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Much as I love winter – no humidity, no perpetual sweating, no oily skin and resulting pimples, no expensive air-conditioning bills and no hot outdoor summer weddings to sweat through – in Karachi it comes armed with an annoying side-kick: extreme dryness.
Now in mid-November when the chill of the winter breeze has yet to set in, the dryness in the air can be felt as if to announce winter’s impending arrival.
I woke up one morning to find my throat dry, my lips painfully cracked and my skin parched for moisture… and I knew it was time to keep lip-balm in my purse with a small bottle of moisturising cream; throw away the regular soap and unwrap the one with one-fourth moisturising cream. It doesn’t matter whether your skin is dry, oily or ‘combination’… the dryness of winter spares no one. In some cities such as Quetta, during a visit to my extended family, I discovered it gets so dry in the winter that water-soaked clothes take about 10 minutes to dry off completely and – surprise, surprise – roadside vendors sell Vaseline by the kilo!
Knowing that winter was almost upon us, I did what any other typical Karachiite would do: go to Sunday Bazaar to shop for my winter wardrobe. Yes, literally everyone who is anyone shops at Sunday Bazaar and in every visit, I haven’t yet failed to recognise a media-friendly face. The clothing section of Sunday Bazaar is stocked seasonally: spring, summer, late-summer (autumn isn’t considered a season that exists in Karachi) and winter. I wanted to be one of the first to get my pick of winter wear before it became too crowded and I was not disappointed.
The ‘trends’ if you may, this season at Sunday Bazaar showed longer coats, long front-open sweaters tied together with a belt, a plethora of ‘sleeves’ (items which are literally only composed of sleeves, to be worn over sleeveless or half-sleeved shirts to cover one’s arms, and the remaining fabric is tied up in the front), a definite decrease in the variety of ponchos and… plaid on the sweaters. The clothing stocked in Sunday Bazaar is carefully chosen to protect against Karachi winter: not too warm to cook you alive when you wear them and thick enough to protect against the chilly breeze.
The craziest item on my shopping list was a beautiful white half-sleeved, fake-fur sweater which the vendor initially tried selling at an exorbitant amount by claiming that it was made of ‘real rabbit fur’. One raised eyebrow and a shocked exclamation of “but that’s illegal!” set him – and the price – straight. Unsure of where I could possibly wear the fake-fur sweater, let’s face it, it’s not exactly the rage on this side of the globe, I bought it anyway.
If you are a socially-active person and new to the city, you will know that winter is also the prime party season. It is when most of the reunion and charity balls are thrown by various organisations, and halls are booked a year in advance for weddings. Often people will find themselves attending three weddings a day, running out of clothes to wear, since at least one outfit has been worn by each of the same-sex family members of the same size on different occasions and if worn one more time, would qualify an “aur kaprey nahin hain?” (Don’t you have more clothes?) looks/comments from others. Designers will show their winter collections in late summer, aunties and socialites will queue up to order and go through various fittings, and darzis will face some of the busiest times in their careers – save for the pre-Eid period.
Interestingly, to look chic and the most fashionable, female socialites willtake what is often considered a drastic measure. In the extreme chill of the season, when animals can be seen huddled together for warmth, when a regular person cannot survive outdoors without wearing a thick pair of socks, a sweater and a coat on top… these whimsical women will wear beautiful, albeit skin-baring dresses, with cheerful expressions that signify that they’re having the time of their lives and smiles that I can only assume, are literally frozen on their faces – no pun intended. They are willing to brave frostbite and the cold wind of this coastal town, making me wonder whether they prepare for winter by literally growing an invisible layer of blubber under their skin to protect against the cold that they seem to be happily unaware of… in the manner of arctic animals.
When it is cold, there is a natural need to remain warm. When I was in college, I noticed that people tended to drink more hot coffee in place of colas in the winter than in any other season. Similarly, cafés would be crowded with a warmth and cosiness comparable only to the comfort that a thick comforter provides early in the morning… right down to stepping outside the café into the frosty weather, to sticking one leg out of the comforter and stepping on the cold, cold floor.
After releasing his debut album, Tabeer, Shafqat takes his first step as a solo act.
Let’s just get down to it: Shafqat Amanat Ali, perhaps one of the most well-known vocalists in Pakistan’s current pop industry, has finally released Tabeer, his debut solo album and his first body of work in some five odd years.
The last time I met Shafqat was sometime last year, during a photo shoot for an interview featured in Images. Back then he was taking a step towards establishing himself as a solo artiste. In that interview, he’d spoken about his highly-popularised break-up with Fuzon, the act that propelled him to stardom, and his late father (Amanat Ali Khan sahib) and brother (Asad Amanat Ali).
Back then the impression I got of him was that he seemed firmly footed in what he considered to be his identity as a person; which he closely associated to his family and gharana. Although he had yet to record an album, during that time he was in talks with Rohail Hyatt on recording two albums, one of which I was told by the latter was supposed to be a more spiritual. “Somehow that didn’t work out,” said Shafqat about his plans of working with Rohail.
But whatever happened? “Well, Coke Studio started — it popped up at the last minute,” he responded. “So I went to Shani (Zeeshan Haider), which was the right decision according to Rohail who said ‘Aacha hua yeh album uss ke pass chala gaya, mein banata to thora dark ho jata. Shafqat needed a bright album because it was his solo album after a long time’.” Shafqat didn’t seem to have any hang-ups about being bumped off by Rohail seemingly at the last minute, and was quite happy with the work he ended up doing with Shani instead.
