, as it should in any novel worth its name. But the ending is ambiguous in one way. The past is certainly demystified, but what the best friends plan to do in the future is left open-ended.

Unforgettable follows the pattern seen in many popular novels and films, in which a particular episode of import becomes the pivotal moment in people’s lives. It casts its shadow on the characters even decades later until, in the finale, the momentous revelation comes as both a surprise and relief.

In effect, Unforgettable is a formulaic novel. Yet, Rayhab Khan manages to transcend the plot’s familiarity by making her book a worthwhile read.

The author does a stellar job of holding the reader’s attention as the layers of the puzzle are slowly peeled away, like an onion. Gradually, the facts become clear. The friends have kept mum for so long because of their own psychological baggage and the dreaded unleashing of societal censure.

The one drawback of the novel is that it has less action and more introspection. The reader is told what happens and is even furnished with an analysis, but not shown the scenes as they unfold. This method is better suited to literary novels. Thrillers are usually action-packed. The episode where one of the friends goes to interview a highly feared African dictator is written in real time. Greater use of this type of writing would have improved Unforgettable.

The novel contains many Urdu words and, apart from footnotes that explain them, there is also a glossary at the end. This may have been necessary because the book is published in the UK. In view of this, it is jarring when one of the servants, generally called Mushtaq Bhai, is called the ‘butler’ and not given his Urdu designation.

The number of years that elapse between the two threads of the story are 13; this is an oft-repeated fact. But in one instance, during Rania’s musings, it becomes 15. The same goes for her child’s age. It is repeatedly stated that he is three years old, yet Rania tells someone he is two. These are minor mistakes, but they detract from the integrity of the novel.

On the other hand, the opening sentence is brilliant. It is catchy and prophetic, just what a thriller needs. Unforgettable is not a deep, philosophical novel out to solve the problems of the world. Yet it delivers the goods: a fast-paced, suspenseful pot-boiler that keeps you hooked to the last page. It may never become required reading in a college course, but it is ideal for whiling away a summer day at the beach or for perusing on a long plane journey.

Bravo, Rayhab Khan.

The reviewer is a freelance writer, author of the novel The Tea Trolley and the translator of Toofan Se Pehlay: Safar-i-Europe Ki Diary

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, June 21st, 2026

Hum Apni Karni Kar Guzray
By Usman Baloch
Mustaag Foundation
320pp.

There are books that do not merely tell a life. They recover one.

Hum Apni Karni Kar Guzray [We Did What We Had To Do], the autobiography of trade unionist Usman Baloch, is one such work. It is not a polished monument raised by institutions, nor a comfortable memoir written from the safety of retirement. It is a book of struggle, sweat and memory. It comes from the lanes of Lyari, the factory gates of Karachi, the restless years of labour agitation and the stubborn belief that ordinary people can shape history if they refuse to remain silent.

Usman Baloch is one of Pakistan’s most respected and enduring trade union leaders, a veteran labour activist from Lyari whose association with the workers’ movement spans more than six decades. Emerging from Karachi’s working-class neighbourhoods in the late 1950s, he devoted his life to organising workers and defending their rights at a time when trade union activity often invited repression and imprisonment.

I have always felt a special affection for books that rescue forgotten lives from the margins. Perhaps this is because much of our public memory is so unjust. Pakistan remembers generals, judges, landlords, bureaucrats and party leaders with tedious regularity. It does not remember workers with the same care. Those who built roads, ran mills, carried loads, operated machines and kept the city alive are rarely allowed to become authors of their own story.

Usman Baloch’s autobiography challenges that old cruelty. It tells us that history does not belong only to those who ruled. It also belongs to those who resisted. The title itself has a quiet force: Hum Apni Karni Kar Guzray. There is no self-pity in it. There is no grand claim of victory either. It sounds like the voice of someone who knows that life is brief, power is brutal and justice is often denied, yet one must still act.

That is perhaps the most moving thing about the book. Usman Baloch does not appear as a man waiting for history to reward him. He appears as a man who chose the difficult path because the easier one would have meant moral defeat.

The autobiography of trade unionist Usman Baloch chronicles a lifetime of struggle for workers’ rights but its emotional centre lies in its insistence that ordinary workers can think politically

Karachi has many histories. There is the city of colonial architecture, merchant wealth and elite nostalgia. There is the city of migration and violence. There is the city of ports, markets, land grabs and political mafias. But there is also another Karachi, less frequently narrated but more morally compelling: the Karachi of workers.

This was the Karachi of Lyari, Lea Market, SITE, mills, docks, construction sites, labour colonies and teashops where politics was not a television performance but a daily argument about bread, dignity and power. Usman Baloch belonged to this Karachi. His life reminds us that trade unionism in Pakistan was never merely about wages. It was about respect.

