Most of us tend to believe, for good reason, that journalism is inimical to creative writing. Exceptions apart, the Urdu writers who have ventured into journalism have not returned to the world of literature. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the South American writer, however, believes otherwise. He learnt, he says, from his own experience that literature and journalism are conjoined and nurture each other. An Urdu translation of the interview has been published in Kahani Ghar, a new literary magazine. Marquez, it seems, resents the use of tape recorders by interviewers, a standard practice these days. “I have a very good one”, he tells the interviewer, “but I use it for listening to music. I have never touched it during my work as a journalist.” Of One Hundred Years of Solitude, his most famous novel, he says he wrote the story in his grandmother’s style of storytelling. “What was that like?” the interviewer asks. “When grandmother told a story her face assumed an expression that made one wonder what the matter was with her. When I first wrote the story I was not satisfied. It did not sound quite like her. I resolved then to rewrite it once I had full grasp of her style,” Marquez says. About journalism, he says, “I always wished my reporting to be objective but to read like a fairytale. The more the time passes, the more nostalgic I grow and more convinced that literature and journalism are conjoined.” Marquez does not stop with journalism either. Next, he compares literary writing to a carpenter’s craft. “In a way, writing is like making a table. A lot of effort goes into peeling and planing… it’s the same with writing. Both these jobs require a lot of skill and a lot of hard work. I have never worked as a carpenter but in my heart I have great regard for the job.” Asked how journalism had influenced his writing of fiction, he says, the influence was two-way. “Journalism’s impact on fiction is one thing; fiction too greatly helped me in journalism.” Another insight Marquez provides is, “Writing the first paragraph is the hardest part of writing a novel. Once the first paragraph has been written the narrative flows. Writing short stories, by the same logic, is even harder because you need an opening paragraph for every story.” There is much else but let me also share some quotes here from Opinder Nath Ashk, whose interview also appears in the same magazine. “I have written a lot,” he says, “I have written in Urdu and I have written in Hindi. We Punjabis are a very hard working people. I had to work hard at learning these languages. Should Bengali grow into an international language, I will set myself the task of learning it and in five/six years I will beat them at writing in their own language.” And this about Krishan Chander: “There are only a few of his stories I still like, even though those are not A-1… He also plagiarised some stories. When I found that out I stopped reading him. I have no respect for a plagiarist however great he may be considered.” After praising Manto for his contribution he adds: “All Manto’s stories are one dimensional. I have written multidimensional stories. Manto becomes a part of every story he tells, I don’t. I never interfere with the story. I pick themes that will be relevant a hundred years from now. I write about the primordial strengths and frailties in men. I don’t write a story just because I am mad at something today, Manto did.” About Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi he says, “Unlike Qasmi, I do not claim to be the greatest…” *Translated from Urdu Published in The Express Tribune, December 9^th, 2011.

My first ‘experience’ of Manto’s work was with his short story ‘Khol Do’ - a deceptively simple tale set in the turmoil of pre-partition Pakistan that artfully depicts the horrors that ensued from and during mass migration.   I use the word 'experience', rather than encounter or stumble upon, because there is absolutely no way that you chance upon Manto's work as one does a pebble in the path, kick it aside and calmly move on. Any human being that feels simply cannot be unmoved by Manto’s work. Akin to the brazen persona that Manto possessed, he consequently inspired either deep revulsion and hatred, or sheer marvel and awe at the literary genius that he was. Like any maestro of any medium of the arts, you can love him or hate him, but you cannot be indifferent to him. I will never forget how the narrative of ‘Khol Do’, merely a few pages, builds up gradually to a point of crescendo, which also serves as the culmination of the tale, in these two little words ‘khol’ and ‘do’. What lends these words breathtaking horror is the action of the main character - also a very simple, most ordinary gesture, of compliance to the words ‘khol do’. But in these two words, Manto sums up the journey of the character and makes a strong commentary of what this character must have endured. The genius lies in how he lets the human imagination fill the blanks, join the dots and make that connection. It sent shivers down my spine, to the point that I physically shuddered and was emotionally shattered. But Manto didn’t create a scene of horror for me, he merely coaxed and egged my imagination to go where he wanted to take me - his reader - to do his work for him almost effortlessly as letting loose a spool of yarn. And it’s not just ‘Khol Do’ - he employs the same technique for a similar subject in ‘Thanda Gosht’. The purpose in both (and in fact all his stories) is to show how low human kind can sink without creating the obvious hero versus villain dynamic. Sufi mystics would agree with him wholeheartedly, asserting that God and the devil both reside within us and that ordinary humans like you and I can surprise one with one’s capacity and penchant for villainy. There is an ugliness in us all that we try to deny or curb with social etiquette and careful societal upbringing, but that artifice and veneer can scratch and shatter when put under pressure. Perhaps that is why, the establishment of Manto’s time and the conservatives among us even today shriek outrageously, for the mirror he holds up to us hits a nerve far closer than our jugular. How many of us can take Manto’s following statement not as a personal affront but a sign that it’s time to change,

If you find my stories dirty, the society you are living is dirty. With my stories, I expose only truth.

Saadat Hassan Manto (1912-1955) is a name synonymous in the annals of Urdu literature. Considered among the greatest contemporary Urdu short story writers of the 20^th century, he has left a legacy that stretches far and wide. Manto’s greatest gift was his ability to depict the reality of society with such ease that he would leave the reader mesmerised and in utter awe. His attention to minor details and his signature style of description was second to none. Manto was a realist and a puritan who hated hypocrisy in every given way. Manto was a household name for me, virtue of my mother being his daughter. The name of ‘Manto Abajaan’ echoed in my ears from a very early age. He was not someone for me to discover or look for, he was very much part of my conscience. As an eight-year-old, I distinctly remember his readings being staged in the Goethe Institute by the Ajoka Theatre group in Lahore where now ChenOne stands alongside Hafeez Centre. Famous personalities like Uzma Gillani are embedded in my memory, reading stories like Tetwal ka Kutta and others on a sultry November evening echoing the end of the autumn season. Having grown up in an environment where the mention of Manto was synonymous with Urdu short story writing, there was always a question mark in my mind over his writings being very controversial. I had all the access in the world to his books and was never stopped from reading his works whether in Urdu or English translations that followed in the early 1990’s to early 2000’s. I always wondered what made him so controversial and why a particular segment of society was vehement on calling him a ‘Fahaashi’. Lacking a clear understanding as a youngster, I started reading his stories well into my early 20’s. It was then that I realised, the genius of the man and the wizardry in his stories. As a reader, his writings projected the harsh reality of the society, which we now live in. I felt the intricacies in his writings were rather touching; his attention to issues that were sensitive in nature heralded the greatness of the man. Being termed a ‘Fahaashi’ was something very hard for me to digest, but with the passage of time I realised that he is a public figure open to criticism and acclaim. The more I read about him, the more I marvelled at his ability to foresee the future and the direct relevance he commands in every era. I have always heard from my mother, that Manto was a very sensitive man, and his persecution and boycott by the literary masses and public at large did impact him. He was denied the right to earn a livelihood in a society that persecuted him for his writings that perpetuated the grim reality of society. The persecution and boycott did not stop Manto from unleashing his creativity and repertoire which was viewable in his writings till the very end. Manto’s observation skills and directness of his language, while writing, were arguably second to none. A humanist par excellence barring his alcoholism, he was proud and arrogant in nature, which was a virtue of his talent. He never augured faith and beliefs into his friendships. Manto forged bonds with people from all walks of life, irrespective of faith, and examples of that are Ashok Kumar, Shyam and Pran. Manto’s uniqueness lay in calling a spade a spade, and would not budge one bit from what he wrote. Outspoken and brash in nature, this made him susceptible to attack from all quarters which as a result led him into trouble amongst the literary elite of that time. He was a rebel, who had formed his own niche of writing, and was unique in every given sense of the word.

Aah Ko Chahiye is the second track in the Manto OST. The video seems more like a trailer with numerous sequences from the awaited movie flashing past in rapid fire, contrary to the bland and tasteless composition trying its best to complement it. The attempt makes you question why Pakistani filmmakers fail to understand how important music is for the success of a movie, especially with the audience from our part of the world. Some of the scenes from the biopic hint towards the numerous short stories penned by the master storyteller or the different anecdotes associated with his turbulent life. Sarmad Khoosat’s acting does push the envelope a number of times, only to be pulled back by Ali Sethi. It’s hard to tell why they chose to torment both Mirza Ghalib and Manto in the same breath. The composition’s emptiness was reciprocated wonderfully by the vocals – a key element in eastern music. A path that once giants like Jagjit Singh and Ghulam Ali walked, the ghazal fails to leave an impression on the listener and only adds to the angst about overhyped and undeserving artists that are roaming around scot-free in this troubled Pakistani music industry. [embed width= "620"]http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x29fwxs_mirza-ghalib-s-aah-ko-chahiye-sung-by-jagjit-sing_music[/embed] As he attempts to revisit Ghalib through a powerless ballad, Sethi is literally caught this time with pants down, hands in the cookie jar. Hate to be the bearer of this news, but for those who don’t know, he will soon feature as a guest performer in the popular music show that claims to put out the ‘Sound of the Nation’. It seems the ghazal’s maqta, ‘Khaak hojaenge hum tumko khabar hone tak (I’ll be gone and dusted by the time you get to know), was written for our friend only, who is hell bent on doing what he is not good at.

