SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
she wrote
Murder,
Investigating cause of death takes guts of steel meet one woman medico-legal officer who does this for a living in Pakistan’s most violent city
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Feature
Chinese whispers in Buddha land Antiques smugglers do damage to KhyberPakhtunkhwa’s history
18
Feature
The rime of the ancient Qissa Goh Meet Faqir Muhammad Shami, Lahore’s unofficial tourist guide
Cover Story
Murder, she wrote The woman medicolegal officer with guts of steel who does postmortems in Karachi
4
24
32 Regulars
6 People & Parties: Out and about with the beautiful people
38 Reviews: Devious Maids and 42
Pacific Rim Health: Lead-based kohls are bad for babies
Magazine Editor: Mahim Maher and Sub-Editors: Dilaira Mondegarian and Sundar Waqar Creative Team: Amna Iqbal, Essa Malik, Jamal Khurshid, Samra Aamir, Anam Haleem, Munira Abbas, Faizan Dawood & S Asif Ali Publisher: Bilal A Lakhani. Executive Editor: Muhammad Ziauddin. Editor: Kamal Siddiqi For feedback and submissions: magazine@tribune.com.pk Twitter: @ETribuneMag & Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ETribuneMag Printed: uniprint@unigraph.com
PEOPLE & PARTIES
Sarah Raza celebrates her birthday in Islamabad
Sherry and Sana Khan
Nosheen Amir and Abida Nauman
Saira Aziz and Nadia Kamal
Fareeha, Mehreen Peracha, Zoya Kamal and Sabeen Shaban
PR
AN D
EV EN TS
Ayesha Pasha and Azmi
ZZ
Abida Nauman and Nazia Nazeer
6
Sarah, Usman Khan and Zahra Raza SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
OS OT PH
SY TE R U CO
RE
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
PEOPLE & PARTIES
Sara Faisal, Sarah Raza and Nabiha Khan
Uzma
Samreen Ahsan Bhatti
8
Hena Munir
Sobia Zuha
Pashmina and Leena SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Nida Amir
Saira Hassan and Mehreen Peracha PHOTOS COURTESY REZZ PR AND EVENTS
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
PEOPLE & PARTIES
Zeenat Ahmed and Urooj
Asim, Rosy and Anila
Fashion Pakistan Lounge holds its annual Eid exhibition in Karachi
Bakhtawar
10
Afreen, Altaf and Nuzhat
Samar and Asim SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Mr and Mrs Zubairi
Maria Kashif PHOTOS COURTESY MUNAF MANSOOR
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
PEOPLE & PARTIES Urooj launches her luxury prĂŞt rack under the name of Impressions in Lahore
Saima and Alina Nehzat
Urooj and Sam
Shafqat and Faiza
Khuban and Rima
Madiha Qaiser
12
Faiza SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Fatima
Shazia and Ayesha PHOTOS COURTESY SAVVY PR AND EVENTS
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
PEOPLE & PARTIES
Amna Zuberi and Amber
Ursala
Dr Shahida and Rabia
Iman and Rasmya
Saniya, Ayesha and Bushra Uzma and Anushay
14
Madiha and Aiza SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Maleeha
Unaiza
Noma PHOTOS COURTESY SAVVY PR AND EVENTS
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
PHOTOS COURTESY BILAL MUKHTAR EVENTS & PR
PEOPLE & PARTIES
Aliha and Mariam
The Malaysian brand VISS opens its flagship store in Lahore Sonu
16
Uzma
Faria
Lubna, Zara, Shazma and Inzar
Vaneeza and Rameen
Risham, Aimen, Zara and Amina
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Sadaf
Rima and Meg
SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
FEATURE
Chinese whispers in Buddha land Antiques smugglers do damage to Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa’s history by failing to document it BY FAWAD SHAH & SHAHSAWAR KHAN DESIGN BY ASIF ALI
This map shows the smattering of Buddhist archaeological sties in this part of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa. ILLUSTRATION BY JAMAL KHURSHID
History is hard enough to piece together from shards of pottery. The storyline is further distorted in some European and Chinese museums if they unknowingly acquire smuggled artifacts from Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa. The relics have often been displayed with labels that have either incomplete or misconstrued information, say museum officials. For example, they can say a piece is from Pakistan or Afghanistan. If Pakistan wants to reclaim it, then, the foreign museum rejects the request and tells it to settle the matter with Afghanistan first.
The Unesco World Heritage site of Takht-i-Bahi in Mardan where a Buddhist monastery complex survives on the crest of a hill. It was founded in the first century AD. PHOTOS:DR MUHAMMAD ZAHIR OF HAZARA UNIVERSITY
Murky sourcing is to blame. For instance, many Gandhara Civilisation pieces that find their way into museums and homes across the world are not properly documented as they have been dug up by farmers and subsequently hawked by middlemen across the globe. No one has kept track. Formal archaeological digs are expensive and the government hasn’t been able to keep up. Archaeologists estimate that there are 22,000 art pieces from the Gandhara Civilisation in Pakistan, but the number circulating in the international market, officially and unofficially, is suspected to be much higher. No one knows exactly how many men make up the archaeological mafia network that has emerged from Mingora city in Swat, Sarrafa Market, Namak Mandi in Peshawar and the areas bordering Afghanistan. They acquire artifacts through local sources and then sell them at huge margins to their overseas network of dealers, usually family members who negotiate with museums, art galleries and even retailers.
