I still remember my first time,” says Jugnu*, her face pale under the white tubelight of her cramped room. “I was only 13 but was dressed to the nines. I wore jewellery and makeup, and even though I was told I looked beautiful, I felt shy and embarrassed and did not want to go dance.”
Jugnu’s paternal aunt, who was a dancer like Jugnu but had retired by then, had a talk with her niece to settle her nerves. “She said, this is our family profession and that our women had been doing it for ages. Why should I feel ashamed of it? As she spoke, something inside me began to melt. Slowly I felt much better.”
She remembers entering the small room called the ‘time-kamra’ or ‘office’. Two or three ‘tamashbeen’ [spectators] sat there, while her own troupe — the musicians and her aunt — accompanied her. It was a small private baithak [gathering], and once Jugnu began her dance she forgot all her fears. “I don’t remember which song I danced to,” she grins, flashing paan-stained teeth under her dark lips. “But I do remember it was Madam’s song.”
Like all dancing girls in the Shahi Mohallah, or specifically in the red light district called Heera Mandi, there is a money-throwing ritual at dance performances. Back in those days, the going rate for a new dancer would have been around 400 to 500 rupees. But Jugnu danced so well that she herself got around 2,500 rupees. “That means 2,500 rupees each — for everyone in that room,” she says. “We always distribute equally after a baithak.”
Jugnu still retains her attraction but has become a little plump, after bearing two children with different men – which can be a downfall for dancing girls. It is possible to think that this woman could have done better by making a living out of dancing. But after official sanction against red light districts, her family, like many others, moved away to another neighbouring area known as Baagh Munshi Ladda. It is now also known as the ‘new Heera Mandi’ although nothing in the new locality is reminiscent of the old area.
To call it a baagh [garden] is an overstatement, however.
Jugnu’s own house is windowless and grotty. With four children and three adults as occupants, it is in a constant state of disarray. Her room is cramped and empty but for a whirring pedestal fan, a very thin and stained mattress and pillow, and tiny oil lamps sitting in a row on a bare concrete shelf.
For Jugnu’s mother Zeba*, who is from Gujrat but was married to a man known only superficially to her father, it was a shock to discover that her in-laws were from a paisha [vocation] that was considered taboo.
“But in Kanjar families, daughters-in-law are not meant to carry on the tradition of singing and dancing,” says Zeba, now 47. “So my other two daughters were trained in singing, but they both died. Now I only have Jugnu.”
There are two majority communities who reside and work in Heera Mandi. One of them is the Kanjars, whose women carry on the tradition of singing and dancing. The other is Mirasis — musicians and trainers of the Kanjar women. Irrespective of whether they sell their bodies, however, Kanjar women are viewed as prostitutes even though that might not always be the case.
“A girl’s birth brings celebrations,” says Zeba. “When a boy is born, however, there is sorrow. Even today, it is Jugnu who is the breadwinner of this family. She is taking care of her own children as well as her sisters. Her brother only earns daily wages.”
Like all Kanjar women, Jugnu too has been ‘married’ but without a nikahnama [certificate of marriage]. She has had a business contract with the three or four men she married, which she says lasts for a night in return for a large sum of money. “My father arranged it with a gold businessman the first time, and he paid around 30,000 rupees for it. Even our servants were paid 5,000 rupees each. I was only 13 and embarrassed, hurt and scared. But I got over it fast.”
Like all such men, that businessman too did not return.
“It was not easy for a man to come too close to a woman in a kotha back in those days,” she says. “We were surrounded by our tabla player, sheesha player, dhol wala, naika [a senior woman chaperone], and the flower man would come and so did the money seller,” she says. “There was a courtship ritual in getting to know the woman first and then coming closer. The man could not just use and abuse. We were protected by our community.”
A REGAL FIXATION
Even today, the idea of Heera Mandi remains as exotic as ever to most. Many believe that even now, they might catch a sight of some dancing girls or perhaps hear a mujra in the distance. It seems thrilling and adventurous, tinged with the secrecy of illicit excitement.
