Profile: Karakul Hat Maker

“Karkul defines us”
Bashir Ahmad Khan from Peshawar has not given up on
the craft of karkul-making that earned him
prestige and bread all his life
By Naeem Safi

Karakul hat, popularly known as Jinnah cap in Pakistan, was much in use, if not in vogue, till the late 1980s. It stood for ‘an image’ due to its symbolic association with the founder of Pakistan and was used by high officials and common citizens alike.

Now its representation is left on the currency bills where a stereotypical Jinnah adorns it. In its heydays, there were more than 50 master craftsmen making various types of karakul hats in the Qissa Khawani and Ghanta Ghar bazaars of Peshawar. Today, against all odds, only a few are left seen preserving the craft.

Bashir Ahmad Khan, in his late 50s, is one of those few who haven’t given up on the craft that has earned him prestige and bread all his life. How he ended up in this trade is an interesting narrative and an inspiration for many.

Living in a small village in Dir, Bashir was only eight when he got a chance to go to Peshawar and with his elder brother, and ustad, Haji Anwar Khan.

“I remember the day when I left my village along with my elder brother. Those were the times when Dir was a princely state where the only public transport was a bus owned by the Nawab, and one’s leaving to the city would be quite an affair. My brother was leaving for Peshawar and I along with my parents were going to drop him,” says Bashir.

“I created a scene there demanding to go with him. He fell for it, and my mother immediately washed my clothes in the nearby stream and I boarded the bus in that single wet outfit and a pair of shoes.“My brother was a master craftsman at Baghdad Cap House with Haji Sabzaali (father of Sen. Haji Ghulam Ali), but he got into a conflict with Haji for taking me along and we left Peshawar. We arrived in Karachi on a steam train and started working with a wholesale karakul hat-supplier on Bandar Road. For six years we worked for 50 paisas a day — eating daal-chappati and sleeping on a wooden bench outside the shop—before moving to Peshawar.

It was 1965 war days, and as a little boy from the mountains, I used to marvel at the red fireworks in the sky that my brother had explained were antiaircraft guns firing at the enemy planes.

“In Peshawar, I started my apprenticeship at Peshawar Cap House, with Habbibullah, running errands and learning the skill for around eight years. But it was with Haji Bashi — at Bukhari Cap House in Ghanta Ghar — where I mastered the karkul making, learning it from my brother who was employed there. Later he parted ways with him and opened his own store by the name of Sarhad Cap House.”

Suffering from arthritis and a plunge in sales, Bashir recalls how leaders like Z.A. Bhutto and Wali Khan had visited his humble store and that how almost all of the heads of the state wore his caps from Auyb Khan and Yahya Khan to Zia ul Haq, Naseerullah Babar, Aftab Sherpao, Nawaz Sharif and Qazi Hussain Ahmad. “Gen. Fazl e Haq was a great admirer of our work. And he would order around half a dozen caps every month for as long as he was the governor,” he says.

Unfortunately, none of Bashir’s three sons knows the skill and has a couple of learners running the business for him. “Nothing can match the experience, and respect that it earns for you. It is my advice to my children to master the skill of karakul-making despite other occupations, as this is something that defines us. It has earned a name and respect for my family and me. This is what made heads of the state, governors, and ministers visit our shop.”

Since ages, the fur of the karakul sheep is imported from northern Afghanistan into Peshawar. Karakul (or Qaraqul) is a breed of sheep raised mostly in Central Asian and some African states for their fur that is valued for its unique textures, patterns, and colours. The fetuses or the newborn lambs are slaughtered before the tight curls of their fur begin to unravel with time or the mother’s tongue.

Contrary to the popular notion that the fur is obtained from the aborted lamb fetuses, Bashir says that only the newborn male lambs are slaughtered and the females are left to mature for further propagation. The skins are plastered with hop flour for basic curing by the farmers in the mountains; however that makes the skins very brittle.

