The Express Tribune Magazine - December 25

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

The flesh trade

Sex sells — whether it’s in the back alleys of Heera Mandi or upscale apartments in Karachi

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Cover Story 18 The Diamonds Glitter No More The glory days of gharanas and kothas are long past 26 In The Flesh Of Pimps and Prostitutes 30 From Azerbaijan With Love An Azerbaijani call-girl talks about her life in the city of lights

Up North and Personal 40 Up On The Roof Power woes and rooftop hijinks

Regulars

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6 People & Parties: Out and about with Pakistan’s beautiful people 36 Reviews: What’s new in books and films 37 Advice: Mr Know It All solves your problems 42 Ten Things I Hate About: Bollywood

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36

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Magazine Editor: Zarrar Khuhro, Senior Sub-Editor: Batool Zehra, Sub-Editors: Ameer Hamza and Dilaira Mondegarian.

Creative Team: Amna Iqbal, Jamal Khurshid, Essa Malik, Anam Haleem, Tariq W Alvi, S Asif Ali, Sukayna Sadik.

Publisher: Bilal A Lakhani. Executive Editor: Muhammad Ziauddin. Editor: Kamal Siddiqi.

For feedback and submissions: magazine@tribune.com.pk

PEOPLE & PARTIES

Rukaiya and Kiran

Aman

Fashion Week k il s n u S C D F P ts the Frieha Altaf hoasrty at her house in Karachi after p and Atif

Nadia Hussain and Hamza Tarrar

Adnan Malik and Asma Mumtaz

6 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Mr Mrs Intesar

Mehreen Saeed and Ali Zeeshan

Aaminah Haq and Ammar Belal

PHOTOS COURTESY CATALYST PR

Kamiyar, Nooray

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

PEOPLE & PARTIES

Frieha, Sehr Saigol and Sabin Saigol

Hassan Sheheryar and Nashmia

Rana Zafar

Saba, Nomi, Ayesha and Cybil

8 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Maheen Kardar

Amir and Huma Adnan

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

PEOPLE & PARTIES

UAE’s Consulate General celebrates the 40th National Day of UAE in Karachi

Frieha with a friend

PHOTOS COURTESY CATWALK AND PR

Beena and Samra

Shehla Naveed

Aaminah Sheikh

10 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Pawana

Nazneen Tariq

Intesar and Ayesha

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

PEOPLE & PARTIES

Nausheen and Amer

Shehrnaz and Sidrah

Makhdoom Amin Fahim

Rabia

Amna Ilyas and Faisal

12

Mrs Humayun and Naureen DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Saira and Nauman Sehgal

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

PEOPLE & PARTIES

Zahra Saleem and Sophia

Sara Gillani and Natasha Hussain

PHOTOS COURTESY VOILA PR

Voila PR organises a Winter Fair at Labels in Lahore

Sehyr Anis

Shaffaq Muzammil and a friend

Zoona Saeed

Hina Wajid

14 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Sana Mahmood

Xille and Hina Butt

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

PEOPLE & PARTIES

Sahar and Shazia Gulzar

Shiza Hassan and Saira Rizwan

Rabia and Nadia

16

Ayesha Khurram DECEMBER 25-31 2011

Saima Rashid

Saba Ghauri and Ayesha Nasir

Madiha Ibar

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

COVER STORY

the diamo

no

18 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

As night time approaches, the synchronised sounds of the tabla and the jingling ghunghroo reach a crescendo and the high-storey houses, with intricately carved balconies and awning windows, begin dazzling with bright lights. Their win-

dows and doors remain ajar till the wee hours of the morning, offering potential customers a sneak peek of the revelry of music and dance going on inside.

Such was a typical night at the notorious Heera Mandi located

in the heart of Old Lahore before the 1980s. Most continue to imagine the place as a wild alternative world of entertainment

and debauchery. However, this perception of the Diamond Mar-

ket starkly contrasts with its present reality. The landscape of Heera Mandi, where most businesses typically commenced past midnight, has drastically altered over the decades.

Waning kothas and missing dancing girls Abdul Sattar*, who is in his mid-twenties, hails from a gharana

which historically organised mujras. “We gave it up following threats by some unknown people to end this ‘business’,” says the young man, who is dressed in casual jeans and a blue t-shirt.

monds glitter

more The gharanas are gone, the kothas lie crumbling and the shine of Lahore’s infamous Heera Mandi has faded forever TEXT BY ALI USMAN PHOTOGRAPHY BY FARHAN LASHARI

“We have friends in this area and we don’t want them to face

any untoward incident because of us.”

While sitting on a wooden bench outside a roadside restaurant

near his home in Heera Mandi, Sattar relays the bleak tale of the area’s demise.