But today, a trip down the lane opposite the regal Badshahi Mosque and the Lahore Fort shows that the age-old culture of the bazaar has vanished. In its place now are shoe shops and warehouses, many of them manufacturing set-ups. All the buildings which once used to be kothas are now decrepit, dusty skeletons. The time-kamra is now just home to piles of sawdust and leather.
“Local culture and music are important for all civilizations,” says Mian Yousuf Salahuddin, better known as Yousuf Salli. “But the way ours was killed off, it is indeed a very tragic thing.”
Salli lives smack in the centre of the Taxali gate area. His ancestral Haveli Barood Khana was originally built by the Sikhs during their rule in Punjab and was meant for storing gun-powder, weapons and ammunition, hence its name. But after the first Muslim mayor of Lahore, Mian Amiruddin, bought it in 1870, the haveli has stayed in the family and has been passed down generation after generation. If Salli’s paternal grandfather was the mayor, then his maternal grandfather was the great poet Sir Muhammad Iqbal. And through the times, Salli has become renowned for being an unofficial patron of the arts and culture.
“Good singers are not easy to find anymore,” argues Salli. He talks of the great musicians who came out of this area, including Ustad Taafu, whose entire family still lives at Bhaati Gate — a place famous for musicians’ residences and music shops. “There was Ustad Barkat Ali Khan, Fateh Ali Khan, Amanat Ali Khan,” he says. Besides there were some great gaikas (women singers) including Farida Khanum and Noor Jahan who received their training from the ustads here.
In the old days, kotha singing had a very particular style of ghazal singing. It was more experimental and flexible — a slight step further than that of ‘thumri’.
“If you really want to see that ghungroo dance or listen to that calibre of singing again, you cannot find it,” argues Salli.
After the Zia regime when all this was banned, there was obviously economic depression in the area,” says Dara Anjum, historian and Director of the Lahore Fort. “Building owners who were charging, say 5,000 rupees in rent from a Kanjar family, were not being paid timely because business for the Kanjar community was slow. When other businessmen like the shoe manufacturers offered double the rent, the building owners were forced to evict their tenants.”
There was a third and worse option — dropping to the lowest of the low and selling sex for however much it took. But because Kanjar girls knew the skill of performing arts, many were picked to go to the film industry. Others became renowned singers. The ones who weren’t as talented simply moved out. Some including Jugnu even tried their luck at dancing in the Middle East.
Although most people refer to General Ziaul Haq’s Islamicisation drive for cracking down on prostitution in the area, Fouzia Saeed in her groundbreaking research book titled Taboo! The Hidden Culture of a Red Light Area says that it was General Ayub Khan who placed severe restrictions on the activities in the Shahi Mohallah.
Later on, only the musicians and dancers were allowed back to perform for a restricted time. Since Tibbi Gali, one of the major by-lanes housing brothels, did not offer any performing arts, it could never reopen for mere prostitution. Saeed writes in her book that every regime since then has retained the policy but it was strictly enforced by the police under General Zia.
“Bazaar-i-Husn moved many times before it reached Heera Mandi here,” says Salli. “Before this it used to be at Purani Anarkali and also Choona Mandi. The basic fact is that in those days, there was no radio or TV and obviously live singing was the only entertainment among all classes of people.”
In those times, singers were held in such high esteem that they were given associations from their place of birth. From Akhtari Bai Faizabadi (later known as Begum Akhtar) to Khurshid Bai Hujrowali, who was Iqbal’s favourite and was known for singing Shikwa and Jawab-i-Shikwa, these gaikas won the hearts of many.
But despite the cultural capital being provided by Heera Mandi, Salli remembers when the curtains began dropping in the baithak doorways during General Zia’s regime. In the 1988 by-elections after the rise of the PML-N, several people working at the kothas were picked up overnight and held in custody. “That was the turning point. I was an MPA at the time with Jahangir Badr was the MNA. Although our area was the Data Darbar, we both tried to explain to the police and authorities to let those poor people go.”
Was the government successful in its objectives?