September 1^st marks the birth centenary of Rajinder Singh Bedi, one of the most gifted and greatest fiction writers of the 20^th century, completing the quartet whose membership also extends to Saadat Hasan Manto, Krishan Chander, and Ismat Chughtai. Bedi was a son of Punjab, born in Lahore. While his output was not as prodigious as his three aforementioned contemporaries, his stories are memorable, chastising ancient beliefs and superstitions which keep the ordinary person ignorant and the women oppressed. He was not a doctrinaire blinded by ideology as many of his contemporaries were, but rather than giving us the heady slogans of revolution, he preferred to lay bare the oppression and its symptoms, and how they affect men and women psychologically, drawing out their hopes and fears and making them a part of himself as well as those of his readers, as they move from one feeling to another. Some of the most memorable characters from Bedi’s stories are women – Indu from ‘Apnay Dukh Mujhay Day Do’ (Give Me Your Sorrows), Munni from ‘Lambi Larki’ (Tall Girl), the eponymous Lajwanti and Jogia, and Rano from Bedi’s only novel, Aik Chadar Maili Si (A Sheet So Dirty). Bedi was also successful in the film world; his interventions in that department were more long-lasting than those of Manto, Chander and Chugtai. When he shifted to Bombay, he flourished in the film industry and in his 35 years spent there, he wrote screenplays, scenes, and dialogues of around 17 movies, including directing some of them. Almost all of these films proved to be high-quality, quaint, and memorable, however, never proving to be box-office hits. I was reminded of the essay below, which I have translated from the Urdu original for the first time, while ruminating over the recent spate of Pakistani films released in the last few months – Jalaibee, Wrong No., Bin Roye, Karachi se Lahore, Moor, Shah and the most anticipated one to be released next week, Sarmad Khoosat’s biopic on Manto. Despite being written a few decades ago from Bedi’s long experience as the ‘father of Indian parallel cinema’, many of the challenges it describes still exist in Bollywood and Lollywood, though more acute in the latter. Whether Pakistan’s recent wave of film-making is a new wave (a start to a truly revolutionary way of film-making like in Iran) or a tidal wave (wrecking everything in its wake) will be determined by how successfully our new film-makers negotiate these challenges. This piece is presented in the hope that it will not only rehabilitate Bedi’s reputation on the occasion of his birth centenary, as not just writer of bitter, often hopeless realities of life in his fiction, but also sublime humour, especially to those new to Bedi’s prose, and also give both film-makers and their audiences in Pakistan some points to ponder.

Although film is child’s play but to make one is not. From the intent to the blueprint up until the film-making, there are hurdles that even a man with a big heart and kidneys will not be able to manage and most probably give out under pressure. A social film is not different from other films, but it is more difficult because it entails greater responsibility. Our society is a bit different with its several religions, races, provinces, languages, dialects, etc. The democratic system has given basic rights to everyone on an individual basis and equal rights on a collective basis. This is not to say that I am against these rights, but the important thing is that my brothers still do not know how to use these rights on an individual and collective basis. I remember when I wrote the film Mirza Ghalib, our first and last motive was that Ghalib’s poetry should be heard in every corner of the land and people should be introduced to his thoughts and the greatness of his poetry. The story is just a ruse with the help of which you write down the reflections of the society of that age. Therefore, Bahadur Shah Zafar says, “Neither a voice rose nor a tear shed. The rule of the Emperor of India was reduced to the bank of the Jamuna.” The Mughal period was ending and British imperialism was gradually spreading its claws. How saddening that when Mirza Sahib arrives at his beloved’s place after his release from prison and knocks at the door, there is no response. At that moment, in a plain but painful sentence, he sums up the whole map of the period, “Hey where are you, dilliwalo (people of Delhi)? Have you taken to sleeping during the day now?” But even then, some people wondered why was Mirza Sahib’s love life was presented as if he was not human and he had no heart. What a heart he had, one finds out by reading his letters. The mention of historical films is a mere obligation, because in reality they do have more than one social angle. But what does one do about the fact that with it there is also the indication of some purpose. For example, it is not easy to make a film about Maharaja Ranjit Singh. The opinion of two historians regarding the reality will not concur, then that purpose will not let the individual angle of his life onto the film screen. You will have to obtain clearance from many institutions and when you obtain clearance, the form of the script will have changed completely, so much so that you will be unable to recognise even your own face. A conversation will also take place, one which resembles the following dialogues –you are very nice, I am also very nice, health is wealth, etc. and if you go against their suspicions, entrenchments will be made, your life would be in danger and you will not be able to go out of the house. It is better if you do not make a film about Zebunissa, because she was Emperor Aurangzeb’s daughter and therefore like Julius Caesar’s wife, above all suspicion and doubt. Her love for Akil Khan, the Governor of Multan will not only be treated suspiciously, but its health, I mean, the health of the tale will be deemed absurd. Why go far? Recently, Satyajit Ray, whom the world acknowledges as a great director, made a film which showed a nurse who took to prostitution at night, forced by her domestic circumstances. Now that was an individual matter which had nothing to do with professional nurses as a whole. But chaos ensued upon this. The nurses started a movement and Mr Ray had to apologise to them. I ask, isn’t it a strange thing that on one hand people demonstrate against films like Mirza Ghalib and Sanskar and on the other hand, the Indian government declares them the best films of the year. The president himself presents the makers with the swarn padak (gold medal) and the Maan Patra. The conditions in the country present extremely difficult hurdles in making a social film at home. Leaving aside different groups, nations, and purpose, the government itself is not innocent of this sin. For example, the official government policy is ahinsa (non-injury and non-violence). But what should be done about the fact that we have accepted the numerous who used hinsa (injury and harm) as our leaders, bowed our heads before them and sung wedding songs praising it. I present you with the example of Shaheed Bhagat Singh, who was the first and last revolutionary. He was a socialist at heart and his ideology was that it was impossible to overthrow British imperialism without the use of force. Now if you make a film about him, then on one hand, you will have to indicate hidden sexual relations by having his comrade Bhagwati Charan Vohra’s wife being repeatedly called bhabhi, and on the other hand, either leave out the incident of them throwing a bomb in the assembly or narrate it in such a way that they merely wanted to startle the imperialists. At that moment, an internal contradiction will be born. Did they also kill superintendent of police Saunders in Lahore in order to startle the British? If you show these events as they actually happened, you will be the target of all sorts of attacks, because there are various groups in the country which believe in the gun and the bullet and the government’s policy is that it cannot tolerate even an explosion, otherwise what will happen to the hundreds of thousands of young men who create an uproar in the university campus day and night? It will be like teasing history if we say that India got independence due to ahinsa. The sailors of the Royal Navy also had a hand in it, they fought the battle for Indian independence under the pretext of provision of substandard food and maltreatment, opposed the British and were martyred by the latter’s bullets in the streets of Bombay. After the 20^th year of the Jallianwala Bagh incident, Udham Singh reached London and shot Michael O’Dwyer and avenged our national humiliation. But you cannot show this social and historical truth without facing any trouble. This is because we have Commonwealth relations with Britain, which we cannot spoil, keeping in mind the present international conditions. We cannot stare truth in the eye. We are faced with a myriad of problems at every step while making a social film. If you are making a film on national unity, you will not have the courage to present the events at Ranchi, Bhiwandi and Maligaon in their true form, because they involved savage cruelty perpetrated by people of one faith or nation. When you show Hindu-Muslim riots, it is important for you to show the killing of two Muslims where two Hindus have been killed. But neither the Hindus nor the Muslims will be satisfied with this. Both will be unhappy with you and as a result, you will have trouble in obtaining a censor certificate. You also cannot tap the present agitation of the students. You cannot try to tap into their squabbles and opposition. Whatever that is happening on university campuses today, what exactly is it? Is it that the youth of today has lost its head, have they become sanyasis (Hindu religious mendicant) by renouncing their real purpose or are they the victims of the shenanigans of different political parties? What is the reason for this beating and bruising? They too acknowledge Gandhi ji. Then why do these people suddenly turn to fight so willingly? To go into the depth of these matters and make a film about them is not only difficult but impossible. If you do this, then the feet of thousands of people will land on your own feet and these are the people who have powerful connections. Therefore, you should only talk about the well-rounded daal (lentils). Include five or six songs, two to four dances, have the mother, father, sons and daughters separated from each other since childhood, so that the elder brother can become a police inspector when he grows up, present his younger brother as a criminal in court out of ignorance and later it becomes known that the judge was the father of these two brothers and the mother who was giving evidence against the son, was his wife. Then it will become difficult for the father and a headache for the mother. If you make a film about the youth, just focus on love between the elders as being real love and the love of the youth being equally shameful and an evil deed. Don’t write it as the proper various pursuits between Shri Madhba Gawat, his wife, and other males. It is enough that they already faced some difficulties. The elders have no time. They don’t consider them political or accept them as leaders, and if they do, they try to change it around with their own opposite meanings. Now come to that notorious word ‘sex’. Our society can bear that a boy and girl, while dancing around a tree or in a car, commit cheap and immoral acts, but cannot tolerate it in the garden, which is the first gift given by a lover to his beloved. We take three to four reels in our films just to prove that Raju loved Radha, but the psychological point which could be proved in a few seconds, it seems the whole society is against it, our society does not give permission for it. The inheritors of Khajuraho and Konark say this repeatedly. The real purpose was to present this act in a discrete manner and film, which is also art to a certain extent, should let go of commercial and professionals hands. But what generally happens is that big film-makers do not have equal permission to film a few scenes. This way, the censor board has given some space for every film and the events happening in it to be seen through the eyes of the filmmaker and the true nature of the event. But this doesn’t happen in reality. If we accept for a moment that the custodians of censorship are people with hearts, what is to be done about those who first see the film themselves in order to pass the film at the public level, and whose literary taste requires reflection and who repeatedly claim ‘I neither write films, nor watch them’. For example, I make a film whose central idea is that a child should be given sex education as soon as he becomes an adult and he should be apprised of all those dangers which can take place later on in life. If my point is clear and I do not blunder in presenting the case of a boy and girl, of course there will be no drama, but if I somehow commit a blunder, then I will have to present a solution which is popular and not one which is psychological. Recently, I was making a film which was psychological. What happens is that a woman’s husband runs away, abandoning his house because of another girl. After his departure, a girl is born to that woman. She marries upon growing up, but the mother attaches herself to her daughter in such a way as to make breathing for the son-in-law difficult. A day comes when she sees her daughter and son-in-law in each other’s arms and for a moment, projects herself in place of her daughter. Man often thinks about things which are unacceptable from a social and moral ideology, but the truth is that he does understand, no matter how much he may consider himself to be a sinner afterwards. That is why it happens like this. The mother-in-law does stop for a moment, but moves back, startled and overflowing with feelings of guilt, goes to the temple and begins chanting the bhajan (prayer), “Mine is only Girdhar Gopal (Lord Krishna/God) and no one else.” I had just filmed this scene and my heroine objected to it, “How can this happen?” I said, “It happens Madame.” And then, when I proved my point, she leaves the set, embarrassed by the passion of being a sinner. She did end up doing that scene, but kept thinking she will be flogged by the public over it. I told her to send over the shoes flung at her to me since my own shoes are rather worn out. The maker of social films is like a woman who attended a party in a gharara and upon her return, it begins to rain heavily and consequently water is accumulated right in front of her house. Her man puts bricks and slabs on the way just like Sir Walter Raleigh, and she walks carefully while handling her gharara. But how could she know that one particular brick had been placed in a bent position. She falls down into the water, while handling the gharara. Caution sank her. Oh no. There are great obstacles in making a social film. You are naked from all four corners. That’s not all, to top it off, there is no skin on your body and you have to pass through a salt mine. One can’t imagine under what circumstances social films are made. We are fully free in name only, but the stages one encounters afterwards, the situation reminds me of a couplet by Majaz, “Such are the boundaries the guardians of the harem have drawn That I cannot send my message without being a prisoner born.”