His family — apparently one of the only two surviving families

of Heera Mandi’s traditional entertainers — has now given up its profession.

The other gharana has now shifted to a posh locality in the city

because it’s easier for them to organise mujras for the wealthy in lavish homes and spacious farmhouses, claims Sattar.

“Very few kothas are left here now and their former owners have

relocated after renting them out.”

He is quick to draw a clear distinction between his ancestral

business and sex work. “We have been musicians since generations but we don’t run brothels,” he says categorically.

“People often confuse Heera Mandi’s kothas with brothels,” he

continues. “Although sex workers have operated and do still op-

erate in Heera Mandi, typically a kotha was a place where girls

danced.”

There are others who also attest to the idea that Heera Mandi

was much more than just a hub for sex work.

“In the late 1970s the place used to be very vibrant,” says film

critic Zahid Akkasi, who authored a book on Heera Mandi. “This

place has given us some legendary musicians, singers and actors.”

The writer attributes Heera Mandi’s demise to Ziaul Haq’s

drive to Islamise Pakistan during the 1980s. “How can a place like Heera Mandi survive with Ziaul Haq as the ruler?” he asks.

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

19

COVER STORY While many people still continue to think of Heera Mandi as

the hub of the city’s brothels, there is strong factual evidence

suggesting that this is no longer the case. Many brothel owners,

faced with crackdowns and a changing clientele, simply pulled

up their stakes and moved to other parts of the city. According to an investigative report prepared under the direction of the Lahore CCPO Pervaiz Rathore, there were 445 brothels operating in various parts of Lahore in 2009 — 128 in Model Town division, 96

in Saddar, 75 in city division, 52 in Iqbal Town, 52 in Civil Lines division, 42 in Cantt division and 19 are ‘mobile’ brothel houses.

The report also alleged that these brothels survive due to the ac-

tive patronisation of the area SHOs. What houses of prostitution remain in Heera Mandi are seamy, seedy and very low-rent.

People often confuse Heera Mandi’s kothas with brothels.

Although sex workers have operated and still do operate in Heera Mandi, typically a kotha was a place where girls danced Surviving the odds With the decline of kothas and traditional musical entertainment, the landscape of Heera Mandi has radically changed. Now

most of the shops, which once catered to the area’s musicians, have been converted into shoe markets. The area surrounding

moving to a different beat The decline in the tradition of mujras, means that shopkeepers on Tibbi Gali are asked to fix guitars instead of traditional instruments like the tabla and the sitar

Tibbi Gali — once famous for artisans with the amazing talent of repairing traditional musical instruments like the tabla and sitar — has become a hub of small factories manufacturing sodas and soft drinks injurious to health, according to a report by the Excise and Taxation Department.

However, there are still a few shops where artisans fix musical

instruments, but their trade, which historically depended on the tradition of mujras in Heera Mandi, has waned. “Most of our cus-

tomers come from other parts of Lahore,” says Yaqoob, who owns a shop for fixing musical instruments. “But we are mostly asked to fix guitars; classical singers and musicians seldom come to get their instruments fixed so business is not very good.”

Several new music bands and disc jockeys have opened up

their offices in the area and are offering their services for weddings and other functions. “Most of the people running these

businesses were formerly involved in Heera Mandi’s ‘traditional

20 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

The area surrounding Tibbi Gali — once famous for artisans with the amazing talent of repairing traditional musical instruments like the tabla and sitar — has become a hub of small factories manufacturing sodas and soft drinks injurious to health entertainment’,” explains a member of a local musical band. “A

typical mujra involved technicians, musicians and even singers,

and with its decline, these people have moved on to other professions.”

“Contrary to popular belief about Heera Mandi [that it was a

centre for prostitution], it was actually a place where classical

singers taught students at bethaks,” he asserts. “Once a courtesan at Heera Mandi told me that she didn’t need to learn singing if she only had to work as a prostitute.”

“Heera Mandi is not what it used to be; it’s become a place

where sex workers — mostly transsexuals — can ‘entertain’ a cus-

tomer for a sum as low as Rs200,” says Kulsoom*, a sex worker, wistfully. “Just seven years ago, the place had glamour and Basant celebrations here used to draw influential people.”

But as the time-honoured trades of Heera Mandi continue to

slide into oblivion, there are still some who refuse to see the writing on the wall.

Abdul Sattar, for one, has the resources to set up his business

in another part of Lahore but he refuses to abandon Heera Mandi.

“Look, I was born here and I grew up here and this is the place

that I belong to,” he says in a sentimental tone. “I just wish, with all my heart, for this area to relive its glory days.” a * Names have been changed

21 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

COVER STORY The smell of death and decay wafts from the incense sticks dotting the streets. These agarbattis are more commonly found planted around mud graves in cemeter-

ies, not in these dingy streets that are lined with shops. Here in Heera Mandi, the heady scent of sandalwood and rose sears the nose. It smells like loss.