“They talk about shutting down prostitution in Heera Mandi,” says Salli, “And I am not supporting sex work, but today half of Gulberg and Defence have become Heera Mandis in their own way.”
DEATH OF AN ECONOMY
Tablanawaz Tauqueer Hussain hails from the Mirasi community of Heera Mandi. He began playing the tabla at the age of 13 and laughs out aloud when he is asked to remember the good old days. “Thank heavens my father made me learn a different skill,” says the now 50-year-old. “Nowadays I fix musical instruments.”
Hussain owns a cramped shop outside Tibbi Market, and his son helps him too, along with studying and expanding into the DJ business. But for Hussain, his soul and spirit were playing the tabla in an atmosphere where it was appreciated.
“At least 200 people were involved in every dancing session: the audience,” he claims. “These included the flower boy, the money seller, the musicians and the dancer.”
Indeed, the artists and musicians from Heera Mandi all lament the slow suffocation faced by the red light district. While the trained lot found one opportunity or another, a newer generation of dancers and musicians also emerged. The older lot accuses them of having cheapened the art.
For instance, Jugnu’s voice drips of derision as she speaks of the new breed of dancing women. “We were taught by great musicians, and every sur and taal of their tabla was studied,” she says. “We moved according to these beats. We earned with our feet. Today these dou-numberies [copycats] are doing vulgar dances.”
And what of the events she performs at?
“In private gatherings, we encounter the worst of the lot,” says Jugnu. “Most men behave with us as if we are ordinary whores.”
END OF AN ERA
It is often said that the women of the red light district are in command of their sexuality as well as their skills in art. But today, the demand for something crasser has come up and even they cannot do anything about it.
“Today men — who are our market — do not want art. They do not wish to woo the women here in the grand old tradition,” says Jugnu. “Today all they look for is instant sexual gratification, and that is what has resulted in a desolate Heera Mandi. [Our clients] used to come only to be in our company, to see an art being performed live.”
But the fact of the matter is that the market itself has changed. Nobody seems to want these women’s company any more. High culture left the area and was replaced by a crass demand for sexual services.
It is for this reason that the dark, shadowy area of Tibbi Gali is still dotted with girls as young as 15 and women as old as 60, toothless and wrinkled, standing in the doorways beckoning any man who passes by. So desperate are they to make ends meet that some will have sex with strangers for as low as 100 rupees. Others charge much less, as low as five rupees in some cases. The exchange purposely happens in the dark, often behind a grimy curtain, so that the faces and bodies of the prostitutes are hidden and their age cannot be ascertained.
Zeba sums up the situation aptly: “Heeron ka bazaar aaj mochion ka bazaar ban gaya hay [The bazaar of diamonds has been relegated to a bazaar of cobblers].”
*Names changed to protect privacy.
The writer is a member of staff.
She tweets @XariJalil
Published in Dawn, EOS, April 30th, 2017
In April 2016, Waseemullah, a second year student at the Aga Khan School of Nursing, hanged himself from the ceiling fan of his room. According to his friends, he was a lively boy who had come all the way from Gilgit to pursue his studies on a full-term scholarship. Friends say he had a promising career to look forward to.
Waseemullah isn’t the only suicide victim in this dorm — some news reports claim that around five students have taken their lives in the same dormitory in the last few years. In fact, a 21-year-old medical student from Chitral committed suicide in the very same room as Waseemullah’s in April 2010.
Waseemullah’s case and those of his peers are indications of an unaddressed and seemingly increasing problem among Pakistani youth. The Karachi-based Madadgar police helpline national database shows that in the first six months of 2015, around 1,061 suicide attempts were reported, which are speculated to be almost double this year. National media reports and anecdotal evidence also indicate a rise in suicide rates in the 14 to 30-year-old age group.
According to a 2012 World Health Organisation (WHO) report, “There are around 15,000 suicides committed in Pakistan annually.” Dr Murad Khan, chairman of the Department of Psychiatry at Aga Khan University Hospital, Karachi, earlier estimated that there are “5,000 to 7,000 suicides yearly. Of these, approximately 25 per cent of the cases would be in teens and over 50 per cent occur in youth under the age of 30 years.”