You walk into the cinema to learn about the crests and troughs of the life of a legendary and notoriously controversial writer and you come out somehow transformed, armed with the knowledge of what it means to be human, what it feels like to be helpless when you’re at odds, at war with the world. Manto looks unsparingly at a fragile and insecure man who dared to pen his inner most secrets and desires, passions and emotions, and his need to find an outlet to unleash his inner conflagration, the outrageous fire, to confront and to go at war with the world. Manto could have been filmed just as another stereotypical biopic. In fact, Saadat Hasan Manto’s life had all the sumptuous ingredients of a dark and troubled life that most writers and artists have, and which are often the subjects of traditional biopics. However, it is the grandness of its ambition and scope, its boldness of vision, and its bravery in defying the traditional ideals of movie-making that make Manto an exceptional precedent for future films to come. Inventive in its portrayal of the supremely popular writer’s life, it even manages to free itself from the customary bounds of reality that most biopics adhere to. This is evident in how the movie incorporated Manto’s vivid stories into the depiction of the events of his life. The parallel stories and his real life experiences give us a kaleidoscopic view into the true life of the writer. Through these fantasy riddled stories that deal with subjects as provocative and wide-ranging as rape, prostitution, and sexual desires, and Sarmad Khoosat’s moving and exemplary performance as Manto, one really gets a vivid sense of who Manto was as a man. In Manto’s own talented hands and in his exotic prose, his stories become larger than life, and though, in this movie, they are not depicted as profoundly, each of them manages, quite successfully if not triumphantly, to gather small details and somehow humanise the gory story of Manto. However, it just isn’t the compelling story that makes this movie so extraordinary. It is Sarmad’s performance, fuelled by the almost perfect supporting cast that pulls you into this film with a powerful gravitational force. Sarmad, the protagonist as well as the director of the film, manages to take the story of a writer and spin it into a tale of loss, grief and failure, the story of how much one wants to do in their life and it materialises and limns the regrets that we will each have someday of not being able to do much, much more. The supporting cast packs an eclectic mix of masters and new comers. It mingles the virtuoso of veterans (Sania Saeed, Arjumand Rahim, Sawera Nadeem, Mishi Khan, Faisal Qureshi) with the dazzling verve of the younger generation (Saba Qamar, Mahira Khan, Azfar Rehman, Danyal Adam Khan) and uses the multifaceted talents of each of these brilliant actors in their own fortes to create a cast without whom the movie would have lacked it’s depth and emotional range. Sarmad might have also deliberately, and ironically, chosen Mohammad Hanif, the best known contemporary Pakistani novelist, to make a brief yet notable guest appearance. What makes Manto an amazing biopic is that it shows, alongside Manto’s bravura as a writer, his vulnerability as a human, particularly his obsession with alcohol and his helplessness in regard to his delusions. And, despite its accentuated, chilling, and unforgiving portrayal of violence and pain, which sometimes seems too determined to shock the viewers, the movie, as a whole, never comes off as overly maudlin and schmaltzy. By the film’s end we are compelled to feel and experience Manto’s exhaustion and paroxysm of depression as he gradually slips away into oblivion. The movie deftly brings forth an array of raw emotions like anger, jealousy, desperation and alienation. As Manto chronicles the rise of a writer at the height of his powers, contrastingly, it also shows us the perilous demise of his social life and mental stability. Also notable is the photography, particularly in the scenes that depict Manto’s stories, in which it becomes almost breath-taking. Even the subjects of these carefully chosen stories are intriguing, and the lessons and revelations are subtle. The overall effect is sublime. Manto’s life was that of a legend but Sarmad’s performance shows you the very human and flawed world behind all of that. Exceptional is his vivid portrayal of Manto’s sufferings, fears and sadness, his haunting dreams and palpable fears. Yet still, instead of just a movie about a writer atrociously struggling to find his voice, this is a story about the inner turmoil and struggle of an ordinary man, a dreamer, to reach his place of victory and that is what makes the story more relatable and meaningful. It’s a biopic that immerses you into Manto’s life and makes it hard for us to distance ourselves from him and his marvellous characters, and for its ability to do just that I will give this movie a nine out of ten. The movie, Manto, has transcended all bounds of expectations and has already earmarked a unique niche in the history of Pakistani cinema.

It is said we were born twins at the stroke of midnight long ago, when brows were wet with the anticipation of liberation. A 100-year-old subjugation was coming to an end. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world slept, we opened our eyes in horror. In a sudden cry, the veil of fantasy fell down to a novel reality of madness and chaos. Our birth was not a surprise, it was professed by soothsayers of all kind and they knew our fates very well. The umbilical cords got tied and in the darkness of the background, the serpent sang his poisonous lullaby, slowly intoxicating our minds and then disappeared into the velvet of the night. That was when an era saw its end and the rules of power politics were changing diagrams. Some nations disappeared from the map while new boundaries emerged. Man had become savage. The secret was kept and we were separated, only to mark a cold history of mass bloodshed, rape and plunder and here I am today, contemplating our brutal history a few hundred miles away from my own self. The sky was spotless and the sun fiercely shone over us while the bus sped with its diesel vigour through the age-old grand trunk road. The road seemed to be endless. Our sweat-sodden bodies headed towards Attari and I was, as usual, going through my poetry fits. Each one of us had fictionalised his own Pakistan and had I not used my amazing power of intuition, I would have never been able to know how all of us were heading towards different destinations. The chatter in the bus revealed that nobody knew anything about Pakistan and everybody knew everything about Pakistan. Are you raising your eyebrows at this fallacy? Let me explain. All our lives we’ve been injected with state-centred discourse that dictates that the two countries are very different. We are ‘natural enemies’. Since the ‘beginning of time’, India and Pakistan have existed on polar ends of the world spectrum. Spoonful of national fervour has been painfully swallowed by every Indian before going to sleep. So we thought we knew everything that there is to know about Pakistan. We couldn’t have been more wrong. The dying day breathed its last breath and the sky turned into a delicate crimson. Slumber took me and my unconscious mind busied itself manufacturing dreams that were ethereal and green. I hugged my passport to myself, afraid I would lose it. I would search my pockets in panic. I was haunted by my absent-mindedness. I would always find it in one of my small pockets, just a little dirtier than before. I could not imagine losing this document which allowed me a safe passage under the scrutiny of a vigilant soldier who, for some reason, used to frown a lot. Should I not tell you my irony, which is only mine, as I am haunted by my Kashmiri identity, where official scrutiny is a monster that follows you around. I take solace in my fair complexion back home because I can be easily mistaken for a foreigner. In my country, white men make no enemies. They are cherished and considered to be clean. They speak fluent English, therefore, I have learnt to shroud myself with crisp yeses, noes and sirs. After long documentation procedures and surveillance checks, we had the privilege of walking down the road to Lahore. We deliberately chose walking through the borders on foot, drinking its ecstasies sip by sip, and there it was in the shadows of Gandhi and Jinnah, a small piece of barren land which is so ill fated that nobody chose its ownership except Bishan Singh in the obscene mind of Manto, who is not sure who is a better writer, “god or he?”. The no-man’s land and its discrete barrenness, the scar of 1947, the epitome of insanity – I felt like I was walking through the intricacies of history. The delight of entering Pakistan brought no rush in my blood, my hormones were calm and fantasies remained fantasies. It was the same hot day, same people, same piece of land; nothing did change except flags and nationalities. Our Pakistan visit stretched for a whole week. We spent most of our time in Lahore where we were hosted by the Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS). It was like meeting our own selves through the looking glass where nothing turned upside down. Lahore has the same climate as Amritsar and Delhi, the people share similar fashions, they prefer listening to Yo Yo Honey Singh and think that Bollywood movies are a delight. They eat like us, yes with their hands and the food is as spicy as it is in Punjab. Our mannerisms are no different, we speak similar dialects and surprisingly, we share common worries of poverty, unemployment and scarce electricity. Both neglect women and both spend huge sums on military. On our trip, we visited the Badshahi Mosque and I was consumed by its grandeur. Iqbal quietly slept nearby. We left Badshahi Mosque and meandered into the food street. They were archaic structures which have been transformed into restaurants. They used to be brothels where women danced on khyal beat and men rose high in their raptures of the deep. The food mesmerised our appetite, while the surrounding ambiance mellowed down the heat, and in this wildness of pleasure and taste we left the place. Other places we visited include Baba Farid Dargah at Kasur and Baba Ganj Shakar dargah at Pak Pattan. These were peaceful places, had a spiritual experience in the shadow of those fakirs who aspired for a deeper understanding of religion, of unity of human beings as a whole. They served both good and bad and stole a little goodness from the good and healed the errant. But the earth now holds them in deep meditation, they be the springs of enlightenment and bring people of this subcontinent into a spiritual union. The whole trip was not just a walk through the narrow streets of Lahore; it was more of meeting my own self, my separated half. How easily one could connect to its other fragmented part and it is only our ignorance and lack of tolerance that shape us into two distinct objects. The rapture of Partition and its hidden animosity can only preach hate but it is the responsibility of the people of these two nations to move beyond memories towards reconciliations. A progression towards Indo-Pak amity does not only forecast economic profits, rather it shall provide us the desired political stability and humanitarianism. I feel it is high time for these two nations to reciprocate friendship rather than ideas, and mellow down in terms of grudges. Borders need to be made transparent; people should start knowing each other by visiting each other. More and more student interactions should be endorsed and recommended so that future generations have a privilege of knowing their neighbours better. War and enmity are the harvest of ill social constructs that root you into ideologies of hate and severe hostilities. Why not share our stories and together we weep in sorrows of the time we lost in fighting each other and also in the joy of a new dawn that is a step away. To a Kashmiri Indian, Pakistan is a magical land of freedom, the unseen and highly imagined, midnight fantasy. However, from my various interactions with friends and other people from the Indian sub-continent who find Pakistan to be a hard country, I have come to the conclusion that these beliefs emerge out of certain perceptions and perceptions are second-hand borrowed realities. Narratives alter the mind and courage is required to overcome these forces that lead you astray. I entered Pakistan through a dream channel and while leaving I was able to find myself a new reality that nobody dictated or pushed onto me. It is to be remembered that a country is not a religion. rather it is a union of people and cultures where language and ideologies should not be the barrier for a holy intercourse of peace. In this mix, Kashmir appears to be a miscarriage. In the words of Rumi, “Come, come, whoever you are, Wanderer, idolater, worshiper of fire, Come even though you have broken your vows a thousand times, Come, and come yet again. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come let us heal each other, Come, let us put an end to these borders.” All photos: Mohammad Tabish

