Historical Places

The composite culture that evolved over centuries of amalgamation of various spiritual practices continues to date. This consensus of sorts was truncated by the events of the early twentieth century when Muslim identity and corresponding claims to nationhood resulted in the movement for Pakistan. Sindh and its myriad subcultures became victim to of the higher games of politics, power-seeking and economic interests of local leadership.

The Partition of the subcontinent in 1947 brought with it a new shape to the politics and cultures of the Indus region. The physical took over the mythological as the new state of Pakistan was dependent on the Indus as a major source of water and livelihoods.

One of the key post-Partition issues was how to divide the waters of the Indus basin – a previously ‘cohesive and unitary network of irrigation’. This was eventually decided through the Indus Water Treaty, which was signed in 1960. The fact that it took thirteen years to reach an agreement reflects the difficult nature of the task. Essentially this difficulty arose because the source rivers were located in India.

Thus Pakistan was insecure in terms of the availability of continued water supply from the Indus as this was its primary source of water for agricultural land. It wanted the distribution to be based on its historic rights through which it would be entitled to all of the Indus tributaries. However, this was unacceptable to India, which later demanded that the Western tributaries be given to Pakistan and the Eastern tributaries to India.

Initially after independence, the Inter-Dominion Accord of May 4, 1948 determined how the waters were to be divided. India was bound to provide adequate water supply to Pakistan as per the accord in lieu of payments made by the Pakistani government. Negotiation for a permanent solution continued soon afterwards, but no agreement could be reached. India also did not agree to take the issue to the International Court of Justice as it claimed that the problem ‘required a bilateral solution’. Tensions were high by 1951 as negotiations were no longer taking place. However, both sides knew that it was essential for talks to continue as there could be no lasting peace without them.

In 1951, David Lilenthal, former chairman of the Tennessee Valley Authority and of the US Atomic Energy Commission, visited both India and Pakistan. Lithenthal suggested that the antagonism between India and Pakistan could be reduced and cooperation ensured in the long run if both countries worked together on an Indus Development Program. His ideas were subsequently taken up by the World Bank and eventually by Pakistan and India as well. Eugene R. Black, the President of the Bank at that time, consequently formed a working party of Pakistani, Indian and World Bank Engineers in the hopes of working for a ‘functional’ solution without worrying about political concerns. In 1954, overstepping its previous role, the World Bank offered a proposal which supported the Indian position of giving India the three eastern tributaries and Pakistan the three Western ones. It proposed the construction of canals and storage dams ‘to divert waters from the western rivers and replace the eastern river supply lost by Pakistan.’ This proposal was unacceptable to Pakistan and negotiations virtually came to a stalemate at this point.

The talks continued for the next six years. The Indus Water Treaty was signed in 1960 after it was agreed that the United States and United Kingdom would finance the construction of canals and storage facilities to divert the water to Pakistan. As part of the Treaty, the permanent Indus Commission was also set up in order to arbitrate any disputes over the waters in the future, and to ensure communication between the two countries over this matter.

After much effort and compromise the agreement was in place and has continued to be this way over the best part of the last fifty-one years. This agreement is indicative of the fact that peace between the two countries is possible in the long run, and agreements can be reached – especially when the cost of not doing so is higher for both countries.

While the Indus as a major supplier of water and life to Pakistan is a paramount reality, preserving Indus folklore is also a major challenge. Indus legends are the lived reality of the communities that reside along its majestic banks. And their livelihoods are threatened by environmental degradation and the forces of globalization, commercial greed being the key driver for change and ‘progress’. Mangroves are vanishing and the boat-communities are struggling for their survival. This is where culture and environment acquire a powerful synthesis for they are equally important to preserve and conserve life patterns.

