In the year 1916, the British Government of India, commissioned the “Lightship Sindhi” that was to be one of its most trusted and useful lightships.

Lightships, as the name suggests, are ships with huge lights that guide maritime traffic. Unlike lighthouses, they can be shifted from one place to another and were often stationed in places where it was difficult to construct lighthouses. However, with the advancement in construction techniques and the innovation of unmanned lighthouses and light-buoys, lightships are fast becoming obsolete. Most of the remaining lightships of the world are maintained purely for their historical and novelty value rather than for their maritime utility. But back in 1916, the Lightship Sindhi was a welcome addition to British India’s maritime assets. Built at the Royal Indian Marine Dockyard in Bombay, she was meant to serve off the coast of Sindh. During World War I, she served off the Iranian island of Qais and was very valuable to maritime traffic. After the war, she was stationed off what was then known as the Hajamrao creek in the Indus Delta region. Her light is said to have been visible at a distance of 10 miles. Had she been serving in the same area today, perhaps there would have been fewer Pakistani fishermen languishing in Indian jails and vice versa!

It’s not a cactus – it’s a “puffer fish” we saw during the 5km hike

Pakistan inherited the vessel after partition and its duties were invaluable in the development of the port of Chalna on the Passur River in what was then East Pakistan. In retrospect, if such development work in Pakistan’s eastern wing had continued, the sense of deprivation felt by the Bengalis may have been reduced and history may have played out very differently. Alas, that was not to be, and the Light Ship Sindhi, along with other craft, were once again summoned to West Pakistan. I developed an interest in the vessel after coming across an old photograph of the vessel in the British Library archives. However, despite my interest, I could not trace the ultimate fate and present-day whereabouts of Lightship Sindhi.

Unlike old soldiers, old ships don’t just fade away. Some end up in Davy Jones’ locker while others are tugged into ship breaking yards like our very own Gadani to be broken down. Some are luckier and become “museum ships” that remain afloat for many years after being decommissioning. Lightship Sindhi, however, seemed to have disappeared into the red tape Bermuda Triangle of government records, faded memories and other priorities.

As luck would have it, a recent camping trip with friends took us to a tucked away corner on Sindh’s land mass called Cape Monze, where stands what was once the “most westerly lighthouse in India”. “Ras Mauri” is the name that was given to the point by Arab cartographers. In Arabic “Ras” is a pointed land mass jutting out to sea — or simply put — a cape. An example is the emirate, Ras Al-Khaima in the UAE. Over time, with the inter-play of British and Arab cartography, Ras Mauri became Cape Monze, though it is still referred to by its Arab name in some maritime maps. Today, not many in the nearby Karachi know about the graceful lighthouse, which is fondly called the “Batti” by the fishermen who use it for finding their way in the sea at night. It was commissioned in 1914 at a cost of Rs 157,894 and constructed by the Public Works Department of the Government of Bombay. It has braved many storms and guided countless ships to safety over a period of almost a century. At 158 feet it is easily the tallest lighthouse in Pakistan — but is often denied that distinction as this information is not widely available.

Looking westwards

Unlike the Manora lighthouse, the Cape Monze lighthouse is not visible from Karachi or even from its popular beaches. In this case, out of sight is truly out of mind. To use another cliché, time truly seems to have stood still here, and even in this day and age, cell phone coverage is not available. But for the locals at least, the memory of the lighthouse has not faded. A descendant of one of the workers told me that the materials for the lighthouse were brought on camels to this remote location. Amazingly to this day, water and provisions for the staff manning the lighthouse are still brought on camels!

We were originally supposed to enjoy an off-road drive to the lighthouse, but being unable to find a car, we had to trek across five kilometres of rocky terrain to get there. The bonfire by the seemingly haunted “resthouse” under a starry sky and the revolving light-beams of the lighthouse was an experience to cherish for a lifetime. In the morning, our group made its way up the painfully steep and seemingly endless flights of steps spiralling to the light at the top. As one climbs up, the tower gets narrower and narrower inducing claustrophobia combined with a shortness of breath that makes you feel as if you are drowning — admittedly the condition is worsened if one is over-weight and has smoked heavily for a decade!

The laborious climb was not in vain as it afforded a unique opportunity to experience a walk through a “living museum” of sorts. The Burma teak, wrought iron railing, stone masonry and iron platforms on each floor, are nothing short of living history itself. The light apparatus is no surprise, as it has a Hyperradiant Fresnel Lens made by Chance Brothers of Britain and a manual wind-up mechanism to make it revolve, as it floats on a mercury chamber — very similar to the Manora Lighthouse.

Lighthouse at dawn

The real surprise lay came when I went out on the balcony to take in the breathtaking view of the rocky beaches and small cliffs on either side of the lighthouse. Once I got over the initial awe of the view, I ventured to circle around the balcony and found one of my friends busy cleaning a brass bell which hung from a ledge. As I came around it, I could not believe my eyes. Lo and behold — engraved on the weathered but shiny bell were the letters “Light Ship Sindhi 1916”. I had found her or what remained of her, at last!

No other podium would have been high enough and more under the spotlight after the bright career of Lightship Sindhi. Decades after its decommissioning, its bell, the de-facto birth certificate of vessels in days of yore, still hangs at its contemporary, the Cape Monze Lighthouse on the western most tip of Sindh’s shoreline at the point of Ras Mauri. This then is the final resting place of the Lightship Sindhi, or part of it, at least.

But what happened to the ship itself? It turns out that the Mercantile Marine Department, which manages the Cape Monze Lighthouse, inherited the Lightship. With the construction of various beacons along the Pakistani coast, the ageing ship was no longer required and was decommissioned and its staff and moveable assets were administratively merged with the Cape Monze Lighthouse. The Maritime Museum of Pakistan did not exist at that time and hence the vessel, is ‘thought’ to have been sent for scrapping.

The Cape Monze Lighthouse itself has served for 98 years and its masonry is now crumbling at various points, exposing the inner metal supports. It is said that despite a hefty fee charged from vessels for usage of navigational infrastructure such as lighthouses, a meagre maintenance budget is allocated for all the installations dotting the Pakistani coast. This old faithful structure is too “out of sight” to claim any meaningful share of the meagre maintenance pie. I dread to find, on a future visit, a “shattered visage” lying unceremoniously like Shelley’s Ozymandias, boasting of a glorious past, an apathetic present, and a future that is anything but bright.

The author can be reached at vagabonds.odyssey@gmail.com

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, March 24^th, 2013.

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On a fateful day in November 1945, a squadron of the British Royal Air Force (RAF) was returning to their base in Karachi. World War II had ended and it was peaceful going as they flew over the sandy tracts and rugged mountains which had once decimated Alexander’s ancient army with thirst and exhaustion.

Suddenly the earth started shaking and the shallow waters near the shore began to froth. Huge hillocks on the ground which were previously silent now seemed to be the centre of strange activity as whitish rivers of mud began cascading down their sides. All of a sudden, there was a huge explosion at the centre of one of the hills and a ball of fire burst into the night!

The next day it became clear that the Makran subduction zone (a region of the Earth’s crust where tectonic plates meet), just off the coast of present day Pakistan, had experienced major seismic activity. The quake shook the Manora lighthouse so violently that two pounds of liquid Mercury, upon which the heavy lighthouse lamp usually floats, spilled out. The shock waves created a tsunami and more than 4,000 people died from the combined effects of the earthquake and the tsunami. Soon news began to appear about the appearance of three new islands in the Arabian Sea.

It was surmised that the explosion and fireball witnessed by the RAF pilots was from the mud volcanoes of Hingol. The earthquake had shaken and vented the volcanoes, which had ignited and started spewing mud. Mud volcanoes form in places where pockets of underground gas force their way to the surface. Because they are not caused by magma, the mud volcanoes, rather than being hot, can be very cold. Pakistan has a number of mud volcanoes in the Makran Desert and offshore. While most mud volcanoes are usually less than 3-7 feet tall, Pakistan’s Chandragup Mud Volcano is more than 300 feet high.