Chronicling Safia Manto, my grandmother, would be no mean feat. A woman who lived in the shadow of her beloved husband and renowned short-story writer, Saadat Hassan Manto, her story went largely untold till the recent release of Manto, the film. She has only lived in the folklore of my dreams; I being born 6 years after her untimely demise in November 1977. As much I have heard from familial sources about her magnanimity, humility as a human being besotted with a kindred heart and soul, I cannot even fathom what I missed out on. Sometimes fate and destiny are so closely intertwined, that we seem powerless to change the impact it can leave. Perhaps I was destined to miss out on her life,  but her absence was filled in by her youngest sister, Zakia Hamid Jalal, who has been equally affectionate, loving and caring towards all her grandchildren till date. Safia Manto had an impact on the lives of many, ranging from her husband and daughters to all the family members that have nothing but fond memories of a lady who showered them with love and affection. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="400"] Safia with her sister Zakia Hamid Jalal.
Ayesha Jalal is the legal copyright holder of this photograph and it must not be used in any way without her express permission.[/caption] Chartering through the life of Safia Manto is like a woven fabric broken from one end but repaired from the other. Her struggles, compassion and challenges she faced throughout her life were immense. Immersed in a period of happiness to downright abject pain, she lived through life smiling and spread only love all around her peers. Her personality didn’t have many facets since it was interwoven with simplicity, innocence and forbearance to the core. All throughout her life, she bore a hallmark of patience and sustenance, and her compassion and large heartedness was particularly striking. Even her high-spiritedness in light of abject financial stress didn’t hamper her hospitality in any manner. Safia’s relationship with Manto was an emotional bond that transcended everything else. In the immediate aftermath after their marriage, Manto documented the commonalities that they shared which included Kashmiri origins, both wore spectacles, the first letter in their names started from S, and their birthdays fell on May 11^th. Manto’s vicissitudes must have been a tough proposition for Safia to handle. The ingenuity at play with Manto, coupled with streaks of intellectual arrogance and his tenuous relationships with his co-workers must have made things difficult for her. Although his alcoholism wasn’t limited to social circles during his days in Bombay and Delhi, that period also corresponded to some of his best days in financial terms. As her daughter Nuzhat shared, she rarely talked about the first 16 years spent in Kenya, but her fond remembrance of Bombay remained etched within her memories for ever. The period Manto spent working after his marriage to Safia in Delhi and Bombay had its share of highs and lows. In 1940, they both were blessed with a son they named Arif. The couple was elated, especially Manto who showered all his love on his new born and tenderly took care of all his needs. But that happiness proved to be short-lived as Arif died prematurely within a year, a few days shy of his first birthday. The shock of his death left Manto devastated. The worsening alcoholism, tempered with bouts of depression during those dark days, must have tested Safia’s resolve deeply. Her threshold for pain must have been alarmingly high, and her patience was a testimony to the nerves she possessed. Safia’s loss as a mother must have been unbearable and unimaginable. Her daughter Nuzhat recently disclosed that she never mentioned the loss of her first born, Arif. It was probably too painful to talk about. Manto’s depression must have forced her to act as a calming and strengthening force during that period. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="400"] Safia Manto.
Ayesha Jalal is the legal copyright holder of this photograph and it must not be used in any way without her express permission.[/caption] Safia’s influence and significance in Manto’s life cannot be underestimated in any regard. She was the love of Manto’s life in absolute terms of the word. The dedication and loyalty he owed to his beloved life was beyond any description. The extent to Safia’s influence on him can be gauged from the fact that he published short stories like Hameed aur Hameeda which were penned in her name. Manto’s pinnacle as a writer financially reached its zenith in Bombay while he was working in the film industry in the mid 40’s. Manto’s literary circle evolved and expanded in those days, giving Safia a glimpse of the present and future stars in the Indian film industry of those days. For example, as mentioned in Ayesha Jalal’s book, Pity of Partition, Safia became good friends with Ashok Kumar’s wife and went shopping with her on a few occasions where the shopkeepers went out of the way to favour them both. Safia also shared a very close relationship with Nargis, the renowned film actress who was making her way up the ladder in the film industry during those days. After migrating to Pakistan in the aftermath of the Partition, Manto’s financial woes only increased; persecution and lack of work opportunities took their toll on him. He became a chronic alcoholic, which affected his relationship with Safia, who was upset with him for not being able to provide financial support for her and their three daughters, two of whom were born after the Partition. There came a time when Safia contemplated leaving Manto due to a variety of issues at play, unimaginable even for a serene woman like her. The duress associated with Manto’s dwindling earning power turning nil must have also influenced Safia to take this gigantic step. Her beloved elder brother, Bashir Deen, responded to a letter she sent and advised her to not leave Manto who was quite sick at the time. Safia took her brother’s advice, reconsidered her options and decided against leaving him. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="577"] Safia with her husband Saadat Hassan Manto.
Ayesha Jalal is the legal copyright holder of this photograph and it must not be used in any way without her express permission.[/caption] Safia used to accompany Manto to all the mushairas and public readings of his stories. This shows her immeasurable support for a man who courted controversy and persecution within his wake wherever he went. She had the tenacity and courage to face the wrath or the applause of the public at large in context of the controversies he usually generated. This also highlights the immense love and affection that accompanied their relationship that had its fair share of acrimonious moments but never stalled in any given manner. The support and resilience of Safia is worth commending, considering the frailties of her husband which she embraced with great courage. In Bombay, Safia’s simplicity augured Manto to act as her stylist and he took it upon himself to ensure that his wife would indulge in the latest of fashions. He would get the most precious of saris made, used to iron them himself and then enjoyed photographing her.  The close proximity and intimacy in their relationship was a culmination of the understanding between the two. They complemented each other. Manto’s delusions in the last few years of his life and his fading health must have taken an emotional toll on Safia, who couldn’t see the misery of her beloved husband. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="400"] Safia Manto.
Ayesha Jalal is the legal copyright holder of this photograph and it must not be used in any way without her express permission.[/caption] After Manto’s death, the financial situation obviously didn’t improve in any regard. Her mother, Mama Jee, a towering personality in her own right, and Hamid Jalal, who helped her raise their daughters, provided their unending support. Shahid Jalal, my maternal uncle, shared with me that Safia, due to financial distress, used to buy fruit at night. She would take the backdoor exit from her home and go to Beadon road to procure it. At her home in Lakshmi Mansion, at any given moment of time, 10 to 15 people would dine at her place, inspite of all the financial hardships. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="430"] Manto with Safia (wife), Zakia (Safia’s sister) and Nighat (daughter) by Brij Mohan. Bombay 1947.[/caption] As her daughters recall, she was a doting but protective mother, a disciplinarian yet a bastion of truth and encouragement. She hardly ever received any financial aid from the government after the death of Manto. She brought up her daughters by herself. Royalty payments were scant to say the least. People kept commoditising Manto, knowing well that Safia was alive, and kept publishing his works without paying any heed to the copyright laws. Financial compensation was hard to come by and a lack of adequate resources, guidance hardly ever came to her mind Safia was a content woman, by bearing all the adversities she may have come across, her iron resolve helped weed out all her problems till her dying breath. She had no materialistic aspirations. She did not re-marry after the death of Manto, even though she was just 39 years old when she became a widow. Safia’s lifestyle was simplistic, a reflection of the persona and practices she cherished the most. She hardly ever complained about her problems, she bore them all silently on her own. Safia Manto breathed her last in Karachi after suffering a cardiac arrest on November 23, 1977. Like Manto, she will never be forgotten. Image credits: Ayesha Jalal is the legal copyright holder of all these photographs and they must not be used in any way without her express permission.  This post originally appeared here. 

This year has probably been the first year in decades where film soundtracks have had a significant cultural and commercial impact on the music scene. As film productions increase, the music industry is enjoying a new auxiliary role that it has not been able to enjoy for a long time. Over the past year, we have seen space both for film-specific producers, as well as pop bands crossing over. This year we saw Noori and Shiraz Uppal deliver a very popular soundtrack for Karachi se Lahore, and Strings did some of their finest work in a long time for Moor’s OST – arguably the best soundtrack of the year. Jamal Rehman’s emerging talents were on display in Manto, where he put out another great OST. Sahir Ali Bagga continued his status as the best filmy music producer in town, and his Jawani Phir Nahi Aani OST was the perfect mix for a masala blockbuster film. In light of all these releases, Ho Mann Jahaan’s OST had sparked a lot of anticipation, as it was bringing together several critically acclaimed, lesser-known musicians mixing with platinum-grade stars. The film itself has generated a lot of hype, and seems to have hit that aesthetic of pretty, socially aspirational visuals, which are the key to commercial success in South Asian cinema. [patari  url="http://patari.pk/home/album/Film-OSTs-Ho-Mann-Jahan-OST"] Despite the initial feeling that the soundtracks had played safe, over time it managed to grow on me. Given the star-cast, I had expected this to be the film OST of the year in terms of quality. Previously, I felt that there are places where some risks have been averted and the album itself is not as boisterous as film OST can get, but it does carry several songs that can be huge hits. Along with the star names, there are no weak songs, and there’s a very accessible pop sound to the album. I felt that Maan Ke Jahaan and Ghar Nari had safe compositions. Each of these songs involved a big name, and I am sure that they will also be quite popular. However, with each of these in particular I felt that far more could have been done. Abu Mohammad and Farid Ayaz had a great qawwali in Moor, but Ghar Nari here has very little of their exuberance. Zeb Bangash does a good job in Maan Ke Jahaan, but the song feels extremely safe for the most part. The same is true of Atif Aslam’s Dil Kare, which also makes commercial sense. Given the impact he had on Coke Studio and his general stay over the music scene, it’s smarter to go with a song that would be a solid hit amongst his fans, rather than attempting something more radical. I also want to be clear that each of these are quite good songs – the disappointment for me is that they could have been better. That balance is found a lot better in Jimmy Khan’s Baarish, Tina Sani’s Khush Piya and Dosti featuring Zohaib Hassan with Zeb Bangash. In each of these tracks, the intended subtlety of Zeb’s production comes through far better. While all the songs are very layered and thoughtful, these feel far more confident. Dosti also shows off Zeb’s gorgeous voice, as she does a superb job in replacing the iconic Nazia Hassan. The addition of the brass instruments also elevates the composition, which is otherwise a bit too similar to the original. This approach reaches its peak in what is the best original track of the film – Zeb Bangash’s Dil Pagla. Not only are the lyrics enchanting, but the composition is marvellous and feels more enjoyable with each listen. Asrar’s Shakar Wadah Aye and Mai Dhai Band’s Sarak Sarak are great additions to the album, as both songs add a lot of flavour to the OST. Asrar’s boisterous, exuberant song already feels like the breakthrough hit of the album, while Sarak Sarak remains one of the most delightful pieces of fusion to emerge from Pakistan in a decade. Despite my wishes that Zeb had pushed some songs further, this is a very solid album and has several songs that will stay with the listener. Indeed, the whole album emerges as a great showcase for Zeb’s talents, and serves as a portent for how good she can be as a producer. It also provides further incentive for various 2000s era pop acts to come back to the scene and explore avenues in film production. Judging from the evidence this year, the results can be quite exciting.