The World Wildlife Fund states that Indus eco-region is one of the 40 biologically richest eco-regions of the world. The Indus ecoregion is situated in a semi-arid environment: it harbors riverine forests along the Indus River and mangrove forests in the coastal areas while desert ecosystems occupy the periphery of the eco-region. Currently, about 50 percent of the gross area of riverine forests is inundated in high floods. As a result, the riverine forest area is shrinking alarmingly while less salt-tolerant species have almost disappeared. It is estimated that this situation may further be compounded by the construction of new dams and barrages, enabling only 20 percent of the original forest area to get inundated.

Local livelihoods and cultural practices along the Indus are under rapid transformation and this has a direct impact on Indus folklore: it is being diminished in the wake of ecological neglect and a population explosion. Indus communities engaged in traditional livelihoods of agriculture, fisheries and livestock-rearing have been forced to give up their traditional professions. The Mohanas (fisherfolk) have been displaced and driven towards alternative livelihoods. Over two million Mohanas have been impacted across Sindh. This has been termed as a major loss to the cultural diversity of Sindh. As we have noted above, water holds a significant position in the cultural existence of the Sindhi people. Water has been a source of literature, mystical beliefs and a composite way of life that is threatened now. This state of affairs is equally relevant to the communities that live along the Indus in the Southern parts of the Punjab province.

Reclaiming Indus folklore along with environmental conservation is a powerful way of saving the shared heritage of India and Pakistan. The Indus is an all-encompassing metaphor of securing long-term peace in the region, documenting and preserving our cultural heritage and maintaining the sublime literary standards set by the Indus followers. India cannot be without the Indus and Pakistan cannot function as a viable ecological zone without this magical river.

By Raza Rumi:

Indus as a source of belief systems

“Pot in hand, trust in God, she enters the waves;
Her leg in the dogfish’s mouth, her head in the shark’s,
Bangles twisted, hair drifting through the water,
Fishes, big and small, crowd around her
Crocodiles waiting to devour her.” (translation from Albinia’s book)

Thus Sohni meets the destructive end associated with carrying forth a lover’s ambitions. However, she is no longer tied to the ‘material body,’ and ‘is united in death with the beloved.’ Sassui figures as another protagonist in Shah Latif’s stories. Here too, the Indus plays a pivotal role. Sassui, a Hindu orphan, was found in the Indus by a Muslim washerman who raised her as his own child. Sassui later falls in love with Punhu, a Baloch noble, who acts as if he is from a modest background in order to court her. Punhu’s privileged family resents this transgression and takes him away against his will. Sassui’s journey to search for Punhu into the vast expanse of the Balochistan desert denotes her separation from the Indus lands – her precious belonging – and thus becomes a metaphor for the impact of two separations: from love and belonging. This is what makes Sassui an ideal in the mystic sense, for her path is what yogis and fakirshave ventured to follow through centuries. She symbolizes the difficulties associated with undertaking ‘the quest for God.’
Thus, folk romances were used as a method of imparting mystical education. They were also used by Qadi Qadan (d.1551), Abdul Karim of Bulri (1635-1623) and Mian Shah Inat (d.circa 1700) amongst other Sufis saints.

‘The River Sin-tu [Indus] is pure and clear as a mirror… Poisonous dragons and dangerous spirits live beneath its waters.
If a man tries to cross the river carrying valuable gems, rare flowers and fruits, or above all, relics of Buddha, the boat is
engulfed by waves.’

 

I wrote a piece on Urdu poet Mustafa Zaidi six years ago. Since then I have received immense feedback. Zaidi’s relatives, friends and admirers across the globe have contacted me and provided documents, information and related anecdotes. It is all turning into a book of sorts that hopefully will be written one day.

I had mentioned in my post that the cause of Zaidi’s death was shrouded in mystery while most believed that he committed suicide. As I have learnt, the circumstances of his death suggest otherwise. News reports and eyewitness accounts point to the absurdity of the claim that he died in a hotel as family members claim that he was found dead in his own home. Thanks to Zaidi’s ardent fan Abeer Zaidi, I have come to know of more precise facts. I remain grateful for that.