RAF officer Peter Martin-Kaye, deeply intrigued by the events, decided to visit the volcanoes with a friend to study them first hand. They made the journey from Karachi to Hingol and back, on foot, camelback, bus and sailboats, and observed some tall mud volcanoes in the Liari area as well as visiting the Chandargup Mud Volcanoes near Koh Sapat.

He documented and photographed the entire journey in his war-time diary. After WWII, RAF officer Peter Martin-Kaye went on to become Dr. Peter Martin-Kaye. With a PhD in geology, Martin-Kaye led several ground-breaking projects for the United Nations and NASA. More than half a century later, I got hold of a copy of his diary and traced him. Unfortunately, before I could make a request for photographs he passed away.

Decades after Martin-Kaye’s visit, Kaiser Tufail, a pilot in the Pakistan Airforce was similarly captivated by the strange activity in Chandargup. He visited the sites and did some preliminary studies on the subject. I recently got in touch with Tufail, now a retired Air Commodore, and he generously permitted me to use his notes and pictures.

Chronology of famous Eruptions

The mud volcanoes of Pakistan have been active since time immemorial. The mud islands created during 1945 quake were washed away by strong monsoon currents and tidal activity within months of their creation. On March 15, 1999, an extrusion started again in the same area at a depth of 10 meters and created a similar island. It was named Malan Island. At the time, the local media reported that calls of “Allah-o-Akbar” had been heard amidst the roaring and rumbling as the island emerged from the depths. Whether these reports were true or not remains largely a matter of opinion. Nearby, on the coast of Makran, the Chandragup family of volcanoes are highly revered by Hindus and are considered an important part of their pilgrimage to Hinglaj Mata temple further inland along the Hingol River. Be it Hawaii, Japan, Indonesia, or Pakistan, we have always managed to find some association between powerful geological phenomenon and religion.

On November 26, 2010 approximately three kilometres from the coast off Hingol, an island suddenly surfaced from the bottom of the ocean. The island basked under the Pakistani media’s limelight and a team of National Institute of Oceanography visited the island for research purposes. However, all of Pakistan’s mud islands have so far met the same fate as the legendary Atlantis.

In my quest to discover more about these mysterious mud islands, I requested the Pakistani space research organisation for a satellite picture of the island and that of the 1999 Malan island. I already had a copy of this, which was published in a research paper of the time, but I was not surprised by their reply. They claimed that they could not find the 1999 picture and would not grant me right of usage for the copy in my possession. However, they told me that I could purchase a low resolution black and white image of the recently emerged island from them for Rs15,000 per picture. Dejected, I tried a long shot and made a similar request to NASA. I was shocked at their prompt response. They said that due to the satellites orbit and image capturing schedules I’d have to wait weeks before my request could be complied. A few months down the road, I was delighted to be informed that they had uploaded high resolution coloured images that I had requested, for public usage!

Directions and Hazards — A Road less travelled

The most accessible mud volcanoes on the Makran Range are the Chandargup family. In order to get there, one has to take a left from the Makran Coastal Highway (MCH), approximately 35 kilometres before the Aghore post at river Hingol. The area lies within the limits of the Hingol National Park and the management has erected a concrete sign to mark the path to the mud volcanoes, the largest of which is visible from the highway. The path is a series of dirt tracks which are only navigable in a 4×4 vehicle. Initially, we had considered trekking the 10 kilometre track from the MCH to Chandargup and back again. The idea was abandoned after we were told about the sand flies. These tiny, winged gnats seek exposed skin and their bites leave large, red itchy bumps that may turn into a rash. Sandflies are known to carry a host of viruses and people are known to have died from complications arising from sand fly bites. It is strongly recommended that all would-be adventurists proceed when they are completely prepared as far as vehicles, equipment and physical condition is concerned. The area is completely isolated from civilisation and the chances of any rescue are virtually zero. Cell phones are also useless as there are no signals for more than 50 kilometres in any direction.

While the hazards might put you off the journey, the view from the top of the volcano makes the effort well worth it. The 300ft high peak provides an excellent vantage point for viewing both the coastal highway and the Arabian Sea, which is barely 5 kilometres away. As it was not the peak activity season, when we visited, the discharge of mud was low but there was visible moisture and mud on the surface of the crater. A flag or two, some coconut shells, a few plastic bottles, blackened make-shift stoves and some dried up tire tracks in the parched mud were the only reminders of the Hindu pilgrims and adventurists who visit the site.

Mud volcanoes hold clues to our underground mineral resources, not to mention important geological and seismic information. They are also a potential tourist attraction not only for the Hindu devotees but also for any adventure junkie. Their formation and scientific studies carried out in the area, have proved the presence of huge deposits of methane underneath the surface. Unfortunately, the gas deposits are in a solid form called methane hydrates. Science has not yet figured out a way of extracting methane from this form in a controlled manner. Perhaps in the future, the mud volcanoes might answer Pakistan’s energy needs.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, February 24^th, 2013.

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The night is quiet and the huge haveli appears eerie in the cloud-filtered moonlight that blankets everything in a slight purple shade. There is a heavy winter mist hanging over the fields between the haveli and the river.

Taking advantage of the cover of darkness and the mist, a shadow appears along the outer wall of the mansion and disappears amongst the tall grass in the field. The shadow re-appears on the edge of the river Chenab across the field, revealing itself as a young woman of striking beauty. Using an earthen vessel tightly pressed against her body as a floatation device, she enters the icy cold water of the river which has swelled due to recent winter rains. Risking her life, she fights with the current to cross the river to get to Mahiwal, her lover, who is waiting anxiously for her on the other side. Something goes wrong; her vessel begins to take in water and soon dissolves in the unforgiving waves. As she begins to drown, her lover jumps in and dies trying to save her. Such was their union. “But what went wrong?” asks a bewildered voice. “Her sister-in-law had come to know of her little escapades and replaced her regular kiln-baked vessel with an unbaked [kacha] one”, croaked the raconteur. “Her who?” asks another astonished member of the audience. “She was forcibly married but never gave-in to the arrangement,” explains the old nomad narrating the story. “So what? This is beyghairti,” argues another voice. Thus continued a night of bonfire-lit story-telling on an almost empty railway platform, where only a handful of people were still optimistically waiting for a Pakistan Railway train to arrive.

It is hard to believe that Pakistan, today viewed as a breeding ground for extremism, is a land where once stories of love and romance were not only omnipresent but also celebrated and cherished by the masses. No, we are not talking about Nadeem and Shabnam’s motorcycle acrobatics on the deserted Clifton roads of the 1970s. Nor are we discussing Waheed Murad swaying by a tree as Zeba looks on shyly. Romance has featured in the folklore and literature of the Indo-Pak subcontinent, Persia and Afghanistan for millennia. Incredible as it sounds, the sufis who graced this land immortalised many a famous romantic stories in their poetry — the same poetry which is said to have played a pivotal role in the spread of Islam in this region. One such sufi poet was Shah Abdul Lateef Bhittai. The very-much-married-to-another-man and very-much-still-in-love-with-Mahiwal, Sohni, happens to be one of the seven heroines of Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai who feature in Shah jo Risalo. It is strange to think that, in the land of Shah Saein, today, Sohni would probably have been declared a Kari and buried unceremoniously in the infamous graveyard of the Karis.

Heer too was married off to another man while her beloved Ranjha became a “Jogie”. She refused her marriage and then was set free. Today, Sohni Mahiwal, Heer Ranjha and others like them would probably have to face the Hudood Ordinance or perhaps would have been stoned to death.

But both Heer and Sohni were lucky that they lived in another time when love was generally accepted as a divine gift. It was a time when people thought that it is only the chosen few who tread the path of love and they have to pay a heavy price for it.

“Khali dil naiyo, Jaan wi aye mangda

Ishqay di gali ich koi koi langda”.