At this point it must be mentioned that the person I met for this interview was very different from the one I had met at the afore-mentioned photo shoot. The Shafqat I had encountered then was somewhat talkative and willing to open up about his influences and perceptions on different subjects. The one I met later was extremely travel-weary and well, fasting…which was what I assumed contributed to his relative lack of energy.
He had just come back to Pakistan after releasing an album in India and the requisite tour. We were also surrounded by a TV crew hoping to shoot some behind-the-scenes footage of Shafqat-in-action right before he released his album locally, with Sania Saeed his manager coordinating the activities of everyone involved — mine included.
“In fact, we had to pull out a few songs and tracks from the album which were very dark and very sufiana. We thought we shouldn’t do it because that’s not sellable in India,” he said, talking in terms of commercial viability. Later on during the interview, Shafqat went on to say, “I don’t really think about the reaction I would get from people or my fans when composing music as what others think is not important to me. What is important is that I create music the way I want to.”
Both these statements come across as a bit of a contradiction.
He got up in the middle of the interview and showed me a bundle of Indian newspapers on the recent coverage he’d received in India. One of the papers carried an advertisement of Shafqat’s album covered in stamp ink. With a hint of a smile (and Sania carefully manoeuvring the cameraman’s attention towards the paper) he explained how the officials at an Indian airport were using the paper for the boarding card stamp. As Shafqat got his card stamped and began walking away, one of them realised who he was and called him back. Needless to say, Shafqat left with the newsprint as a souvenir. I was appropriately pointed out the stamp and the inscription on it.
Coming to the content of Tabeer, it is predominantly composed of spiritual songs, some of which are covers of several popular numbers (Khairiyan de Naal, Lal Meri Pat, etc). The overall content is very different from what one had seen Shafqat work on during his tenure with Fuzon. I wondered whether this was how Shafqat hoped to define his own sound. “It is not unintentional at all,” he responded to the varying personalities in his music. “Whatever I had composed for my previous band, after disbanding I had taken everything back with the idea of releasing it.” The move would have exploded the ex-band members into further controversy, and realising that Shafqat decided not to go ahead with it. “I have given something totally new to the listeners in this album.”
But what about the fate of the unreleased songs that he’d sung with Fuzon on what was then supposed to be their second album with him? Shafqat plans to release those songs, perhaps two or three per album, to balance them out with his newer material.
The album Tabeer is more about establishing his own identity. “These were the songs that I always thought I’d do someday, and when I was approached by the Indian record label Music Today, I thought I’d sing those songs.” An example is Khairiyan de Naal, his first single from the album. “It’s a borrowed line from Tufail Niazi’s folk song of the same name.” Even though he took the main chorus line from the original folk song, he wrote and composed the rest of the song around it.
Shafqat’s also sung Pagalpan inspired by Sindhi folk music for the album. “I had heard some folk songs in Shani’s studio and they had a beautiful melody. After making several curves and changes, I decided that we should have it in Urdu.”
But this isn’t where the covers end. Shafqat has also covered Rang Le, a very popular qawwali in the Amir Khusro kalam. When Shafqat and Music Today were through discussing the album, the latter sent him a bundle of papers containing the shairi that they wanted him to compose. “We couldn’t pick more than one because I didn’t want to make it into an Amir Khusrau album. So I picked Rang Le because it’s a very traditional track with a lot of romance in it. I thought we should compose it in a different way, ‘with a pinch of jazz’ (as mentioned on the album jacket). We tried it and the Indians just loved it.”
The Indian sensibility and proliferation in Pakistan’s pop music industry is increasingly becoming a norm. With the country unable to provide a healthy environment for full-time musicians to grow in, given the current state of affairs — we haven’t had proper, outdoor ticketed concerts (the bread and butter of most musicians) in almost two years — making it in India has literally become the Pakistani pop star’s dream.
Having said that, disappointingly so, most of the albums that have been released earlier this year, except for perhaps Ali Azmat’s Klashinfolk, have had a very strong, very dominant Indian pop music touch in their overall compositions. Our pop music has a very distinct, non-filmi sound and it is what sets us apart. But when our acts literally do more than just sell their souls across the border, one can only watch in bitter disappointment.
Thankfully though, none of the above can be said for the album Tabeer...and Shafqat agrees, “I recorded the entire album in Pakistan while they wanted me to record it in India. I refused and insisted that I’d record Tabeer here because Pakistani musicians and recordings had their own distinct sound. Whatever is released had to be prepared and made in Pakistan. That was my major concern,” Shafqat says resolutely.
Shafqat was nominated in the best lyricist category at this year’s The Musik Awards (TMAs) for the Fuzon song, Neend Na Aye Teray Bina. One had even heard rumours that Shafqat planned to sing the song and release it himself as well. When asked, Shafqat shook his head saying he had no intention of doing anything of the sort, and that if someone really wanted to hear his version of it they could look online since most of the second album that he recorded with Fuzon had been leaked on the Internet.
“Do you know how he wrote that song?” Sania said, adding that he asked for a piece of paper during a flight and scribbled some of the initial lyrics on it. The subsequent song was completed on bits and pieces of paper procured from flights, hotel rooms and what not. It turns out that Shafqat does this quite often in a fit of inspiration — he’ll write on anything that is readily available for him to translate his creative energy on to.
– Photography: Arif Mahmud/WhiteStar
When studying psychology, we were taught that people in general unconsciously differentiate between each other by the kind of race, region, language and/or caste they belonged to.