Zaidi, at his time of death had produced several outstanding, original collections of poetry. He was married to a woman of German descent and had two children but his last companion was a woman named Shehnaz, the love of his life. His last five poems titled ‘Shehnaz’  immortalised her. That October day in 1970, Shehnaz was found unconscious along with Zaidi’s dead body.

Following are the circumstances of his demise and the lack of evidence to support the commonly held view that he committed suicide:

 

On March 20, 1971, under the headline ‘Evidence of Zaidi’s nephew recorded’, the newspaper Dawn reported: “Mr. Shahid Raza, nephew of the former CPS officer and well known poet Mr. S.M. Zaidi yesterday said that there were signs of a struggle having taken place in the room in which his uncle’s body was discovered last October 12. He was testifying in the Court of the District Magistrate, Mr. Kunwar Idris, in the committal trial of Mrs. Shehnaz Saleem, Wife of Mr. Saleem Khan, who is charged with the murder of Mustafa Zaidi.”

The report goes on to say that Mr Raza entered his uncles house with police official and a maternal uncle the morning after his death and found the body lying on the bed. The receiver of the phone was dangling off the hook and the cord stretched across his body. There were stains of blood on his back as well as on the bed sheet and furniture. The room was scattered and a sofa was overturned.

 

The writer Laurel Steel has mentioned this report in her book, ‘Relocating the Post-Colonial Self’ and has also published some letters written by Zaidi to his wife in Germany to help him get a visa to join his family in Germany. Additionally Steel also mentions that on the day of his death he rose at 8 am and washed his car. Later in the day he received visitors including Shehnaz Gul and afterwards told his servant to go home to return the next morning. The question this must be asked, can this demeanor be that of a man bent on committing suicide in hotel room?

Decades later, this case is still an enigma and has left many of those who appreciated his life and work in denial and doubt.

Legendary singer, Naina Devi  was born into a Bengali Brahmo Samaj reformist family in the early years of the twentieth century. A childhood replete with music, dance, theatre and social reform gave way to the grandeur and seclusion of the life of a young queen of the Kapurthala royal family of Punjab. Despite seventeen  years of silence necess
itated by the norms of a royal household, she came back to music and a glorious career as a singer, arts-administrator, teacher and patron,  after the tragic death of her husband.

Heart to Heart, traces Naina Devi’s incredible story as she told it to her foremost disciple, Vidya Rao. Naina Devi’s  story traces the changes in the world of Indian classical music, women singers and women in Indian society  over the last century.  Learning seena-ba-seena, heart to heart, in a seamless blend of music and life-lessons,  Rao imbibed not
just a knowledge of her chosen form, Thumri,  but a sense of the very being of her teacher.

The evocative  narrative weaves back and forth between history  and memory,  past and present, and between Naina Devi’s voice and Rao’s own, to illuminate the power  and beauty of music, the lives of these two women and of many others,  of courage, pain, joy and love, and  of the deep bond between Rao and her beloved Guru.

Here’s a detailed review published here

She uses words as if she is caressing the notes of a thumri or a dadra, the musical forms she has chosen to express herself. A proficient practitioner of the delicate art of singing Thumri and Dadra, Vidya Rao is also a writer, who mesmerises the reader with her rare sensitivity, great feel for words and unusual skill to weave a multi-hued tapestry with breathtakingly complex designs. When her book on the late Naina Devi, “Heart to Heart: Remembering Nainaji” ( Harper Collins), was released last week at the India International Centre, the audience made a pleasant discovery that she is a very articulate conversationalist too, who would lucidly contextualise the evolution of the form and content of Thumri and Dadra while answering questions posed by National School of Drama Director Anuradha Kapur.