(Not only the heart, but it asks for life as a toll too

It is only a few who can tread the road of love)

Sohni-Mahiwal, Heer-Ranjha, and many other romantic couples from our folk stories, are all hailed as heroes and heroines. In some cases, they were even revered as saints. Sassi from Bhambore, and Punhu, a visiting prince of Makran, fell in love and decided to marry. Their marriage never got approval from Punho’s brothers who, helped by Sassi’s jealous friend, kidnapped Punho. He broke free while being forcibly taken back to Makran. Meanwhile Sassi left Bhambore in search of him. After many hardships, the two lovers met in the Lasbela district of Balochistan. Mother earth is said to have provided them refuge by splitting up and enclosing them in a single grave, which to this day is visited and revered by thousands. In the collective conscience of our society, the verdict on characters such as Punho’s brothers, Sassi’s jealous friend, Heer’s uncle Kaidu, who was the main cause of tragedy in that lore is very clear. They were all labeled as villains and their names are sometimes used today to express contempt.

One such villain from the folklore of Shireen Farhad has a tomb dedicated to her near the single grave of Shireen Farhad at Lak Jao in Balochistan, but a particular ritual is performed at her grave regularly by devoted visitors — they throw stones at her grave in contempt! This then, summarises the reaction of the masses, towards such uninvited intrusions in romances.

In recent years, the advent of February creates an interesting situation across Pakistan’s urban centers and increasingly, even rural areas. The society gets polarised around whether to celebrate Valentine’s Day or not. Die-hard Romeos and Juliets believe that the day is meant for the expression of their “eternal” love for a special someone. On the other hand, there are those who believe that having anything to do with the festivities will guarantee a one way ticket to hell.

Both the Cupid-struck and the V-day haters ignore some aspects. Whether invented in the non-Muslim West or Timbuktu, Valentine’s Day is an occasion to express the universal emotion of love. Its universality not only refers to space but time as well — why confine love to a single day? Why not honour our loved ones every single day of our lives? Secondly, love, even the romantic variety, is not a copy-righted invention of the West. Heer-Ranjha, Laila-Majnu, Sohni-Mahiwal, Sassi-Punho, Hani-Shehmurid, Mirza-Sahiban, Yousuf Khan-Sheherbano were all romances that had taken place before Valentines was even heard of in this part of the world!

Room for romances and love stories has certainly shrunk over time and they have come to be accepted as a foreign influence both by conservatives and liberals. Even the Middle Eastern romances of Aladdin and the adventures of Sindbad gain legitimacy only when dished out by Disney and Dreamworks. Interestingly, people know so little about indigenous love stories and romances that they often believe that Omar and Marvi were lovers. Whereas, the fact is that Omar, the ruler of a state in Sindh, fell for the beautiful Marvi and upon her refusal, had her kidnapped and locked up in his palace! To Omar’s credit, he did not force himself upon her beyond this, hoping that Marvi would give in. Marvi remained defiant, and the impressed Omar set her free — with no love lost between the two.

Amusingly, in today’s age of fundamentalism co-existing not-so-peacefully with liberal ideas, the Baloch love story of Hani-Shehmureed would probably not invoke the Hudood Ordinance but would certainly invite the ire of women’s liberation folk and feminists. Shehmureed had been tricked into giving away Hani, then his fiancée, as a reward to a group of musicians. Respecting the prevailing customs, the honorable Shehmureed lived up to his word and backed off from Hani, while she accepted the arrangement to keep his honour. Such selfless “love” is incomprehensible today. On the other hand, in Yusuf  Khan — Sherbano folklore from the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Sherbano was close to receiving the ire of her father and brothers after  she attended to the injured Yusuf Khan by placing his head in her lap. Yet the menfolk of her family were sensible enough to calm down and accede when Yusuf Khan’s mother declared to send a proposal following proper protocol. This is a surprising display of understanding and restraint by the menfolk of tribal areas.

Meanwhile, far from these debates, at Sohni’s shrine in Shahdadpur, Sindh, a faqir sings…

Mainu Paar Laga dey way .. gharya mintan teriyan kardi

Huwa wail naseebon say gharya yaar na mera chootay

O! earthen float, help me across, I beg thee

O! earthen float, I fear losing my hard earned love

Here, Sohni is revered as “Maa Sohni” by some. This is how the masses own romance and love throughout Pakistan. From the rugged hills of the Hindukush through the Indus plains right down to the sands of Makran and the coastal ruins of Bhambore, lovers have been hailed as heroes and heroines of this land. Here, indigenous versions of concerts are performed complete with music and dance; songs of Heer and Sur Sohni ring out loud at the urs of these characters, which are usually public fairs. Can we call these celebrations our versions of Valentine’s Day?

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, February 10^th, 2013.

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One day, while driving past the Mazar-e-Quaid with my family, I heard my four year old son refer to it as the ‘White Masjid’. While a place of worship is certainly deserving of respect, and I did certainly feel a touch of parental pride at his budding deductive abilities, I felt the record had to be set straight. It was time my boy had an introductory meeting with the Quaid-i-Azam, Muhammad Ali Jinnah. It was time Mr Jinnah became more than a mythical character from textbooks for my son.

On the designated day of our formal visit to the Mazar, we paid our parking dues and our per-person entry fees before proceeding to the main podium to pay our respects to the Quaid. Just before ascending the steps, a pan-muddled voice stopped us and asked us to take our footwear off, out of respect, and deposit it for safe custody — for a small charge, of course. For us commoners, there is a price to be paid for visiting the Quaid and an additional charge for being respectful to him. It’s hardly a surprise of course; we have successfully commercialised the Great Leader — even his title “Quaid-e-Azam” has been debased by us to the point where “Quaid-e-Azam ki sifarish” has become a euphemism for bribery!

This is what the Quaid-e-Azam’s bedroom looked like. The cane carelessly resting on the bed, it seems as if the great man has gone to get a drink of water and will be back any second.

From the Quaid’s tomb, we proceeded to visit those of some of his closest confidants, located in a roofed hall besides the podium. These include his sister, Ms Fatima Jinnah, Shaheed-e-Millat Nawabzada Liaquat Ali Khan and his wife Ra’na Liaqat Ali Khan, Sardar Abdur Rab Nishtar and Nurul Amin. The fact that Ms Jinnah was a dental surgeon and Begum Ra’na Liaqat was the brains behind the All Pakistan Women’s Association provides a good deal of insight into the mindsets of the nation’s early leaders. Sardar Sahib was a Muslim League leader and his claim to fame should be his achievements and services, not the common slogan “chalo chalo Nishtar park chalo” that we hear whenever a political party organises a jalsa in the park named after him. Nurul Amin was another Muslim League personality from the Bengal and a thorough patriot. He was sworn in as the first and only Vice President of Pakistan on December 22, 1971. A case of too little and a tad too late, one might say.

Treasures from history: Some of the Quaid’s personal mementos.

The writing on Shaheed-e-Millat Nawabzada Liaquat Ali Khan’s grave is Urdu on one side and Bengali on the other, while on that of his wife, Begum Ra’na Liaquat Ali Khan besides his, is Urdu on one side and English on the other. Sometimes, seemingly minor details give away darker chapters of history that are usually brushed under the rug. One bitter December in 1971 is the difference between the two graves.

Not wanting to explain to a four year old the disappointments and horrors that surround the event, I made a quick exit from the hall before a question was raised regarding the script. How could I explain to my son this sad chapter of my nation’s history when I do not completely understand it myself?

The Quaid’s Iman Zamin

The “Aiwan-e-Nawadirat-e-Quaid-i-Azam”, which is a formal name in Romanised Urdu for the Quaid-i-Azam Museum, located adajacent to the hall housing the other graves, is a must-see. One has to pay an additional little charge here for getting a better glimpse into the life of the father of the nation — and judging by the upkeep of the museum, every paisa is worth it, many times over.