19 SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
FEATURE
A team of archaeologists from Hazara University in Mansehra excavating in Udegram, Swat. This is how Ashiq Ali*, an academic failure, made millions overnight. A jeweler by profession, he started dealing in antiques when he stumbled upon a Buddha sculpture while digging on his family farm in Mardan. Two decades later, he is one of the main dealers in the area with domestic and international clientele. Today, he can afford to be picky and only buys pieces that interest him. Dealers such as Ali, 47, may not have formal training on how to spot or date such items but even they need to keep an eye out for fakes. Nasrullah, a resident of Swabi, lost Rs50,000 when two men approached him with a statue and promises of a staggering profit. The statue turned out to be made of salt and neither the men nor the money were found again. Even worse can be a righteous ignoramus who smashes a terra-cotta goddess figurine because he thinks it is the work of the devil. But if someone with the right eye and contacts in the antiques market manages to find a piece, they have hit an instant jackpot. According to Dr Muhammad Zahir, 20 an assistant professor at the Hazara University departSEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
These antiques are worth more than the budget of the entire Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa province Dr Zahir, an assistant professor at the Hazara University department of Archaeology
A Stupa model, Peshawar Museum.
ment of Archaeology, these antiques are worth more than the budget of the entire Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa (K-P) province. Qaddafi* is a dealer who has sold relics from the Ashoka reign that are found around his hometown of Mansehra. He tells the story of a friend who bought a sculpture from a farmer who had accidentally discovered it while ploughing A terracotta seal with his farm in Chitti Gatti. “He bought [it] Buddhist Stupa models and the ancient Sharada for Rs20,000 and sold [it] in China for Rs8 million,” he says. script at the Hund Museum, Swabi. In addition to China, this history is valued in Korea, Japan, Thailand and the US. “Those who follow Buddhism as a religion have an emotional attachment to things found in our part of the world,” says Dr Abdul Samad who heads the archaeology department at Hazara University. “This is the place where all these things started. The artisan work done on sculptures and stupas and coins found in K-P, cannot be found anywhere else.” The Gandhara Civilisation was centred on the area that is present-day Peshawar and included Bamiyan in Afghanistan. It is believed that Buddhism reached Gandhara in the third century BCE. Some archaeologists maintain that Siddhartha Gautama (later Buddha) himself visited Swat, Hund (Swabi), Mardan and Charsadda. A look at the map of this area shows how many Buddhist monasteries sprung up. In fact, most of the illegal digging takes place about 16 kilometres from Mardan in the areas surrounding the (Zoroastrian and then) Buddhist site of Takht-i-Bahi which translates as Throne of Origins or the Spring Throne. This site is famous for its monastery that still stands on a crest of a hill. The complex is known as the most complete and impressive Buddhist monastery and was founded in the first century AD, according to Unesco. Given the importance of the region, the government of Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa has established 11 museums across the province. Nidaullah Sehrai of the Directorate of Archaeology and Museums claims that they are trying their best to protect all sites. “We take action whenever we find people digging illegally,” says Sehrai. Recently in Swabi the police followed up on a complaint from his department to arrest some men disturbing land that with heritage significance. However, the directorate does not have enough money and hands on deck to completely tackle the mafia network, he adds. The archaeologists often find that when untrained
people rummage through these fragile sites, they do more damage. “Even when the antiquities are taken out safely,” says Dr Ihsan Ali, an archaeologist who has also served as the director of museums in the province, “the excavators only have an eye for stone and gold and usually destroy everything else.” It doesn’t help if the police are in their pocket. The experts would like to also see the outdated 1976 Antiquities Act be updated to help them prosecute with more bite. People living in these areas also need to be given an education on the treasure they are sitting so they do their bit to protect the heritage. “Yes, our religion has changed,” says Dr Zahir, “but we are still custodians of our own heritage. Nothing can change that.” First meditation of Prince Siddhartha, Peshawar Museum.