Naina Devi was Vidya’s guru from 1986 till her death in 1993. She was one of those few individuals who were primarily responsible for promoting music and dance in post-Independence Delhi. Vidya has written a beautiful book that offers an absorbing narrative of Naina Devi’s life based on what she observed, heard and internalised while interacting with her almost daily for seven years. She has, as it were, offered guru dakshina to her guru. The book tells us nearly as much about its author as it does about her much-loved teacher.

Vidya began to learn music in her childhood that was spent in Hyderabad. “Although I never consciously thought of becoming a professional singer, I was always very serious about music,” she says. After doing her graduation in Madras (now Chennai), she joined the Delhi School of Economics to do M.A. in Sociology. It was in Delhi that she became a student of Professor B. N. Datta to learn classical music. She joined the Centre for Women’s Development Studies as a researcher and worked there for five years. It was singer Shubha Mudgal who suggested, rather cajoled her to learn from Naina Devi after Datta passed away. And thus began the exciting musical journey that saw the emergence of Vidya Rao, the performing artiste. While she later learnt from several maestros like Mani Prasad, Shanti Hiranand and Girija Devi, it was Naina Devi with whom she spent the maximum time and, in the course of her conversations, learnt both about music and life.

Naina Devi’s was an extraordinary life. At the age of 17, she was married to Ripjit Singh, youngest son of the Maharaja of Kapurthala. Widowed at 32, she distributed 300 acres of agricultural land among landless peasants, gave away her exquisite clothes and jewellery, moved to Delhi to lead a life of austerity, and started singing as Naina Devi so as to protect the dignity of her in-laws. Spending long hours with her while learning and talking has obviously given Vidya a rare insight into music and life and the way they influence each other.

“Nainaji used to quote her guru, the great Thumri-Dadra singer Rasoolan Bai, who explained Thumri as ‘sahuliyat‘, thereby meaning that it should be natural or sahaj. The same applies to life,” Vidya reminisces. She recalls how easily and generously Naina Devi imparted knowledge while constantly encouraging the disciple. “She was one of the most gracious persons I have ever met. She kept an open house where everybody was welcomed with affection. Famous as well as unknown musicians would come to her house almost every day because they loved and respected her. And, she was an encyclopaedia of knowledge.”

Vidya is writing her next book on Thumri and it is expected to come out pretty soon. Besides performing at national and international forums, she works as Editorial Consultant with Orient Blackswan publishers.She was an unusual, rather extraordinary, person. Linked to the princely state of Kapurthala by marriage, she made a deliberate choice of learning the art of the tawaifs and sought the company of the much-maligned courtesans. Her transformation was complete because the world knew her not by the name Nilina Sen given to her by her parents, but by her chosen name Naina Devi. As Naina means eyes, it also signified that she wanted to see the world with new eyes, with a new worldview, completely at variance with the one that she had inherited.

GLIMPSES OF NAINA

Nilina Sen was the granddaughter of the great nationalist leader and social reformer of the 19th Century, Keshub Chandra Sen. Her sister, Sadhona, had in a sense shown her the way by rebelling against the social conventions, marrying film director Modhu Bose facing all odds, and leading a turbulent life. Extraordinarily beautiful, famously talented film actress and infectiously vivacious Sadhona Bose was in a manner of speaking a role model for Nilina — a role model both to be shunned as well as emulated.

When Nilina took another avatar as Naina Devi, she took it upon herself to come to the help of all kinds of musicians and dancers — great, famous, unknown. She also emerged as an institution builder and contributed a great deal to consolidate the Shriram Bharatiya Kala Kendra, Sangeet Natak Akademi, All India Radio and Doordarshan.

Her singing may be forgotten, but her selfless service to further the cause of music and musicians can never be.

The geographical entity in the north-western region of India called Punjab, the land of five rivers, has been and still is an integral part of the common pool of Indian culture. Its arts and crafts also form an important part of the deep-rooted artistic tradition of India and are equally rich and significant.