Jinnah’s suits tailored in Europe

Unlike the Quaid’s principles, his belongings have been carefully preserved, after restoration where required, and placed in well-lit glass chambers. His collection of swords and firearms, some of them hand-made gifts, is placed behind a protective metal cage. Although photography is not allowed inside the museum, I had negotiated a special permission as I was writing for the press — but as I was to find out, the protective glass, iron cage and lighting in the hall is not designed to facilitate photography.

The Flying Lady: The Quaid’s Packard.

Shields, mementos and gifts presented to the Quaid all reflect the love and respect that he commanded over millions of hearts from Bengal to Khyber. Also on display are beautiful items of personal use such as ivory napkin holders and a silver cigarette case. His collection of holy books includes one English translation of the Qur’an with a commentary by A Yusuf Ali bound in black hard back, much like his books of law.

Silently looking back at the visitors from a glass case, is an Imam Zamin with the Arabic text “Fi Amaan Allah” (In the safety of Allah), written with zari which has faded over the decades. The Imam Zamin contains five one Rupee coins of the state of Hyderabad. A good biographical museum should be able to transport the visitor for a brief moment into the life of the personality it is dedicated to, regardless of location or time. The “Aiwan” does just that.

Decorative pieces carved out of ivory.

The place has a certain power. It seems as if the frail and graceful man in the black and white pictures will step out of the two-dimensional frames any minute, take a measured walk through his study, pick up a few books, select his favorite suit for the evening and move on. One has to pause and look in admiration at his collection of custom-made designer accessories ranging from engraved buttons to buckskin shoes.  His wardrobe, elegant and enviable included made to order suits stitched by the finest fashion houses of London and Paris. The letters “MAJ” were embroidered on the inner side of some shirts’ collars. One handkerchief in particular caught my attention as it only had the letter “J” — just the way Ruttie Jinnah used to lovingly call him. Was it a gift from his beloved wife? We may never know. It is easy to imagine in this magical space that the fashionably dressed “J” would then be driven off in one of the two vintage sedans — his private 1938 Packard in white and the official Black 1947 Cadillac.

The white Packard

Perhaps Mr Jinnah would like to play golf today or else don his Jodhpur trousers and fancy a horse ride? The man certainly had great taste in fashion, books, furniture, weapons — you name it, he had it. And along with a taste and an eye for the finer things in life, he had the unshakable resolve that helped carve out a nation.

Earlier during this visit, I had come across an old Chitrali lady and her young son, looking for some change for a hundred rupee note. They exchanged currency and pleasantries with me despite their broken Urdu. Later, inside the “Aiwan”, I saw them being insolently reprimanded for attempting to take pictures. The son sheepishly pointed towards me clicking away with abandon and I felt the need to walk over to him and explain that I was permitted to do so for a press assignment. Later, I had to prove my innocence to countless others before finally succumbing to my guilt and packing away my camera altogether.

The Quaid’s golf clubs

The Quaid’s personal life suffered because of his commitment to larger causes. His first wife, Emibai Jinnah, died while he was studying in the UK and little is known about her. While Ruttie “Maryam” Jinnah is relatively well known, in the midst of events leading up to partition and what followed thereafter, she too did not enjoy the undivided attention of the Quaid, nor the public spotlight she deserved. However, here in the museum, behind thick sheets of glass, the spot lights are definitely on her.

The recently deceased maestro Ardeshir Cowasjee, in a July 2000 piece, had expressed gratitude to the Zoroastrian community of Pakistan for conceiving, funding, planting “the Ruttie Jinnah Grove” and “for handing over the completed garden to the Quaid-i-Azam Mazar Managing Board in March 1999 for further and continued upkeep and maintenance”. I looked around on our little walk to the podium but was unable to locate the clump of trees dedicated to Mrs. Jinnah. With my family in tow and the mid-day heat sapping our strength, I did not search the huge mausoleum grounds. Hence, inside the museum, I was pleasantly surprised to find a window dedicated to Ruttie Jinnah, beautifully displaying some of the Quaid’s personal belongings amidst large pictures her.

Jodhpuri pants for horseriding (L) and the dressing gown (R) for more casual moments.

Ruttie Jinnah died on February 20, 1929, on her 29^th Birthday. MC Chagla who was present at the funeral, writes in his book Roses in December, “That was the only time when I found Jinnah betraying some shadow of human weakness: there were actually tears in his eyes. It was, indeed, a tragic sight to see someone so young and beautiful lying in the cold embrace of death.”

Also in the gallery are some pictures of Ms Dina Wadia, the Quaid’s only child, whom Ruttie “Maryam” Jinnah gave birth to. Ms Wadia almost shares her birthday with Pakistan, ie, the night of 14th August, though she was born after midnight and hence technically on the 15^th. She married Neville Wadia, a Parsi, against Mr Jinnah’s wish, and thereafter her relationship with her father became formal to the point that the Quaid addressed her as ‘Mrs Wadia’ in correspondence and she reciprocated by calling her father ‘Mr Jinnah’.

To be Jinnah was to be knowledge, grace, class, commitment and above all sacrifice personified. Physically, the age worn designer shoes of the Quaid on display might be size 10, but the ones we have to fill, as citizens of the nation he created, are much larger.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, December 23^rd, 2012.

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“One can resist the invasion of armies; one cannot resist the invasion of ideas.” This quote by the French author Victor Hugo, best describes the International Defence Exhibition and Seminar (IDEAS) held this November.

IDEAS has had a bad run in the past couple of years, the devastating floods in 2010 caused the event to be cancelled at the last moment and the event was not even held in 2011. However this year, the event has come of age and has provided the perfect platform for launching Pakistani defence products in the international arena.

As a child I grew up watching the Pakistan Day parade and wondered why it didn’t take place in my city. It was to satisfy the curiosity of the inner child and re-live that nostalgia that I visited IDEAS 2012 held in Karachi.

There were a number of international exhibitors but I was more interested in the wide variety of Pakistani products present. The JF-17 Thunders, the Karakorams, the Mashaks and the Al-Zarrar and Al-Khalid tanks are undoubtedly the pinnacle of Pakistan’s indigenous defence production. But I would like to highlight some of the lesser known gems that the local manufacturers had to offer — from the bizarrely simple to those straight out of a sci-fi movie.

A concert that wasn’t

At a huge stall belonging to the Global Industrial and Defence Solutions (GIDS), I spied what looked like a set of acoustic microphones and some very high tech speakers. It turned out that the microphones were part of what is called the Gunshot Detection System or GDS and it does exactly what its name suggests. The GDS can detect and convey the location of gunfire by using shock-waves created by the bullet. What’s even cooler is that an automatic machine gun can be configured with the system to lock onto the shooter’s position to return fire almost immediately! The “speakers” turned out to be explosion proof lights that could stand the shock-wave of a blast.

KITT — Meets HIT (Heavy Industries Taxila)

This took me back to the days when Knight Rider was king of the airwaves. This is a White Toyota Altis with dark tinted glasses. Nothing exciting about that, you say?” Well, the car is bullet proof and explosion proof! Capable of withstanding a barrage of gun-fire, grenade attacks and even IED blasts. Not even flat tyres can stop this car! HIT have improvised on their knowledge of armour plating gained from years of producing APCs and tanks. The package comes with reinforced chassis and shocks and a supercharger to compensate for the extra weight of the armour. Quite handy for Karachi driving too, I would imagine.

Drones in Droves

What’s a defence expo without drones? Pakistani manufacturers had their own drones on display. Once again, GIDS led the way with its local Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV), Shahpar, which has a wingspan of 6.6 metres. With its 250 kilometre range, 50 kilogramme payload capacity and day and night operational capability, it lives up to its grandiose title. Integrated Dynamics (ID) was another promising manufacturer of UAVs that offered a range of military and civilian drones. Interestingly, ID has exported some of its products to Australia, Italy and even the US!