Some take it to a greater extreme and keep it as a primary basis for judging other individuals, most of which may give a completely inaccurate picture of the victim. We’re taught that the reason why mankind unconsciously classifies itself into different subcategories is to simplify the process of giving an identity to a person.
If there is one thing that becomes apparent when traveling through Pakistan, it’s the sheer number of subcultures that exist here. The differences, as you move from Karachi to up north, may change very subtly but they’re definitively there.
Eating is a national past time. Simply speaking, its how us desis ‘break the ice’, when interacting with other desis. The question is, if that’s how we connect, what is that one food item that is common to all of us? No, it’s not the biryani. It’s not even the tikka.
The one thing that you’ll find readily available on every single menu at every fathomable dhaba (roadside eatery) is the chicken karhai – stir fried chicken curry.
Several years ago, my family decided that we needed to go on a road trip from Karachi to Hunza. Our stopovers included (in order of the round-trip) Dharki, Lahore, Abbotabad, Gilgit, Hunza, Abbotabad, Rawalpindi, Bhawalpur, and Karachi. The one thing that I’ve learnt, via interaction with friends and acquaintances who travel from the Punjab and the NWFP region, is that generally, desi food in Karachi is spicier. So is the karhai.
Laden in rich red gravy, served dry as well (unusually referred to as ‘white’ karhai to signify the relative lack of masala) the karhai in Karachi is literally made, at some places, to deliciously burn your taste buds in the process.
During the trip I mentioned above, we stopped at a dhaba right before Dharki. From where we sat, we could see women from the village drying out dates on large mats. Karhai was promptly ordered followed by the customary doodh patti. The chicken was slightly browner because, as I was explained later, it was ‘desi’ (organic chicken?) and took longer to cook. The karhai itself had minimal gravy but was replete with masala that left us smacking our lips all the way to Dharki. It also served to overpower whatever taste our dinner was supposed to have since it all seemed to be tinged with the karhai we had at the dhaba.
What is a trip to Lahore, for an outsider, without the mandatory trip to its infamous food street? Situated in the midst of restored colonial buildings, there was row upon row of street side food sellers and we were promptly asked to try out the batair (quail). With all due respect to batair lovers, what is that mite of a bird in front of a big broiler chicken? Karhai was promptly ordered.
The chicken karhai in Lahore was dipped in more gravy, almost like thick curry, the masala was light and the chicken literally melted off the bones. From the abuse they’d been suffering from the time they tasted the first karhai in Karachi, our taste buds could finally absorb the flavour of the food without fear of being burnt.
But the karhai we had up north, in Gilgit, was perhaps the most varied. We’d driven up to a roadside café situated at a high altitude with a beautiful view of the valley beneath us. By this time, we were threatening to overdose on karhai but after being handed the menu that was the only thing we could recognize. Hence karhai it was.
Keeping the high altitude of the location in mind and the subsequent lack of oxygen, needless to say, it took forever for the karhai to be prepared. What’s interesting is that since it takes extremely long to cook anything, the residents cook almost everything in a pressure cooker… including the karhai! What came as a result off was a very small chicken in minimal masala and gravy.
The chicken was somewhat plain and was as good as steamed. But the relative blandness suited the weather. For me the karhai chronicles ended there as we sat outside savouring our meal and the evening set in on the misty mountains. Especially when the pathan café owners nudged each other after serving us and audibly whispered, “They’re from Karachi.”
The face (and pace) of the music industry is changing. Are we ready to change with it?
It wouldn’t be unfair or inaccurate to suggest that the socio-political affairs of the country have a direct impact on the music industry.
Most of 2008, which anticipated the release of albums by acts such as Fuzon, Kaavish, Zeb & Haniya among others, was marred by the Lal Masjid crisis, imposition of emergency, overthrowing of the judiciary and the cherry on top being the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Not withstanding the precedence socio-political issues take over all other matters, the end result was perhaps the bleakest year in the Pakistani pop music scene ever since the new media boom.
In 2008, hardly any albums were released. Concerts which had begun to pick up pace the year before died down: after all, who wants to go to a concert when the politics of the country is more entertaining and has more drama than any entertainment channel any day. Forget about constructing reality television stars, our politicians are the real stars. But now, I begin to digress.
The more you suppress something, the stronger the force with which it will try to break free. Picking up from where 2006 left off, 2008 is the year in which the music industry has literally come out with all its guns blazing. Some of the bands that released their albums this year — which had previously been gathering dust, waiting for an opportune time to be released — included Atif Aslam’s Meri Kahani, Jal’s Boondh, Fuzon’s Journey, Rahat Fateh Ali Khan’s Charkha, Zeb & Haniya’s Chup, Strings’ Koi Aney Wala Hai, Ali Azmat’s Klashnifolk and finally, the much-publicised Shahzad Roy album, Qismet Apney Haath Mein. These are just some of the more high-profile names, visit any local music store and there are posters advertising the launch of even more albums by even more obscure artistes.
Talk about album launches and the topic naturally shifts towards record labels. Where in the early nineties, a record label in Pakistan was just perhaps a little more than just a mere distributor of albums while the rest of the work — making music videos, doing the album cover art, marketing the album and representation of the artiste — was all handled by the artiste itself. Add rampant piracy to that and many record labels were forced to cut their operations short and shut down.
Come the 2002 media boom and the popularity of Indus Music, which was a major factor in perpetuating a whole new pop culture amongst the youth; coupled with the potential music had, as a developing industry, record labels were bound to spring up. The only problem was that in order to make them work, record labels needed to get their act together in terms of distribution, marketing and promotion and so on.