The culture of Punjab prior to the partition of 1947 was a mixture of three strains one flowing frorn Kangra hills, the second from south-western area from Multan to Lahore, and the third from Peshawar w Lahore. Patiala and contiguous areas were not active culturally. The three aforesaid areas contributed to the culture of the five river land. Lyallpur, Jhang, Montegomary, Rawalpindi, Sialkot and Lahore were Muslim dominated areas. Religion naturally left its impress an culture. Its influence can be seen on almost all arts and crafts, specially glazed pottery and woodcarving. The artisans of Chiniot near Lyallpu were famous for their skill in these crafts.

Hindus and Muslims of this area dressed themselves in the same manner. The art, culture and costumes of this zone present a sharp contrast to those of the north-eastern areas of the Punjab. People in the north-western frontier zone wore Salwar (bottomwearl aod turban with a Kullah, Loose turbans, a long Kurta (Shirt) and a loose lungi (tahrnet or tamba) were in vogue in Multan, Jhang, Lahore and Amritsar.

Turban wrapped in a sophisticated manner known as Dogra-Pahari style was common in Lahore, Amritsar and the contiguous area up to Ambala. The combination of Patiala and Dogra styles of turbans was also common in these areas.

Amritsar, Gurdaspur, Hoshiarpur, etc. had a distinctive culture of their own owing to the deep influence of the Pahari culture of Kangra hills. The metalwork, jewellery, embroidery, mudwall paintings, wall paintings in the temples and mansions of the rich (Havelis), figurative woodcarving, folk songs, musical instruments and even the dishes have a typically Pahari character, here. The men and women of these areas speak a different dialect from those of the north-western frontier zone.

Lahore, on account of its being the capital as well as the government headquarters, could not develop a distinct culture of its own, for people from different places came to reside here. Its culture remained hybrid, a conglomeration of odd elements. Despite so much cultural diversity, there are points of common contact which unite the culture of the Punjab. This is evident from the architecture of ordinary dwelling houses, Punjabi poetry, folk songs, idiomatic expressions, jokes, etc. This aspect shall be dealt with in the following paragraphs.

As elsewhere in India, the culture of Punjab thrived in both urban and rural areas. Historical examples in classical style such as Buddhist relics, pottery, sculptures, etc., which flourished in urban areas exist in fragments in the museums of Taxile and Lahore. One may chance upon more architectural and sculptural ruins in Pakistan in archaeological and historical sites. A number of magnificent sculptures and stupas have been unearthed from Gandhara and Taxila. The temples of Malot and Bilot in Kafirkot and Dera Ismail Khan dating back to the 8th century A.D. are superb examples of classical art of Punjab having stylistic affinities with Gandhara and Kashmir, which is evident from the trefoil and triangular arches.

While Specimens of classical art forms in this part have been destroyed by centuries-long waves of barbarian invasions?their counterparts have remained more or less intact in the more secluded and sheltered parts of western Himalaya such as Chamba, Kulu, Simla hills, Kangra, etc. The earliest temples in these areas date back to the 7th century and are of wood and stone, namely Lakshna Devi temple in Brahmaur. Shakti Devi temple in Chhatrarhi, Markula Devi temple in Lahaul and the monolithic temple of Masrur in Kangra Valley, to name a few.

The glazed tile mosaics in Wazir Khan mosque in Lahore and Lahore fort are also in the refined tradition of urban culture. These are believed to have been executed in Jehangir’s period (early 17th century).

The mosque of Wazir Khan in the city of Lahore is a monument of great dignity and elegance. It is in Iranian-Mughal style, though founded by a Punjabi. The beautiful figurative Kashi or tile-work, stretching for several hundred yards and to a considerable height along the outer wall of the Lahore Fort, is the most spectacular achievement in a very different vein. These Lahore tiles were also used in the same period on the nearby mosque of Wazir Khan. This is the only specimen of urban culture without parallels in any areas of Punjab. This architecture is Persian in style and character, but the elephants, birds and flower motifs are similar to those on the tiles embellishing the outer wall of the Man Mandir palace of Gwalior, and have no affinity with abstract decorations on Persian mosques. The mosque of Wazir Khan in Lahore was built by Hakim Aliuddin in 1634 A.D. inside Delhi gate. Wazir Khan, a minister of Aurangzeb, a man of considerable parts, great munificence and fine taste as is evident from this mosque.