Quad-rotors and Hexa-Rotors — VR — Goggles

National Radio and Telecommunication Corporation (NRTC) were showing off a product that reminded me of the surveillance quad-rotor that Rancho from 3 Idiots helped build. Well, the NRTC had a high-tech version of that at IDEAS, called the Air Scout. This unmanned aerial system (UAS) has search and rescue abilities, urban surveillance and counter-terrorism potential. The built-in cameras can provide live video feeds and can be customised for thermal imaging, night vision, extended flight or weather proofing. Imagine the advantages of having one hovering between buildings and reporting on the proceedings at a rally, procession, protest or dharna! The system comes with a cool set of goggles that provide the pilot with point of view video for controlling the craft.

Virtual Battlefield

A simulation can be something as basic and physical as “net practice” in cricket or as advanced and sci-fi as the simulated “worlds” onboard the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek. The Military Vehicles Research and Development Establishment (MVRDE) have built cutting edge tank simulators complete with life-like pods. These pods are mounted on hydraulic systems that let the driver experience a simulated battlefield. MVRDE has also created a simulated shooting range. The “Shooter Profile System” is capable of analysing all the parameters that a shooter has to master, including breath control and pre-fire anxiety. To top off things, the G3 rifle’s recoil mode can be switched on to give you a real “jhatka”! They also had showcased their ATGM (Anti Tank Guided Missile) simulator which was very popular with some young engineers attending the exhibition.

The Golden Gun

One of the reasons I love IDEAS is that you can find all kinds of weapons there, from the gun that can be fired around corners to the gold-plated sub-machine gun. Yes you heard that right, a gun that can be fired around corners! The POF EYE, created by the Pakistan Ordnance Factories, allows the shooter to see, and fire, a gun around corners. Future versions will include night vision, infra-red vision and would also be able to transmit the video feed back to base in real time!

All Blown Up

Last, but not least; I came across a couple of stalls that reminded me of the inflatable jumping castles. These are actually inflatable decoys which mimic aircraft and military equipment.  Before I left, I could not help but stop at the stall serving piping hot curries with scrumptious looking parathas. I was invited to try the food and after my appetite was satisfied, I enquired what it was all about. It turns out that the food I had just polished off was more than a year old! PANA Force makes preserved food without using harmful chemicals. The food comes with a special self-fuelled burner for heating when required, remains fresh for over an year and tastes delicious — this last bit, I speak with experience!

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, December 16^th, 2012.

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When they strapped me up and told me that it was my turn to go, I started reciting the few prayers I know. I had seen the bearded “head of operations” smoking a cigarette earlier, as he pointed me out to his Pashtun accomplice, his eyes invisible behind dark black sunglasses that covered most of his suntanned face.

Before my very eyes, they had similarly strapped a dozen or so people earlier, most of them teenage boys from a school and a couple of ladies, and hurled them off the cliff. I did not get to see the expression on the lady’s face before me, but I did hear her scream as it pierced the serenity on the cliff. And now, it was my turn; my first experiment with paragliding!

Karachi, the city by the sea, is opening up to a number of adventure sports and activities but paragliding is not one of them as the monsoon winds lasting for over half the year pose a huge risk to paragliding enthusiasts. A dearth of suitable cliffs with appropriate landing areas devoid of hazards, such as powerlines etc, and precarious law and order in some suitable areas such as the infamous Kati Pahari, also contribute towards this shortage of locations.

But when a group from Islamabad offered paragliding opportunities during their upcoming visit to Karachi, I grabbed at the opportunity with both hands.

The site they chose was near Mubarak village. Much like its name, the village is “blessed and bountiful” for fishermen and adventure seekers exploring snorkelling, scuba-diving and angling. Our first “air-field” was a relatively flat piece of ground beyond a 25-foot hill, adjacent to the Hub Creek near Sunehra beach. As if the smoke cascading out of the sky-scraping chimney of Hubco Power Plant across the creek wasn’t indication enough, an air-sock was put up to let us know the direction of the wind.

After a bit of “theory” and “dry” warm-up runs on the ground, one-by-one we were harnessed and made to run with the parachute till it was up and providing a lift. After this, we jumped off the tiny hill. The initial flights lasted only a few seconds and were just to prepare us for the later ones, without too much risk. After all, how badly can a person get hurt if he falls off a two-storey-high building onto, notwithstanding rocks, unpaved ground! I still recall my rude but extempore/spontaneous laughter when the first person to take the jump shouted after his five to six second flight “Buss??!!” One of his buddies was even more non-discreet and blurted out “Abey kya duniya ka chakkar lagaye ga!”

After the initial training jumps, we headed to the final site of the day. With all the cars, mostly saloons, neatly parked there, the off-road terrain looked like a corporate parking lot rather than the wilderness. This second cliff was around 80 to 100 feet high with a steady breeze blowing in from the Arabian Sea, which was visible beyond the village.

We were informed that since the height of the take-off site is not much and the breeze blowing in is not too strong either, in order to provide an enjoyable experience, the weight of the backpacks has been reduced by removing the extra protective cushions and reserve parachute! Some reassurance!

The experts started off with the light-weights first and a skinny girl was chosen as the “test-pilot”. The “head of operations” thought the girl was too light and might end up “gone with the wind” so a few bottles of water were added to her backpack to increase the weight. I wondered why they didn’t just put the reserve parachute back.

When it was my turn, the paraglider had to haul a jumbo size weight, so we had a couple of dry-runs before I finally managed to lift off. Somewhere down the line in your life, you learn to let go, and this was just one of those times. All of a sudden, the realisation hits you that you are finally airborne and as a gust of oncoming wind takes you higher, you feel a sudden rush of blood, a moment’s hesitation, for in your decades of age, you are doing something for the very first time. You were too young to remember your first step when you learnt to walk. By the time you learn how to swim, you probably have had a few experiences where on a picnic a wave lifted you off your feet and you came rushing to your parents, shouting that you have learnt how to swim.

But this is different. You’re grown up and know fully well the significance of this transformation. Before this, you are a “being” familiar with a two-dimensional mode of movement — a left-right-straight-and-back routine. Now, one discovers the three-dimensional world that it really is. The addition of “up and down” to the navigational jargon also adds the possibility of “wwwaay waay down — and quick”. Yes, it is strange, giving yourself up to the thin cords of a man-made fibre, which in turn is at the total disposal of the forces of nature, wind, heat from the sun and at that moment, the most fearsome of them all, gravity! Even after the realisation hits you, you keep hoping that the “gravity” of the situation doesn’t!

For the first five seconds or so, I could hear instructions and precautions being hurled at me by the safety crew on the cliff. For the next five seconds, warnings followed along with what I believe could have been a few expletives, for ignoring the instructions, precaution and warnings sent earlier. And then, it really didn’t matter because I was out of reach!

It was my own few moments of peace, away from cell phones and laptops and social media websites. It was good that there was no walkie-talkie to communicate with the instructor, despite a commitment. In fact, it was a blessing in disguise. Who’d want to contaminate “this” peace with the coarse voice of the instructor more keen on getting you to land safely and quickly rather than letting you “explore the world anew” — which is the point of the whole activity.

After an immensely pleasurable time, I realised that if I went any farther, I’d have to turn back “with the wind” towards the landing zone. The technicalities of “flying with the wind” were something that the experts had kept to themselves. Earlier, I had put my own name and number in the “contact in case of emergencies” field in the release form, so I decided not to experiment further and swerved right towards the far end of the safe landing zone.

I would not call the feeling of getting my feet back on the ground a ground-breaking experience, but it sure was an eye-opener for me. We casually flip over the pages of National Geographic and switch through adventure channels at leisure, but now I could better appreciate the amount of training, equipment and sheer hard work that goes behind the smoothly edited pictures and videos that make us go “Wow! I’d like to do that for a living!” It also reminded me of patangbazi from my younger years when I used to wonder what it would feel like to ride a kite, if one could.

Although I would not like to paraglide every day for a living, riding my own kite was definitely an exhilarating experience that I’d love to relive.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, October 28^th, 2012.

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Pakistan has its own chand ka tukra and no, it’s not your khala’s best friend’s bahu as she would have you believe. It is a real piece of the moon, the earth’s natural satellite, hidden away in the coffers of the National Museum of Pakistan in Karachi.