Youth suicide has been emerging as a threatening issue in recent years across the world. A 2014 WHO report estimated, “around two million teenagers commit suicide worldwide while four million adolescents attempt it.”
South Asia is considered the world’s suicide focal point. In India, according to a 2012 National Crime Bureau Report, “around 20 students kill themselves everyday due to stress related to exams and competition for admissions in reputable educational institutions.”
While high suicide rates among Pakistani youth remain a concern for the public and authorities alike, the exact extent of the problem is hard to determine. The deep social stigma attached to suicide means a large number of such cases are swept under the carpet.
In addition to suicide being prohibited in Islam (as it is in other religions), it is considered a criminal offence punishable with imprisonment and financial penalty in Pakistan. This means most suicide survivors and families of suicide victims are reluctant to discuss the topic in public or to admit to it on record which makes it difficult for researchers and authorities to ascertain the exact number of suicides and attempted suicides in the country.
According to the Royal College of Psychiatrists, around 29 percent of youth displayed clinical levels of psychological distress while suicide had increased by 170 percent globally in the last two decades up to 2015. In the local context, Dr Khan estimates that almost 34 percent of Pakistani population suffers from mental disorders, and depression is implicated in more than 90 percent of suicide cases.
In absence of any authentic official national data on suicide, researchers like Dr Khan agreed that one has to rely on the accumulating anecdotal evidence that suicide rates have increased in Pakistan over the last few years.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place — do students at campuses have anyone to turn to for help?
If one looks closely at many of the suicide cases to get national attention, authoritarianism and the high pressure environment of academia seems to have played a role.
In February 2016, Saqiba, a 17-year-old college student, first position-holder of Matric Board from district Qila Saifullah, Balochistan, swallowed sleeping pills when, according to her statement, her college principal refused to send her an examination form she needed. The principal allegedly did so as retaliation for Saqiba leading a protest against the negligence of school authorities regarding the arrangement of teachers and classes for almost a year.
In April 2016, 27-year-old Abdul Basit, a final year dental student at Hamdard University, immolated himself in front of his university campus when barred from appearing in the final exam for arriving late. According to his college principal, Basit was enrolled in the four-year Bachelors of Dental Sciences programme since 2007, but failed every year.
These incidents are just the tip of the iceberg and are among the few that have come to the public attention due to extensive media coverage.
But while much has been covered on the incidents, there is little public conversation about what could have been done to prevent suicides and what drove Waseemullah, Saqiba and Basit to commit suicide on what might have been considered minor setbacks by many.
Could Basit have been steered away from his plans of self-immolation if he had a counselling service on campus that he could turn to for help? Would Saqiba still be alive if she had a university board to appeal the alleged unfair treatment meted out by the college principal? Or had someone to discuss her quandary with? How much pressure did these students face on campus? These are essential questions that still remain unanswered in the national narrative around suicide among youth.
Despite the evidently rising demand for mental health services by the educated youth of Pakistan, there are hardly a few educational institutions that offer consultation and mentoring facilities to its students with psychological and emotional issues. Though some private schools, colleges and universities partially hire educational psychologists on a need-basis, the role of student counsellors is often limited to disciplinary matters and student activities in most educational institutions.
What pushes so many youth over the edge?
A large majority of victims apparently attempt suicide on issues related to domestic affairs, academic challenges and financial crunch.
“Youth of this age have to handle multiple pressures, cut-throat competition and unrealistic parental and social expectations,” says Dr Uzma Ambreen, a renowned psychiatrist and medical director of Karachi-based Recovery House. “Most youngsters are just pushed into the rat race of grades and prominence irrespective of their aptitude and capacity. Patience, stress management and problem solving required for handling such challenges of life are simply missing at this tender age especially in the absence of supportive family, friends and mentors.”