Out of all the record labels that started in the past couple of years, which included Super Records (clientele included: Annie Princess, Omar Inayat and the now-defunct Rungg), BMN records (clientele included: Josh), EMI (clientele included: Sajid & Zeeshan), The Musik Records (clientele included: Haroon, Aaroh and the likes) and Fire Records — The Music Records and Fire Records are still very much a part of the game, with the rest quietly bowing out from the game. There is a vast difference in the portfolio of artistes that each record label has. The only high-profile release from The Musik Records this year has been the launch of the new Fuzon album, which has yet to prove its mettle in the market. Fire Records on the other hand, has had the rest of the big releases: Zeb & Haniya, Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, Atif Aslam, Jal, Strings and now Ali Azmat and Shahzad Roy. Save for Strings, and the latter two releases (its too early to say for them), the rest of the albums did well in terms of the sales around the time of the launch but cooled down considerably after the hype surrounding them died down.
As prominent record labels in Pakistan, what are they offering artistes who sign up with them? Since both are also a part of two very large media organizations, their artistes receive their promotion through their media channels and related partners, guaranteeing a certain amount of visibility and airtime. They also have their distribution networks laid out to ensure availability of the album throughout the country. Having said that, how’re they now approaching the issue of piracy which is even more pertinent in today’s internet-download world?
Before its official launch, The Musik Records performed a small crackdown on all factories that were producing counterfeit music/albums. Fire Records (rumour has it) has been looking to enforce copyright laws and certificates wherever any music by their artistes is used. Yes, it’s true, from now on if you want any one of your songs to be a part of a commercial jingle, you will have to produce a copyright certificate. Also in some cases, we’ve come to know that Fire Records has also been involved in supporting the production of an artiste’s album as well as overlooking its impending release. As one member of the music industry recently pointed out: “I see the future of music with Fire.”
However, things are still not as stable as they were back in 2006. Album launches are normally followed by album launch concerts and, considering the lack of venues available to the artistes’; by a large margin album launch tours as well. Most of our artists now tour abroad while staying in the country simply to endorse more products. As much as we might like to think of them as nothing but pure and simple evil out to get their brands on everything good, currently the funding that corporations contribute to the entertainment industry is what is still keeping it afloat. With a dearth of concerts from which to generate revenue, artistes’ have no choice but to go with the next available option which is product endorsements. At some point, it stops revolving around art for art’s sake and becomes more about simply surviving.
Having said that, the face (and pace) of the industry is changing. The question is: are we ready for it?
– Photo by Waheed Khalid
On Chand Raat, women are out to spend, and spend they will at any cost.
Through Ramazan, I struggle with attempts to fulfill my religious duties and obligations along with unbelievably short banking hours, people with a holier-than-thou attitude, short tempers and a tendency to consider it their birthright to interfere and comment on your beliefs; crazy traffic and as one co-worker pointed out, hordes of hungry people rushing to go home at iftar.
The best thing is that Ramazan culminates into Chand Raat. There is a magical festivity in the air. At times it seems, as if people are celebrating the fact that they don’t have to go hungry anymore nor put themselves through an endurance test. Sadly, they soon forget that the crash course in discipline was to train them for the year ahead.
On Chand Raat, chances are that it really doesn’t matter whether you need to or not, but especially if you’re a woman, you’ll find yourself in an already-crowded shopping mall browsing through jewelry, shoes, bangles and what not or haggling with a shop owner over the price of one. The sheer level of bargaining that takes place on Chand Raat is much more heated, intense and interesting than the fluctuations in the local stock market. The shop owners know that this is that one time of the year where they get to make as much money as they can and customers, fully aware of that, are hell-bent on making sure they don’t — at least off their purchases.
However, no matter what the price of the product or the relative stubbornness of the shop owner to stick to it, most women will never leave a shop empty-handed. On Chand Raat, they are out to spend, and spend they will at all costs.
One of the most delightful things about Chand Raat itself is the sheer abundance of women who sprout outside malls as expert henna artists, promising to apply the most exquisite designs on both your hands in 15 minutes flat. However, experience has taught that it is always wiser to stand and watch the designs unfold on someone else’s hands and then choose your artist accordingly.
Although known as the ideal place for women looking for traditional henna designs and application techniques, I strongly advise against going to Karachi’s Meena Bazaar on Chand Raat (or the day before Eid as well). The bazaar, which is off-limits for men, is full of women who wait for an unsuspecting customer to pounce on, as I once learnt several years ago.
Upon reaching the venue, even before you climb the stairs to where the bazaar is, you will be inundated by male relatives of the women working within Meena Bazaar, showing photo albums upon albums displaying pictures of either hands deeply decorated with henna or of women with extremely gaudy makeup (the white face, red checks, lips and eyes type) on with henna on their hands. The photos of the women are also shown if, God forbid, you happen to be there for getting hair and makeup done as well.
Take one step inside the bazaar and it takes less than 15 seconds for the first henna artist to grab your hand and proclaim loudly to the others that “Yeh mera haath hai” (this is my hand). Pretty soon you find yourself pushing through tens of artists reaching for both your hands, while others fight over who ‘saw it first’ and with some offering you shelter in their small shops provided they ‘get your hand’. By the time you, by some miracle of nature, manage to pull yourself out of there, you feel strangely violated.