I felt like a bridegroom who had come to pick out one of the three beautiful sisters. Sitting next to each other on a blue sofa, they blushed and coquettishly glanced at us.

An old woman with a straight back and shining-white hair sat down on the floor and talked of the heat and humidity. She had a firm, commanding voice that sliced and rebuked the air with the sharp tanginess of a most refined form of spoken Urdu.

Unlike the brightly-colored and intricately designed shalwaar kameeze (Shalwar are loose trousers and the kameeze is a long shirt) of the girls, the stern woman stood apart in an off-white dress and a white netted dupatta (a scarf or covering for the head and upper body worn by women), carefully adjusted on her head.

It seemed like a cultured Muslim family, but the girls were not sisters. They were prostitutes. The old lady was not a mother looking for suitable boys for her daughters, but a pleasure-house Madam.

We were in Heera Mandi — ‘a bazaar of diamonds’ — Pakistan’s oldest red light district.

Mian Naeem, a soft-spoken Lahore-based sculptor and art-critic, had agreed to take me for an excursion to Heera Mandi, a place I particularly wished to visit especially after reading an excellent book by the British author Louise Brown, The Dancing Girls of Lahore: Selling Love and Saving Dreams in Pakistan’s Ancient Pleasure District.

I was in Pakistan to take part in a conference for a visa-free South Asia and was tied up with a series of seminars and speeches during the day. Night was the time to explore the city and Heera Mandi had to be a necessary pilgrimage.

Mian Naeem parked his vintage car outside the periphery of Heera Mandi. It was past midnight, perhaps the right time to take a dip into the secrets of the flesh.

The evening had grown slightly middle-aged. The madams and their agents were likely to be more tolerant towards pleas for cheaper bargaining. The available girls were unlucky to be picked yet and hopefully more resigned in their choice for customers. Further, the shield of the deep-night darkness made it easy to imagine that Allah would be too sleepy to notice his faithful venturing out to make sinful transactions.

The streets were crowded with the revelers of the night. Restaurants, and only restaurants, lined both the sides. The blazing fire in the tandoors, the complicated smell of chicken curry and gutter stink, the cries of the cooks, and the laughter of the diners combined to create a blurred sensation in the mind.

The path was narrow, but not straight. We climbed up and down as if walking in the old quarters of a hill resort. The people who inhabited the ancient houses in these streets looked suitably decent, making it difficult to believe we were approaching a red light district.

Some more steps, then a right turn, and we walked under an open sky. “This is Heera Mandi,” Mian Naeem declared.

A crowd of boys cheered in a dimly lit tin-shed where a snooker table glowed under a bare light bulb. There were carts selling bananas, biryanis, and flowers. Brightly lit eateries with used chicken bones strewn on the floors were filled to the brim.

There was no lady standing under the lampposts soliciting clients. There was no man acting like a lady’s agent. The shaky, frail-looking structures rising up on both sides of the street ahead were gloomily submerged in darkness. Their doors and windows were closed and the balconies were sullen and quiet.

We walked ahead and noticed an alley to the right. Two women stood a short distance away, whispering to each other. Their faces were cloaked with shadows. A thin man with a garland of chameli flowers wrapped around his wrists appeared from behind and overtook us with drunken steps.