A worker who demands a fair wage also demands to be seen as a human being. A worker who forms a union challenges not only the employer but an entire social order built on obedience. In a deeply hierarchical society such as ours, that is a revolutionary act. The factory owner expects gratitude. The state expects silence. The police expect fear. The union asks the worker to stand upright.

Usman Baloch emerged from a world in which politics was learnt through experience. His education came from labour meetings, neighbourhood discussions, strikes, arrests, betrayals and books read with urgency rather than leisure. That combination gave his activism its strength. He was not merely an angry man. He was an organiser. Anger can fill a street for an afternoon. Organisation can sustain a movement for years. Baloch seems to have understood the difference.

The book is valuable because it brings back the atmosphere of an era when Karachi’s working class still believed in collective power. The 1960s and 1970s were not romantic years. They were full of repression, hunger, state violence and political confusion. Yet, they were also years when workers, students and left activists felt that the world could be changed.

Ayub Khan’s dictatorship had promised development but delivered inequality, discipline for the poor and privilege for the powerful. In that climate, trade unionism became a school of democracy long before many elected institutions learned the meaning of the word.

Usman’s story also reminds us that labour politics crossed boundaries that later hardened into walls. In the mills and factories of Karachi, workers came from different linguistic, ethnic and regional backgrounds. They did not always overcome their divisions, but the union gave them a shared language. It taught them that exploitation could wear many faces but that its methods were familiar.

Low wages, unsafe conditions, arbitrary dismissal, intimidation and false promises were not Baloch, Sindhi, Punjabi, Mohajir or Pakhtun problems. They were workers’ problems. This is one reason the book feels relevant today. Karachi has become more fragmented, more cynical and more individualised. The language of class has retreated while the language of identity has expanded. Yet, hunger remains stubbornly material. Rent is not paid in slogans. School fees are not paid by ethnic pride. Medical bills are not settled by patriotic speeches.

The working poor still live with insecurity, only now they are more isolated than before. In such a time, Usman Baloch’s life reads not as nostalgia but as a warning. The book’s emotional centre lies in its insistence that ordinary workers can think politically. This should not need saying but, in Pakistan, it does.

The elite often imagine the poor as vote banks, mobs, beneficiaries or victims. Rarely do they imagine them as thinkers. Baloch’s life refutes that arrogance. Workers in his world debate strategy, assess leaders, understand law, recognise betrayal and interpret power with a sharpness that many educated people lack. Their vocabulary may not be academic but their intelligence is historical.

There is also a moral discipline in Baloch’s life that deserves attention. Trade union work is not glamorous. It requires patience with people who are afraid. It requires courage in front of police and management. It requires the ability to speak to workers who may doubt you, leaders who may use you and parties that may abandon you. A labour organiser must be both fire and rope: fire to inspire, rope to bind people together. Usman Baloch had that quality.

The role of Wahid Baloch in making this book possible is therefore not a secondary matter. It is central to the achievement. To compile, transcribe and prepare such a life for readers is itself an act of political memory. Many working-class leaders leave behind fragments: notebooks, recollections, speeches, letters and stories carried by friends. Without someone willing to gather them, they vanish. Wahid Baloch has performed the task of an archivist from below.

For younger readers, the book offers another lesson. Rights are not gifts. They are won, lost and won again. Every generation is tempted to believe that injustice is permanent and resistance is futile. Usman Baloch’s life gives a different answer. It does not say that resistance always succeeds. It says that submission always fails.

That is why Hum Apni Karni Kar Guzray should be read not only by trade unionists but by students, journalists, historians and all those who care about Karachi.

The reviewer is a columnist and educator. He can be reached at mnazir1964@yahoo.co.uk.

X: @NaazirMahmood

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, June 21st, 2026

A Modern Introduction to Indian Music and Other Essays
By Anjum Altaf
Maktaba-e-Danyal
ISBN: 978-969-419-130-0
280pp.

Usually, books on music are written by practitioners of classical and light music, who try to explain the complexities of their own learning experience and the outcomes of consistent effort. These are mostly educated people who have not adopted singing as a profession but do so for pleasure.

Then there are compilers of books on music who don’t have an in-depth knowledge of it. Their work is often based on borrowed texts on contemporary popular music, comprising film songs by eminent singers.

According to Anjum Altaf, author of A Modern Introduction to Indian Music and Other Essays, which includes a primer on the physics of sound, the key purpose of his effort is to enhance the enjoyment of listening to music by fostering greater familiarity with its principles, vocabulary and grammar.