During the daytime, this is just another street in Lahore, with

shops selling cheap shoes, hats, jewellery and other trinkets. But

when the sun and the shutters go down, very different wares go on sale.

At night, as the grand and beautiful Badshahi Mosque looms

in the backdrop, men bustle up and down the dusty street, peer-

Stories from the seedy underbelly of Heera Mandi

BY NIMRA KHAN

ing through doorways which are shielded only by flimsy, dirty

have to endure horrid atrocities at some point or the other, and

ghungro can be heard tinkling to the beat of the tabla and the strum

their arms cut off or acid thrown in their faces and made to beg

curtains. Amid the rowdy banter, the faint sound of bangles and

of the sitar. In other corners, you can hear feet thudding to lurid Lollywood beats. Inside the cloying scent of the agarbattis mixes

he answers with another question, “Would you rather they have on the streets?”

He is not allowed to reveal the list of his clientele but smiles

with the stench of stale sweat.

slyly and states that people from all social strata visit his girls and

night that awaits them. Peeling off their shalwar kameezes, they

educated.

As the sun sets, the women start getting ready for the long

squeeze themselves into tight-fitting clothes. Breasts bulging

claims many of his clients are people who are well-known and

“My girls are of the highest calibre. But I do have different rates

and stomachs protruding, they pile on layers of make up: pow-

for girls, depending on their age and physical appearance. In any

colour and eye shadow to adorn their eyes. Those trafficked from

he says, while cleaning the dirt under his nail with his teeth.

der and foundation to conceal their dark skin, rouge to heighten

the Northern areas of Pakistan bear a fairer complexion, which

automatically increases their worth in the market, explains Nadeem*, one of the local pimps in the district.

Nadeem claims that these girls come to him either of their own

accord or are sold to him by their families.

“My family has been in this business for years,” he claims. “My

father was a pimp, as was his father and all his other brothers.”

He is in his mid-forties, with dark, beady eyes and flared nostrils that give his face a hawk-like appearance. He has a receding

case, they all know how to perform their jobs extremely well,”

“The virgins, obviously, bring in the highest income, although they are not put on the market immediately. It’s a business and

one needs to handle it in a shrewd manner to ensure optimum profit. There is a special night when all the virgins make their

debut as dancers. They then continue to dance every night for a couple of weeks. People regularly come to watch these tempting,

untouched treats, and pick their favourite. In the end, whoever bids the highest, gets the girl he wants.”

He introduces his most recent employee: Nazuk. Her name

hairline and he scratches his over-grown belly every few minutes

means ‘delicate’ in Urdu but it hardly does justice to her with-

rings on his sausage-like fingers. He laughs often, a deep guttur-

desolate and completely lost. Her hollow cheekbones make her

as he responds to queries, drawing attention to the big, jewelled al sound which gets amplified with every second as his paunch shakes to its rhythm.

According to Nadeem, his wife is in charge of taking care of

his ‘employees’ and maintaining order within them. He happily narrates what he perceives as the good fortune of his wife at not

having had any girls, and expresses no grief at the memory of the one that died as an infant. He proudly names all his three

sons — Yaqoob, Abeer and Muzaffar — who help him in looking after his business.

“Regrets?” he asks, “Why should I feel regret or have any com-

punctions regarding my profession? It’s a bustling business and

26

in the flesh

ering, cadaverous frame. She is not simply delicate, but weak,

eyes look larger than they are and her dark circles give her a hag-

gard look. Her nose has a distinct dent right at the bridge, but the eye is drawn to the large hoop she wears in her nostril with a gold chain extending to her ear. Her lips are thin and tightly

clenched — perhaps formed that way from years of repressed anger and pain. Her long, frizzy hair reaches the end of her spine.

She wears a long, flowing skirt with a bra-like top that glitters

unceremoniously in the red and blue lights. Multitudes of ban-

gles bedeck her arms going up to her elbow, and when she walks, the trinkets around her ankles jingle noisily.

When she speaks, her voice is timid and her dialect distinctly

I am just catering to people’s needs. Isn’t it better that they come

different from the locals of the area. Her pimp leaves to give us

I press him about the willingness of women who must surely

shot. Nazuk appears to be in her twenties, but cannot recall her

here instead of going out and raping unwilling women?”

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

privacy and to allow her to speak freely, but hovers within ear-

At the age of 13, he had in effect been turned into a male prostitute, and would hire himself out for the whole night. Riaz had a good idea of the price he could fetch and, before he knew it, he would not pass a single day without selling sex exact age and explains that she is from Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa.

She is a mother of six, she tells me, and her eldest daughter is eleven years old.