The moon has captivated man’s imagination since prehistoric times but it was only as recently as the 20th century that technology finally enabled man to take practical steps towards reaching this celestial body. The American space agency Nasa ran its Apollo programme of manned and un-manned space missions during the 1960s and 1970s while the Soviets ran their own Luna programme. Eventually, on July 20, 1969, these steps culminated into a “giant leap for mankind” — in the words of the legendary astronaut Neil Armstrong — and a lunar module named “Eagle” from Nasa’s Apollo 11 mission carried Armstrong and his colleague Buzz Aldrin to the moon. The collective sigh of relief from mission control was probably audible as far as the moon and the achievement became the beginning of man’s subsequent trips to the moon, and the moon’s reciprocal trip to earth, Pakistan and finally to me!

Nasa’s Apollo missions resulted in extending the limits of not only science but also culture as we know it. Frank Sinatra’s memorable “Take me to the moon” deservedly became the first song to be played on the moon itself, and the US used the opportunity for some masterful diplomacy. The last of the missions was Apollo 17 which was carried out between December 7 and 19, 1972. Eugene Cernan was the commander of the mission, Ronald Evans the command module pilot and professional geologist Harrison Schmitt was the lunar module pilot. The mission successfully gathered important scientific data as well as a quantity of surface samples. And here, the moon came a step closer to Pakistan.

The Apollo 17 astronauts toured many countries in order to spread the word about the missions. Pakistan, then a much more “allied” ally of the United States, was on their itinerary as well. They arrived in Karachi on June 17, 1973, and the nation welcomed them with aplomb. Everywhere they went, earthlings from Pakistan treated them not just as royalty but as if they were aliens (in a good way). During their whirlwind tour they visited the Quaid’s mausoleum and laid a wreath there in a formal ceremony. From the “first” first lady of Pakistan, the late Begum Rana Liaquat Ali Khan who was then the Governor of Sindh, to the then acting chief minister of Sindh Qaim Ali Shah (yes, the same person who is now the CM), leaders from all sides of the political equator welcomed them.

In the US, the politicians had decided to use the trip as a token of goodwill for the human race and share a piece of the moon with many states of the world. Pakistan was one of them and when the astronauts met Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, then the president of Pakistan, they presented to him a lunar sample from the moon’s surface for Pakistan.

It was not just the politicians and leaders that the “men from the moon” met. The astronauts met Suparco researchers and scientists as the two space agencies had been working together since 1961 and had even conducted joint rocket launches from Pakistan. Some of Suparco’s founding fathers had even received training from Nasa.

The men were treated like national heroes. Their interviews were broadcast by Radio Pakistan and Pakistan Television. No less an anchor than Laiq Ahmed, believed to be the Larry King of Pakistan, conducted the PTV session. As they had visited in safer times, they also held informal Q&A sessions and interactions with students and ordinary Pakistanis and some old-timers recall how they, as young students, had enjoyed the team’s visit to the Karachi University. Such was their commitment to reaching out that when a young man from Karachi named Tariq Moen Shaikh wrote them a letter, they responded to it with an autographed picture as a memento. Speaking about their mission and related experiences, Commander Cernan once said: “We went to explore the moon, and in fact discovered the earth.”

The first time that I came to know that the ‘Pakistani’ moon rock existed was in 2009 when reports started circulating in the international media that a number of moon rock samples presented to various states around the world, including Pakistan, were in fact lost due to conflict, wars or plain incompetence. The Pakistani press also lent credence to these reports. The “news” items disturbed me and I made a few attempts to trace the rock by speaking to my contacts from Islamabad and in Suparco, etc, but to no avail.

I went on to question older family members and they said they knew of it — my uncle had seen it with his college mates when it was displayed at Karachi’s Frere Hall decades ago — but had no idea what had happened since.

Disappointed by people’s apparent indifference to the loss of such an invaluable memento, I went back to my life and job. Little did I know that that would be the best decision I would make in my search for Pakistan’s piece of the moon and, following the news of Armstrong’s demise, I decided I absolutely had to find the memento or at least figure out what had become of it.

As a banker, I often visit the State Bank of Pakistan and during one such visit, oblivious to how fortuitous it would turn out to be, I took a walk through the brilliant museum that is located in the banking regulator’s building. Inspired by all the history housed there, I got in touch with Asma Ibrahim, director of the SBP’s museum and art gallery. She had been instrumental in solving another mystery from history, that of the “Persian Mummy”, over a decade ago and I decided to seek her assistance in this endeavour too. She assured me that the rock was very much in safe custody. And that wasn’t it; she even knew where it was: the reserve collection at the National Museum of Pakistan, Karachi — out of public sight.

I waited impatiently for a Sunday when I would finally get the chance to go see Muhammad Shah Bukhari, the museum’s in-charge, who upon my request promptly arranged for a viewing and photography session of the rock. It was as if the entire state machinery had been guarding that incredible piece of history, almost waiting for someone to come looking for it.

More nervous than I had been during all my job interviews, I waited for the artefact to be brought into the curator’s office. An officer walked in, carrying a wooden panel and an affixed glass sphere, which looked much like a mundane paper weight, immediately grabbed my attention. Embedded in the glass was a piece of dark rock — my own private mini holy grail of sorts! I was over the moon, or at least face-to-face with a tiny fragment of it, and as the initial awe subsided, I studied the other objects fixed on the wooden panel. An inscription on a metal plate beneath the rock read: “This fragment is a portion of a rock from the Taurus Littrow Valley of the moon. It is given as a symbol of the unity of human endeavour and carries with it the hope of the American people for a world at peace.”

Beneath the inscription was a small Pakistani flag, which I thought was there only because the panel was presented to Pakistan. But the biggest surprise for me came when I read another inscription on the metal plate beneath the flag: “This flag of your nation was carried to the moon aboard the Spacecraft America during the Apollo XVII mission, December 7-19, 1972. Presented to the people of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan from the people of the United States of America. Richard Nixon 1973”.

A Pakistani flag that had been to the moon and back, and I had never even known about it! The country that never agrees on a single moon-sighting for Eid had had its flag carried to the moon and has a piece of the lunar surface safely tucked away as something so precious should be.

Neil Armstrong, the first human being to set foot on the moon, has permanently ended his stay on this third rock from the sun. We may have lost him, but it is a heartening feeling that the Pakistani moon rock has not been lost.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, September 16^th, 2012.

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In 2005, a strange demon haunted the scenic Galiyat regions in Pakistan’s north. It was bold enough to prey on humans even during the day time. And so, children were prohibited from wandering off too far into the woods and had to stay mostly indoors. But men and women still had to venture out to perform their daily chores.

The killer’s main target, it appeared, were women, as it ignored the men who ventured into the woods and attacked the ‘weaker’ females only. Finding a prey was easy for men in this part of Pakistan would often travel to other towns for a living while women would be left behind to carry out chores such as rounding up the family’s cattle or collecting fodder and firewood in the forests.

One by one, it killed off six women in a span of only 10 days. The bodies found were often mauled with parts missing, and the wounds appeared to be inflicted by sharp canines. Traps were set to capture or kill this beast and bounties were announced. But the killer was either incredibly smart or unbelievably lucky to avoid most of the traps and ambushes designed to catch it. It appeared from the foliage, killed its targets and went back into the jungle as if it was the forest itself that came to life and claimed its prey.

Shortly after the deaths of the women, a task team was formed that included skilled hunters and trackers. To those who were involved in the project of eliminating this menace, description of its modus operandi was reminiscent of the alien Predators from the 1980s’ Schwarzenegger movie! The man-eater from the Galiyat was so notorious and elusive that it was nicknamed “the Ghost of the Galiyats.” After many frustratingly futile attempts, they finally managed to trap the beast.