He cites chess or cricket as examples, which an individual can enjoy better after knowing the rules of both games. At the same time, he asserts that music is obviously much more powerful in its impact compared to chess or cricket, because it can still be enjoyed without any knowledge of its rules.

Part primer, part Socratic conversation and part cultural history, this engaging volume explores the theoretical foundations of Indian classical music

The book is unique and quite different from other Pakistani authors’ books on music, as it is interactive. It is the outcome of shared learning, in which a group learns from each other by pooling knowledge, and is more exciting and effective than passively being exposed to an expert’s views. In fact, the essays started off as blog posts that were then commented upon by readers. Those discussions are included in the book, almost like a Socratic dialogue.

There are vast audiences, mostly from India, who have taken part in debates in the essays on Indian and Western classical music, film music, and other genres especially prevalent in the Subcontinent. Some of them are not only practising vocalists but also run institutions that teach music to others. Most of the audience have been associated with music for a long time and have exhaustive knowledge, which is quite interesting and educational for the readers. The author refers to them as his sangeet parivar [musical family].

Although the author controls the debates, he expresses his ignorance about some aspects of the music at various points in the book. There are three chapters devoted to the physics of sound and partial reference to even the mathematics of music, which are quite difficult for the reader in general to understand.

In Indian classical music, seven swaras or sur [musical notes] — collectively called the sargam — constitute the saptak [an octave or a series of seven musical notes] and given the following names: Shadja, Rishab, Gandhar, Madhyam, Pancham, Dhaivat and Nishad. These seven swaras also have nicknames, which are more common than the original names — Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Dha and Ni.

In Hindustani classical music, a ‘thaat’ signifies the parent scale from which the ragas in that family are derived. Pandit Bhatkhande had set the number of thaats at 10, which, in his judgement, included most of the popular ragas in Hindustani tradition. Each of the thaats has seven ascending and descending swaras (called sampurna), while the ragas in their respective families may have fewer. There is frequent reference to the characteristics of Indian and Western classical music, which provides valuable insight for readers. These are some of the comparisons:

(a) There is harmony in Western music vs melody in Indian music;

(b) Western classical music is based upon the equal tempered scale, and rests upon melody, harmony and counterpoint. Swaras and tala [rhythm] are the two basic components of Indian classical music;

(c)  The ethos of Western and Indian music seems quite different, but both are inspirational at their best;

(d) Western classical music is largely based upon harmonic (two or more notes played at the same time) movement and counterpoint. The music is often rehearsed, very rarely improvised, hence the compositions are written in ink (or frozen in time) and are uniquely credited to the said composers. Indian classical music, on the other hand, is mostly improvised and spontaneous;

(e) The central figure in the Western concert is the conductor, but there is no conductor at an Indian music concert.

While lamenting the current state of classical music in Pakistan, the author believes it is dying in the country. The country has failed to produce the likes of Roshan Ara Begum and the stalwarts of the Patiala and Sham Churasi gharanas [schools of music], who migrated to Pakistan after Partition. This art form is not part of the sensibility of the new generation.

According to journalist Zubeida Mustafa, every society decides its attitude to music. “Bangladesh is predominantly Muslim but cherishes music. It is food for the soul and societies that enjoy music are happier,” she asserts while commenting on music in the book. She also writes that “Music would never flourish in Pakistan till this conflict between the yearning of the soul and the voices in the head is resolved.”

There is an interesting story in the book relating to the advent of the harmonium in India, which was invented in Paris in 1840. The harmonium was introduced from Europe to accompany choral music in smaller churches in India. It was adapted for Indian music by an Englishman named Moore.

The early adaptations had various tonal deficiencies and were rejected by the performers, who were mostly Muslims. However, they were accepted by pandits, who found them useful in teaching music. This controversy thus acquired a religious edge and Zulfiqar Ali Bokhari, who was the director of All India Radio (AIR), banned the harmonium from radio broadcasts on this basis. As a result of such powerful opposition, the harmonium remained banned on AIR until 1971.

In Indian culture, there is a persistent bias against anything produced by little or lesser effort. Therefore, the harmonium was resented. Bengali Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore seems to have crusaded very early against the harmonium. The philosopher of Indian art, Ananda Coomaraswamy also fulminated against the contraption. Jawaharlal Nehru, long before becoming the first prime minister of India in 1947, joined the chorus formed by Tagore, Coomaraswamy and others in condemning the harmonium.

Those who only wish to get theoretical knowledge of Indian classical music will find Anjum Altaf’s book an interesting read. However, those eager to learn classical singing should get training from an ustaad [maestro]. For instance, when the author explains how to sway from one swara to another and calls it ‘andolan’ or ‘sur jhulana’, the trainee vocalist will not be able to understand.