“I studied in school till the eighth grade, but when I got mar-

ried my husband did not allow me to study further,” she explains.

Four times her age, an alcoholic and drug addict, her husband

got Nazuk when her father pawned her over to him in exchange for clearing his debt.

“He beat me daily and made life a nightmare for me. He want-

ed me to work and earn money to feed the children,” she continues in a monotone. “It was hard for me to work because I kept

getting pregnant. When I was seven months pregnant with my last child, he decided to leave me. I begged him to stay and did everything he asked but that was not enough.”

Having given birth to her last child two months ago, she re-

cently turned to prostitution. “It is hard for me to find a job be-

Not pleased with Nazuk’s narration of her life story, he pres-

ents Riaz*, eager to prove that the ‘majority’ of his employees are very happy with their lives.

“I started in this profession when I was 11,” says the clean-shav-

en boy, punctuating his sentence with a wink. He’s wearing a

black shirt with red embroidery and a pair of jeans so tight they seem to be sewed on. He speaks in a low, mellifluous voice and

keeps running his hand through his light-coloured hair, which flops to the corner of his eyes. Riaz is one of the many teenage

boys who provide services to homosexual clients. He starts his business in the afternoon and the dealing reaches its peak in the evening.

Riaz was a victim of sexual abuse at an early age. When he was

in the third grade, a neighbour lured him to his house by offering to give him his pet bird and then sexually abused him. As the

youngster narrates his tale, he puffs on his hashish cigarette ‘to lessen his tension’. “I did not know what he was going to do,” he says in a childish voice, wrinkling his forehead.

Though he was not given the bird, he got Rs10 for sweets. The

man, a taxi driver by profession, then started sexually abusing

him on a regular basis. When Riaz tried to stop him, the man threatened him. “He told me that if I disobeyed him he would tell my father about what had happened, who in turn would have

killed me,” recalls the boy with a laugh. He lets out a stream of

pungent smoke from his mouth, and goes on with his story. The taxi-driver, a married man, made him popular in his crowd.

“Every time they (the driver and his friends) used me, I got Rs20

to Rs40 as a reward,” the fair-skinned boy reveals. “Gradually I started enjoying it.”

At the age of 13, he had in effect been turned into a male pros-

cause I have no qualifications and the ones that I could’ve gotten

titute, and would hire himself out for the whole night. Riaz had

six hungry mouths.”

would not pass a single day without selling sex. At the age of 17,

offered such meagre pay that I would not have been able to feed

Nazuk’s uncle suggested this profession to her and allows her

six children to live at his place as long as Nazuk keeps giving him

part of her income. In just two months, Nazuk has been forced to

indulge in various sexually deviant acts and subjected to sadistic

beatings, being gagged, humiliated and gang raped by four men at a time. There are wounds and burn marks all over her body.

a good idea of the price he could fetch and, before he knew it, he

his parents, disgusted with his behaviour, threw him out of their house and he sought refuge with Nadeem and his clan. He was

happy with the knowledge that he was not only getting sexual

satisfaction but also money. “It seems liked the ideal job!” he says with a giddy laugh.

Going back home was never an option and he does not want to

“It is not a job I want to do. But I have gotten numb to it all. My

do so, even if he is given the choice. “I am satisfied with my pres-

be dire consequences. I do feel like ripping the skin off my body

or as old as 65, and half of them are married. “Before going off

uncle has an agreement with my pimp and if I break it, there will after every job, but I live in peace knowing that my daughters will not have to go through any of this since this will help me earn

enough money to make sure they never have to endure what I have to endure.”

Nadeem’s employees are not just women. “I cater to everyone’s

needs and guarantee satisfaction in every way possible,” he explains with a smile. “Once you see what my boys and girls have to offer, you will keep coming back.”

ent profession,” he declares. His customers can be as young as 23

with a customer, we smoke hash or opium which heightens the pleasure,” he claims with a smile.

As the night grows darker, the streets appear to become more

crowded, and Nadeem, Nazuk and Riaz take their leave. For them, the day has just begun. *Names have been changed

**Painting on the contents page courtesy of Iqbal Hussain DECEMBER 25-31 2011

27

COVER STORY

30 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

I’ve done my fair share of strange stories in the short time that I have been a journalist in Pakistan, but how to go about narrating the story of a foreign prostitute in this foreigner-unfriendly country? Do I just call one and say, ‘Hi, I’m doing a story on prostitution, can you please tell me your life story? Or should I call her as a client, pay her whatever she makes in a night and then just ask personal questions? Would she find that strange or just write it off as another client quirk? Would she even be willing to talk? And where will I get her number from in the first place?

Well, the last part was the easiest. After calling numerous friends and acquaintances, I finally

found someone who was calling a couple of Azerbaijani prostitutes to his place for the weekend. I

drove to his apartment block around 10 pm, and took the lift to the third floor, where I was greeted by two friends that I rarely meet.