Pakistan’s movie industry met its downfall during the 1990s and 2000s. This was the time when big screen actors migrated to television, because there was no variety and Punjabi movies ruled the cinema. During the 1960s to 1980s, Waheed Murad, Nadeem Baig, Shabnam, Shaan Shahid, Resham and Reema Khan were the regular faces to be seen on screen. However, during the revival of Pakistani cinema during 2012-13, television actors adorned the silver screen with their powerful presence. During 2015, a number of Pakistani movies were released which heralded the rise of this industry. This blog will highlight some of the successful movies, of the year 2015, in terms of their quality and the revenue that they generated. “Jawani Phir Nahi Ani” “Jawani Phir Nahi Ani” (JPNA) was one of the most prominent movies in the year 2015. It earned over Rs 260 million in the box office, and became the highest grossing movie in Pakistan’s history.  It is an adventure comedy directed by Nadeem Baig starring Humayun Saeed, Hamza Ali Abbasi, Ahmad Ali Butt, Vasay Chaudhry, Sohai Ali Abro, Mehwish Hayat, Javed Shaikh, and Ayesha Khan. The movie revolves around three friends who are afraid of their wives. Twists and turns await all the protagonists, resulting in comedy that has the audience in fits of laughter. [embed width-"620"]http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x31wkye[/embed] “Karachi Se Lahore” “Karachi Se Lahore”, starring Shehzad Sheikh, Ayesha Omar, Javed Shaikh, and Eshita Syed, is a comedy movie that sees the protagonist travel from Karachi to Lahore to stop his cousin from marrying his girlfriend. I believe that it did well because of the acting skills of its cast and the witty script. It’s a movie you can watch with your family and friends. Did you know that this is the first Pakistani movie to have its premier in Hollywood? Now that is something big! [embed width-"620"]http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2o13n6[/embed] “Jalaibee” “Jalaibee”, directed by Yasir Jaswal and starring Danish Taimoor, Zhalay Sarhadi, and Adnan Jaffar, became a successful movie for presenting a story in a way that has never been seen in Pakistani cinema. The movie is about two orphaned friends who fight their way out of a debt. However, ‘The Unit’, collector of the debt, is pursuing the two friends. Jalaibee depicts reality where the thirst for money, lawlessness, and political turbulence prevail. It is a story of survival, and particularly resonates with the people of Karachi.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMrbdfuEE9k “Wrong No.” “Wrong No.” is a comedy starring Javed Shaikh, Danish Taimoor, Sohai Ali Abro and Danish Nawaz among others. Two plots run parallel to each other; one in Karachi where Sallu (Danish Nawaz) wants to run a business of his own, but his father (Javed Shaikh) wants him to become a butcher, which is their family business. On the other hand, Haya (Janita Asma) comes to Karachi from Lahore on a business trip to meet Shehryar (Danish Taimoor) who wants to work with Haya in the same company. The adventurous twists have the viewers captivated as wrong numbers create confusion and laughter from the beginning till the end. The cinematography of “Wrong No.” was exceptional and contributed to its mass success. [embed width-"620"]http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2soza7[/embed] “3 Bahadur” “3 Bahadur” was also one of its kind. The movie didn’t do much business, but was the first full-length Pakistani animated movie. “3 Bahadur” was popular amongst children and adults alike. It blended the elements of supernatural powers, evil villains, and humour to develop the idea of courage in the minds of the younger viewers, especially at a time when injustice is widely prevalent in our society. Furthermore, the animation in “3 Bahadur” and the dialogue delivery of the young actors’ added value to the movie, which captured the attention of viewers of all ages. I loved “3 Bahadur” because it highlights the importance of bravery, something that every child must learn. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_HNyQAj7VU “Moor” “Moor” is a story that has the power to melt hearts. It made its premiere at the prestigious 20th Busan International Film Festival. Moreover, it was also Pakistan’s entry for the 88th Academy Awards in the category of Best Foreign Language Film. Shot in the picturesque areas of Bostan, Quetta, Khanozai, Karachi, Hyderabad, and Sukkur, it stars Samiya Mumtaz, Nayyar Ejaz, Ayaz Soomro, and Hameed Sheikh. The movie presents the life of a family that is struck with an emotional tragedy. It presents an insight into the corrupt practices being followed in the railway system. The strength of “Moor” lies in its plot.  It highlights the plight of a woman who is trying to protect her family. Moreover, the fact that it is shot in some of the most beautiful places in Pakistan has contributed to its success with the audience. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lla1lNt0wLI “Shah” The Pakistani movie industry has seldom focused on the life of an athlete however, this changed with the release of “Shah”. The movie is about Hussain Shah, a boxer from Lyari, Karachi, who won the bronze medal at the 1998 Summer Olympics. Adnan Sarwar was successful in bringing the trials and achievements of Shah to life. Although “Shah” could not make its way into the top 10 highest grossing movies, it was a beautiful portrayal of the life of a forgotten boxer in Pakistan. [embed width-"620"]http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2w9lyj[/embed] “Manto” “Manto” established Sarmad Sultan Khoosat as one of the best actors/directors in Pakistan. Also starring in Manto are Sania Saeed, Saba Qamar, Adnan Jaffar, Danyal Adam Khan, Shamoon Abbasi, Arjumand Rahim, and Faisal Qureshi. It is a biographical drama that allowed the audience to enter Manto’s consciousness and understand the way he viewed society. Released nearly sixty years after Manto’s death, the movie captured the essence of Manto’s literary and personal life. It is a grand attempt at conceptualising the elusive author. I left the cinema feeling like I personally knew him. [embed width-"620"]http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x30y8g8[/embed] This year, the Pakistani film industry advanced into a new era. It introduced us to the genre of contemporary comedy and entertainment which the industry had not indulged in before. This shows that the industry is evolving, adapting, maturing and most importantly developing a versatility that will keep us captivated for years to come. I’m excited to see the films that will grace our silver screens in 2016! [poll id="397"]

Those who had anticipated the former military dictator lingering behind bars, for monopolising power through unlawful acts for nearly a decade, are reminded of Manto’s masterpiece, Naya Qanoon. The story was written during the British rule in India in the midst of the promise of limited government under the Indian Act of 1935. Ustad Mangu, an ordinary, disillusioned tonga driver in Lahore attempted to test the new law by responding to racial discrimination. Mangu was arrested for beating an English man but kept screaming,

“New constitution, Naya Qanoon!”

“What nonsense are you talking? What Naya Qanoon? It’s the same old constitution, you fool.”

Since Pakistan’s cinema industry began its journey towards improvement and development, directors began sharing unique stories through their movies. Where Na Maloom Afraad, Waar, Karachi Se Lahore, and Manto amongst others boosted the revival of Pakistani cinema, it also provided a platform for directors to display their immense talent. However, the recently released Hijrat, directed by Farooq Mengal, failed to make the same impact as it fell short in a number of areas. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvevfLr3E8U Simply put, the acting in Hijrat is plain, flat and mediocre. It felt as if the actors were reading the script without emotions, completely detached from their assigned characters. Moreover, the romantic scenes failed to stir any on-screen chemistry between the lead actor Murad (Asad Zaman) and the lead actress Jia (Rabia Butt). A couple of scenes did showcase their acting ability, such as Murad and Jia in the rain and the mass burial, but that was about it. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] The romantic scenes failed to stir any on-screen chemistry between the lead actor Murad (Asad Zaman) and the lead actress Jia (Rabia Butt). Photo: Hijrat Facebook page[/caption] The story revolves around the life of Murad, living the ideal life in Istanbul, but his life takes a complete U-turn. His mother’s last wish was that he visits Quetta and works for an NGO that caters to Afghan refugees. This major transition in Murad’s life is down-right ludicrous and it honestly leaves the audience confused. You’re likely to lose your focus by the time Murad leaves Turkey for Quetta. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] The story revolves around the life of Murad, living the ideal life in Istanbul. Photo: Hijrat Facebook page[/caption] Usually, the evolution of the protagonist strengthens the plot of the movie, but in Hijrat, the plot remains stagnant and evokes no emotions within the audience. Also starring in the movie are versatile actors such as Nadeem Baig, Jamal Shah, and Ayub Khoso, sharing the screen with Saima Baloch, Zeb Rehman, Durdana Butt and Mahjabeen. Despite the inclusion of the aforementioned star studded cast, Hijrat lacks in captivating its viewers. The movie progresses in the midst of confusion and neither of our questions are answered. One of the most puzzling aspects is the ambiguous relationship between Murad and Jia. When it finally seems their chemistry will flourish, we stumble upon a second girl, Mahi (Rubab Ali). How is she connected to Murad? That’s another question added to the list. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] As the movie progresses, questions keep increasing rather than being answered. Photo: Hijrat Facebook page[/caption] The characterisation is too clichéd, it feels more like a sappy soap opera. The songs of the movie do not compliment the story line at all. It felt that they were forced into the movie to provide entertainment, but miserably failed.  The chorography in Brand Chor was below par, but we can say that Ujaar Basti Fegaar Rahain sung by Rahat fateh Ali Khan has a lovely rhythm to it. The item song Chali Re Chali featuring Sana is a fast-paced song where she shows a lot of skin in an attempt to duplicate Mathira and Mehwish Hayat in Main Hoon Shahid Afridi and Na Maloom Afraad. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQkdBASbTOk https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOkfEMCXmhI https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=No8WRzmIDQI Hijrat is anything but great. Director Faroq Mengal should be given credit for his earnest effort though. However, a stronger plot, cohesive scenes and finer chemistry between the characters could have made it a better watch. Believe me; you won’t be missing out much if you don’t watch Hijrat.