However, when the ustaad practically demonstrates to his trainee ‘the jhooltay huay sur’ or swinging swaras in various ragas, the latter will understand without any difficulty.

The reviewer is a consultant in human resources at the Aga Khan University Hospital, Karachi

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, June 21st, 2026

In world literature, Tilism-i-Hoshruba (1883-1897), stands as an oddity: a fantasy that starts in medias res, a Latin term that means “in the midst of things.” The term describes the narrative method of beginning a story somewhere in the middle of chronological events.

Tilism-i-Hoshruba opens where the giant Laqa and his devil, Bakhtiarak, are on the run from Amir Hamza’s armies and the tricksters led by Amar Ayyar. They seek refuge in Qila-i-Koh-i-Aqiq [Fortress of Mount Agate] whose ruler, Suleiman Ambreen-Mu [Suleiman Amber Hair] provides them refuge. When Amir Hamza’s armies arrive and are bivouacked outside the fortress, Ambreen-Mu writes to the rulers of neighbouring lands seeking assistance.

The Fortress of Mount Agate borders the land of Tilism-i-Hoshruba, which is ruled by Afrasiyab, the Emperor of Sorcerers. Hearing of Laqa’s plight, he promises his assistance, and the conflict is thus established between Amir Hamza’s armies and the sorcerers. In reality, however, the conflict is between the tricksters, led by Amar Ayyar, and the sorcerers and trickster girls deployed by Afrasiyab. Amir Hamza makes only a token appearance, and is more of a hindrance than a hero.

For those unfamiliar with this fantasy, the word Tilism-i-Hoshruba is used for three different things: the first is the physical land which adjoins the Fortress of Mount Agate, the second is the magical world that is built on that land, and the third thing is the book itself.

There are two famous literary works which begin in media res. Homer’s Iliad opens mid-way through the Trojan War, and Virgil’s Aeneid starts mid-journey, with a shipwreck. In the 20th century, we have Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, which begins decades after The Hobbit, and thrusts the reader right in the middle of political tensions.

But the Iliad and Aeneid are both legends, and Tilism-i-Hoshruba predates The Lord of the Rings by at least 250 years. It stands alone as a fantasy that defied the norms for literature of magical adventures. Remarkably, it also defied the norms for the narrative method of in media res. There’s no slow revealing of the beginning, or flashbacks that reveal the beginning of the story.

One only hears, every 500 pages or so, that Afrasiyab was an usurper who had deposed Tilism-i-Hoshruba’s first emperor, Lacheen. But throughout the 8,000 or so pages of the eight-volume Tilism-i-Hoshruba, we do not get to hear that story. Two decades ago, when I began translating this fantasy, I wondered why that was so.

How long the Tilism-i-Hoshruba remained entirely in the oral tradition is still unknown. We only know that a dastaango [oral story teller] named Mir Ahmed Ali (lived 1850s) first transcribed it into a written version with macaronic text and, later, his version was used by the two authors of Tilism-i Hoshruba, Muhammad Husain Jah (d. 1891-93?) and Ahmed Husain Qamar (1845?-1901), whose version was published by the Naval Kishore Press.

The question is: who made the decision to begin the story where it does in the Naval Kishore version? Did Mir Ahmed Ali decide that, or did Muhammad Husain Jah, who wrote the first four volumes? The latter’s version was the first to appear in print from among the narrators of Hoshruba.

Another question was: why did nobody demand to know the beginning even after Tilism-i-Hoshruba reached the zenith of popularity upon its publication? Did everyone know the beginning from oral tradition and were only too happy that Muhammad Husain Jah had literally cut to the chase?

If that were so, it would be a great example of participatory storytelling, where a storyteller and his audience come together, with the former supplying fast-paced adventures and the latter intellectually supplying the background information through the story remembered from earlier oral narrations.

Of one thing I was convinced, and remain so. There’s no magical fantasy quite like Tilism-i-Hoshruba, and it remains the first one of its kind. When the translation was published, I called it ‘The World’s First Magical Fantasy Epic.’ Upon the publication of the first volume of my translation of Tilism-i-Hoshruba in 2009, titled Hoshruba: The Land and the Tilism, author and critic Anil Menon picked on this definition, and wrote something that stayed with me.