The details of each case might be somewhat different. However, most suicide attempts revolve around fear, hopelessness and unrealistic expectations related to academic and professional success, social acceptance and relationships.
What is disturbing is the growing involvement of juveniles in such cases. In February 2016, for example, two disturbing incidents were reported where 14-year-old Salman in Peshawar and 16-year-olds, Navroz and Fatima, in Karachi shot themselves when their parents refused to accept their childhood affairs.
The second incident specifically raised several questions about society’s deteriorating value system, in which a 10th grade student killed his girlfriend and himself in school. Apparently inspired by recent Bollywood movies, the victims left a suicide note requesting for adjacent graves like filmy lovers.
Dr Anusha, a clinical psychologist based in Kerala, South India (with the highest literacy and suicide rate) said “Our children are living under immense pressure to deliver, succeed, live their parents’ dreams and make them proud.”
Dr Nosheen Shahzad, an educational psychologist and director of Karachi’s Neuro-Psychology Center identifies three dimensions of suicidal-thoughts including personality type, parent-child relationship and environment (having many factors such as peer pressure, need for social acceptance, companionship and sense of purpose).
PhD scholar and faculty in a private university in Karachi Dua shared her teenage suicide attempt in the following words: “At the age of 13, I struggled with my studies. I used to be an average student with a low self-esteem. My father always compared me with the high-achiever children of his friend. One day I failed a math test and hid my result from my parents. However, during a parent-teacher meeting they learnt about it and really got mad at me. I was so upset that I took some pills to die. Apparently, the pills were not harmful so I didn’t end up in the hospital and overslept only.”
The disturbing fact is that Dua attempted suicide due to immense parental pressure but they remained unaware of her agony for long. She did not go for any therapy; however, her mother has been her biggest supporter throughout her teenage year.
“As I grew up, I have made peace with the fact that no matter what I do, I can’t please my father. I am grateful that I survived and came out of this miserable state,” she added.
Ideally, education should make the young generation mentally stronger, enabling them to develop coping strategies for facing the challenges of life. On the contrary, our existing knowledge-based education system and isolated family set-up somehow fail to nurture the survival skills in our youth. While a few, such as Dua, survive, until we have a public conversation on how better to support our youth emotionally, it’s only a matter of time till another story similar to Waseemullah’s or Saqiba’s hits the headlines.
Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine
Two female college students in Jhelum were found to have been playing the dangerous Blue Whale challenge, a game that encourages self-harm and eventual suicide among its victims, after it emerged that they had inflicted injuries on their arms with a blade.
The two girls, who were students of grade 11 and 12 at Government Girls Degree College Pind Dadan Khan in Jhelum, were expelled from the college after the revelation, officials told DawnNews.
Raheela Chandni, the college principal, called the students' parents to explain the situation after tip-off from a third student who discovered that the girls had been playing the game.
The principal told DawnNews that she decided to expel the two girls after talking to their parents so as to "prevent other students of the college from being influenced" by the phenomenon.
One of the two girls had reached level 18 of the game, while the other was playing level 22. Both had made carvings on their arms using a sharp-edged tool.
The Blue Whale challenge is an online game in which the administrator (also known as the curator) sets challenges and tasks for the player over a 50-day period. Players are encouraged to perform acts of self-harm, such as carving the outline of a blue whale on their arms with a razor and then submitting the photo to the curator as proof, and other activities aimed at psychologically destabilising the target and causing him or her to become increasingly socially isolated.
Some challenges require you to go an entire day without talking to anyone, and others require you to wake up at odd hours and watch disturbing videos sent you by the curator.
While tasks vary from curator to curator, the final task is always the same: suicide. Indeed, the name of the game is said to refer to the tendency of whales to beach themselves for unknown reasons, thus in effect committing suicide.
While there has been anecdotal evidence and rumours that the game has also made its way to Pakistan, there have recently also been reports in the media to that effect.
Dr Imran, a psychiatrist at Peshawar’s Khyber Teaching Hospital, earlier claimed that two young men from Mardan approached him for treatment after suffering depression while attempting to complete the challenge.