You know when Jon Snow (although he knows nothing!), stands at the edge of the great wall looking down at the steely snow filled north, he is actually glaring at the camera. Duh! But he is not standing inside a studio. It is Iceland. It is a brutal -35˚C out there. Why go to such extreme lengths, you ask? It is all about authenticity. The Pakistani fictional production of the ‘Mor Mahal’ is a great creative effort by the brilliant Sarmad Sultan Khoosat as a director, but several things stand out to question its authenticity. The set designs are exquisite with perfect colour hues of red, gold and black but glass mirrors in rooms and wrought iron candle stands are a misfit in the original context of a 200 year old palace. That being said, it is a great attempt at creating a compelling combination of love, deceit, glory and power in the backdrop of traditional eastern culture. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvWSZgoXlzA Some would say the Nawab Asif Jehan (Umair Jaswal) is the central character around which the entire story revolves. It also seems to be true as all efforts are being directed at his appeasement for favour, love and also control. What actually lies in the subtlety of the direction and writing is the true influence of the women in the story. The mother, the wives and the mistresses, are all masterful at the fulfilment of their ambitions. In short, ‘Mor Mahal’ is a tale of feminism with utter disregard for rules and moral values. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="485"] Umair Jaswal
Photo: Mor Mahal Facebook page[/caption] From Badshahi Begum (Hina Khawaja Bayat) as the mother to Farrukh Zaad (Meesha Shafi), the favoured wife of the nawab, women rule this kingdom confined within the bounds of this ‘mahal’. The very walls of their palace are laced with malice and contempt. Guarded and entertained by the eunuchs, the royal palaces of the past were cold harsh places with little regard for human life. The nawab has three wives and one mother – who plan with conniving fervour to gain his attention. Any means of protecting and maintaining their stature in the palace is acceptable to these women of power. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Hina Khawaja Bayat
Photo: Mor Mahal Facebook page[/caption] The help around the castle in form of exotic Kaneezain and gossiping eunuchs makes up for another exciting aspect of the story. Sarmad Sehbai portrays through his writing of ‘Mor Mahal’ how the less fortunate people in these settings are instrumental in toppling the majestic empires of the privileged rulers. The servant and sorceress Akhtari (Sania Saeed) is the perfect example. She looks like a debased slave of the Badshahi Begum yet her foreboding eyes exude a dangerous power. What is being used as a weapon of sabotage against the nawab’s wives may also be used against Badshahi Begum one day. Even so Akhtari lives to serve. But if she is crossed by someone someday, her murmurings could reduce the palace walls to dust within seconds. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Kaneez
Photo: Mor Mahal Facebook page[/caption] Farrukh Zaad is the first wife of the nawab but not your typical wife. She is a conniver of extreme proportions with all makings of being a proper ruler herself. Her garb of a scarlet robe, her magnificent head gear and her graceful height are all complimentary to her scheming disposition. Her rival the Badshahi Begum, has been quite active in her attempts to thwart her. But Farrukh Zaad is a worthy opponent. This makes for an excellent tug of war between the two leading ladies of the household. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Meesha Shafi
Photo: Mor Mahal Facebook page[/caption] Meesha Shafi looks radiant and perfect as Farrukh Zaad, but her acting and dialogue delivery have been somewhat mechanised for the audiences that are used to villains of vibrant expressions. The poor pregnant wife of the nawab is Surraya Jahan (Fiza Ali) who has quite skilfully portrayed the role of a beaten down woman who is desperate for her husband’s attention. But her soft demeanour is no match for the hardened women of the ‘Mor Mahal’ who scheme and plot behind closed doors. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Fiza Ali
Photo: Mor Mahal Facebook page[/caption] Overall, the production is a fascinating piece of work with grand costumes, but there is certainly great room for improvement. The veteran actors have handled their performances with their usual poise and grace; however, the newbies are a bit stiff in their display of the splendidly written characters that they have been assigned. The two ‘Sarmads’ have managed to pull off a fictional panorama of history and culture, but the pace of the story could be picked up and the cast could pour some more life into their depictions. Collectively it makes up for an entertaining time in front of the television, but so far it is not the best work by the very competent, Sarmad Sultan Khoosat or maybe my judgement is clouded by the magnificent Manto. 

A few days ago, I overheard my cousin talking to someone and saying,

“Have you seen the news? Even CNN and BBC reported on the instances of violence that our women endure. Clearly it’s more serious than I thought.”

“They just do this for traffic; don’t they have better things to report?”

“I don’t know if a dying person can lie or not, but I have met the girl personally just an hour before she passed away, with the intensity of pain and extremity of burns, but was conscious. She told me, ‘Uncle I did not even know the reason for the brutality and callousness, they just knocked on my door and the moment I opened the door, Master Shaukat along with four other men started accusing me of casting a spell on his son, who – according to Master, wanted to marry me. (In response) I told him point blank that there was nothing going on and I was unaware of such a thing’.”

“They came and they started beating Aapi and when I intervened they beat me up too. We were crying and screaming, but no one could hear us. Then they burnt her, right in front my eyes, and I couldn’t do anything.”

“Oh! We have heard that the medical reports state she was pregnant.”

“When I heard the villagers coming, I realised my body would be exposed because of the burnt clothes so with the help of my sister, I went inside to hide myself in a cloak” and burst into tears.

“Zulm karnay walay se bara zalim zulm ke khilaaf awaz na uthanay wala hai” (The one who stays silent over a crime is worse than the criminal himself)

“The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who remain their neutrality in the times of moral crises.”

The first video I watched of Qandeel Baloch was shared by a friend on his Facebook wall. She was clad in a skimpy grey dress showing off her voluptuous curves. Swaying suggestively and looking straight into the camera she said,

“I’m 99% sure you hate me but I’m a 100% sure not even my shoe gives a damn about it.”

Let me admit that I did not know who Nabeel Qureshi was before entering the theatre to watch Actor In Law. I did not watch Na Maloom Afraad (2014), primarily because of its eerily similar appearance to Hera Pheri (2000), until I watched it a couple of weeks back. Nevertheless, the trailer of Actor In Law was intriguing despite, yet again, giving a similar feel to that of Govinda’s Kyo Kii... Main Jhuth Nahin Bolta (2001), which was similar to Liar Liar (1997) of Jim Carey. I was intrigued because it’s not very often that you get a chance to see Om Puri in a Pakistani film. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlQB_40JGFk If Actor in Law was made 30 years ago, Amitabh Bachchan would have starred in it and it would have been directed by Mamohan Desai or maybe it would be a Tinnu Anand film. In fact, it has a dance sequence on Andheri Raaton Mein Sunsaan Raahon Par paying homage to Tinnu Anand and Bachchan. I understand that it is a huge compliment to Qureshi and I agree I have taken great liberty in drawing this parallel. In my defence, Actor In Law has all the ingredients of a Desai masala entertainer. A good looking hero who can act, struggling actor, witty comedy, a bit of overacting by some characters, dances, rain, a message of secularism and a father-son hug. The only thing missing is a trademark Bachchan drunk scene which is okay to miss in its Pakistani version. People of my generation who still watch Amar Akbar Anthony (1977) and Kaalia (1981) with the same enthusiasm as always are always entertained by masala films. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Fahad Mustafa.
Photo: Screenshot[/caption] The story is not something you have never seen before – a father-son conflict for the son not taking his life seriously, irreverence of the son and its quirky outcomes etc. This is back to basic stuff. Just like Desai films, Actor In Law is more of a social drama wrapped in comical treatment. In that context, it’s a more mindful film than its predecessor Na Maloom Afraad. Mehwish Hayat’s accent bothered me for a few minutes before it was revealed that she is playing a minority girl. Secularism and tolerance: check. Load shedding is a nuisance and is taken to court. Common man’s problem: check. A woman standing up for her right against sexual harassment. Women empowerment: check. Red brick’s mafia exposed. Rural awareness: check. The best thing is it’s not your holier than thou preachy film. Actor In Law conveys these messages in an easy going way like explaining complex mathematical equations through painting on a canvas. It makes things easier on the eyes. The screenplay is generally tight with few exceptions. The climax court room drama was weak and political antagonists kept coming in and going out of the picture, lacking any clear motive. The protagonist’s role in the second half, especially towards the climax is minimal and other characters take over the control. It would have made it rather interesting to see if Shaan Mirza himself had tried to come out of his conundrum instead of leaving it all to the heroine and eventually his father. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Mehwish Hayat.
Photo: Screenshot[/caption] Having said that, the father touch in the end was a classy finish – not from a logical viewpoint but from an emotional angle. Shaan’s emotions kept getting the better of him throughout the film, though. His eyes got wet easier than a London afternoon, at times unnecessarily. The film belongs to Fahad Mustafa. He’s a complete package. Acts well, can dance and has impeccable comic timing. It doesn’t come as a surprise that Om Puri was all praises for him after wrapping his work on Actor In Law. His emotional scenes, even though excessive in number, are very well done. Not many actors of his age can show the range he has shown while carrying the film on his able shoulders. He is a long term prospect for the Pakistani film industry, which is going through yet another, and by far the most successful revival in its history. We will need more from Fahad if this revival has to sustain for a long time. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Fahad Mustafa.
Photo: Screenshot[/caption] Speaking of Om Puri, there you have a veteran actor reminding you of why he is one of the best actors in the business. He could have done this role in his sleep. Credit to the producers for picking him over others as this role could have easily gone to another actor and would have lost its impact. Mehwish Hayat has put in a decent performance. She is not the best thing about the film, but does not let you down either. Saleem Mairaj is fantastic, Nayyer Ijaz is as good as ever and Alyy Khan is reasonably worthy. Khalid Anum is poor in his cameo, going over the top and is not funny. Rest of the supporting cast, especially the comedians are a very apt ensemble. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Om Puri and Fahad Mustafa.
Photo: Screenshot[/caption] Shani’s music is not overwhelmingly beautiful, but it is good and fits the overall mood of the film. While the title song is well timed and choreographed, Khudaya by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan sounds like a straight inspiration from Ismail Darbar’s Tadap Tadap from Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=okSMPHvRnYY My personal favourite part of the film is the picturisation of the song Dil Dancer Hogaya. It is artistically done, especially towards the end when Fahad actually takes up the courage to invite Mehwish for a dance and then stops. It was a sweet little moment of Imtiaz Ali’s magic and sensitivity. Also, full marks to the production design team for showcasing Karachi the way they have shown in it – very relatable. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQe7UdLWO9U Qureshi seems clear in what he is trying to achieve with Actor In Law. He is not creating a Moor or a Manto, but he is not creating a Wrong No. either. He has kept things simple and would have made Manmohan Desai proud if he were Desai’s protégé. I keep referring to Desai because this is a brand of cinema which was established decades ago and has stood the test of time. Even today Farah Khan and the likes try to emulate the same formula and have not been able to deliver the same output. Qureshi’s work is a lot closer to Desai’s brand of cinema than a Tees Maar Khan or a Happy New Year types were. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Fahad Mustafa and Mehwish Hayat.
Photo: Screenshot[/caption] Actor In Law is vaguely generic at times and refreshingly original at others. A lot of scenes in the film could have looked unnatural or weaker if it was not for Qureshi’s attention to detail or creativity. Case in point the scene where Saleem Mairaj wants to tell Alyy Khan something at the elevator, or the helicopter scene conversation between two villains. His treatment of political satire is also brilliant. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="600"] Alyy Khan.
Photo: Screenshot[/caption] Nabeel Qureshi has taken leaps of faith in some sequences while looking painfully mediocre in some. Nonetheless, the positives in the film outweigh the negatives by a distance. That makes Actor In Law a thoroughly entertaining film.