“Sir ji, finally aap humaray paas bhi ay!” (Sir, finally you have come to see us too) says one of them

with a toothy grin. Then the orientation begins: I should act casual, they tell me. I musn’t tell the

prostitute why I’m really there and finally, I must not name any names in the actual article. Or else.

from azerbaijan with love I excitedly agree with all the terms and conditions, and then we’re off.

We pile into a green Land Cruiser and make our way to a four-storey building in the back lanes

behind the heavily barricaded Bilawal House. The chowkidar at the entrance says only two people are allowed upstairs at a time, and I’m one of the lucky ones.

We take the stairs to the third floor and stop outside a wooden door that says ‘Home, Sweet Home’

on it. Expecting a stereotypical ‘madam’, I’m taken aback when the door is opened by a middle-aged woman with a huge smile on her face, and a gorgeous baby girl in her arms.

Jasmine’s journey from a little village in Azerbaijan to the bedrooms of affluent Karachites.

BY ABID HUSAIN

“Hello Jaan!” says the matronly lady. “How are you, please come in.”

The apartment is another surprise. This is no seedy den of sin, but pretty much like any other

family apartment. There is a huge bowl of chocolates on the dining table and the neat living room

is done up with pink curtains, a matching sofa set and some nice wooden side tables. A huge Sony TV has pride of place. But it’s not the TV that grabs my attention.

On the two sofas sit four beautiful women, who look like they’re between the ages of 19 and 27.

Even though it’s now 11 pm, they’re still in their pajamas and look like they’ve just woken up. I

suppose their day is only now beginning. They are talking away with each other in what sounds like Russian and laughing, while giving me glances and shy smiles. Two of them greet my friend by name, cooing over him like long-lost lovers.

“And who is this fine young man you’ve brought with you?” they ask my friend with a wicked

smile and a sideward glance towards me.

As he introduces me, he turns and says “Salay, abhi na bata kay tu sahafi hay.”

I get a hug and a kiss from both the ladies as my friend settles the deal with the lady who opened

the door, saying he wants his two ‘favourites’ for the night.

“That is fine,” she says. “The usual rate for you, Rs15,000 per girl for three hours.”

No money changes hands. Yet. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and tells her the girls should be at

his apartment by midnight. They obviously know the place, as no directions are given, or needed.

A little past midnight, we’re back at the apartment when the doorbell rings. Two ladies in burqas

enter the house. Then the burqas come off and my jaw drops!

They’re the same girls we met earlier, but they’re no longer in their pajamas. Right now, they

31

look like they could steal the show on any catwalk anywhere in the world.

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

COVER STORY The taller one is wearing a white miniskirt with stiletto heels, showing off her long legs. Her

sleeveless black top gives just a hint of cleavage. Black eyeliner and crimson red lipstick contrast with her pale skin. This is Jasmine*, and I decide right then and there that she’s the one I want to be talking to.

The other girl is slightly thinner and is wearing a brown dress. Her legs are covered but little else

is left to the imagination.

I take Jasmine’s hand and she seats herself next to me. I’m anxious not just because she’s very

beautiful but because I’m going to (at some point) tell her I’m a journalist on a story, and not a cli-

ent.

Unable to come up with a witty yet meaningful opening line, I opt for the predictable and boring.

“What’s your name? Where are you from? ”

“Why do you care, jaan?” she says with a coy smile. “Do you want to interview me?”

Well, yes, I think to myself. That’s pretty much why I’m here. I tell her I just want to know more

about her and she laughs out loud.

“Who is this crazy man who just wants to talk to me?” she asks my friend.

With a sly smile, she tells me we had better go to the other room and carry on the conversation

there.

She starts by telling me what I already know: her name and the fact that she’s from Azerbaijan.

She came to Karachi when she was 18 and has been in this business for the last eight years, but manages to go home and visit her family at least once a year.

“So how did you become a prostitute?” I ask.

“Why do you care?” she asks

“I just want to know,” I reply, realising how lame that sounds.

Luckily, she doesn’t need much more encouragement to narrate her story.

“Well, I was 15 when I started dating this guy who I fell in love with. My parents found out and

did not approve and beat me up. The boy decided we should run away together, so I left my native

village and went to the city with him. I got pregnant when I was 16 and the same year my boyfriend died in a car crash. I did not know what to do, I had no money and nowhere to go. I could not go back home to my village as I was unmarried and had a child, they would probably kill me and even if they didn’t, I’d probably end up being used as a sex slave anyway.”

Pausing to reflect on that memory, she continues.