Marketing personnel and firms producing consumer goods recognise the potential that Chand Raat holds for them. In agreement with certain popular shopping outlets, they will have put up small stalls with their products on display creating an ambience of a mini-fair. However, since they almost always encroach upon whatever available parking space there is, finding adequate parking near the shopping outlet itself becomes a nightmare.
Several years ago, a firm decided to go all the way when attempting to build a positive image for its brand. Hiring 15 or so henna artists at a designated place near a popular mall, just about anyone interested in having henna applied could get these artists’ services for free. It didn’t end there, every single ‘customer’ who had henna applied walked away with a set of bangles, courtesy of the firm itself. So what if they weren’t of the right colour or size? The gesture seemed to embody the spirit of Chand Raat itself, so what if the firm never ventured to be as generous in the following years?
The interesting thing about henna application on Chand Raat is that it goes on and on till the wee hours of the morning. Women, some of whom will be gaudily dressed, will arrive every couple of minutes demanding that the already-overworked and tired artist decorate their hands as well. Dutiful sons, husbands, boyfriends, fiancés etc., at their chivalrous best or what seems to be, will either stand alongside their womenfolk or wait in their cars for them to finish. And more often than not, will then carry their bags, shoes and handle their dupattas all the way to the car after the women are done.
Chand Raat ends when you come home and realise that Eid will bring with it dozens of guests knocking at your door right from morning. Not only does it imply that the house must be prepared to receive them at all hours, but also that local culinary delights symbolic of Eid such as dahi barey, doodh sawayan, chohlay etc., must be prepared in enough quantity to feed a little army.
Interestingly enough, Chand Raat, which marks the end of Ramazan also signals the beginning of Eid which is all about meeting people you haven’t met the entire year and forcibly stuffing yourself with every single piece of cooking conjured up in every single household you visit. That’s the spirit of Eid.
Think of a café today and immediately a picture of comfortable couches and chairs in a softly-lit ambience against shades of either cream, brown, maroon (or in some cases, black) comes to mind. You know it’s not a place where you’re going to stuff yourself with food and leave content with a full stomach and an inclination to go home and sleep – the sofas and chairs were never meant for that, not now and not even when the first proper café opened up sometime in the middle of the 16th century in Turkey.
Having always been a place where groups of people got together for light, intelligent conversation, coffee houses or cafés have been vehicles through which local cultures in different parts of the world experienced an evolution. The growth of coffee houses in any area is considered a positive sign and the local mushroom growth of cafés (as opposed to tea houses) in the major cities of the country, Karachi and Lahore, is often quoted in foreign publications as signifying the advent of a Pakistani ‘liberal’ culture.
Coffee made its way in Pakistan (commercially) in 1998, when drinking coffee wasn’t a pop culture norm — tea was the more dominant and preferred choice of drink. Its growth has spurted to being included as one of the must-have beverages whenever the local city-dwelling population goes out to socialise. Coffee and cafés have predominantly Middle Eastern beginnings. Known as ‘kahvehane’ in Turkish, ‘al-maqhah’ in Arabic, ‘qahveh-khaneh’ in Persian and ‘kopi tiams’ in Malay and Singapore, cafés originated in the 16th century as a place to read books and/or play chess. Records indicate that Kiva Han was the name of the first independent café in Turkey and the culture regarding coffee was so strong that in those times, women could divorce their husbands on the grounds of their inability to provide them with adequate amounts of coffee. Turkish coffee was often served black, strong and unfiltered. The concept of including milk and cream in one’s coffee was introduced as a predominantly European style of brewing and consuming coffee.
Some time in the 17th century, coffee travelled outside the Ottoman Empire and into Europe when the Turkish Army left bags full of coffee after their invasion of Vienna (Austria). The potential of the curious green beans was recognised by Franz Georg Kolschitzky, the first person to open a café in Europe, and who had spent a considerable time living in Turkey to identify the aroma, taste and potency of the coffee beans left behind by the Turkish Army. Having been introduced into Europe this way, coffee has never looked back, going as far as to the Americas and the subcontinent, with each geographical area developing their version of a ‘café culture’.
In Britain, coffee houses were a place for intelligent discourse. They were a place where like-minded individuals could get together and discuss everything from literature and poetry to business and politics to the reigning king’s apparel. Such was the popularity and ease with which individuals could meet and socialise in cafés that they soon became a centre for many firms to conduct their business meetings and finalise their transactions.
The fact that in 1668 a coffee shop run by Edward Lloyd was such a popular centre for business dealings that it subsequently became the still-currently-operating Lloyds of London Insurance Company, a testament to the cafes’ growing influence. Well known and reputed auction houses such as Christies took birth in the salesrooms attached to cafés in Britain around that time. So much so was the impact of cafés that they were soon known as ‘penny universities’ in local slang because a ‘penny’ was what a cup of coffee cost and a café was where local educationists, literary figures and business men came together.
The influence of cafés on the local culture wasn’t limited to Europe alone. When America was colonised, coffee was almost immediately introduced by the local Italian immigrant community and coffee houses started becoming a common norm. Established in 1792, the Tontine Coffee House in New York was, because of the sheer number of business transactions conducted there, the original location of the New York Stock Exchange.
In the 1950s, cafés experienced a different kind of cultural evolution — that which included music. They fast became a venue for entertainment where poetry reading and local folk musicians were encouraged to come and share their pieces of music. The café-going culture was so dominant at the time that there used to be cafés lined up one after the other in all of the popular streets and almost all of them would be full most of the time, and at the end of the day, café brawls and fights were also not unusual.