Art is art. Art does not know a nationality or a region or a religion. Does a German heart move more than a non-German heart while listening to Beethoven’s symphonies? What if nobody outside France ever saw the Mona Lisa, or the Starry night was only seen by Dutch eyes? Art and artists belong to the world. Art is a reflection of the human condition, feelings shared by all of us universally. We all feel love, we all feel sadness, and we all feel loss. The world was moved by the picture of a dead Syrian toddler washed up on a Turkish shore. Statuses mourning the loss of Prince and David Bowie were posted all around the world. A Beatles song playing in the middle of nowhere can create a sense of familiarity and spark an emotional connection with people you may not even share a language with. https://twitter.com/DmanTheDesigner/status/780925148144799744 https://twitter.com/TheXOPodcast/status/778875100653203456 https://twitter.com/BrianPHickey/status/780596530524848128 https://twitter.com/kathryndavids13/status/779462112041136128 India’s decision to ban Pakistani artists is detrimental to their own industry. Bollywood has been made even better by the inclusion of our Pakistani talent. By the exchange of artists, our industry has been improved by the give-and-take of ideas and art. [poll id="684"] It was an idiotic and short sighted decision; the kneejerk reaction by cinemas in Pakistan to ban Indian movies is equally stupid. The reason multiple multiplexes have opened up in Pakistan is because of how popular Indian movies are. The increased number of screens led to a rise in demand for movies, creating a space for Pakistani movies. https://twitter.com/NueplexCinemas/status/781764192000811008 https://twitter.com/Firki_/status/777774760491036672?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw https://twitter.com/BhimBassi/status/779358202739630080?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw Economically, these multiplexes now have numerous people employed and, if Indian movies are banned, it may lead towards a dramatic fall in the multiplexes’ popularity, eventually affecting its profit margins. Any economic disadvantage we are looking to inflict on Bollywood will be offset by the economic disadvantage we are causing to local businesses, whereas the Goliath is that Bollywood will not be hurt. Bollywood movies screen around the world; they are one of the most lucrative movie industries. The influx of Bollywood movies has led to the revival of Lollywood. Would we have Manto and Actor in Law if Bollywood movies were never screened in Pakistan? Most Pakistanis grew up watching Bollywood movies. We have been shaped by their ideas and influenced by their actors. It is not surprising that the movies being made in Pakistan are similar to Bollywood movies. It is not merely a case of being influenced or inspired, but also that India and Pakistan share a rich performing arts history. The roots of Bollywood found in folk theatre forms belong to both India and Pakistan. Part of the reason why Bollywood resonates so well with a Pakistani audience is that it stems from the same fountainhead of theatre and performance as our country. Even if we were to ban Bollywood movies officially, people in Pakistan would still be pirating the movies on DVDs or downloading them illegally. We are not stopping the exchange of ideas; we are simply robbing Pakistanis from another avenue of entertainment. When Star Plus was banned in Pakistan, my family would buy DVDs of their dramas. Rules and laws cannot prevent the exchange of ideas and the flow of art. In an extremely globalised world it is impossible to even try to isolate yourself as a country. North Korea has to strictly ban the internet altogether and use the state apparatus to promote propaganda to try to isolate the country from the world and yet ideas find a way to infiltrate State controls. For Pakistan, it is impossible to isolate Indians. People from both countries have historic familial ties with each other. We share tradition and culture. In the world of technology it is impossible to prevent people to communicate between the two countries. In these troubling times artists should come out in support of peace, love, and understanding. It is unfortunate that regulatory organisations for artists and art in both countries are caving in to war hysteria. Loving your country does not mean you have to hate another country. Patriotism does not have to be necessarily a hateful ideology. The decision to ban Pakistani artists in India and ban Bollywood movies in Pakistan come from a place of hate rather than a place of love.

Sex: that taboo word. Not only is it deemed sinful to discuss openly in more conservative societies, it is also about our own reflection and a repressed understanding of it. There is a compelling need to talk about sexuality as a normalised topic but due to rigid moral codes defined by religion or culture, an objective debate on this issue is not socially possible. In fact, there is an artificial silence about it because it is perceived as something dirty and sinful; a discourse to be refrained from unless one is legally recognised as a married person. Sex, indeed, is an off-bound subject to study more introspectively in Pakistan, as it remains an intriguing paradigm of human physiology and psychology. However, our attitude towards the subject is not only religiously bound, it is also culturally denied — giving more room to the hideousness of sex. Sex has been described in Urdu literature by notable writers in subtlety. Sadat Hassan Manto’s views – from whom the author of this book, Saeed Ibrahim, takes his inspiration – about sex are highly personified and subjective and reflect on how sex is perceived in a hypocritical society. Ismat Chughtai, like all progressive Urdu writers, has symbolised women with independence, self-reliance, and individuality. Other important names which have inspired others are Amrita Pritam and Ahmad Bashir. Although there are powerful fictions in Urdu, a language dating back to the 12^th century, there is hardly any literature where sex is objectively defined as an ordinary human desire. Our idea of sex has also evolved considerably in post-partition literature, reflecting on the suffering of women, especially by the trauma and violence they faced in the horrors of migration. However, this was not a turning point for female-centred literature in terms of their sexuality. A decade before, it was Dr Rashid Jahan who, for the first time in Urdu history with the help of her comrades, attempted to break the taboo around sexuality and  people’s hypocrisy toward it. A compilation of unconventional and bold stories was published in a book called Angaarey in 1931, which was banned at the time and all copies, excluding five, were burned. This important piece of literature ultimately succumbed to public outrage, because they did not want a silent issue to make noise. They did so because the sexual empowerment of women was unimaginable, and still is in today’s Pakistan. It is true that the Urdu language may be too limiting for a topic as diverse as sex, but it does not mean that it has faded. With a range of social transformations and spirituality, we are also deriving its meaning from the mysticism of Sufi saints who referred to sex as an invincible relation of love with God. The earliest Sufi transformation of declaring Allah (swt) as the Beloved is credited to a female saint, Rabia al Adawiya from Iraq, but is considered as a man, not as a woman by an edict. Even though its essence transcended through Sufism for ages, people are still not able to grasp the concept that one’s humanity does not require any condition of divinity. Our notion about sex is also a derivative of an early Indian history; the Kamasutra and Tantric relics played a vital role in developing an ingrained perception of sex that we still find in distorted images today. In fact, it is the diverse implication of sex perceived in history, myths, and social or power paradigms in a society that defines our association with it. With this backdrop, we must appreciate matters of sex as normalised social behaviour and it is for this very reason that Saeed Ibrahim presented his humane views in his book Sex aur Samaaj (Sex and the Society). This book explores sexuality in great detail, particularly through a Muslim and Pakistani lens. It discusses how sexuality has evolved from early religious interpretations concerning women and their sexuality. The author has provided references of women before and after Islam in Saudi Arabia. Furthermore, he has illustrated the general attitude towards sex that has changed over time and how that has shaped our perceptions, while keeping in mind the religious influences of the time. Ibrahim also asserts that while people admonish sex, the penalty is laid on the woman – the weaker gender that is easily controlled – as she is compelled to live in a repressive environment where her opinion on sex is unwarranted and ignored. Patriarchal societies commonly diminish the role of women, and see them solely as objects to be controlled – this position has been sanctioned by religion as well as societal norms. The author has rejected the unilateral male privilege in society, which is seemingly reminiscent of female slavery. While challenging misogyny in our South Asian region, the writer has explained how, under the Muslim rule in India, sex took on a new meaning by objectifying women more and holding them responsible for maintaining familial lineage. Moreover, the men had no such restrictions, and Ibrahim delves into these notions in great detail while explaining the concept of slave women. He further explores how the institution of the harem itself went through a transformation from the early years of Islamic civilisation. He explains his ideas by observing that sexual matters in Pakistan are always woman-centric, i.e. the perception that sex cannot be defined without discussing a woman’s role in it. Ibrahim has taken a critical stance on our notable scholars like Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi, Akbar Allahabadi and even Allama Iqbal, who asserted that women are not equal to their male counterparts. We glorify their philosophy even though it carries misogynist views. In all the chaos of moral expectations from a woman and a man, a woman is burdened with maintaining her modest character, and any talk about sexual freedom is seen as vulgar. The author very candidly writes his view about the topic, which is the very crux of the book. He has also openly spoken about the sexual frustration of men in an environment which, according to him, is caused by an unnatural segregation between genders in our society. His view here makes sense because it is a woman who carries the burden of modesty, whose hymen testifies her virginity and whose nursery is an important determinant of her child’s moral nature and success but, as stated by the author, this is not what women should be limited to. He argues that a woman’s powerful existence has been unjustifiably undermined throughout history. Ibrahim emphasises the notions behind a woman becoming submissive – he explains how men took advantage of women’s fertility to produce their off-springs, in order to ensure the continuity of their legacy and keep the wealth in the family. When we talk about women in religious terms, it is a woman who cannot have polygamous relationships; it is a woman who cannot be considered chaste if she struggles for her sexual freedom. In a patriarchal society, sex has always been defined as the prerogative of a man, and anything that goes against its values is seen as a threat, considered obscene and hence, unacceptable in society. Ibrahim has also touched upon a sensitive, yet incredibly important topic; sexual orientation. He asserts that in our society, we demean and degrade homosexuals, not just socially but also legally. The author claims that a man or woman’s choice of sexual orientation is natural as it occurs in other animal species as well. He also talked about the trauma they face when they are compelled to go through “sex change” operations, like in Iran, Thailand, even Pakistan, just so they may have a “normal” relationship with their partners in the eyes of the society. But even then, they are not accepted in their community. When it comes to homosexuals, he analogises their manliness with a prison where a woman is suffocating inside. Although this subject is more diverse and complicated in terms of our society at this point and has not yet been explored, the author has still managed to spark a discourse and opened its frontiers—something we have been negligent of in Urdu literature. Furthermore, he also touched upon issues related to incest, child abuse and unwanted sex, which he feels are the manifestation of oppressive sexual desires, in which the perpetrators find easy targets at home. In the author’s view, children are more vulnerable at home as compared to outside. There are many dimensions that can be found in this book that compel us to rethink how we perceive sex. We must admit that in Pakistan there have been no open spaces for expressing views on sex in simpler terms. Rape culture is strong and internalised in our society, and we need strong literature to discredit old notions of blaming women for ill-doing. This is exactly why Saeed Ibrahim’s book is a revolutionary attempt to study sex as something desirable and natural, not something to be repulsed by. In his book, the author has highlighted that ignorance towards sex is what drives people toward obtaining pornographic material on the internet. With the exception of a few English dailies (representing less than 2% of the entire readership), there has been no serious attempt to undo the dehumanising attitudes towards women and sex through a discourse. This book is indeed a risqué commentary on sexual affiliation that is considered profane and wicked, which ultimately translates into frustration, guilt and shame.