The price of these skins have soared ten times in the last decade or so due to their high demand in Europe, Japan, USA, and Canada. Jinnah version of the Karakul hat is the most liked one in Pakistan and the non-Pashtun Afghans, which has both ends peaked and is usually packed flat in a box. However, it is the Peshawari cap, also known as Ayub Cap that is more popular amongst Pashtuns on both sides of the border. It has only the front end peaked and the back side is round, hence packed in a round box and cannot be folded. The fully rounded version, Garda, is popular in certain parts of Afghanistan.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://www.jang.com.pk/thenews/jul2011-weekly/nos-10-07-2011/enc.htm#4

Book Review: Images of Afghanistan

Beyond the curtains

A book that will help alter perceptions about Afghanistan

By Naeem Safi

Images of Afghanistan: Exploring Afghan

Culture through Art and Literature

Arley Loewen and Josette McMichael

Hardback, 350 pages

Price: Pak Rs.1995

Oxford University Press, 2010

The lack of awareness regarding the Afghan culture is mainly due to the scarcity of literature available on the subject. After the Soviet occupation, whatever interest was developed in Afghanistan revolved around its political history and evolution through various conflicts. And the Afghan arts and literature were overshadowed by the cloud of smoke and dust raised by the decades-long war.

A people of a land can be understood by their expressions, through various mediums, of their beliefs and aspirations. And anyone who wants to understand what drives this magnificent nation must see inside their hearts and minds, which is exactly what this collection has done, to a certain extent, and for the first time ever.

Though it can not be termed as a scholarly reference, as stated in the editors' note, "Academics may say that Images of Afghanistan lacks sufficient critical thought or that it is nostalgic…. Rather than an academic treatise or a cultural history, this book is designed to give a flavour of Afghanistan for people who want a starting point." Perhaps it is due to this understanding that the need was felt to include a preliminary chapter on seeing "Culture through the Windows of Art and Literature," for beginners.

The Afghans' love for music, poetry and other arts is best reflected in the moving foreword by Ashraf Ghani, "In this there is hope, hope for tomorrow, for and Afghanistan with dignity."

It is the first compilation of this type on the art and literature of Afghanistan, 32 chapters, grouped in seven sections that describe and discuss Dari and Pashto literature, themes of cultural significance, traditional arts, performing and fine arts. The two sections on literature cover the history and evolution of Dari and Pashto literature, its major influences, poets and prose writers, various genres ranging from the court poetry of the classic times to the traditional poetry of today, folk tales, children's rhymes, proverbs, short stories, and modern trends. The section on culture evaluates various themes that shape the Afghan mindset, especially their code of honour and everything around it. The traditional arts section begins with a study of Afghanistan's archaeological and architectural heritage from the times of the Silk Route and then covers calligraphy, traditional urban planning, woodcarving, and pottery.

Performing and fine arts are analysed in the second last section, with some beautiful insights that helps one understand and connect to the artists' feelings. The final section features two contemporary Afghan authors who write in English, Mullah Nasruddin, the role of Afghan women in literature and music, some other folk tales and the cartoons and comedy in the contemporary Afghan culture. Citations given at the end of chapters are a good reference for further readings on Afghanistan.

The books published by Oxford in Pakistan are seldom designed according to the contents and one's expectations. Same is the case with Images of Afghanistan, from its dust jacket to the hardcover and layout design, is not even above average.

One must admire the editors' humility and honesty. Their decades-long attachment with Afghanistan, living the culture, and their sincere desire to understand it makes the compilation much more authentic on the level of inquiry, than a majority of other publications on Afghanistan's culture by the 'orientalists.' Along with that, around two dozen contributors from varying backgrounds add myriad perspectives to the assorted themes in this compilation. However, one does have a feeling that the scope of the project is such which demands further editions on each theme discussed in it. The cognoscente from Afghanistan and the world need to explore this untapped region for its riches.

This book will help alter the perception about anyone who wants to understand Afghanistan, its roots and evolution over the millennia, and most importantly feel it beyond headlines.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/aug2010-weekly/nos-22-08-2010/lit.htm#2

Dance

Rhythms of life

It took ages for the cultural expressions in Gilgit-Baltistan to develop and mature, they are now fading away at a much faster pace -- there is a dire need of proper documentation

By Naeem Safi

Gilgit-Baltistan, being one of the most beautiful places on earth, has a lot more to offer than just the scenic beauty. Contrary to the popular belief, the inhabitants of these valleys in the northern areas are much more cultured and civilised than their counterparts in the urbanised communities of the south. Their respect for diversity, belief in originality, unaltered hospitality, a rich value system, and love for peace can hardly be matched by the mechanised, 'modernised', educated, and enlightened humanoids.