21 SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
she wrote
COVER STORY
Murder,
24 SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Meet the woman medico-legal officer with guts of steel who does post-mortems in Karachi BY ATIKA REHMAN DESIGN BY MUNIRA ABBAS & SAMRA AAMIR
You can never be ready for the moment they pull the sheet off. The round middle-aged woman with mehndi-orange hair, in a limp pink shalwar kameez, is not the sallow-skinned corpse you dreaded. Eyelids closed, lips slightly parted, she looks as if she is peacefully sleeping. You almost want to reach out and touch her. Outside the room with her body, however, a commotion has broken out in the half-lit shadows of the mortuary’s reception at Civil Hospital, Karachi. “Phanda kahan hai?” demands Dr Summaiya, the medico-legal officer (MLO), as she faces a tired policeman who brought the body in. “Where is the noose? Please tell me you have it.” “We left it at the police station,” he replies sheepishly. “Ghalti ho gayi, we were in a rush.” Dr Summaiya reins herself in as the victim’s family — the elderly husband and distraught young daughter — are watching from a few feet away. She proceeds to ask them questions. The woman was last seen by her family at 10 am when they left for work. The daughter weeps. The MLO takes furious notes. At least the family is not being suspiciously insistent on an autopsy. If this happens, Dr Summaiya’s sixth sense is alerted. “In nine out of 10 such cases it has been my experience that the culprit is the family,” she says. “They press for the autopsy to show how eager they are for insaaf [justice].” This case seems to be different, at least from the information provided by the family. The woman had suffered from depression for years. She was consulting a psychiatrist at a large university hospital and was on medication. They found her hanging from the ceiling fan when they came home. A neighbour helped 25 get her down. SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
COVER STORY
Dr Summaiya helped the police nab a serial killer in Karachi who had butchered three women. She did this by assessing his height, for one, based on the depth and type of cuts he made As the gurney is wheeled inside, the MLO explains why the noose is so important. “You see, if this smart a** had brought the rope, we could have assessed the ligature against the damage to her neck. It would have helped us determine if she was strangled or hanged herself.” Inside the mortuary, the stench is not overwhelmingly putrid, despite the lack of air conditioning. It’s closer to the sickly sweet smell of kitty-litter masked by an overdose of sanitiser and disinfectant. But then again, the body lying on the gurney was brought here just a few hours after it was found hanging from a fan in a Soldier Bazaar flat. It has not even begun to decompose. “Wear these,” Dr Summaiya says, holding out two surgical masks — a double protection. She has sprayed her favourite Victoria’s Secret body spray on them. She sets her can of Mountain Dew down on a tray of surgical equipment near the body. “And if you faint, we have a bed ready for you too.” She gestures to a second stretcher parked in a corner. As you inch closer to the table, you pick your way past stains on the floor. The canvas of tiles is still white but if you
are not careful, your chappals will leave muddy prints from old dried blood. There is also the risk of slipping on the pool of diluted blood and water on the side. The external exam begins. Dr Summaiya starts at the head. Her assistant turns to the limbs. Left, right, up, down. They move her about, trying to gauge the rigidity and assess the time of death. Has rigor mortis set in, they wonder out loud. “I am sick of telling the police we need the body with all the evidence,” she says, obviously still fuming over the missing noose. “The case can sometimes be deduced just by looking at the ligature. Such a crucial piece of evidence...” They continue to inspect the victim. The chin is raised; the abrasion at the neck is closely examined. “I’m really sorry aunty,” Dr Summaiya whispers. “I’m afraid we’ll have to open you up.”
All in a day’s work For this MLO, this is a regular day at work. For the last decade, she has been doing an average of three post-mortems per week. In a bad week, she says it can go up to four or five. And while women medico-legal officers are reserved for female victims, they will also share the burden of men when there is a major disaster. On those days, Dr Summaiya loses count. The numbers are consistently rising each year, she says. With the majority of post-mortem cases being sent to Jinnah Postgraduate Medical Centre and Abbasi Shaheed Hospital, Civil hospital conducted approximately 350 in 2012. As violence and gun crime rise in a lazily policed Karachi, the numbers will get closer to 500 this year. Jinnah hospital is expected to take on 850 cases. Given that the medico-legal stream of government service is hardly a coveted one, it is hard to understand why someone such as this animated MLO would want to work in an understaffed and equipped mortuary in one of Pakistan’s most violent cities. After her rigorous
five-year MBBS degree and house jobs in pediatrics and surgery she could have worked anywhere else. She insists that the profession chose her, instead of the other way around. “I enjoy my work,” she adds. “The investigation keeps me on my toes. When I arrive at a cause of death or write a particularly complicated rape or assault case, I feel exhilarated.” But while she has no qualms doing gunshot cases, or even torture ones, she will not take on a baby’s case or that of a pregnant victim. “I have seen drill holes in their legs,” she says. She has seen missing fingernails and cigarette burns — even unmentionable torture wounds. She uses the word “masters” to describe the perpetrators. “They know when to stop mere centimeters from death. Some have experience and go about it in a scientific manner.” Her science is an underappreciated one in a city that needs it the most. If it were not for her, perhaps the police would not have nabbed a serial killer who butchered three women. “My estimate was [that he was] a man of short stature,” she says, going on to explain that the depth of the cut helped tell. A tall man would have swung from a height to deliver a high-impact and hence deeper cut, than a short man. “I deduced that he initially had no experience in cutting up body parts but was gaining experience with each body.” She told the police investigating officer (IO) that he should look for a person with small conveyance but not a motorcycle. “I told him it was possibly someone from outside Karachi,” she recalls. One victim’s legs were wrapped in two pillow cases made of a different fabric with what seemed to be embroidery from around Multan. Indeed, the perp turned out to be a rickshaw driver from Sadiqabad who hunted poor household helpers for a bit of sex, a “lust murderer” who later admitted to his crimes. “The IO got a letter
of recommendation,” she says sourly. “I got a ‘Thank You’ phone call and a chance to speak at the police training center and teach those ignorant morons — so there’s your Dexter.” That case was a highlight. There are many instances when the MLOs are not brave enough to name the killers. “Sometimes, we turn a deaf ear to what the dead may be saying to us.”