Musicians such as Bob Dylan made their mark in the American industry by first performing in cafés alone. The 1970s saw the introduction of a standardisation and refinement of the café model in America with the advent of local coffee house chains such as Star Bucks. And since then, the definition of a café has evolved and has been altered to suit the current pop culture tastes and trends.
On a global level, cafés continue to be a hub of social activity. They are still places where people get together to have a conversation, to share ideas and to communicate — via literature or music. They continue to serve the business community and the working-individuals within it with the café model being updated with the introduction of Wi-Fi hotspots.
With their continuing popularity and with the rapid advancement in technology, it is predicted that coupled with fast-paced and direct communication methods, cafés will again be a predominant place for people to go and work from as opposed to working in a proper, designated, physical workspace. Having already become the norm in European countries and in the United States, cafés now provide designated areas for those lugging their laptops with them complete with electrical sockets and adequate chairs and tables.
Although locally we may not be at such an advanced stage when it comes to our local café culture, which predominantly consists of individuals coming together for a random conversation or younger individuals for music, there is no denying that with the growing popularity local cafés are generating, we are on our way to our local cultural evolution.
There have always been certain individuals who have defined a ‘generation’. The ‘90s were marked by the arrival of the Spice Girls, other boy bands and, outside the pop industry, by Monica Lewinsky. In Pakistan, perhaps, we had the Vital Signs, Junoon and Hadiqa Kiani but virtually no one outside the entertainment sector. That period for the Pakistani youth was marked by political instability and there was a huge gap as far as the evolution of local pop culture is concerned. It was only in the next decade, with the increasing use of the Internet, the liberation of the media and the rapid rise of the café culture that the current generation (Generation Y) woke up and rubbed their eyes, and the realisation that now they had a chance of developing their own identity dawned on them.
After hours of searching and taking a good look around I was forced to conclude that we live in a world of GT (Good Times magazine). We aspire to be the people smiling back at us from the printed glossy paper: the ones with the perfect hair and makeup, those who seem to have a successful life, a lot of friends and a good time. Take a look at any random group in any popular café or joint: they sport almost the same hairstyle, co-ordination of outfits, behave and talk similarly and if frozen they’d look almost exactly like the younger version of the people we see printed in social pages. Someone who is hung about the Eighties will still sport the coiffed look that was popular then. An older person who was young and adventurous in the ‘50s or ‘60s will still style his hair after Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley or Shami Kapoor. People like to follow trendsetters and generally trendsetters are the icons for the masses.
You still come across the odd Amitabh Bachan, a Waheed Murad, an Imran Khan and a Zulfikar Ali Bhutto in a crowd. These people were overwhelmingly popular and powerful, with massive fan following due to their charismatic, magnetic personalities. Although Amitabh must still be an icon for many middle-aged men.
Bachchan’s first major box office success came in the leading role for his film Zanjeer. The movie was a sharp contrast to the romantic-themed ones that had generally preceded it and established Amitabh as the ‘angry young man’ (action hero) of Bollywood. The next decade catapulted him to the pinnacle of Bollywood superstardom. He churned out at least one major hit every year. Although the above-mentioned films cemented his status as Bollywood’s pre-eminent action hero, Amitabh displayed a flair for more than just action roles. His remarkable comic timing was on display in films that were box office hits in late ‘70s and early ‘80s. He also emerged successful as a romantic lead. Any tall, lanky man with big features, thick hair and some charm would still love to be called Amitabh, especially if he had a nice voice to go with it all.
Young men (and women) idol worshipped Z A Bhutto for his dynamism, for his hardline confrontational policies against India. Large crowds would gather to listen to his speeches. A tall, bald man with fair complexion, an aristocratic nose and an arrogant attitude and people start calling him Bhutto Sahib.
Practically the whole generation of young men in the ‘80s aspired to be Imran Khan with looks and sex appeal, if not with cricketing abilities. Imran is seen as one of the finest all-rounders the game has ever produced. He was one of the fastest bowlers of the world during the late 1970s and early 1980s, and in the latter half of his career one of the best batsmen in the Pakistan team. Perhaps more significantly, as a captain, he transformed the Pakistan team, previously known for its exceptional talent but lack of coherence, into a well-moulded unit. And perhaps a whole generation of young women were fatally and frantically in love with him, so much so that one could say that to this day, Imran remains a phenomenon that happened in the ‘80s. No Shoaib Akhtar, Humayun Saeed, Shaan, Abrarul Haq or Shahzad Roy has at all the clout nor the substance that Imran Khan was made of. He was probably the equivalent of Elvis Presely in the West.
These days, the world over Generation Y is becoming increasingly defined by socialites like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie or by young divas like Lindsay Lohan. The days of the strong, graceful beauty personified by Grace Kelly, Marilyn Monroe and Jacky Kennedy are over.
The real question is: who defines Generation Y in Pakistan, especially when desi influences might be concerned? We don’t have hugely popular socialites (they would probably get bombed especially if they were anything like Hilton) and our fashion and music industry, although not highly developed, is evolving. Only a small section of Generation Y is concerned with the societal, ecological and political environment – constituting an extremely small percentage of them – and none so far have managed to stand out in their efforts.
Bringing us back to the entertainment sector, ask any random young individual walking down the street as to who their favourite celebrity is, from any place in the city, and you’ll almost always be confronted with ‘Atif Aslam’ as the answer. A media-shy but gifted vocalist Atif Aslam (previously part of the band Jal) personifies the rags-to-riches story that has a somewhat universal appeal. Becoming an almost instantaneous hit, when the band Jal released the Umar Anwar-directed video of Aadat, they found themselves catapulted from near obscurity to extreme stardom. Aadat was everywhere – it voiced the frustration felt by most of the youth.