Menon wrote: “The Tilism-i-Hoshruba is indeed privileged, but not in the way Farooqi imagines it. It is not the first magical epic fantasy. It is the last of its kind, composed in the shadow of a new tilism, the British Empire’s mercantilism, and all that it entailed. Tilism-i-Hoshruba is the last of the great transcriptions of an oral narrative epic. Throughout the tale, it is possible to discern in the text, in the dim background, reified from our deep memory perhaps, the presence of a dastaango pausing, elaborating, grimacing, shifting voices…

“To modern sensibilities, the dastaango’s plot is tedious, the quests dubious, the heroes flat and perhaps even a little insane. But only to modern sensibilities. By himself, a dastaango is only the sound of one hand clapping; an audience is required to complete that sound. And the sad truth is that the dastaango’s audience has mostly disappeared. The humid night, the cramped circle of friends and relatives, the gurgle of the hookah, the cousin who is always late, the whispered catch-up questions, the delighted laughs, the still-listening kids fast asleep in their parents’ arms… that world has long disappeared.

“And with it has disappeared the Hoshruba as Mir Ahmad Ali and his friends told it, the Hoshruba as Muhammad Husain Jah wrote it, and the Hoshruba as the publisher Naval Kishore wished it read.”

I ultimately discovered the history of Hoshruba (the tilism, not the text), or what we call these days the back story of Hoshruba. And with that I realised that, in order to revive Tilism-i-Hoshruba, translation was the wrong strategy. It had to be reconstructed. And this is one of the happy labours that occupies me these days.

The columnist is a novelist, author and translator.

He can be reached via his website: micromaf.com

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, June 21st, 2026

Whether it’s a human dad, an animal dad, a bird or a bug dad, all these fathers have their peculiar parenting skills. Nature is full of amazing stories of dads who go to the ends of the earth for their tots and also, tragically, the ones who don’t even remember if they have any kids.

In honour of Father’s Day, here’s our roundup of the best and worst dads in the wild. The list was too long, but we have narrowed it down to a few. Let’s have a quick read!

GENDER EQUALITY

The flamingo: Both parents build the nest together, which takes up to six weeks. Then they take turns sitting on the egg, keeping it warm and keeping it safe for around 27 to 31 days. When the chick comes out, both parents produce a milk-like substance from their digestive systems and feed it to the baby. No one rests; both parents are on duty.

The gorilla: A silverback leads a group of up to 30 gorillas and is responsible for finding food for all of them. But what’s surprising is how gentle he is with the little ones. An animal that is so huge and looks aggressive is actually the opposite.

Gorilla dads are known to let their infants climb on them, play most irritatingly and even sleep on them. One of the cutest and most admirable traits of the gorilla is that it eats with the mother first before the rest of the group, which, in gorilla terms, is a sign of respect.

Red fox: Red foxes do their duty differently. When the cubs are born, the mother stays in the den because the cubs need constant warmth and feeding. The father goes out and brings food back every four to six hours for the mother and the babies. He does this for months. And if the mother dies or disappears, the father doesn’t leave; he raises the cubs alone until they can survive on their own.

LOYALTY AND PROTECTION

The grey wolf: When it comes to loyalty, I found a few animals and birds like the albatross, the bald eagle and a couple more, but the grey wolf stood apart from all. Because a wolf doesn’t just show up for his pups. He shows up for everything.

When the pups are born, they are blind, deaf and weigh barely a pound. The mother stays in the den with them and doesn’t leave. So the father hunts alone and brings food back for her every single day until she can move around again.

The father also patrols the territory constantly, keeping rival packs away. But what separates the grey wolf male from most other animals is that they pair up for life and, secondly, they adopt orphaned pups that aren’t even their own. The grey wolf raises them anyway, the same way he’d raise his own. The wolf is one of the best dads in the animal kingdom.

SINGLE DADS

The seahorse: The female transfers her eggs into a pouch on the male’s body, and her job ends there. He carries them. He gives birth to hundreds and sometimes over a thousand babies at once. Everything after that is the father’s duty.

Darwin’s frog: It has the same level of commitment. The mother lays eggs on plants and leaves. The father stays and watches over them. When the eggs turn into tadpoles, he scoops them into his large vocal sac, keeping them safe from predators until they are fully developed. And when the time comes, he opens his mouth and the babies hop out.

SACRIFICE

The emperor penguin: Antarctica, where temperatures drop to minus sixty degrees, is already a terrible place to raise a baby. The female emperor penguin lays the egg, hands it to the father and leaves for the sea. The father balances the egg on his feet, tucks it under a flap of warm skin on his belly and stands there — for two months, at least! No food, nothing to do.

He shuffles into a huddle with other penguin fathers when it gets unbearable; they take turns standing on the outside so no one freezes alone. By the time the mother comes back, he’s lost almost half his body weight. And if the chick hatches before she makes it, he feeds it himself, producing something milky from his throat.