Government service As with other government jobs, the world of post-mortem forensic pathology has its set of sins — bribes and politics of transfers are common. Some just skim the waters, others dive deep. Some MLOs make easy money by writing favourable cases, instead of working hard to run a clinic as a source of income on the side. Others ask for “compensation” to release a body to the family or weaken the other party’s case. There are instances when doctors take money just to write a case. And of course, the outcome can also be influenced by a fatter wad of cash. These monetary incentives cannot, however, entirely motivate. Who wants to deal with pressure from armed gangs and trigger-happy party activists when there is no security? Sometimes exhumations need to be carried out much to the anger of families. “We just deal with it,” says Karachi-based Dr Abdul Haq, a former MLO who was recently promoted to senior medical officer in grade 19 (22 being the highest). “There is a lot of pressure on us. Not only are we overworked, the facilities and equipment we use are terrible.” The mortuary doesn’t have anything worth calling a budget. (This is different from a morgue, such as Edhi’s at Sohrab Goth, where bodies can be kept in the required low temperatures). The mortuary staff has to even print their own post-mortem forms. Civil hospital does pay for some
is the total number of women medicolegal officers in Karachi (3 at CHK, 3 at JPMC, 2 at ASH) according to last count. There are also three female additional police surgeons
COVER STORY maintenance. Sometimes the police investigating officer helps arrange for material or the Edhi ambulances give them extra sheets. Dr Summaiya carries her own syringes and swabs. She scoffs that the advantage of taking bribes for some is that at least that MLO can pay for the equipment with the extra cash. While MLOs are not authorised to perform post-mortems unless expressly sanctioned by the police, Dr Abdul Haq says at times parties circumvent the police and approach them directly. “‘Hum police ko dekh lenge,’ they say. We give in and give them the details of the injuries — what else can we do? We need to save our [own] lives.” He describes the job as being the equivalent to being thrown into the deep sea — you either sink or swim. With a crushing load, gag-inducing work environment and no protection, he says it’s a little-respected line even among doctors. “On a bad night, one MLO will perform four post-mortems in a night and then also have other medico-legal cases to deal with, such as assault, rape, road accidents. Sometimes mothers come to us saying, ‘I need help, look what was done to my child’. We try to give the details to the best of our abilities given our limitations [equipment and facilities], but the weaker MLOs are bought. Jaisi report chahiye, waise paise chahiye hain.” Pay for the kind of report you want. Viscera samples, which should reach a forensic lab straight from the MLO’s hand, are easy to sidetrack along the way. Police investigation officers are incompetent at best and lazy at worst, many of them are barely able to write details of the crime scene. They put it off and just press the MLO to get the job done. Despite these difficulties, Dr Summaiya says she loves her work. She hopes to write a book about her experiences some day, even though a piece she once wrote titled, ‘When the Dead Talk’ was turned down by an English newspaper. “They told me it 28 didn’t make for a good Sunday read,” she SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
says. “But I don’t get creeped out at all. I just follow the path.” She was first posted to the police surgeon’s office in Karachi and never looked back, even investing in a postgraduate degree in forensic pathology. “I personally don’t think I belong here. I need to be in a world where forensics are both respected and treated as a science. But I can’t help it. I am drawn to it. Even my colleagues think I am a bit of a freak for being so serious about this field,” she says. “I have people here who hate me and say I show off. I just do what I am good at. And that’s thinking like a criminal.” She opens up the victim’s neck by making a five-inch vertical incision, chin down. She scrapes the fat away and removes some tissue. She feels around inside the woman’s neck. “Aha, it’s snapped right here, see?” she tells the assistant. She is holding out the horse-shoe shaped hyoid bone that sits above the thyroid. “It breaks when we compress the neck right there,” she adds, explaining that it is evident from the way the bone has snapped that the woman hanged herself. “Okay aunty, we’re giving you your stuff back. Sorry again about opening you up.” It’s rare to have such a clear-cut case, she says. This woman must have been seriously depressed. As the woman is stitched up, we talk about politics and Karachi. She teases the assistant about being her ustaad or mentor. She takes a sip of her Mountain Dew. When I take my gloves off and move to the dirty sink in the corner, she warns me that there might be no water. Thankfully, there is. Later, we talk about her family (a husband and two children). She has cats. She’s a passable cook, but she loves to write. She reads Harry Potter and enjoys watching the occasional Bollywood film (Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani is a recent favourite). The ‘normal’ things in life keep her sane. She proceeds to write the death certificate. Cause of death: Constriction of neck leading to asphyxiation. Case closed. T
Rs80,000 to Rs145,000 is how much MLOs are paid. Dr Summaiya is a grade 18 officer who is paid Rs85,000. She claims to be the only one with a postgraduate degree in forensic pathology
29 SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
FEATURE
The rime of the ancient Qissa Goh Meet Faqir Muhammad Shami, Lahore’s unofficial guide
TEXT & PHOTOS BY AURANGZEB HANEEF
Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. — William Shakespeare Shami saheb’s handwritten visiting card.