They were the lucky ones because, as Dr Khan related, they realised that the game would harm them, so they decided to see a doctor. It is the emotionally vulnerable and socially isolated who are most at risk, and these are the people the game targets.
Pakistan's Mission to the United Nations (UN), responding on Monday to a photograph mix-up made earlier by Pakistan's Permanent Representative to the UN Maleeha Lodhi, accused India of hiding behind a picture to divert the world's attention from the situation on the ground in India-held Kashmir (IHK).
Lodhi, during a fiery speech in the UN General Assembly on Saturday, had shared photographs of victims of pellet gun attacks ─ infamous for depriving victims of their sight ─ purportedly taken in held Kashmir.
One of the photographs shown by Lodhi, however, stirred controversy when observers pointed out it was a picture of a Palestinian girl injured by strikes in Gaza, taken by photographer Heidi Levine in 2014.
Indian media outlets were quick to point out that Lodhi had erred, and the diplomat came under fire on social media for the blunder.
The Indian mission to the UN, exercising its right of reply, lambasted Lodhi for "callously holding a picture of an injured girl", and accused her of seeking to divert attention from "Pakistan's role as the hub of global terrorism".
Lodhi "misled this assembly by displaying this picture to spread falsehoods about India, a fake picture to push a completely false narrative," an Indian diplomat alleged. She went on to share a photograph of an Indian soldier allegedly killed by militants in held Kashmir's Shopian district.
Pakistan's mission, in its latest rejoinder to India, asserted: "No matter how many times you repeat a lie, it does not and cannot hide the truth."
The Pakistani representative claimed the Indian representative had "once again chosen to divert the attention of the international community from the real issue ─ the real issue of human life, of human eyes, of children and infants blinded forever, of women raped and elderly killed every day by the reign of brutality unleashed by occupation forces in Indian-occupied Jammu and Kashmir."
"The real issue is of Security Council resolutions, which India refuses to implement," the Pakistani representative said.
"No matter how many times you repeat a lie, it does not and cannot hide the truth. Raking up debate on pictures has backfired," he maintained.
"India, who kills and tortures innocent Kashmiris, is seeking to hide behind a photograph," he claimed, adding: "Indian state terrorism has been amply documented by successive human rights reports from various international organisations. There are thousands of those pictures for everyone to see."
"India’s diversionary tactics will not change the situation on ground. It is the situation on ground that India has to answer for. It is its war crimes that India has to answer for. It is the call for legality, morality and conscience that it has to answer for," he asserted.
The Pakistani representative went on to accuse Indian leaders of "pursuing a policy of state sponsorship of terrorism, funding and arming terrorist organisations like the Tehreek-i-Taliban Pakistan and the Jamaatul Ahrar to launch terror attacks inside Pakistan" as part of its strategy to become "a regional hegemon".
"India is churning out operatives of mayhem from its factories of terror," he said. "Operatives like Commander Jadhav, who are spreading terror and violence across Pakistan. We caught Jadhav red-handed, we will catch others as well and bring them to justice," he said.
Although the photograph shown by Ambassador Lodhi does appear to be an old photograph of a girl in Gaza, the use of pellet guns by Indian forces against Kashmiris has been criticised on the record by rights organisations such as Amnesty International.
Amnesty has called on India to immediately ban the use of shotguns by government forces in suppressing anti-India protests in IHK.
It has also criticised Indian authorities for failing to support those who have been injured and disabled by the weapons.
Amnesty's India chapter head Aakar Patel said earlier this month: "Authorities claim the pellet shotgun is not lethal, but the injuries and deaths caused by this cruel weapon bear testimony to how dangerous, inaccurate and indiscriminate it is. There is no proper way to use pellet-firing shotguns."
Patel said shotguns had caused immense suffering in Kashmir and are not used anywhere else in India.
"This weapon has only been reserved for Kashmiris," he had noted. "It is irresponsible of authorities to continue the use of these shotguns despite being aware of the damage they do."