Up in these valleys, one is lucky enough to witness a humble old man -- passing by on the dirt road, with his coarse hands, worn-out clothes, and bent under the weight of a straw bundle -- transforming into this leaping and beaming dancer. As if some ibex jumping from rock to rock, with that special gaze and swift moves painting images in the air, like many of his ancestors would have done before him. The brisk footwork, the stop-motion-like feel of it, the strong eye contact combined with facial expressions, the gradual transition of gestures and moves from suggestive to persuasive, entrap the intoxicated spectator in its web, just the way a hunter would trap his prey or a lover his beloved. Reflections of feelings, emotions, and aspirations, like frozen images in each move or 'frame' of the dance. These can vary between an eagle's dignified romance, a charging soldier, the swaying dervish, a noble commander, a jolly sportsman and many others. In some styles, certain moves and gestures clearly show imitation of the mating dance found in various other species.

The dance styles found here have roots around and beyond the Pamir knot, and have evolved through many generations and religions. But somehow the origins and inspirations have been lost among the changing layers of ideologies and cultural mingling, change in lifestyle preferences, and the gradual decline in reliance on nature in its un-adulterated state.

The dances specified for cultivation, Bao Faow for instance, and other such for harvesting and other seasonal festivities have their roots in old times, and these might have been proper religious rituals of the pre-Islamic times, like the famous Navajo hunting chants. The dances of these valleys are inter-connected with layers of aesthetics, poetry, music, history, mythologies, and drama. However, the dynamics of response vary from tribe to tribe, family-to-family, season-to-season, types of rituals, and festivals. Each style or occasion requires its own music, poetry, age group, and set of costumes. Along with the regional and tribal signature styles, individual performers improvise and adjust their moves according to the music and type of event, moving back and forth between the spiritual and the carnal, the plural and the singular, the subtle and the perceptible. Despite so many variations and improvisations, there is some method, some order in this disorder, that distinguishes its variants from the others.

The narrative may not be as elaborate for the non-locals as other dance forms of the subcontinent, Kathak for instance, but that could be because of the weak vocabulary available to translate such ethnic expressions, especially their interpretive aspects. These puzzles need masters and experts to study them carefully and then translate them.

Dance, in its essence is celebration of life and not lines. It is strange that dances from these valleys yet have to make it to the national level 'cultural' celebrations, the way the rest of the four provinces are represented by an assortment of dance styles of their own. One of the most valuable and priceless assets of this country is its rich cultural diversity. And all the efforts to consciously neglect or undermine these marginalised communities and their unique identities, for some hypothetical idea of unity, have caused a lot of damage and a good part of this priceless heritage has already been lost forever.

Who knows that this art form -- if approached with a genuine desire for inquiry in mind, on onomastic, anthropological, and other such levels -- may reveal certain aspects, which can connect the scattered dots of identity in crisis and fill in the gaps. High-level academic investigations will not only help understand the beauty of it, but may be able to connect the present with the original sources of inspiration.

Such cultural expressions are beyond religious and geographical boundaries. And though, it took ages for these cultural expressions to develop and mature, they are now fading away at a much faster pace, are in dire need of proper documentation. The range of complex gestures must be deciphered, not just for the sake of preservation but also for further promotion. The preservation of the intangible cultural heritage is the least the inhabitants and the authorities of this part of the world must do, especially when mindless 'development' plans in the very region are destroying the rich range of other heritage forms, like the marvellous petroglyphs along the ancient Silk Route -- which are undoubtedly a part of the world's heritage.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/jul2010-weekly/nos-11-07-2010/enc.htm#2

Experience

Qingqi

By Naeem Safi

On way to the Walled City of Lahore for a photography assignment; the road is blocked after one had crossed the Railway Station. The closed windows and the popular songs on an FM channel running western songs are the only solace against the noise and the visuals of the dilapidated urban fabric.

In the midst of all this sound and fury, something shiny and very colourful catches the eye. It looks like two metal benches welded together and then set on wheels. It’s a Qingqi rickshaw decorated with vibrant coloured motifs and objects.