This week (September 23^rd-29^th) is being celebrated as the Banned Books Week around the world, especially in the United States, where this tradition took inception during the Ronald Reagan era back in 1982. Concerned about violation of freedom of speech, rights activists raised the issue of banning books and their censorship, as well as the persecution of writers. Hence, it was decided that every year, the last week of September would be celebrated as the Banned Books Week. Perhaps it is no coincidence that International Translation Day falls immediately after Banned Books Week, on September 30^th. At least for this humble scribe, there is an intrinsic connection between censorship and translation. When I first began my humble attempts at translation from Urdu to English, it was with the work of Saadat Hassan Manto, who was banned three times in colonial India and thrice in postcolonial Pakistan for the perceived lewdness in his short stories. Also, back in 2014, when I curated my first Banned Books Week event in Lahore, it was not lost on me that this was the city where both Manto and his great contemporary, Ismat Chughtai, were summoned in the 40s to stand trial in court for writing stories depicting sex. Earlier this week, I curated my fifth successive Banned Books Week here in Lahore, and we hope to continue this trend every year. Banning books is as old as publishing and reading them. Books have been banned for several reasons, such as using sexual language or depicting sex, like DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Erskine Caldwell’s God’s Little Acre and James Joyce’s Ulysses, or political reasons, like John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and George Orwell’s Animal Farm. To celebrate Banned Books Week and International Translation Day, I am sharing my translation of a short preface that the well-known Urdu writer Rahi Masoom Raza wrote for his 1970 novella Oos ki Boond (A Drop of Dew) in defence of using swear words in his writing. Raza was roundly criticised by some for frequently resorting to swear words in his magnum opus, Aadha Gaon (Half a Village), which is set around the Partition and was published in 1966. Raza’s defiant and impassioned defence is a clarion call for all budding and persecuted writers today who write to please their calling rather than for awards or the elite:

The sages advised me so many times not to use swear words; had there not been so many abuses in (my novel) Aadha Gaon, you would definitely have won the Sahitya Akademi Award. But I think do I write novels for the Sahitya Akademi award? There is no harm in winning the award, obviously it’s useful, but I am a writer; if my characters read the Gita, then I will write the ashloks of the Gita. I am not some Nazi writer who imposes my will upon the inhabitants of my novel and order every character, handing them a dictionary, that I will shoot them lest they dare speak even a word of their own. Some sage, pray tell, that where my characters rain abuses, what should I write by removing them, dot dot dot? Were that to happen, people will make up their own abuses! And in the matter of abuses, I do not trust anyone else but my characters. I myself do not like swearing, nor is there a tradition of swearing in my home. But people swear on the streets; one hears the sound of swearing from the neighbourhood, and I do not shut my ears, you must be doing the same. Then if my characters rain abuses, why do you make me run? Those characters are swearing within their homes, they are neither within my home nor in yours. So sir! I cannot slice the tongue off my characters for the prize of the Sahitya Akademi. The characters of this novel too rain abuses here and there, if you have never heard a swear word, do not read this novel, I do not want to make you blush.

Web series are a game changer for filmmakers and storytellers alike. After the popularity of Sacred Games on Netflix and Inside Edge by Amazon Prime, the latter is back with yet another web series called Mirzapur. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNeGF-PvRHY The plot revolves around Akhanda Tripathi, also known as Kaleen Bhaiyya, because he deals with the buying and selling of rugs and carpets. Akhanda is a don who rules Mirzapur, quite literally. Interestingly though, his only son Munna Tripathi is entirely out of his control and constantly misuses his power and position, constantly landing himself in some sort of trouble or the other. One day, Munna crosses paths with Ramakant Pandit, a lawyer and father of Guddu and Bablu. Both Guddu and Bublu violently attack Munna and his friends and are brought before Bhaiyya to receive appropriate punishment for their actions. Bhaiyya is impressed by their potential and instead of punishing them, gives them the opportunity to either join his gang or face the consequences of attacking his only son. Both Pandits are left with no choice but to accept Bhaiyya’s offer. Soon, owing to Bablu’s genius and Guddu’s ‘do or die’ principle, Bhaiyya’s business starts to prosper and they both become his loyal subordinates. Munna meanwhile feels jealous and unsuccessfully continues to scheme against the two every chance he gets. Mirzapur is the story of how two young boys nervously and unwillingly enter the underworld; a world where firing a gun is considered fun and usurping someone else’s position is the only motivation. How these two stand up against the lord of Mirzapur, knowingly or unknowingly, is what this web series is all about. Mirzapur is filled with violence, gore, slightly sexually provocative scenes and a whole lot of gaalis (expletives). Performance wise, every character leaves a lasting impression. Pankaj Tripathi is brilliant as Bhaiyya, beautifully balancing both elements of terror and composure. A few of his scenes with his wife Beena and his sons Munna and Guddu are particularly noteworthy. Ali Fazal as Guddu goes through a huge transformation for the role, evident from his physique, mannerisms and expressions, appearing as never before seen by the audience. Vikrant Massey as Bablu appears relatively brainy. From his attire to his moves and from his dialogues to his delivery, Massey makes his character relatable and believable. Divyendu Sharma too tries his best to bring Munna to life, but the character is presented with so many different facets that the audience is often left feeling confused and overwhelmed. Kulbhushan Kharbanda delivers well as Bhaiyya’s father, and although he doesn’t get a lot of stage time, his dialogues and performance are both superb. He proves that once a ‘Shakaal’, always a Shakaal; composed yet furious. The actresses prove equally impressive. Rasika Dugal, earlier seen in Kissa and Manto, surprises her audience with her impeccable performance. Cast as Bhaiyya’s scheming and plotting second wife, she is sexually dissatisfied with him and power-hungry by default. Dugal plays an interesting character, which seems to have some similarities to Nimmi from Maqbool. All in all, Dugal pulls off her character effectively and leaves an impact. Other female actresses, namely Shweta Tripathi as Golu, Shriya Pilgaonkar as Sweety and Harshita Gaur as Dimpy don’t fail to impress either. Also worth mentioning is Shaji Chaudhary, who plays Maqbool and was last seen in Thugs of Hindostan as Bhurelal. Despite having very few dialogues, the actor gives an impressive performance. This web series builds up well, has distinctive characters, good dialogues and a decently written story. Despite all this, the story keeps on going off track or falls flat after building up the initial interest level of the audience, and this pattern continues. Often scenes appear stretched and there is a lag in effective story telling. It is these factors that make Mirzapur a less-engaging series than other similar shows. Based on the script and its execution, Mirzapur is far better than Sacred Games. Understandably, Mirzapur appeals largely to younger audiences because of the excessive bloodshed, profanities and the emphasis on sex. There are a few scenes that don’t make a lot of sense and are only forced into the story to make it appeal to younger crowds. Multiple relationships are left underdeveloped and certain sexual encounters are shown without any further development. However, those who have already seen Gangs of Wasseypur and Sacred Games will know that there is no real similarity between these shows and Mirzapur. Although there is an abundance of expletives and sex scenes in all three and all three are based in the underworld, the similarities stop here. Gangs of Wasseypur has a very different plot and the characters are denser and darker than what Mirzapur has to offer. On the contrary, Sacred Games is a story between a cop played by Saif Ali Khan and an underworld gangster played by Nawazuddin Siddiqui. Paralleling these shows for the sake of comparison alone doesn’t serve much purpose. Perhaps Mirzapur should be enjoyed the way we enjoy most things coming out of Bollywood: as pure, unadulterated entertainment. All photos: Screenshots