Gradually the darkness began to lose its sheen. The street became livelier. As we penetrated deeper more doors were found open and more windows gave view to the lighted spaces inside. Mian Naeem pointed across to a room jutting out into the pathway. It had a large window and a most beautiful creation was peeking out from there.
She looked divine and more beautiful than the Indian actress Aishwarya Rai. With a pimple-free fair complexion and fine shaped lips, her eyes expressed eagerness and her hands signaled invitation. Her steps were as light as a bird as she hurried from the window towards the door.

Dressed in a white lehenga (a long embroidered skirt) and her anklet bells jingling music every time she moved, she looked all set to burst into a mujra (traditional dance of the courtesans). There were no creams, rouge, eyeliners, and powders disfiguring her face. A mild shade of maroon suggested the promise of a kiss from her slightly pouted lips.

Our eyes met and her face simmered of sentiments that suggested my walking away would break her heart. She looked pure, gracious, and yet highly amorous. It seemed as if I was the wine she was thirsting for all her life.

Mian Naeem said her name was Saira, that she used to be quite coveted in her time. Now, Saira was in her 30s and her business had gone down. Unlike in the past when she picked out only the handsome and the very wealthy, she presently took in any person who walked by her quarters. The revelation was disappointing. That she had singled me out was unremarkable in light of this information.

Three unshaven boys, looking hip in their long hair, sat in a shop that had its walls adorned with posters of Gone with the Wind and Casablanca. Guitars, electronic keyboards, and drums were placed haphazardly on a wooden counter. It was a rock music band that accompanied the ladies in the private dance parties, a popular trend in upper class Lahore.

Until a few years back, Heera Mandi was acclaimed for its musical heritage. It boasted a rich tradition of Indian classical music and indeed many famous singers of the subcontinent were born, groomed, and trained in its chambers.

Adjacent to this rock band was the sitting room where Mian Naeem had taken me to have a look at the ‘three sisters.’ The ragged-faced agent who stood outside suggested a girl of our choice could perform a Bollywood dance for five hundred rupees. After we took leave of the ‘three sisters,’ Mian Naeem mentioned there were higher prices for other kind of performances.

Indeed, the highest possible price was always demanded for the betrothal of a virgin. Deflowering involved rituals that were not different from the ceremonies demanded by a proper marriage. Large sums were paid by the ‘groom.’ Feasts were thrown by the madam-mother and blessings were offered to the girl as she prepared for her initiation into the world’s most ancient profession.

Usually the most beautiful had their virginity sold to the rich sheikhs and princes of countries like Saudi Arabia and Bahrain where they were flown and their temporary living arrangements paid for by their ‘husbands.’

As we walked past more such sitting rooms, Mian Naeem pointed out the agents and provided tips on how to identify them. In many places, the rooms were closed from the front but there were camouflaged entrances from the sides. On one of the balconies lounged a bare-chested man while below the lady of the house was eyeing the prospective clients. A little ahead, brightly dressed women were quickly settling themselves in a cab that, according to Mian Naeem, would take them to the apartments of rich Lahori men.

It was strange walking in the by-lanes of Heera Mandi. Officially, Pakistan is an Islamic republic where prostitution is punishable by death and where most of the women do not show their naked face to any male except their closest relatives.

Yet we were in a neighborhood, in the heart of Lahore, which seemed to have been frozen in time. It was as if the outer rules of the much real world could not intrude here. No one seemed to be bothered by the laws that were applicable in the rest of the city.

Heera Mandi was like a paradise where one could freely indulge himself in the pleasures of the flesh, where one could get away from the oppressed world of Shariat laws and Koranic injunctions; a balm which one could apply to soothe his soul made claustrophobic by so many morals; a relief which one could momentarily cherish amidst a life made predictable and burdensome by nagging spouses and aged parents.

Heera Mandi was a world far away from the despairing headlines of Islamic fundamentalism, America’s war on terrorism, and Bin laden videos. It was a world very different from all the known worlds. Heera Mandi was an easy place where life was unreal and where it was possible to experience unconditional love and fanciful sex — for a price.