But then, it’s not the only one; there is a swarm of them, not all of them colourful and decorated. They are causing the roadblock. That just adds to the passion, and one scrutinizes this weird looking ‘thing’ that some humans use as a vehicle.

One finds some striking similarities between this machine-age-creature and our beloved state, beginning with the question of its origin. Some say these things were inducted after removing the tongas with an organised campaign (read conspiracy) by one of the ‘top 10’ families. A propaganda campaign was launched against the horses on various forums, instilling fear in the masses of some extremely dangerous virus found in horse droppings.

The same horse — which made empires for humans — had to witness this disgrace by the same ‘superior’ species; thus leading to a partition between the two, both sides oblivious to the real causes.

Instead of planning a proper urban transport alternative by the government, this wonder-of-the-world was offered instead. What a way for a nuclear power to enter the 21st century.

The structure of this creature is a puzzle in itself — half bench and half bike (of Chinese origin) and some interesting improvisations according to the owner’s need. It is imagination stretched to the maximum. But in a way, they are ahead of the Greeks in creating a mythological creature that not only exists in real life, but plays a vital role in the common man’s life—a god or a beast; leave that to the riders of this storm.

It is beyond comprehension why would someone spend so much money and effort to decorate a badly designed product and above that, seek a stamp of approval for that? We will have to wait for some white skinned foreigner to approve of this futile exercise as ‘art’; just like its predecessor, the so-called Truck Art.

The passengers are compulsorily divided into two groups, each having a view of the same journey 180 degree apart from the other. The driver’s seat has a provision for an extra passenger, whose weight balances this creature against the load at the back (doctrine of necessity?). The cannibalized bike pulls the entire load (population) with its small engine (economy), as a result, making more noise (read owning the conflicts of the entire Muslim Ummah — another myth?) and creating more pollution.

The passengers on these swarming creatures get to hear the blasting sounds (the religious and political rhetoric) as if they are riding in some rally, but in fact are barely travelling, and that too in a dehumanised manner. They are denied the right to privacy and, above all, a sense of decency.

The whole thing just shows the psyche (or helplessness) of our people who will do anything to get from point A to point B; no matter how harmful and senseless the means are; compromising their honour and dignity.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/feb2010-weekly/nos-07-02-2010/she.htm#3

A Walk

Idiot's guide to re-colonisation

Exploring Lahore's walled city, in and around Dilli gate, to experience the extraordinary

By Naeem Safi

You put on your rugged jeans and the most comfortable walking shoes and check the battery and the card of your camera. Fill your bullet flask with chilled water and glucose; tuck in a pack of disposable ear plugs and half a pack of coin tissues in your shoulder bag, along with a cheap medical mask; all this to get into an urban jungle, and get out in one piece, body and mind. You have decided to explore the walled city of Lahore on foot. You either choose a Sunday to have an uninterrupted look at the urban fabric or some workday to float with the social flood on the streets.

You choose a gate that was apparently used by the rulers of a great Indian empire for entering into the city. They say Dilli gate is called Dilli gate because it faces Delhi. You cannot really see that unless you have attained an elevation of a few thousand feet. But if you are acrophobic, then all that you can see it facing is the Lunda Bazaar -- a place that offers the best quality canvases, if you are into painting. You will find it in various sizes, textures, and ratios of cotton. Or if you are into some production with a tight budget then may this be the Universal studio's warehouse for you. Just jump in with your costume designer. However, if this is your first time then make sure the designer is not a lady, and if that is not an option then pray she is attractive, and if your zodiac sign has no mercy on you then you can always add an extra hour for haggling. Even if you are not into any theatre or film production, this market is still very useful for what Shakespeare called a stage. But then you will have to act accordingly, even though if you are not in Rome, you can act like Romans while wearing their trash. All you need to do is just look down on those who cannot afford Marks & Spencer; learn some English, never mind the correct pronunciation, and there you go, being accepted and respected like a first class citizen. Enjoy being a gora saab in the third world. This is the Idiot's Guide to re-Colonisation

You look at the variety of outfits in multitude of forms, materials, colours and fashions and recall images from your school days how your fellows would fool crowds and sponsors by getting their entire ranges from here, dismantling them and then re-stitching them into some Frankenstein fashion. The trick is to cover the jumble of dresses and models of all heights, shapes, and proportions with appropriate lighting, loud music, and fog machines.