The sandgrouse: This small bird lives in the desert, so there’s no water anywhere near the nest and the chicks need it to survive. So the father flies out to find some. Sometimes that’s 50 miles away. He gets there, dips his chest into the water and soaks his feathers like a sponge, then flies the 50 miles back. The chicks drink straight from his chest. He does this over and over. A hundred miles of flying through desert heat, carrying water in his feathers, because this is the only way to survive.

Mouth-brooding fish: Like Darwin’s frog, several species protect their eggs by holding them in their mouths after fertilisation. The father of the mouth-brooding fish cannot eat while the eggs are in his mouth. He just holds them, keeps them safe and waits. No matter the exhaustion and starvation, he lets them out only when he realises they are developed enough to swim freely.

BULLIES

The lion: Notorious for being lazy and aggressive, the lion spends most of his day lying in the shade. The females hunt and raise the cubs. When food arrives, the male eats first and often leaves barely anything for the cubs.

The grizzly bear: This dad is the worst. Male grizzlies will kill cubs, sometimes their own, sometimes others’. It sounds senseless, but biologists believe it’s about proving that they are in control.

The sea bass: The sea bass starts off as a decent chap. He builds a nest, guards the eggs and protects them from predators. Then the eggs hatch, most of the young swim away and very few stay behind. So when hunger hits the dad, he eats the ones that are left. Yes, the same eggs he protected for weeks become his meal!

THE INDIFFERENT ONES

In the animal kingdom, the indifferent dads are so common that the full list would fill a book. So, we selected a few carefully. These dads have nothing to do with their kids. These fathers aren’t violent, but they’re completely uninterested.

Pandas: Male pandas have zero interest in parenting. The mother takes care of the cub by feeding it, protecting it and teaching it everything. The father simply continues his life as if nothing had happened.

Tigers: The behaviour is the same across all tiger subspecies: the Bengal, Siberian, Sumatran and white tiger. They prefer being solitary. The tigress raises the cubs entirely alone for two to three years. The father never returns. He may not even know the cubs exist.

Python: Here is the same story. The father is nowhere in the picture; it is the mother that coils around the eggs for months without eating, keeps them warm through the night, and stays with the babies for two weeks after they hatch.

The animal kingdom doesn’t give out Father of the Year awards. But if there were any, the grey wolf would win the contest. And the sea bass would have a hard time explaining himself.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026

Running for a little over two hours, Masters of the Universe is a fun fantasy adventure based on the popular He-Man toy line from the 1980s. The character became famous through cartoons loved by children around the world in the 80s.

This new movie is made for two generations: fans who grew up watching He-Man and younger audiences meeting the hero of Eternia for the first time.

The story follows Prince Adam, who must accept his destiny as He-Man and save Eternia from evil. Sent to Earth as a child, Adam searches for the Sword of Power, the key to unlocking his true strength and returning home. He begins as an ordinary, sometimes clumsy young man, but with courage and determination, he grows into the most powerful hero in the universe.

Nicholas Galitzine does a great job as Prince Adam and He-Man, showing both the character’s struggles and strengths. Jared Leto is convincing as the menacing Skeletor, while Camila Mendes stands out as the brave and loyal Teela. Idris Elba also gives a strong performance as Duncan, also known as Man-At-Arms, He-Man’s mentor and trusted friend.

The movie has similarities with Thor. Both feature a hero from a royal family, a powerful magical weapon and a battle to save a kingdom from evil forces. However, Masters of the Universe has its own style and identity. The world of Eternia is one of the movie’s biggest strengths. Its grand castles, magical landscapes, futuristic technology and ancient powers make the setting feel rich, exciting and visually impressive.

Directed by Travis Knight, who previously directed Bumblebee, the film blends action, emotion and humour in an enjoyable way. With plenty of action scenes, interesting locations and memorable characters, the movie is entertaining for both young viewers and longtime fans.

Overall, Masters of the Universe is an enjoyable adventure that brings the famous He-Man story to life for a new generation while giving older fans a chance to revisit a childhood favourite.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026

It was September 2024, and it had been a month since Grade Six had started. We knew there would be a performance of the musical play The Wizard of Oz, as it was the talk of the school. For the audition, our English teacher gave us a few lines to practice. I really wanted to be one of the characters in the play, so I worked very hard for the audition.

Eventually, the day of the audition came, and so did my turn. I gave it my best and scored the highest. I was overjoyed and truly thought I would be selected for the second round of auditions.

The next day, we found out who had been selected for round two. My name wasn’t on that list. Isn’t it painful? When you do hard work, you get appreciated, but in the end, you’re left with nothing…

It was more discouraging for me because, sometime before that, there had been a debate competition. I participated but I was not selected for the final round, even though I had been winning first prizes consecutively for two years,. So this time, my heart was shattered into pieces.