The group issued a report, ‘Losing Sight in Kashmir: The Impact of Pellet-Firing Shotguns’, which profiles 88 people whose eyesight was damaged by metal pellets fired by Indian forces between 2014 and 2017, showcasing what it called the "human cost of the [Indian] government’s heavy-handed crackdown in [India-held] Kashmir". The report includes the stories of 14 female victims who were wounded inside their homes.
"These inherently inaccurate shotguns fire hundreds of metal pellets which spread over a wide area," the report said.
It further said pellets alone have killed at least 14 people in a little more than a year since then.
"Authorities have a duty to maintain public order, but using pellet shotguns is not the solution," Patel said.
"Security forces must address stone-throwing or other violence by protesters by means that allow for better targeting or more control over the harm caused."
To have a parent support the artistic endeavours of their children is nothing short of a blessing in a conformist society like Pakistan's ─ one in which a large majority actively discourages critical thinking, clips freedom of thought and moderates choices in its pursuit of convention.
And that is what the creators of The Grid Club ─ a newly opened community centre ─ aim to counter.
Known as The Grid, the community centre is located in a bustling, hip and happening part of Defence, an area of the Karachi associated with wealth and a liberal demographic ─ pul ke uss par (on the other side of the bridge) as they say. It has a library, an art gallery and a performance venue, where artists, writers, musicians and all liberal arts enthusiasts can band together to create, perform and share.
"The right has opened so many madrassahs all over the city and they're thriving," Syed Aftab Shah, the man behind The Grid told Images, saying that in Pakistan, creativity and artistic expressions ─ be it in the form of painting, poetry, music ─ are socially regulated, structurally censored and most of the times, systematically killed.
"I saw the need for a safe space where dissent would be welcomed and where people could express themselves without fear of backlash," Shah said. "We at The Grid want it to become a madrassah for the left, a safe haven for those who are religiously in touch with their creative side."
Read more: Smokers' Corner: Disco and The Dictator
The founders ─ Shah and his childhood buddy Abid Baloch ─ are both millennials in their late 20s, working as professionals in the field of mental health and real estate, respectively. For them, The Grid is a place to help artists hone their talents, learn new skills and coach them in establishing passions as a career.
"One of the biggest reasons young men and women abandon art as a career option is because they are told they cannot make money from it or sustain themselves and their families," Shah said.
At The Grid, they vociferously campaign against conventional wisdom that dictates pursuing the arts and music as a profession is impractical and unrealistic.
"The main crux of The Grid is to facilitate the artist community," Shah said. "We want to help artists, the creatives, to establish themselves so they can earn a living from it ─ if money is what is stopping them," he added, saying the space can be used by anyone to launch their work, grow and network, exchange ideas and generate an income.
Shah has set up an internship programme at The Grid where he works with high school and university students to help them in their creative pursuits, polish their talents, develop soft skills and become healthy, productive adults.
"The state often says the country's future depends on our youth, that it is Pakistan's strength. But at the same time, it has done little to take care of it," he said, adding the coming generation is deteriorating, with many adolescents and young adults turning to hard drugs, resorting to aggression and expressing pent up emotions in harmful ways.
In that sense, an internship at The Grid aims to provide students a platform for personal and professional growth. Although they have the freedom to design their internship, students must complete the tasks assigned to them.
"On events, interns are asked to wait tables, take orders from patrons and serve them," Shah said. "I want to teach the youth that no job is too small; they must to learn to take orders and deliver, be it cleaning a washroom or performing an administrative duty."
"This is to break a trend, I have seen how bureaucrats, or even the 'normal' people, refer to artists. They speak of them in derogatory ways, which is wrong and also very hypocritical," he said.
"On the one hand, you ask them to sing Mujhe Dushman ke Bachon ko Parhana Hai, and on the other hand, you call them marasi," Shah said. "We need to realise the value of our artists as they are the ones who help us present a positive image of Pakistan."
Starting October, The Grid will also be holding different classes where students can learn a new skill such as classical singing and/or polish the ones they have already acquired, as well as gain beginner's knowledge in various subjects in the liberal arts field such as philosophy and psychology.