In an orphanage in 1947, a 14-year-old boy recited this poem at the parents’ day ceremony. The school was MC Bohri Primary School. The orphanage was Darul Shafqat. The city was Lahore. Faqir Muhammad Shami had just completed his fourth grade and was selected as the class speaker. Today, at 81 years of age, he remembers this poem with fondness. In a way, this has come to define his life. He calls upon people and shares with them the stories of Lahore’s past and present. He is the unofficial guide to the city’s monuments. You may have seen him. He is small, frail, and invisible, unless he comes up to you and starts speaking in English about a certain corner of the Badshahi mosque. When you get to know him a little, you realise he is much taller than he appears. And like all legends of this country, he too is fading into obscurity. Born to the fourth wife of his father in about 1932 near Karori in Mansehra district, Shami was perhaps destined to be special — an aalim — according to an astrologer’s prediction. This almost cost him his life as his stepmother tried to poison him out of jealousy. “Woh moozi thi aur main ghaazi.” He lived to tell his story and the story of Lahore through its monuments as a tourist guide. Shami came to Lahore with his mother in 1944 after his father passed away of asthma. The orphanage was not easy. For a year he couldn’t learn beyond alif, be, pe as he struggled with a mental block. His hands developed blisters from constant beating from his teacher. A passerby took notice and suggested a Quran school to unblock his mind. This worked, and after a short time he returned to the primary school and went on to become a star student. Before he learnt English, Shami acquired fluency and eloquence in language at a very early age. Indeed this was a prerequisite for an aalim — one who knows. On a summer journey home with his step-brother, they took a detour via Abbotabad. Moved by its sudden beauty, Shami composed this ode at the age of 14:
Qafas-e-qaid mein na shaakh daali, bulbul ko chaman nazar aaya Parda uthha kar jo jhaanka Abbotabad nikal aaya Zarra zarra husn-e-jahan tujh mein sama jaaein Nikhat-e-ambreen yahan tujh mein sama jaaen Aks-e-firdaus in daaliyon ko jhoomtay dekha Khuda shahid jahan saara ghoom ke dekha Khuda ne khudaai kya khoob hai banaai Darya-o-mauj-o-lehr mein kashti chalaai Jahan saara jamal-e-ishq-e-husn-e-Abbotabad ban jaaye Jahan saare say laal-o-gauhar shaami nikal aaen While Urdu came with relative ease, English was a gift from his mother. At least, this is how he sees it. Back in the village she used to call him ‘angrezaa!’ when she got angry with him. One day he didn’t take this curse particularly well and ran ten miles to his step-sister’s house. “My mother called me angrezaa so I became an angrez,” he says today. But it took motivation and effort. In Lahore, his teacher at the secondary school of the orphanage encouraged him to learn English: “You will remain backward if you don’t study English!” He worked hard and become the undisputed English-speaking tourist guide for Lahore some years later. This happened by chance. After completing seventh grade in 1951, Shami began living with his step-brother in Lahore. He continued with his education and finished a two-year degree of Adeeb Alim in 1954 from College Al-Sana Sharqiyya outside Delhi gate run by Aqa Bedar Bakht. Forced to leave after a conflict with his brother, Shami found shelter at the canal. One day he strolled into the Shalimar Gardens. Nazir 33 SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
FEATURE Jira, who used to organise a gambling den at Hotel Zenobia, was an employee of Mehekma Asaar-e-Qadeema and ran the fountains in the gardens. Shami observed that foreign tourists gave Nazir some money when he greeted them in English. This gave him an idea. If the unlettered gambler could earn a few rupees, then Shami could do much better. He dedicated himself to the study of important monuments in Lahore and became an unofficial English-speaking guide for foreigners who came. But nobody wanted to marry a homeless guide with an unsteady income. So, in 1963 he found employment at the University Law College as a peon and married Irshad bibi in 1965. With support of his supervisor Sheikh Imtiaz Ali (Sitara-e-Imtiaz), whom he remembers fondly, Shami continued working as a guide throughout his employment. Finally, in 1984, after resigning three times, he was allowed to leave the college. Immediately, he joined the Tourism Development Corporation of Punjab (TDCP) as a teaching guide to MA-qualified students, and worked there until his retirement in 1989. During this time he trained about three to four dozen guides. Ahsan Iqbal Chaudhary, managing director of TDCP from 1988 to 1990, once asked about Shami guide. Asif Zaheer, who was at that time a trainee and who later became a director at Parks and Horticulture Authority Lahore, responded: “Shami is not a guide. He is a great book. I need fifty years to read him.” Shami’s mark on Lahore tourism was well known and respected. He appears out of nowhere from the unknown crevices of Badshahi mosque only he knows. It starts with a friendly smile. With a few sentences in one of the many languages he is proficient in, laced with a few accented English sentences, he proffers his hand-written visiting card that will always have a message of peace or tolerance or keeping Lahore green. His average tour of Badshahi mosque lasts 40 minutes. The fee varies. The charitable