Just when they were learning to grapple with the implications of their new-found popularity, Atif Aslam left the band. What followed was a court case and a premature album launch by Atif Aslam in a bid to cash in on the media hype following the breakup of the band – all of which worked. Today, two albums later with a third one on the way and after having performed numerous international tours, Atif Aslam is one of the most popular and highly paid entertainers of the music industry.
His mass appeal can perhaps be credited to the fact that he is one of the very few individuals in the industry who really can sing, his songs are in Urdu, are lyrically simple and easy to relate to. Most important, he doesn’t belong to or tries to embody the characteristics that define the country’s social elite: he talks, dresses and behaves the way an ordinary youth from the masses does. He is one of them and they see themselves every time his music plays or his face flashes on TV.
On the flip side we also have Fasi Zaka – the corpulent, humorous, Rhodes Scholar who rose to fame via the show On the fringe directed by his cousin and musician/producer, Zeeshan Parwez. Recorded with a home camera and jabbing humour at the ‘serious’ artistes predominant in the entertainment industry, On the fringe and with it, its host Fasi Zaka, was a huge hit and managed to amass a strong cult following. Several newspaper columns, massively popular radio shows and an additional show dealing with socio-political affairs later, Fasi Zaka is everywhere.
At first glance, nothing about Fasi Zaka except for his intelligence and wit is cool. He is the class clown – the one who makes everyone laugh but isn’t somehow part of any particular ‘group’. His appeal may be attributed to the fact that other than his innate ability to make us laugh, he represents the misfits predominant in all of us. He doesn’t conform to a social ‘type’: he doesn’t look perfect and he doesn’t act it either. Fasi Zaka defines new kind of ‘cool’– the kind that allows you to look, behave and be what you are, as long as you can enjoy a couple of laughs in the process.
Try as I might, I haven’t come across a single female icon for today’s youth, whether in the entertainment sector or outside, there isn’t a single woman big enough. Mohtarma, Mukhtaran Mai, Sherry Rahman? This is baffling in itself, how long will it take for a woman to match the appeal that Nazia Hasan had in the ‘80s or Hadiqa Kiyani had in the nineties? And considering that breaking into the industry was much more difficult for women back then as opposed to now.
Do the divas today have the clout. Is the upcoming generation in the 21st century at all affected by Meera, Reema, Amina Haq or Annie the mahiya girl? Do people in the limelight have no substance that shines anymore? Do young men aspire to be Shaan?
Keeping all of the above in mind, it would be safe to say that we don’t have a highly developed youth culture – although compared to the rest of the age brackets, it is by far the strongest. With the increasing globalisation of the media both conventional and new media (blogs, podcasts, ezines etc), influences are also becoming global and it is becoming difficult to separate desi youth icons and/or role models from the international ones. What can be said without a doubt that these role models are important in the sense that they provide the already confused youth with a sense of identity and belonging – your parent’s heros aren’t yours. Unless we have individuals who are willing to break from the GT-inspired mold that has taken over us and promote their individuality, we might not have an ‘icon’ to define Generation Z.
There are hardly any ticketed concerts taking place in the metropolitan to begin with and experience has taught that these things never start on time. Keeping that in mind, I arrived at the venue an hour late and was somewhat disappointed to find out that despite the measure taken, the event was far from starting.
Mizraab was engaged in a somewhat lengthy sound check, directed by Faraz Anwar himself, with band-members of the Aunty Disco Project (ADP) and Mauj sitting at one corner of the stage. A closer look revealed Hamza Jafri, the rhythm guitarist for Mauj and the lead vocalist for Co-VEN, taking a nap on stage near his mates as well. He later confessed that he hadn’t been feeling quite well.
Another full hour and drum kit later — another drum kit had to be arranged since the Mizraab drummer was unwilling to share his — the concert showed signs of starting as two underground bands took to the stage. What was interesting to note was that the venue was chock full of pubescent wannabe rockers: teenage boys with long hair, dark clothes and a rock star attitude. Needless to say that even though the featured underground bands showed promise, they were far from being considered a good live act and were desperately in need of practice; both musically and vocally.
ADP kicked off with their original track, Sultanat, and announced that its video and audio has been released and will be making rounds on the tube and radio — a move they announced as “selfish self-promotion”. True to their form, they performed with zest and seemed to have fun while doing so. Imran Lodhi (bass, lead and vocals) swung the guitar and swished his hair as did Yasir on darbuka. Imran Lodhi could also be found posing for photos during his performance as well. Omar Akhtar in turn sashayed in his own way and ended almost every song they performed, one of them also included another popular single, Shehr Ke Ansoo, with a little guitar solo. Perhaps his most notable move came in the form of swinging his hand over his guitar ala early ’70s rock style, producing Jimi Hendrix-inspired guitar sounds.
What caught ones attention was the sheer number of people singing along to ADP’s chorus lines of some of their songs. Having performed quite a few number of times in Karachi, the band is well-known to audiences which include both media and non-media professionals, and have managed to amass a somewhat loyal fan following. Definitely leaving the crowd worked up, they made their way for Mauj. On the other hand, Mauj probably had no idea what lay in store for them.