Here you can get fresh canvas bags, designed and made to your taste, for very nominal price and once you have what you want, you can gesture to all the Gucci's, and the sort, a V, an L, fare le corna, or any finger of your choice, depending on your level of achievement and contempt.

There is an antique coin seller sitting on the ground in front of a heap of coins of modern times too, but mostly they are the heavy bronze ones found in the foundations of centuries old buildings of the walled city, which are demolished to make room for the ever-growing demand of high-rise commercial buildings. The vegetable bazaar near the Dilli gate has farm-fresh vegetables and fruits, where the ones with foreign names are not as expensive as in the posh areas of the city. There are fish, mutton and poultry. The smell and sight of the meat business are not very welcoming. The bazaar is connected with a street that has a treasure trove of pottery and some other beautiful handmade collectables.

You feel hungry after a while and you can choose from a variety of chickpeas, ranging from spices of Mexican proportions in pools of crimson red oil, to the ones moderately spiced. There are some barbecue stalls offering chicken spare-parts and a couple of Afghani food joints in Lunda Bazaar crossing that branches out to the scrap metal market. You can try any of these only if you have a military grade stomach and immune system or if you don't mind finishing 'War and Peace' in a single sitting while getting rid of the load.

A local soul guides you and you find a four decade old mutton channey wala in a street just before the Dilli gate next to the pottery and meat street. The small shop has a few tables with wooden benches and a line of frames with images of gates of the walled city of Lahore. The food is not bad; the ambiance -- well, one does not have much of a choice. This is not the sort of food that one can enjoy while on iPod.

You finish your food and come out of the street and there you are, right in front of the Dilli gate. You need some pro-level footwork to avoid being hit by the flux of traffic and the manure on the tarmac that is emitted by the oldest form of transport still used heavily in the maze of the streets -- bulls, horses, and donkeys that pull various sorts of cargos, stuck in the urban jungle with their masters. Their emissions can be hazardous to us, another animal species, but are not a threat to the planet, rather are an essential part of the eco-system, unlike the human genius. Relatively no noise pollution either, except for the rhythmic stamping of the horseshoes. On these streets the number of carts pulled by animals is almost equal to those pushed by humans.

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Published in The News on Sunday

http://jang.com.pk/thenews/apr2009-weekly/nos-12-04-2009/foo.htm#1

Journey: Beyond Jbad and Macondo

Beyond Jbad and Macondo



By Naeem Safi

With the mention of Afghanistan the first images that come to mind are war, terrorism, and savage people. However, the truth is that Afghanistan can be as beautiful as the rest of the world and its people as human as we think we are as William E. Gladstone had put it his speech once:

"Remember the rights of the savage, as we call him. Remember that the happiness of his humble home, remember that the sanctity of life in the hill villages of Afghanistan, among the winter snows, is as inviolable in the eye of Almighty God, as can be your own."

The first pleasant surprise is the beautiful road between Torkham and Jalalabd. It is a gift from Pakistan to their Afghan brethren. The road winds through beautiful landscapes, olive groves and streams. The sheep, in distance, with their gray wool seem like cotton flowers against the dark metallic terrain. The adobe villages with children running and laughing on cowpaths among green fields are serene images of hope.

The images of decades of war can still be seen on the bullet torn ruins still left at a few places, the occasional Humvees patrolling the roads for security, and Black Hawks in the skies. But all that aside, the streets and bazaars of Jalalabd are bustling. The boys in Jalalabad call it Jbad, no pun, just affection.

As we are accustomed to the Afghan dress and to their lifestyle somewhat, for us the cultural shock arrived in edible form -- in the bowl of fruit shake, which was supposed to be eaten with spoon, as it was too thick and was beyond the capacity of any straw. The Afghani cheese is saltier than Feta, and is not aged that much. It comes in flying saucer shape, instead of square cake, as it is traditionally matured in baskets. It is savoured with honey and those big Afghan naans for breakfast, and of course the green tea.