Shami may charge as little as Rs50 and give a full-fledged tour which is more of a class in historical story-telling. While Badshahi Masjid is his headquarters, he will guide you through the Gurdwara or even Shalimar Gardens, Wazeer Khan Mosque and Jahangir’s tomb. The highlight of the tour is the famous “echo” routine. Shami knows the exact four spots in the Badshahi where the builders played a unique architectural trick. With no microphone, all you have to do is place your mouth close to the niches in any of these four spots and say a throaty, consistent “aa” or “o” or “aam” or “om” sound. It vibrates such that while someone a few yards away may not hear it, someone standing at a certain point a long distance away in the mosque will hear the haunting echo. But Shami is not just a guide to Lahore’s Mughal past. He is also a living record of Lahore’s recent past and its passing present. Having lived through the Partition and seen several military and civilian governments, he has his own stories to share. Just before Partition, he participated in an agitation against the British government. At a particular pahiyya jaam, he lay down in the street leading a crowd in front of the Civil Secretariat, which was held by Malik Khizar Hayat Tiwana. They stayed outside his office for several days. Shami recounts the way the call-and-echo slogans went: Ringleader: Aao tumhein aik baat bataaen
Crowd: Kya bhai kya, kya bhai kya? Ringleader: Jail mein jaao gay? Crowd: Kyun bhai kyun, kyun bhai kyun? Ringleader: Wahan aik cheez mile gi! Crowd: Kya bhai kya, kya bhai kya? Ringleader: Khizar ki beti Crowd: Wah bhai wah! Ringleader: Khizar ki beti Crowd: Wah bhai wah! Malik escaped and delivered a message: Pakistan bana lo! Ringleader: Taazah khabar aai hai Crowd: Khizar hamara bhaai hai! Pakistan bana liya, but the realities of Partition were painful. Train compartments full of bodies arriving from India had a sobering effect. He and his friends did not retaliate with violence. They provided safe passage to Bhalla and Shital, two prominent Hindus of the area. Hum ne unhein baizzat nikaala — we saved them with dignity. Reflecting upon the tragedy, he says, “We should have remained together — shaanti say — that may have been better. No passport, no visa! Now, we should have peace with India.” Political activism has been an integral part of Shami’s life. He used to keep a set of letterheads in his name on which he wrote letters to several Pakistani leaders. He had a soft corner for Bhutto. He wrote him a letter warning of a bloated ego and bad advisors, and offered himself as one!
Later, in a note to General Zia he complained about misappropriation of income generated from the sale of tickets at Lahore Fort. He says that as a result, that task was privatised for Rs1.3 million that year while the present rate is Rs40 million per annum. A few years later, Shami was prohibited from entering the Fort. During the first PML-N government, he managed to annoy the American ambassador. Shami had written to several newspapers complaining about what he considered ‘interference in Pakistan’s internal matters’. The letter was not published but word reached the embassy. Since then he has been prevented from visiting the Fort’s grounds. In 1988, his home and all his belongings were washed away in a disastrous flood. Irshad bibi suffered a heart attack the moment she saw her destroyed home. She had just given birth to their sixth child a month earlier. Since his retirement in 1989, each day at sunrise, Faqir Muhammad Shami continues to visit Badshahi mosque to share Lahore’s pride with visitors while earning very little money. On most days he returns empty handed. With the dwindling number of foreign visitors since 9/11, his income has evaporated. Nobody wants an Englishspeaking guide any more. At 81 years of age, in soul-crushing heat or the freezing cold, Shami still goes about his daily routine, trying to make ends meet. He continues to beckon:
Come hither, come hither! My name is Shami jee Drink hot coffee and hot tea Burn your rosy lips and think of me Because of tea served you by Shami jee Under the greenwood tree The writer is a faculty member at the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, LUMS, Lahore. You can follow him on Twitter @AurangzebH and contact him at aurangzeb@post.harvard.edu
TV
The maids of Beverly Hills come clean “To steal another woman’s husband is rude but to steal her maid is unforgivable” is the rule the women in Beverly Hills live by, at least in Marc Cherry’s new dramedy TV series, Devious Maids. Sticking with the tried-and-tested recipe for success, Cherry’s Devious Maids is heavily inspired by its predecessor, Desperate Housewives — only this time, instead of the housewives of Wisteria Lane sharing stories of their husbands over poker, four Hispanic maids discuss the dirty laundry of their employers in Beverly Hills. The show starts with the murder of a maid, Flora, in the mansion of Evelyn and Adrian Powell — easily the most secretive and creepy couple on the block. The police soon arrest a suspect but if Desperate Housewives has taught us anything, it’s that the death at the beginning of the first season will haunt us till the very last one.