The band is jinxed, or so it seems. The moment they came on stage it began to rain. Whereas during ADP’s performance it had drizzled lightly, with Mauj on stage, the rain became heavier. Having turned off the lights, attendees rushed to cover the equipment on stage and around 10 minutes later, in the midst of the wannabe rocker crowd yelling “Mizraab”, Mauj launched into an original track titled Mona. One has to mention here that in their full form, Mauj comes across as a formidable live act — with the best bassist (Sameer Ahmed), drummer (Sikandar Mufti), rhythm guitarist (Hamza Jafri) and fast-establishing himself as a gifted guitarist, Omran Shafique, a regular Mauj performance has just the right level of skill coupled with good composition to make it for concert goers, more than just worth their time.
Mauj launched into the Zoheb Hasan cover of Pyar Ka Jadoo. What’s truly magical about Zoheb’s songs is that even if you didn’t belong to the generation that grew up listening to them, as was with the case of most of the audience, they’re simple and catchy enough in their composition for anyone to sing along. This was the case here. Having customised it enough to sound like a Mauj song, the band members had the crowd crooning to the chorus with them. They slowed down to accommodate the audience, but one doesn’t think they got it since most of them quieted down instead. Mauj had the crowd participating again in an upbeat version of the chorus that immediately followed. Mauj had officially converted the audience.
They then launched into an instrumental that seemed to pick up as it progressed. An audience member called for Faraz Anwar, to which Omran replied “I’m bigger, better and faster”. Having seen him perform several times before, one doesn’t doubt that he just might be. Mauj closed their performance with an extended version of Khush Fehmi, which had also been getting a lot of requests from the crowd.
All hell seemed to break lose when Mizraab took the stage however. All of a sudden, it seemed as though the women in the audience had moved towards the back with the boys crowding the front and either side of the stage. Incidentally it was also Faraz Anwar’s birthday that day and a fan brought a cake along which he promptly cut and then began performing. Knowing what the audience expected of him, he launched into a guitar solo which had his fingers flying over the fret board while his most ardent fans stood in rapt attention.
It would be an understatement to say that for the rocker wannabes in the crowd, Faraz Anwar is nothing short of a god: they kept a respectful distance, head banged even when they had their hands on the stage and followed every movement he made, as if entranced. Mizraab was by far the loudest of the lot and their performance lasted roughly around 20 minutes. They closed with a number that has also lately been made into a music video, Ujala, concluding the evening on a much softer note.
I often read of a mother’s point of view or the feelings she experiences when her daughter is getting married and/or about to start her new life with her in-laws.
Marriages are generally considered to be festive events: they mark the beginning of a couple’s new life: another stage in the circle of life. However, the bride’s immediate relatives view the wedding with mixed feelings. They are happy because marriages are festive events and sad because it signifies the departure of a well loved member of the family.
When my sister was about to get married, I was about 12 years old. I met the news of my sister’s engagement with a mixture of excitement and happiness. She was soon to become a bride and that excited me more than anything. The weeks that followed I saw my sister talking on the phone (at least once a day) with a blushing smile. It wasn’t difficult to figure out who she was talking to. It also saw the arrival of my grandmother complete with her suitcase. She was to live with us till my sister was safely married. Together my grandmother, my mother and my sister would go out on shopping sprees for my sister’s dowry, leaving me and my other sisters at home to plan our outfits and the dance sequences for the mehndi.
Pretty soon a chest was placed in my room that was used to store whatever was brought for my sister. It still hadn’t hit me that my sister was going to leave us very soon. I shared her excitement and happiness completely. However, not everyone in the family shared my feelings. Mum would busy herself with the numerous tasks at hand. One of my sisters (we are four sisters in all) remained quiet for most of the time. She had been closer than I towards the going-to-be bride.
Helping out with the packing, the cleaning, the re shifting of the furniture, taking care of guests who arrived at the dholkis made time fly. The memory that rests clearly in my mind is that of the wedding day, when i first saw my sister all decked up as the bride.
I was speechless when I first saw her. For some odd reason, the person all dressed up in the bridal garb didn’t seem like the sister I had known my entire life. She was a stranger whom I consciously knew as my sister. When I talked to her, she sounded like my sister but she sure didn’t look like her. It took a while getting used to all the makeup-but still, I did not entirely feel like I knew the person behind it. Her whole attire made me act different too! I sat up straighter, would have a bigger smile and would try to talk in a sophisticated manner, all the while stealing glances at the bride. I did not want to go away from her.
The other clear memory of the wedding that I have is of when the maulana solemnised the nikkah. I remember the voice of the maulana and the stillness of the hall as everyone present listened to him. I also felt a strange stillness inside me as the feeling of experiencing an important event that would change my life, took over me. I remember feeling as if somehow that voice signalled the end of my (physical) relationship with my sister, and that now she was going to become a member of another family. I still wasn’t overcome with the expected sadness; I only felt a sense of unease.
Another distinctive moment came when they started taking my sister through the hall to her new family/home. I remember rushing to be with her, only to be pushed rudely aside by the groom’s sisters, who claimed the right to the bride’s side, as now she had become a part of their family. I remember watching her sit in the car, while my mother and sisters wiped their tears. Daddy, red faced, had a funny look on his face as he watched his daughter leave. I somehow remember as though all my emotions had come to standstill and all I could do was smile and watch everyone. I remember thinking I love my sister just as much as everyone else, than why am I not crying?
it was in the days that followed in which I felt sad at my sister’s departure. The house seemed eerily empty and everyone had become oddly quiet. Now and than, I expected her to turn up somewhere or the other in the house. As the months passed by, we all began to adjust to life without her.
Another sister is getting married now, I wonder whether I would cry at her wedding?