“A friend of mine told me she would set up a meeting for a job, and I met this lady who told me I

could earn up to $300 a month by selling sex. I was comfortable with having sex and I liked it, so I agreed.

“From the age of 16 to18, I must have met more than a hundred different clients, mostly foreign-

ers visiting Baku on holiday. During this time, when one of the girls in our ring returned from Karachi and she told me I could have up to five customers a night there, and that I would end up making much more money because the demand for us was much higher there.

“I told my Madam that I wanted to go to Pakistan and she got me a work visa which needs to be

renewed every three years. I have no idea how she did it, but I found myself in Karachi in January 2003.

“At first it was difficult to settle here, as the whole place was completely unfamiliar to me. On top

of that, I had to entertain six to seven clients a night. But the money was good. We charge Rs15,000

for three hours and can end up doing three such sessions a night and we get to keep 40% of what we make.

“People in Karachi are rich, they even tip on top of the basic rate, they have nice cars and nice

houses, with even swimming pools in some of them. I have visited politicians, celebrities and I think I may have seen you on TV.

32

“It’s been an easy eight years though, I have managed to secure my favourite customers whom

I get along with and they are like my boyfriends. I can now understand and speak enough Urdu as DECEMBER 25-31 2011

well, and the savings here are immense. I try to go back twice a year, but mostly it’s during Ramazan that I go back to see my baby. He is 10 years old now and lives with my late boyfriend’s sister.”

I am no longer thinking in terms of journalism anymore; I am intrigued, curious and flabber-

gasted by the story this soft-spoken girl is telling me, this lady who is telling me with complete frankness what it’s like to be a foreign prostitute in Karachi. I just cannot understand how she could be happy doing this.

“I am happy,” she says in reply to my repeated query. “I have my house mates who I am close to,

my clients who are very good to me, and I have money. I do look forward to not being bound to this

profession, but the truth is that I like sex. Sometimes I do feel nostalgic about my home and my family but the feeling goes away as quickly as it came.”

Have you ever been mistreated by your clients I ask?

“Pakistani men are nice but they do have strange fantasies,” she says with a faraway look. “Some-

times two people want to do me together, which was initially very upsetting and humiliating, but I got used to it. It’s actually not so bad. Apart from that there is nothing I have been forced to do, and come to think of it there isn’t much I don’t want to do, and so I am perfect for this job.”

But what about friends and companionship I ask? Eight years is a long time to be in a strange

land, after all.

“My customers are my friends, and so are the girls I live with,” she says in a tone that brooks no

argument. “We have a four room apartment with five girls living in it, and I share my room with

Ayesha*. The Madam is very nice. She makes sure we get nice clothes, eat well and sleep undisturbed during the day. We have never had to deal with cops, and I guess they are paid off. However,

there are a number of no go areas and we rarely ever leave the Defence and Clifton areas. The day is

mostly spent sleeping or watching TV, and the nights are for work. Once in a while, we are given time off and sent to Murree to relax, this also gives us a chance to make money by ourselves, as usually we ask one of our friends (customers) to come along.”

Before I ask my next question, there is a loud banging at the door and my friends shout out: “Kitni dair lagao gay yaar? Jaldi karo.”

Blushing despite myself, I say goodbye to Jasmine and open the door.

Thanking my friends, I make my way to my car and drive off. I can’t fathom the fact that she

claims she is happy selling herself in a foreign land with no plans of leaving soon. Can it really be that easy?

Jasmine’s story is by no means a universal one, and the vast majority of women trapped in this

profession certainly don’t have such a blasé attitude about it. But it seems that, as opposed to the

West, where organised gangs of traffickers trap women into sexual slavery, the foreign prostitutes

working in Pakistan are here on their own, drawn by the financial rewards their exotic origins offer them. A senior police official whom I know well tells me there are at least 8 such rings functioning in Karachi alone, with approximately 90 prostitutes in total. The girls are mostly from Russia,

Azerbaijan, Tajikistan, and Turkey. Each and every police official I speak to about this — and I am friendly with quite a few — tells me they know about it but aren’t really bothered about taking

any action. Given the benefits this arrangement probably offers them, it’s easy to see why they wouldn’t be bothered. a

*Names have been changed

33 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

REVIEW

courting the dragon

BY UMAIR KHAN

Henry Kissinger is one of those celebrity analysts in the West who are considered an authority on China. Kissinger’s reputation is based on his career as a diplomat turned business consultant.

With a title as generic as “On China”, I wondered what the book would hold for me. Would it be a collection of memoirs? An academic study of ancient Chinese culture and its impact upon the mindset of contemporary Chinese leaders? Perhaps it would provide a historical justification of the paradoxical marriage of political socialism and economic capitalism as a result of the contradictory visions of Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping. Or it could be an analysis of the queerly competitive as well as cooperative relationship evolving between the US and China. As it turns out, this 586-page book is all of the above.