When I told a close friend about this, she said, “So what? You don’t need to be selected for everything!” To me, it sounded quite rude, but I also thought that perhaps she was right, and that being selected wasn’t in my fate this time. Still, it was difficult to accept that I wasn’t selected for the second round when everyone had appreciated my performance and my score was high.

After a few days, on a Friday, our English teacher explained in the class that the selection criteria were based on marks and told the marks of the students who had cleared the first round. Still there was no mention of my name. Then a girl asked about me. The teacher checked my marks from the first round and noticed an error. She apologised after realising that the selection body had miscalculated my marks. She then gave me an audition slip for the second round. A second chance!

To my surprise, when I went to the drama teacher for the second audition round, she really liked my accent. I got a hint that I might be selected for one of the characters, but I didn’t want to get my hopes too high like last time, so I stayed focused on it as well as my regular school work.

Eventually, I received the message that I had been selected to play the lead character, Dorothy! I was over the moon. She was one of my favourite characters!

To be honest, being the main character was no small feat. To me, it felt like my world revolved around Dorothy and her dialogues. From November to December, I started memorizing the script, which was very long, but my determination helped me learn it.

We started rehearsals at the end of January, and it was a very hectic time as the final play was in February.

I had just given my monthly assessments and along with that, I had to focus on learning the script properly, including the accent and action delivery. Because of this, my assessments didn’t turn out exactly the way I wanted. Soon, rehearsals began, and I was required for almost every scene or musical performance organised by different teachers, sometimes at the same time and sometimes at different times throughout the day. At home, I could only manage to complete my missed classwork.

Time passed in the blink of an eye and there I was, standing on the stage in our auditorium, ready for the final rehearsal with all the other characters. We gave our best and were appreciated, despite a few small mistakes, but overall, it went quite well.

The day everyone had been waiting for finally arrived. I remember that on the final day, my hands felt clammy, and it was as if I had butterflies in my stomach.

The first three scenes went well, but I may have mixed up the fourth and fifth scenes. Luckily, it was covered up and no one noticed except those who were on stage. Somehow, everything still went well and I was also appreciated by my teachers. I really enjoyed performing along with my fellow characters.

I will never forget my classmate speaking up for me when I was down in the “dungeons,” feeling so discouraged that I didn’t speak up for myself. Had she not enquired about my selection, I wouldn’t have played Dorothy, and I am really grateful to her for that.

It has been almost two years, since those memories, but I will forever cherish them as some of my golden memories.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026

Nashville Zoo has announced the birth of a male southern pudu calf, one of the world’s smallest deer species.

The calf was born on May 8 to mother Bosa and father Pacu, just ahead of Mother’s Day. Visitors can now see the family at the zoo’s Expedition Peru habitat, although the newborn may remain hidden while adjusting to its surroundings.

Southern pudus are native to southern Chile and southwestern Argentina. Known for their shy nature, they live in dense forests and feed on leaves, fruits and bamboo.

Southeast Asia’s largest dinosaur discovered

Scientists have identified a new giant dinosaur species in Thailand, believed to be the largest ever discovered in Southeast Asia.

The long-necked herbivore, named Nagatitan chaiyaphumensis, measured about 27 metres in length and weighed roughly 27 tonnes, about the same as nine adult Asian elephants.

Researchers said the dinosaur lived between 100 and 120 million years ago. Fossils were first discovered by locals in northeastern Thailand about a decade ago, with excavations completed in 2024. A life-size reconstruction of the dinosaur is now displayed at the Thainosaur Museum in Bangkok.

Wasp-filled crackers anyone?

Jibachi Senbei are a unique Japanese snack made with whole dried digger wasps baked into savoury crackers.

The unusual treat was created in Omachi by a local wasp enthusiast group working with a bakery. Members collect edible digger wasps from forests, boil and dry them and then mix them into cracker dough. The crackers are said to have a mildly sweet taste, while the dried wasps reportedly taste similar to burnt raisins.

The snack has become a novelty food popular with curious tourists and some older locals. The wasp species used, Vespula flaviceps, is considered safe to eat and is known for its high protein content.

Ageless actor looks like a child at 40

Chinese actor Hou Xiang has gained attention online for his youthful appearance, with many people surprised to learn he is 40 years old.

According to Chinese media, Hou’s physical development stopped around the age of nine after he was born prematurely and his mother suffered malnutrition during pregnancy. Since then, he has continued to look like a young boy and is often mistaken for a child.

Hou began acting as a teenager and landed his breakthrough role in the sitcom Home with Kids in 2005, where he played a primary school student at age 19. He later appeared in dramas including Stepfather and Tunnel Warfare.