But of course Heera Mandi is a pleasure house only in its false description. It is actually a mirage that has the power to destroy the lives of both its residents and its visitors.

Attractive prostitutes like Saira might be able to hide their true age and be familiar with all the seductive charms for trapping gullible boys, but they are done with once their bloom is lost. From there it is a downhill journey towards a life plagued by poverty, despair, and loneliness.

Most of the Heera Mandi prostitutes share the same miserable end. These women who had once sold their virginity for thousands of dinars to rich gulf state sheikhs finally slip down to a stage where ten rupees is their demand price (which could be further bargained) for hurried services with poor vegetable vendors. There could not be more poignant irony.

Some prostitutes, fortunate to give birth to beautiful daughters, do live a luxurious life of rich madams, but still the melancholy of their old age could not be wished away.

Happily, the morally righteous have reasons to smile. These are the final days of Heera Mandi. The place has started decaying like a rotten corpse. What had started off as a pampered district built next to a Mughal fort now lies uncared for in a filthy part of old Lahore.

Once upon a time, Mughal princes courted its virgins. The wealthy culture-loving families, from the feudal estates of North India, used to send their young sons to be trained under the guidance of the Heera Mandi ladies. They were expected to learn the style of fine Urdu conversation, to appreciate the nuances of Hindustani classical music and to get well versed in the art of lovemaking.

Once upon a time the ladies here were more sophisticated than the women of the most respected and rich families of the land. But now an eclipse has set in.

Times have changed. Heera Mandi is merely another red light district. Girls are patronized for quick sex sessions rather than for their poetry recitation. Courtesans have become call girls. Eminent people, with claims to middle-class respectability, no longer desire to be seen strolling in its streets. Even the ladies’ chambers are shutting down.

The pleasure ladies are gradually leaving Heera Mandi quarters for the modern secretive flats of Defense and Gulberg. The thrill of midnight cruising is being replaced by deals made over mobile phones. A world is coming to an end, soon to be gone with the wind. Heera Mandi will become a fable, a fantasy, a dream house of the whores.

LAHORE: Tongue in Cheek – artist Shoaib Mahmood’s latest exhibition opened at the Drawing Room Art Gallery on Monday. The artwork, a reflection of what the artist has seen and observed in society, delighted art enthusiasts with its imagery and artistic beauty.

Mahmood has used two statements that have been ingeniously written in his artwork: ‘Saray Jahan Mein Dhoom Hamari Zubaan Ki Hai’ (Our language is popular in the entire world) and ‘Urdu Europi Zubanon Ki Yulghaar Mein Jaan-e-Balab Hai’ (Urdu faces extinction because of the domination of European languages).

Script: These Urdu statements have been written in the Roman English script. They have also been written in conventional Urdu – in the Persian script – in reverse, in a design that sort of overlaps the Roman English writing. Some miniatures have also been put on display.

Eminent artist, art critic and National College of Arts (NCA) faculty member Quddus Mirza said the artist had blended the two languages very nicely. He praised the imagery that the artist had used in his work. Mirza said Mahmood’s work could be called a reflection of what he had observed in society. He said the artist had nicely transferred his expression on canvas.

Mahmood holds a Bachelors in Fine Arts (BFA) degree from the NCA and did his Masters in Fine Arts (MFA) from the Punjab University. This is his first solo show in Pakistan. Earlier, he has exhibited in India. Talking to Daily Times, Mahmood said walking through the city, a person could see so many billboards where Urdu was written in the Roman English script. He said the two statements that he has used were symbolic. “Urdu doesn’t face any threat from European languages. We don’t even use our mother tongue for writing anymore. Even when we do write Urdu, we use English alphabets,” he said.

A large number of art enthusiasts including renowned painter Saeed Akhter showed up at the exhibition. Around 16 paintings were displayed and the prices range between Rs 25,000 and Rs 50,000. The exhibition would remain open for around a week.