Additionally, there will be a cut-off fee so teachers cannot charge a hefty amount. "Art is for everyone, not just a privileged few who can afford it," Shah said.
The Grid opened for the public over a month ago. A project in its initial stages, the financial burden to run the place has been largely endured by the owners and donors.
"A lot of people told me a place like The Grid is more needed in areas like North Nazimabad, Jauhar, Lyari and others where there is a large creative community without resources and access to such platforms," Shah added. "However, sustaining a place like this in Defence is extremely tough as rent and utility costs are high."
"We want to see if The Grid can sustain itself via crowdfunding and support of the artist community," he added.
"There is no one real owner of The Grid," he added. "We hope the artist community and those benefiting from the space take ownership of The Grid and help in keeping it going," Shah further said.
Currently, The Grid offers a simple menu, offering basic (but yummy!) items such as chicken-filled paratha and doodh-patti. Patrons can also play board games, Foosball, pool and Playstation for a small cost. They also rent out the venue to NGOs as well as for-profit organisations.
"However, our approach to not-for-profit organisations is completely different from collaborations with for-profit corporations," Shah said.
In addition, The Grid also has different paid memberships available with various discounts and benefits, though artists, writers and musicians get the best deal.
"I am discriminatory towards them," Shah added, with a chortle.
No interior designer was hired to decorate The Grid, Shah tells Images. "There is a lot going on on the walls; the art and decoration you see is a self-reflection of all the people who helped us with the creative process."
If The Grid is able to thrive via crowdfunding, its founders plan to replicate the model in other areas of Karachi or even Pakistan.
"It is an experiment ─ if successful, The Grid will open in other areas with its model tweaked as per the needs in that community," Shah said.
However, its essence ─ a safe space for artistic expression ─ will remain, he added.
The Grid is located at Bukhari Commercial in Phase VI, DHA. It is open seven days a week from 12pm till midnight.
Sania Mirza just got candid about lurve!
The tennis player recently made an appearance on popular Indian chat show No Filter Neha, in which she shared fun facts about herself, like her guilty pleasure being an Indian TV soap and that while she is not huge on parties, she was once asked to leave a hotel room because of partying too much.
"I don't drink or smoke or do anything so people would find my parties too boring... But this was an after party for when I had become number one, and there were many people and it was a huge celebration. But then at 5 am they came to us and said we were being too loud and that we should leave. We were like, but we’ve paid for the room. It was 6 am. I became number one in the world, come on, I deserve that kind of a party. But then we left."
Sania also talked quite a bit about her husband Shoaib Malik and revealed that he is as crazy as she is, but many assume him to be the sober one.
"We didn't date that long. He got to know me pretty well. But he's a chupa rustam! I got to know about his wild side much later after we were married and I was like 'Phew'! He may look all sweet and adorable but he can definitely have a crazy time."
The tennis star was also asked to give her cricketer hubby some love advice, to which she said, "He should express more in words. I know he loves me but he should not take me for granted. Sometimes it's nice to show it. We shouldn't think 'oh they know we love them so that's good'. He should let me know that he loves me."
She also gave herself some advice, saying, "I need to be less possessive. I’m not insecure, I am possessive. There is a big difference. I would love to be a better communicator. Shoaib is better at communication and I feel like I sometimes shut myself off, I want to change that."
This isn't the first time Sania's advised on love. The pro player revealed how she is always urging her actor bestie Parineeti Chopra to find love.
"Buddy, let’s just find you a guy. But she’s like nahi, she’s a little choosy I think. So she doesn’t want to be with actors, which she's also said on one of the shows. She doesn’t have that Bollywood mindset. So I just tell her ‘please love!"
The episode was full of laughs and awws. We laughed but we awwed more.
Pakistani on Monday celebrated the 70th anniversary of independence from British rule and partition from India.
While airshows in Islamabad and Karachi eclipsed celebrations in the two cities, residents celebrated and rallied across the country.
Here is how Pakistan celebrated on August 14, 2017.