the very beginning, however, is shown to side with the handsome “Mr Spence”. Fun and feisty Carmen is an aspiring singer who’s willing to do anything to make it as a star. She starts working as a maid at the house of pop star Alejandro in the hope that he would notice her talent and help kickstart her career. What ties them all together is the new maid on the block, Marisol, who appears only after Flora’s death. Well-read and missing the Spanish accent, Marisol appears different from the other maids. She lands a job as a housemaid for newlyweds Taylor and Micheal but is more interested in the house of Evelyn and Adrian. The writers, however, make no attempt in hiding her motives — she’s the mother of the boy booked for Flora’s murder and on the lookout for the actual killer.
Performance of the maids The dirt
A carbon copy of Desperate Housewives with a Hispanic twist BY ZAHRAH MAZHAR
Zoila Diaz has been working at the house of the drug-addicted and co-dependent Genevieve for almost 20 years but things get difficult when her teenage daughter Valentina pays more attention to Genevieve’s blond and muscular son Remi than polishing the floors. Her friend Rosie is the maid/nanny for two actors, Peri and Spence, whose relationship seems to be on the rocks. Struggling to bring her son to the United States from Mexico, Rosie is often dragged into the couple’s messy fights. Her inclination from
Based on the first half of the premier season which has aired, the show has enough one-line zingers, mysterious characters and scandalous twists to keep the viewers interested. With familiar faces from Desperate Housewives making guest appearances, the entire ensemble does a good job of delivering powerful performances. While summer TV has witnessed many cancellations this year, Devious Maids has already been renewed for a second season and the credit goes to the maids, who not only know how to dig up dirt but aren’t afraid to use it. T
Girls Club Girls
38
If Sex and the City was Manhattan, then the new TV series Girls is Brooklyn. Its main characters are in their twenties, less refined and more experimental. The creator of the show, Lena Dunham, stars as a struggling writer Hannah who along with her responsible best friend Marnie, their bohemian friend Jessa and the 21-year-old virgin Shoshannal learn how to get by in New York City. SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
Pretty Little Liars They might be still in high school but these four pretty, little liars have more secrets than the show’s four seasons could handle. Spencer, Aria, Hanna and Emily are best friends living in the fictional town of Rosewood but after the ‘death’ of their group leader Alison, chaos, blackmail and drama ensues in the form of an unknown stalker ‘A’.
Mistresses Mistresses is based on a British drama that follows a group of four women whose lives have been affected by infidelities. The first season, currently underway, introduces the career-oriented Savi (Alyssa Milano) who decides to start a family with her husband, her single sister Josselyn who’d rather have a good time than settle down and Karen, a therapist, who has to deal with the fallout of a complex relationship with a patient.
In an attempt to save humanity, Pacific Rim flirts with self-destruction BY AIZA NASIR Pacific Rim plays like a live-action ion version of a Japanese anime. With h epic n monbattles between gigantic, alien echa sters and equally imposing mecha operated by humans, director o Guillermo del Toro manages to successfully create every guy’ss childhood fantasy. Written by del Toro and Tra-vis Beacham, the movie stars Charlie Hunnam, popular for his role in Sons of Anarchy, as the narrator and lead protagonist, and alongside him is Japanese actress and Academy Award nominee, Rinko Kikuchi. Together, with a supporting cast that includes the likes of Idris Elba, the fearless leader of Jaeger pilots, Ron Perlman, a black market, ‘monster parts’ ky dealer, and Charlie Day, a wacky d the world scientist, they strive to defend ing aliens against CGI-animated, menacing ous called the Kaiju, using enormous bots are robots, called Jaegers. The robots g in operated by two pilots working ense for tandem as the last line of defense a desperate human race. magiThe breadth of del Toro’s imagiattle nation is best at work in the battle d the scene between the Jaegers and Kaiju. Battles in the ocean, on the es are shore and in metropolitan cities h cinfilmed and displayed with such ave ematic perfection that they leave e the audiences hypnotised. The e only downside is the excessive
40 SEPTEMBER 8-14 2013