The youth in Jalalabad is much interested in acquiring various sorts of education offered to them by public and private sector institutes -- from sciences to information technology and humanities. But the most common craze is for learning English language. It not only makes them good candidates for employment, it opens their boundaries of communication.

On the invitation of the driver working for an NGO, we went to his village in Hisarak, southeast of Kabul, but in Nangarhar province. The four hours drive on the dirt road was an adventure in its own right, testing the limits of the SUV and its tires. The region is mostly barren with vast plains and snow-capped mountains on the horizon. There are very few small villages on that route, with some of the houses built like mud-castles. The vernacular architecture in that setting paint unforgettable images on one's mind.

Finally after covering long stretches of the dirt road and climbing many mountains, we descended into a small valley, preserved like an oasis in those vast stretches of the uninhabited lands. The climate was much cooler and the ambience filled the senses with limitless tranquillity. It was a permutation of spring and summertime, and really hard to believe, like love at first sight. There is a freshwater stream coming from the leftover snow of the last winter. On either side of the stream there are terraces of different crops, dotted with fruit trees and some stone-wood houses. The total population is barely over a hundred.

After stretching our legs at the humble terrace in front of the guestroom -- which is a few minutes climb from the stream -- and having sweet milk-chai (that was especially prepared for us, as it's not very common among Afghans) we decided to stroll down to the stream. It is like some dream world, where most of the wild growth and herbs are edible, and each one has a distinct pleasant aroma. The first reference that came to mind was Marquez's Macondo, as "The world was so recent that many things lacked names [for us at least], and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point." Our guide was pointing at each species, uttering its local name, and then persuading us to try them, while describing their qualities.

Our excitement hit the peaks when the hosts stopped under a mulberry tree, one climbed up, and two held a chadder below. In a few seconds the chadder was filled with juicy berries, which were very different in their colour and taste from its variant found in the plains of Pakistan. We thought it was party time, but the hosts had another plan. A small dam was built in the ice-cold stream and the berries were poured into it. It is really hard to describe that experience in words.

Since we were covered with enough dust from the travel, we inquired about the possibility of taking shower. Then realised it was not decent to ask for shower, instead we should have asked for bathing. But I guess the host did not understand the difference anyway and asked us to follow him while instructing a young fellow to grab towels for us. We walked along the stream downwards and then took a track along a water channel, exchanging greetings with the local farmers busy tilling their vegetables. We reached a point where the channel was going through a hollowed-out tree trunk over a small ravine. The host stopped and we all gave each other those inquisitive looks. Then he walked into the log and removed a stopper and the water started splashing on the stones ten feet below. Lo and behold, finally we had arrived at the world's most beautiful shower! Just imagine visuals like some Amazon tribe dancing and singing in the rain.

After a good night's sleep, we were ready to climb to the Chilgoza Pine jungle the next morning. Though it was not the nut-harvesting season, the view of the trees and the valleys beyond them was breathtaking. Sitting on the mountain top, the elder brother of our driver was telling us stories of his jihad times and that how the Soviets had come from the land and the sky to their village eliminating everyone that was present including the animals. The wind blowing through the pine needles was producing the background music to his memories, as if giving voice to all those who had passed away without knowing their crimes.

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Published in The News on Sunday
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/mar2009-weekly/nos-01-03-2009/foo.htm#1

The Expression of Love in Pakistan

In all these battles of the East and the West, orthodoxy and liberalism, where do we stand? What is our own expression, if not silence?

It is not really about claims; it's about performance. Talking about now, not our grand past, where do we stand in the contemporary societies and cultures when it comes to expressing our love.

The notion that this culture does not have the capacity to enjoy and celebrate sensual experiences altogether is the anomaly bought by the urban youth who are overexposed to the West. The welcoming of spring as Basant or romanticizing the monsoon rains in songs are examples of celebrating, without philosophy or creed, our presence on this planet and cherishing just whatever good is around -- the simple joy of being human. The expression can be different and less liberal, but the capacity was always there.

We are not a species that can claim to have a monopoly over love. A male fish trying to win the heart of his beloved in the deep waters, pairs of birds cuddling on the trees or in some lake, butterflies fluttering over the flowers are the images that tell the story of their survival. One major attribute that distinguishes us Homo sapiens from the rest, apart from intimacy, is that we can express our feelings through words.