The cat, shrouded in mystery and wrapped in myths, was not a Lion or a Tiger, but a relatively smaller member of their family — the common leopard. Lions and tigers kill mostly during the day or often announce their presence with loud roars. But this enigmatic cat leads a mysterious life due to its nocturnal hunting habits, shy nature and secretive lifestyle. It uses a variety of vocalisations, including grunts, growls, meows, ‘sawing’ sounds and of course the occasional roar!

The common leopard blends in with its surroundings, knows how to choose its prey, has learnt to conduct its kills silently and escape without a clue. Such is its terror and mystique that it is often referred to as the “Ghost of the Jungle.” On the Indian Ocean island of Zanzibar where, according to the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN), they are likely extinct, but they still thrive in myths which portray them as ghosts kept by shamans with supernatural powers to hunt and terrorise villagers.

The beast in the Galiyat was so ferocious in its demeanour that even when trapped it managed to scare the living daylights out of its captors. It is said that out of fear, a group of Punjab Police officials killed the caged beast by firing at it from point-blank range. A post-mortem was carried out later, but no human traces were found in the leopard’s digestive tract!

Although, the killings stopped after the incident, some believe that the “ghost” lives on and has only left the Ayubia National Park for greener pastures. The ghost lived up to its name even in death. Each new episode of killings by Common Leopards evokes memories of the ghost for those who lived through its time and many late evening conversations around bonfires in chilling temperatures revolve around questions like “Could it be that the ghost is back from the dead? Or perhaps it never was killed in the first place?”

The cat is now found out of the woods and in populated areas. Deforestation and human encroachment of the forests is slowly resulting in loss of leopard habitat while bringing the animal in close interaction with man. People in the Galiyat and Azad Jammu and Kashmir are increasingly using new tools, such as all-terrain-vehicles (quad bikes), to hunt animals such as deer, pheasants and rabbits that are a leopard’s prey. With shrinking habitat and diminishing food, the leopard often preys on scavenging dogs and monkeys that loiter around garbage dumps near human settlements.

Sometimes, leopards attack cattle which are easier to hunt than their natural prey. An old or injured leopard may find it easy to prey on weaker humans and end up developing a taste for human flesh. In the Kumaon district of northern India in the early 20th century, a leopard is said to have been wounded by a poacher such that the animal was unable to hunt its natural prey. The leopard then turned into a man-eater and is said to have devoured up to 400 people before acclaimed British hunter and conservationist Jim Corbett killed it in 1910.

Luckier leopards are caught alive, fed on government funding and sometimes serve a lifetime jail term in zoos. One such case is the Abbottabad leopard which killed nine-year-old Sohail on November 12, 2011, and 12-year-old Tahira on November 18, 2011, and was trapped while chasing a dog on November 26, 2011.

Humans have turned on these leopards so ferociously that they have almost become an endangered species. In Tibet, for instance, Chuba, a long coat made from leopard and tiger skin, is in vogue and considered a symbol of prosperity. A figure no less than the highest Tibetan priest, the Dalai Lama himself, had to issue a religious decree against wearing tiger and leopard skin to save the poor cats.

In Galiyat and Azad Kashmir, dozens of leopards are being killed for either attacking cattle or humans. Leopard skin is also a treasured item which is used as a gift of honour and a token of respect in this region.

In Sindh, I came across an old gentleman, crooked with age, by the name of Haji Bachal. In the Karchat area of Kirthar Range, he is something of a celebrity for he saved the local livestock by killing off all the “cheetahs” (actually common leopards) of the area.

Most recently, in February, the Rawalpindi district coordination officer (DCO) had to impose Section 144 of the Criminal Procedure Code in his jurisdiction (areas around Murree) in order to save leopards from being hunted down by humans during tourist season.

The Rawalpindi DCO and the Dalai Lama’s initiatives are commendable but they may end in vain, unless humans learn to coexist peacefully with the environment. Garbage dumps, deforestation and irresponsible behaviour are pushing humans and Common Leopards on a collision course. Only one will be able to survive.

In the short run, local do-gooders like Haji Bachal will be hailed as heroes but history books will remember them as exterminators of a beautiful and graceful animal which only wanted to live peacefully and shyly in the environment where nature had placed it.

An indication of our indifferent attitude towards the environment is the fact that amusingly, but no less unfortunately, the animal’s extermination is used as a joke by men given that its apparent prey were women. When I visited the Ayubia National Forest in 2008 with my wife, we went for a walk on the famous ‘Pipeline Track,’ which offers four kilometres of some of the most breathtaking views in the Galiyat region. The track ends at Dunga Gali, where the wildlife department has constructed a small office and a museum. As we stood there looking at a stuffed ‘Suleman Markhor,’ we saw another couple observing the stuffed “Ghost of the Galiyats” besides a sign that read, “This leopard killed six women in (the) Galiyat tract between June 28 and July 7, 2005. It was ultimately shot dead on July 11, 2005, under public pressure.” The wife seemed least interested in wildlife and probably wanted to go shopping in Murree. Irritated by her constant nagging, the husband patted the head of the stuffed “ghost” and sarcastically muttered: “Jaldi mar gaya!” The lady’s ominous reply was: “You can join him on the podium if you’re that sensitive!”

Each year, several common leopards are killed in the Ayubia National Forest. Killings in Azad Kashmir are said to be higher. Measures beyond conferences and awareness campaigns need to be taken promptly, lest all these wonderful creatures become “ghosts of the past.”

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, September 2^nd, 2012.

Standing atop the seaward wall of an ancient fort, a soldier licks off the salty vapours carried by the dawn mist to his lips. The Talpur rulers of Sindh had built this fort to fend off foreign ‘adventurism’ and it served that purpose faithfully till the arrival of the British. The bellows from a container ship’s horn reverberate in the tranquil morning air doesn’t seem to distract either him or the flocking seagulls, who seem well accustomed to man-made disturbances in their natural habitat. Turning back, the soldier brushes his hand over the cold barrel of a huge gun facing the sea. Perhaps he wonders if The Guns of Navarone was shot here. It certainly looks the part.

This is Manora, a part of Karachi that is connected to the mainland by a narrow stretch of land running through the waters of the Arabian Sea. It is thanks to this little land corridor that Manora cannot be called an island; it is in fact a peninsula that nevertheless has the soul of an island. Because just as life on islands is preserved through isolation and evolves without external influences, the aura of Manora has neither been contaminated by development nor religious extremism. Free from the taint of the mainland, it has managed to retain its old monuments and disparate cultures to this day.

Across the street from where I stand, a choir enters St Paul’s Church (built in 1865) in preparation for Sunday Mass. The priests enter just as the Imam exits the mosque next door for his morning walk towards a Hindu temple nearby. Close by, a qawwal party leaves the shrine of Sufi saint Ghazi Yusuf Shah after a night of spiritual music.

Local fishermen pay their respects to this saint on their way out to sea by bringing their blue boats near the shrine and praying for a safe and bountiful journey. And while Abdullah Shah Ghazi may be better known, Ghazi Yusuf Shah is also one of the four saints credited with protecting the four corners of Lady Kolachee’s city from disaster.  His holy presence is credited with miraculously thwarting enemy attacks and diverting countless typhoons that created havoc elsewhere but left Karachi unscathed, even when the first lashes of coming storms were visible from Manora.

Towering above all other buildings is the famous Lighthouse. A testament to British engineering, it still functions on the original wind-up mechanism put in place over 120 years ago. It may be unnecessary to draw a comparison with modern Karachi, where something installed just a month back will tend to go kaput with frightening speed, but I can’t help but gaze at it in wonder and envy. Of course, the kerosene lamp which originally illuminated the waves now desolately gathers dust in the warehouse, replaced by a made-in-China fluorescent bulb. This is how, in Manora, the mystical and the scientific have joined forces to guide sailors to safety through many tempests.

Walking down from the shrine and along the beach, our party of two — my foreigner friend and I — comes across a bazaar. We evade a merchant selling mirrors decorated with cowries and ashtrays made from oyster shells. A little boy invites us to taste his father’s freshly fried fish at their café and we decide to give it a try. Moments later, our fish — the most overcooked we have ever had — arrives beneath thick coats of an orange batter and aromatic herbs. The woody-tasting fish is as fresh as the lighthouse, we joke to ourselves, and comes with a cup of hot liquid which the boy calls tea. One sip of the nauseatingly sweet tea, and my friend decides he knows exactly why there is a sugar crisis in Pakistan.