rain that o obscures what is perhaps the best part of the movie — the no-holdsbarred fighting. In order to justify the $190 mil million budget of the movie, and to appeal to a wider, non-anime or robot-loving audience, del To has tried to foray into the Toro p psyche of the protagonists to give them more flesh and blood. This is, however, where the movie flounders. It tends to drag at times, especially when the director tries to establish the relationship between Raliegh and Mako. The typical boymeets-girl story seems forced and unnecessary and what’s worse, remains inconclusive as to whether th they are merely friends or some something more. attem to inject mild humour The attempt into the m movie, in the form of comic relief, also falls flat. Although wellintended the dialogue and scenes intended, come off as forced and trite. If nothjus makes del Toro appear ing, it just des a bit desperate. Also, some of the scenes in this sci-fi fantasy serve no pur real purpose other than padding out leng of a film, and could have the length b easily been removed in editing. But a a fan of gigantic, metal if you are giants, then the long, drawn-out action sequences are sure to keep a you awake and attentive during th entire course of the movie. the
HEALTH The lashings of surma parents apply to their infant’s eyes could lead to anaemia, growth retardation and even kidney problems. Many people think surma or kohl is made of one of antimony’s minerals, stibnite, that was used in Egyptian cosmetics four or five thousand years ago as black eyeliner. But the truth today is that commercially produced surma has less antimony and more Lead Sulphide. This dangerous chemical is a known developmental neurotoxicant, which has even come to the notice of the US Food d Drug Dru Administration. Adm dmiinistrrat ation. In fact surma and
Can’t you
products are banned in North America. But paediatrician Assistant Prof Dr Mohsina Noor Ibrahim sees far too many children with kohl-rimmed eyes at Karachi’s National Institute of Child Health. What angers her most is the use of surma on wounds. “Parents should never apply surma to a newborn’s umbilical cord, as it can lead to infection, such as tetanus,” she warns. “Surma’s quality, especially its composition, is a mystery. We don’t know what colour particles they are using and what is the metal content of surma.” Given that the gover r government does not regulate how these cosm m cosmetics are made, it is not clear what goes go oe in them. But several studies, som m from as far as some Israel and Bahrain,, have found that ed in the Middle kohl manufacture manufactured Indiia subcontinent East and the Indian l has had up to 79% lead. Other metiron n carbon, alumials included iron, an menthol. num, camphor and elementts are absorbed in These elements throu ug the nasolacthe blood through whiic connects the rimal duct, which nose e, and esophagus eyes to the nose, leadin n to the stomeventually leading ach, explains Drr Tayyaba Batool, paed di a consultant paediatric surgeon at Ziau Zi audd au ddin in nU n versitty Hospital. ni Ziauddin University Th he best b st way be way to to tell tel your blood lead te tel The leve els iis to get a blood blo ood d test. For adults levels tthere ther he e ssh hou ould lld d be be no o more morr than 20 microshould gram ms pe p er de d eci cili litr li itr t e off llead e in the blood grams per decilitre and for fo or children 10. 0. Your You ou doctor can use te stt res esul es ults to to te ttell ell ll iiff there th herr is a case of lead test results po p ois ison oni nin ing, ng, w who ho h ose e ccommon om m poisoning, whose symptoms a ar e an a nem nem mia ia, growth grrowt g owth th retardation r are anemia, and kidn ki dney dn e problems. ey probl p blem emss kidney An nd it’s not no just the surma And that can ccause problems. th Surm ma applicators are Surma
seehow
Lead absorbed from surma in a child’s eyes can lead to retarded growth
BY NAVEELA KHAN PHOTO MYRA IQBAL DESIGN BY SAMRA AAMIR
badit is?
Anything we put inside our eyes can irritate and make them watery. Tears are nature’s way of cleaning the eye — you don’t need surma to do that Ophthalmologist Dr Jamal Mughal with Karachi’s Akhtar Eye Hospital made of metal or wood, which when unclean can cause fungal and bacterial infections in the eye. Ophthalmologist Dr Jamal Mughal with Karachi’s Akhtar Eye Hospital also warns that if parents use force to apply the kohl they can injure them too. Aside from cultural tradition, people believe it is Sunnat to use surma, it improves eyesight and cures. But a hakim, Syed Muhammad Rehan Alam, warned that the commercial brands produced today are nowhere near the quality of surma used centuries ago. “[They] use colour in surma [but] the formula that was used by hakims is a difficult procedure,” he said. Experts at the King Khaled Eye Specialist Hospital and several other institutes in Riyadh did report the interesting finding that some kohl preparations had a weak antimicrobial effect against Streptococcus, Staphylococcus and Proteus species. But they still discouraged use of lead-based kohls. The discovery of lead content in this cosmetic has been a cause of concern for a while. Researchers have even studied how a baby’s blood lead levels can go up through the umbilical cord if the mother applies surma. Doctors can only fight cultural beliefs so much. Abdullah’s six-month son Qasim has been admitted to the NICH. His wife told him to bring some surma from home because she felt his eyes looked “empty and small” without it. “I don’t know why Qasim has vision problems even after we use surma,” he said. T