The actor said his appearance limits the types of roles he can play, but he focuses on perfecting the characters he is offered.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026

Spider-Man and Hulk are teaming up again in the four-part comic series Spider-Man/Hulk: Fire and Brimstone, where they battle supernatural forces instead of supervillains.

The story begins with Bruce Banner attempting an exorcism to finally separate himself from the Hulk, leading Peter Parker and Banner into a “Biblical-scale” conflict involving demons and spirituality. The comic is written by Kevin Smith and Andy McElfresh, with artwork by R.B. Silva.

Classic Transformers movie returns to cinemas

The Transformers: The Movie is returning to theatres for its 40th anniversary with a new 4K re-release from September 17 to September 21 in the US, with some international releases planned too.

The 1986 animated film became famous for shockingly killing off Optimus Prime and introducing Unicron, voiced by Orson Welles in one of his final roles.

Although it flopped at the box office with $5.9 million, the film later gained cult status and heavily influenced future Transformers stories, including the Matrix of Leadership and later appearances of Unicron.

Zelda movie release moved up

The Legend of Zelda will now release on April 30, 2027, a week earlier than its original May 7 date.

Nintendo’s Shigeru Miyamoto said the team wants to bring the film to audiences “as soon as possible.” The live-action adaptation stars Benjamin Evan Ainsworth as Link and Bo Bragason as Princess Zelda, with visuals reportedly inspired by the games The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild and The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom.

The film is expected to adapt the fantasy world of Hyrule, where Link must protect Zelda and stop Ganondorf from gaining control of the Triforce.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026

Usama and Jasir’s friendship began in third grade and quickly became unbreakable. They ate from the same lunch boxes, shared secrets, exchanged funny jokes during class and ran together towards the school gate every day when the bell rang. Teachers loved watching them. The boys were different in many ways, but they always laughed together.

By the time they were in middle school, things started to change. Their friendship began to feel different, and their conversations slowly took a new direction. Their talks in the morning were no longer about cricket matches, but about political discussions they had heard their families having at home.

Usama liked a leader who spoke politely and promised improvements, while Jasir supported a leader who spoke with fearless passion and strength. In the early days, their arguments were harmless and playful.

“You only support him because your father does,” Jasir joked one day.

Usama replied with a laugh, “At least I don’t like noise more than ideas.”

They kept debating everywhere: during breaks, at lunch and even on their way home. Their friends enjoyed the show like a friendly competition. Nobody thought it was serious, not even the two of them.

But slowly, their light-hearted arguments began to change. The jokes turned into hurtful comments. The laughter disappeared. Almost every conversation ended in an argument, with both boys upset and silent afterwards.

If Usama praised his favourite leader, Jasir took it personally. If Jasir spoke proudly, Usama felt as though he was being mocked. Soon, they stopped eating together and began sitting on opposite sides of the classroom. Still, neither of them wanted to admit they were wrong.

The situation worsened one day when a classroom discussion turned into a heated argument. Words came out quickly, and some students laughed while others encouraged them. Then, without warning, Jasir pushed Usama. Usama reacted immediately, pushing him back even harder. Within seconds, they were locked in a messy fight, like cats and dogs, grabbing shirts, clutching each other’s collars, throwing punches and yelling angrily. Teachers rushed in to separate them as the whole class looked on in disbelief.

The consequences were painful for both of them. Jasir was expelled from school because of his repeated misbehaviour, while Usama was suspended for ten days. Soon, everyone knew what had happened. The classroom became quieter without their arguments, yet something important seemed to be missing.

During his suspension, Usama spent a lot of time alone thinking about what had happened. He remembered how they used to race to the school gate, laugh together and enjoy each other’s company. There was a time when disagreements never felt like battles.

Was a difference of opinion really worth losing a friend over?

He understood something that hurt: he was no longer arguing to share ideas. He was arguing simply to win, to prove he was better and to make Jasir agree with him.

When Usama returned to school, everything felt different. His seat seemed lonely and Jasir’s desk was empty. There were no arguments, no debates and no laughter, only silence.

One afternoon, Usama saw Jasir near the school gate, putting his books into his bag. Their eyes met, and both looked away for a moment. Then Usama gathered the courage to walk towards him.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I forgot that people can think differently and still be right in their own way. Being different does not make someone wrong.”

Jasir nodded.

“I forgot that different opinions do not mean we have to fight.”

They did not hug or smile, but the heaviness between them became lighter. Both boys realised that the world is full of different thoughts and that respecting others matters more than winning an argument. They understood that people are not meant to think the same way, and that respect is more important than being right. They still had strong opinions, but they never again allowed them to create distance between themselves and others.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 20th, 2026