The book shows how China’s foreign policy was shaped by its history, coinciding with its shifting policies of inward isolationism and outward trade activism. The narrative voice can go from being analytical about historical events to being merely descriptive about the personal meetings of Kissinger with Chinese leaders.

Kissinger’s aim appears to be to make the reader understand the Orient’s (ie China’s) own indigenous ethos, its cultural uniqueness as it were, without comparing it to the Western tradition of logocentricism, which glorifies the liberal-humanist values of modernity. Yet, he is hard-pressed to justify the human rights abuses of successive Chinese regimes and cannot give any reason as to why these concerns should not be raised on a global stage. Then again, given the financial interests of Kissinger in the state-capitalism of today’s China, the impartiality of his thesis is far from immaculate.

The book also lacks the academic rigour required of such critiques such as Edward Said’s Orientalism.

Another question which has divided analysts is the reason behind the shift in US foreign policy to support China against the Soviet Union in the 70s. Some critics contemplate that heightened hostility between China and the Soviet Union might have brought about the demise of both the socialist states much earlier, and the US would also then have emerged victorious from the Vietnam War. Mr Kissinger, who would be best suited to comment on this, simply passes over this important crossroad of history when describing the politics of that era, without trying to explain the logic behind this move by Nixon and himself.

The American romance with China in the 70s started with the help of Pakistan. Kissinger mentions Pakistan’s nuclear program in passing, without criticising it outright, and hesitates to brand Pakistan a “rogue state” — all of which has predictably enraged the neo-cons of his country.

36 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

US-Sino relations have come a long way from the days of ping-pong diplomacy

On China does not question the consequences of the rise of China as a global power and the financial impact of the growing US debt that China holds. Instead, Kissinger chooses to laud the way China has come to this stage by defying the Western logic of democratic growth through equality in opportunity and strictly monitored rules of competitive entrepreneurship.

The conclusion given by Kissinger is, however, more or less obvious: that an amicable US-China relationship is necessary for global financial stability and long-term peace. Otherwise, he warns, the world might plunge into the chaos of nuclear proliferation, armed conflict, energy crisis, and what not. In Kissinger’s words, both countries are “too large to be dominated, too special to be transformed and too necessary to each other to be able to afford isolation.” a

ADVICE

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Q. Dear Mr Know It All,

A few months ago, my girlfriend of six years (who I thought

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like a real man should. If you’re able to avoid all that, while still being kind and funny and charming, chances are you’ll have her turning to putty pretty soon!

Q. Dear Mr Know It All

All my friends call me a ‘tube light’ just because I get things

slower than them. Their jokes are just hard to crack because they

rely on common knowledge which perhaps isn’t as common as

they think. It’s getting to me now as I really want to be on the same page as them and keep up with their pace. What should I do?

Faster than a snail

A. Sweetie, the only person who gets all the jokes all the time

recently started forcing me to start dating again, and I have no

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wheels in public for whatever amounts of brainpower you pos-

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Derailed

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life by being so naïve. You’ve got to fake your acumen, do cartsess, you know… make a show of your intelligence. I personally think there’s no point in trying to keep up with anyone’s pace

unless you have a girlie crush on them. In which case you can

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a

men like yourself. Yup, you definitely don’t want to fall into the wrong hands again this soon!

But if your friends have already hooked you up with someone

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ILLUSTRATION: JAMAL KHURSHID

Charming as possible!

37 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

UP NORTH AND PERSONAL

up on the

roof TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHS BY ZAHRAH NASIR

Sunrise

A power outage leads to unexpected adventures

Weak sunshine snuck in through the gap in the bedroom curtains as the sun rose in a haze of reds and pinks behind the jagged mountains of Azad Jammu and Kashmir across the deeply shadowed Jhelum Valley. I sleepily put the kettle on, fed Corvus the cow,

vacuuming, making fresh juice, whizzing up another batch of

budgerigars in their cage on the living room window sill and ig-

to find out what the schedule was. “We’re undertaking seasonal

gave the dogs their breakfast milk, fed the cheerfully squawking

nored the insistent demands of the first pair of ‘Google-bop’ birds (so called because of the ‘google-bop’ sound they make) to return

for the winter. They would have to wait their turn as I was not

pile of paperwork. I had just filled up the cranky washing ma-

chine when IESCO infuriatingly altered my agenda by switching the power off. When the electricity hadn’t returned an hour later

— time spent chopping wood and organising the fire — I phoned

maintenance,” I was told. “Today’s work should be done by about 4 pm, or maybe 5 pm.” Blast it!