I share my wooden bench at the café with a jogi snake charmer and his traditional patchwork bag. He is here in Manora for his weekly expedition, looking to earn an extra buck or so from the throngs of visiting picnickers. The boy discreetly points us out — his urban and foreign customers — to passers-by as if to endorse to them the popularity, and palatability, of his father’s fish. And while he is at it, we sit mesmerised by the beauty of the centuries-old stone temple built just where the Arabian Sea kisses land. The exotic vision, the chewy fish and the hot, ultra-sweet tea, the blaring Indian music from the pan shop next door mixed with the prayer calls from the mosque, and the choir chants still resonating in our heads from earlier that morning, make for an unforgettable experience.

From the tea shop, we reluctantly make our way to the jetty from where a ferry would take us back across the polluted channel to the main city that sadly seems to have lost the diversity that still thrives in Manora. As if corroborating my impressions, our boat arrives overflowing with creatures of all castes and creeds. A group of burqa-clad women covered in black overalls is teased by a monkey, a goat and a dog, all belonging to a gypsy performer on the boat. Equally irritated by the unwanted animal advances are Hindu women in multi-coloured saris and over-sized crimson bindis, returning from a visit to the temple. Children from a large family giggle at the predicament of both sets of women, while our amused smiles are returned by sheepish glances from the troubled ladies.

Like the gypsy’s signature patchwork bag, Manora’s diversity is reminiscent of Karachi’s multicultural past — and all that is sadly in stark contrast with its increasingly monochromatic present.

This piece was originally submitted for the British Council’s creative writing competition.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, August 19^th, 2012.

On the way to the first floor galleries of the Pakistan Maritime Museum in Karachi, one comes across a wall with names of martyrs, or Shaheeds, who died during the 1965 and 1971 wars. The list includes a section titled Ghazi, a word that refers to warriors who return victorious and alive. I wondered why Ghazis appeared on a list that was supposed to name martyrs.

A sailor on duty explained to me that it was a reference to PNS Ghazi, a Pakistan Navy submarine that had disappeared with all its men on board. Although the Pakistan Navy had named them Ghazi, fate put them on the higher pedestal of Shaheed. I went through row upon row of names, each of which represented a life cut short by war, a family denied another chance to share its joys and sorrows, the names of men who left home on a mission for the motherland and never returned.

Forty years have gone by since those 93 brave men, including their leader Commander Zafar Muhammad Khan, died as the submarine sank in the Bay of Bengal, off the Visakhapatnam coast, under mysterious circumstances at the onset of the 1971 war.

The PNS Ghazi was originally the USS Diablo, a long-range Tench class submarine commissioned by the US Navy on March 31, 1945. It served the US Navy mainly on the Atlantic side and the Caribbean Sea until it was de-commissioned on June 1, 1964, and transferred to Pakistan under an agreement. For their brilliant performance in the 1965 war, the submarine won 10 awards, including two Sitara-e-Jurat decorations.

On November 14, 1971, PNS Ghazi sailed out of Karachi harbour on a seemingly impossible mission. It was to sail past the Western Indian defences, south along enemy shores to loop around Sri Lanka and then head North to the Bay of Bengal more than 3,000 miles away from its home base.

It will forever remain a mystery exactly what objectives were contained in its Top Secret brief, to be opened only mid-mission, when the craft was deep behind enemy lines. Tempting Indian naval assets in the region, such as the aircraft carrier Vikrant, could have been on its target list. After completing its mission, the Ghazi was supposed to report to Chittagong. The then East Pakistani ports, neglected under the specious doctrine of “the defence of the East lies in the West”, were hardly even capable of handling a grand boat like the Ghazi and it’s also possible that the Ghazi was to augment the Eastern naval forces, which comprised of little more than gun boats and a few riverine crafts.

With its 11,000-mile range, designed for the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, and the surprise and stealth factor of a submarine, the Ghazi was the only vessel capable of confronting the enemy in its own lair. The Ghazi reached Visakhapatnam, the headquarters of India’s Eastern Naval command, and proceeded to mine the entrance channel of the port. Had the Ghazi been able to complete this task, the entire Indian Eastern Naval fleet would have been bottled up in their own port. But that was not to be.

The answer to “What happened next?” depends largely upon where you search for it. Histories written on both sides of the border are likely to serve perceived national interests more than they serve the cause of accuracy.

GM Hiranandani, a retired vice admiral of the Indian Navy, writes in his book Transition to Triumph that the Ghazi was lured by reports indicating the presence of the Vikrant, which was actually stationed far away in safety.

Once the Ghazi took the bait, depth charges were dropped on the orders of Lt-Commander Inder Singh, the captain of the Indian destroyer INS Rajput, as the Ghazi exited the port’s channel. This resulted in the sinking of the Ghazi and Lt-Commander Singh was later decorated with the Indian gallantry award Vir Chakra.

The Pakistani version, as laid out by the Directorate of Public Relations — Pakistan Navy, is that probably due to high currents in the Bay of Bengal, the Ghazi hit a mine that it had laid down itself. Whatever the truth, the incident marked the first time a submarine sank during a war after the Second World War.

Interestingly, the Indian Government turned down requests by the US and the then-USSR to raise the submerged sub from the sea. In 2010, all records related to the sinking of the Ghazi were also reported to have been destroyed by the Indian Navy. Lt General (retd) JFR Jacob, who served as the chief of staff of the Indian Army’s Eastern Command during the 1971 war, suggested in a May 2010 article that the Ghazi had met an accidental end and the Indian Navy had nothing to do with its sinking, hence the destruction of the records. Many other heavyweights on the Indian side also share this scepticism of the Indian Navy’s official stance.

To gain an independent opinion, I got in touch with the veteran USS Diablo crew who had served on the boat before it became PNS Ghazi. They had studied sonar pictures and sketches of the sunken vessel and believed that an explosion in the Forward Torpedo Room (FTR) destroyed the Ghazi. This view is also shared by Indian journalist Sandeep Unnithan, who specialises in military and strategic analysis.

Underwater video footage obtained by divers also shows jagged portions of the FTR jutting outwards, adding credence to the internal explosion theory.

Hours after the Indian government officially announced the sinking of the Ghazi on December 9, 1971 (almost ten days after the actual event), a Pakistani submarine PNS Hangor engaged in a death-defying duel with two anti-submarine vessels of the Indian navy which were sent to find and destroy it. Hangor, literally meaning “Shark” in Bengali, certainly had a bite worth its nickname. It not only managed to evade its hunters, it also sunk the INS Khukri and damaged the INS Kirpan. This was the first time after World War II that a submarine claimed a confirmed kill.

A few days after the Ghazi’s destruction, Indian divers opened up the vessel and entered it to recover whatever valuable information they could. They salvaged some objects, a few of which are displayed at an Indian war-time museum nearby. Unnithan wrote that the divers also came across some bodies, among them a sailor who “had in his pocket a poignant letter written in Urdu to his fiancé: ‘I do not know if you will ever read this, but we are here separated by thousands of miles of sea…’”

Forty years later, as I stood in a museum those very thousands of miles away, I wondered which sailor it was among these countless names who had written the letter.

Those men wrote a tale of bravery across the waters of the Indian Ocean and paid the highest price for it. Even four decades on, their courage and efforts must not be forgotten.

Their last resting place reminds me of Rupert Brooke, an English poet who volunteered for service in the navy during the First World War and wrote a poem titled “The Soldier”:

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England. There shall be

In that rich earth, a richer dust concealed;

Rupert Brooke died on duty and was buried in Greece — a foreign land. The poem would be a fitting tribute to the 93 Pakistanis who, like Brooke, died on another land while serving their own.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, May 27^th, 2012.