We, the people from the East, are very romantic, but it seems that either we have some ideal image of the beloved -- are shocked and disappointed once successful -- or we just love the idea of being in love.

This question needs further exploration as the Eastern poetry and music are great when it comes to suffering and yearning for love, the period known as firaaq -- absence or separation. But where do all the songs and poetry disappear when love is consummated, known as visaal (union). Our poetry is mostly object- or, shall we say, beloved-centered, which is the core theme of love poetry almost everywhere. But then comes enjoying the post-visaal life which pertains to things other than the beloved herself.

Another interesting fact in our poetic or lyrical culture is that the gender of beloved is usually feminine, with the exception of a few contemporary poetesses. Even if the adjectives are not feminine, the point of view is mostly masculine -- something that is in contrast with the contemporary Western tradition of song and poetry. The clichéd image of the female trapped in a tower or by an evil person, and the male fighting the world to rescue her are somehow still followed. The heroes' struggles have created great epics, but what is the story inside the tower?

Freedom of expression and different sets of values have encouraged diversity and liberty in the Western cultures and have brought the point of view of the female singers into the mainstream. It is important to understand this difference as it does affect the overall mood of the lyrical tradition.

The majority of the movies produced in the Indian subcontinent follow a pattern in which the protagonist is a hero only when he is single and has to overcome many obstacles to get to his beloved, and once that is achieved, it serves to be the ne plus ultra of heroism for our hero, end of story, no more dancing or singing -- an interminable kitsch syndrome of epic proportions.

Since the only legitimate relationship between a male and a female, in this society, is that of man and wife, and the majority are arranged, there is not much left to be merry about -- as the whole relationship is conceived by external factors and not from a spark within. An arranged marriage is like choosing a closed box from a number of designs on a shelf, with nothing much but date of manufacture on each, all of which have something edible, and then either praying to be lucky or trying to develop a taste later, commonly known as compromise.

The metaphor of food should not be considered sexist, as it is even worse in the case of females: their boxes choose them. The absurdity of the analogy is nothing compared to the practice itself. No wonder all the singing and dancing ends there. Or is it because of the fact that sharing the post-visaal experience is too indecent for our culture, where even 'legitimate' spouses are not allowed to suggest their intimacy let alone show much affection in the presence of others. It seems that the culmination of love is also a culmination of the songs, or we yet have to develop a taste for cherishing daily experiences like having a cup of coffee, a walk, some quality time, a touch--and write songs about them. So far we see this in the cooking oil and tea ads.

Ballet, salsa, tango, waltz etc -- dance forms that are the poetry of human body, originated in cultures that allow the male and female bodies to be intimate in public. How many dance forms do we have in our culture that allow us to express our feelings for our loved ones? The fact that such a dance would fall in the post-visaal experience: once in touch with our love, silently we stand. In our culture the idea of post-visaal pleasures seems to be absent altogether from any form of social expression, but children.

Kuch ishq kiya kuch kaam kiya by a celebrated poet is a testimony to how this culture considers love to be something useless. In the Sufi tradition Ishq with a human is reduced to just a majazi (simulated) one. This is a major shift from the rest of the species, as all the worldly pleasures are considered futile, even if legitimate. The result is painted on the walls all over our beloved country, sending the poor love moths on guilt trips for the 'wrong-doings' of the teenage (usually the result of un-consummated love). This is an amazing mastery of a culture over the hypocrisy that allows the claims of cures to be painted on the walls, but is not ready to acknowledge the restrictions as a cause, or the very disease itself.

Though it is not a question of integrity to borrow the visual icons like the heart-shape from the West, as they had borrowed it from the ancient Egyptians who might have gotten it from somewhere else, it is still important for us to know how our ancestors expressed their love. We, who are dependent on the West to express our love, and follow the Middle Eastern traditions to show our resistance and hatred, need to ask ourselves what our culture is contributing to this global village. In all these battles of the East and the West, orthodoxy and liberalism, where do we stand? What is our own expression, if not silence?

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Published in The News on Sunday
http://jang.com.pk/thenews/feb2009-weekly/nos-15-02-2009/spr.htm