Having extravagantly used up the laptop battery by listening

going to trudge down the garden to their feeding spot until after

to music while I chopped, there was no alternative other than to

My neighbour Olive Oil’s buffalo was bellowing to be let out

top of a very long list was climbing up to the roof to clear leaves

I had kick-started myself with at least two mugs of coffee.

so it could terrorise passersby and the Screech Owl was rushing

her children to school. As I breakfasted on the front doorstep, I

watched the sun burst over the mountain peaks, flooding the valley with brilliant light. The warmth permeated the atmosphere

as the air filled with bird song and raucous google-bopping.

These winter visitors usually hang out in the bare-leaved orchard until they are fed their daily ration of chopped apple. In another

week or two, they will have become brave enough to snatch an apple from my outstretched hand.

52 40

humus, setting the fire and getting to grips with a humungous

I had my day all planned out with mundane chores: washing,

DECEMBER 25-31 2011

occupy myself with chores that did not require electricity. At the

out of the rainwater collection nullahs. Having had to master my fear of heights many moons ago, I determinedly armed myself

with a jharoo, trowel and a hammer. It had been a quite a long time since I had braved the ascent up the wobbly step-ladder.

Climbing up, for yours truly, is, despite cowardly cotton wool knees, the easy bit. It is the getting back to earth that is so incredibly nerve-wracking and difficult. After a good hour and a

half doing what had to be done and congratulating myself, it was

time to steel myself for the downward descent. Somehow I misjudged distances and knocked away the ladder. I was stranded!

December Dawn

Climbing up, for yours truly, is, despite cowardly cotton wool knees, the easy bit. It is the getting back to earth that is so incredibly nerve-wracking and difficult I walked around the sloping roof, exploring my pitiful options:

Attempting to leap across the looming divide between the front

part of the roof and a tree in the garden didn’t seem like a good idea and leaping off the back of the roof onto the top of a water tank was distinctly suicidal. It was then that I realised that Ol-

ive Oil’s roof adjoins mine and offered relatively easy access into the field above as her house is partially built into the hillside.

Throwing my tools down on the front lawn I confidently strode across Olive Oil’s roof and was almost within reach of salvation

when the totally unexpected happened. The roof gave way and I sank to my waist before managing, miraculously under the circumstances, to halt my fall by grabbing on to the roofing sheets

around me. As I was hanging there, legs swinging, muttering

unprintable curses, I considered the options available to me.

Should I slide down completely into the house or try and haul

myself back up and out. Dropping down was the easier option

and this I managed to do just as an extremely startled Olive Oil, armed with a huge stick, cautiously entered her storeroom to in-

vestigate the cause of the commotion. What could I do, standing there, covered in bits of her rusty roof and debris with my feet

buried in a heap of dried buffalo fodder, other than grin broadly

and say “Good morning. Thought it was about time I dropped in!” a

Google-bop bird

41 53 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

THE HATER

10 things I hate about ... bollywood

1 2 3 4 5

BY T PASHA

Every movie has the same storyline. In the old days,

movies always involved the hot guy saving the hot girl

from the villains. Now, the hot guy falls in love with the girl, but somehow they just can’t or don’t want to be together, so the movie is a series of events which makes them fall for each other. Where is the originality?

There are so many issues in the world but a Bollywood film will always be a love story showing a middle aged actress falling in love with a hero who looks like her kid brother.

6 7 8 9 10

The fact that even movies that deal with serious issues

have at least one comedic character. The viewers don’t need some wannabe cowboy with a ditzy blonde for a girlfriend as comic relief.

The westernisation of Indian movies is really laughable, as if they’re trying to convince themselves that that’s

what they really are. Which Indian family happily

lets their daughter and sisters drive in top-open cars, picking up their guy friends and going to dance clubs in locations which look strangely like Italy?

The singing and dancing. Every 20 minutes, the actor bursts into song and, instantly, all the village people/

college students/people at the mall/wedding guests start singing and dancing in sync with each other.

The sound effects accompanying the fake punches and kicks. The same sounds are used for every action

sequence in every movie. Bullets are seemingly

absorbed into the hero’s skin and he usually loses his shirt in the fracas.

The vulgarity. Was it really necessary for the heroine needs to strip down to a bikini just to dance? Item songs

of yesteryear were never this raunchy. They were loved

because they were good, not because the item girl was practically naked.

42 DECEMBER 25-31 2011

There was a time when the Indian film industry was capable of producing films like Pakeeza and Mughal-e-

Azam. Now, each movie seems like a caricature of the previous one.

The songs. You know there’s something seriously wrong when you hear that someone’s 4-year-old daughter can sing that insane ‘Sheila’ song but still can’t recite the alphabet.

The fact that people don’t realise that most Indian

movies are a frame by frame copy of Hollywood movies.

Who needs actual writers when just translators would

do? From Three Men and a Baby to Hitch Bollywood has copied it all. a