Everything the Stranger Saw

FolkPunjab shared a wonderful song based on Shiv Kumar Batalvi's Punjabi poem "Panchi Ho Javan" or "Wish I could be a bird."



Here's a translation of the original poem:

I wish that I could be a bird
That I could fly, and sing,
That I could touch untouchable peaks,
Forget the roads of this world,
And never return.

I would take luxurious baths;
Drink water in long sips.
By the shore of a great lake,
I would sing a broken song.

I would go sit in a flowering wilderness
To gulp the perfumed breeze.
Warm the peaks of mountains,
Numbed by centuries of freezing cold,
With a tight embrace.

I wish I could be a bird.

My nest would be among the mulberry trees,
On in the caper, the mesquite or the cypress.
In the cold eastern wind,
The jeweled branches would bend
As if playing, swaying,
With their hair flying in the wind.

One day, there would be such a storm
That all the twigs would scatter.
Nestless, I shall become.
Spend my life intoxicated with the nectar of sorrow.

I wish I could be a bird.

(Translation credit: http://www.apnaorg.com/suman/batalvi_poems.html)

Without hope,

Sept 10, 2011 - Today was quite an eventful day.

Right at the Western edge of the University of Missouri campus, Greektown erupted in celebrations shortly before midnight on May 1. The celebrations started less than an hour after U.S. President Barack Obama had issued a statement confirming that a U.S. security team had killed Al Qaeda's leader, Osama bin Laden, in the city of Abbottabad, Pakistan.

People cheered, shouted slogans, and sang the national anthem - some of them patriotically clad in the U.S. national flag. There were similar celebrations outside the White House in Washington, D.C., as well as in the Times Square in New York. At the site of the 9/11 attacks in lower Manhattan, crowds gathered near the memorial to celebrate and shout "NYC! USA!" at the top of their lungs. However, I had not anticipated such fervor in Columbia, Missouri.



Emotions were running high, no doubt.

I don't know how personally these cheering crowds were attached to the war on terrorism. Perhaps some of them, if not all, knew someone or the other in the U.S. forces fighting in Afghanistan currently. Perhaps, they or someone they knew had lost a dear one in the World Trade Center attacks on Sept. 11. Nonetheless, their celebrations were symbolic. They were cheering a victory in their country's long and expensive war that they could all claim as their own. I wasn't there actually so I couldn't interview anyone to get a definitive reaction. However, it is my assumption that most of them really didn't know about the actual on-ground conditions in war-torn Afghanistan and northwestern Pakistan. Almost ten years after the siege on Afghanistan began, the deadly drone attacks and the suicide bomb blasts are only a problem faced by people living in that part of the world, not so much by U.S. residents. The celebrating hordes, for example, might not be aware of a bomb explosion in a Pakistani city that took four lives just a few hours after news of Osama's death broke, in what could be an immediate reaction to Osama's killing.

I was reorganizing my photo albums on my laptop, yesterday, when I came across this photo I had taken in St. Louis last year.



It was Thanksgiving Day, and I landed at St. Louis Airport from Las Vegas in the morning. The bus that was going to take me back to Columbia, Mo., was supposed to leave in the afternoon from Downtown, St. Louis. So, I decided to take the Metrolink to the city center and hang out there till my departure time.

But, the weather gods had other plans.

As soon as I left the Lambert-St. Louis International Airport, it started to pour down heavily. The temperature dropped to 20 F, and every time the train stopped at a station, the doors opened to fill the compartment with a chilling wind. After a ride of around thirty minutes through some really interestingly decrepit places, I got off at the Arch-Laclede's Station. The rain was too heavy at that time, and like I said before, I was on my way back from Vegas, so I only had a light jacket on. It was literally freezing. But, the idiot that I am, I decided to brave the elements and walk in the rain to look around for a coffee shop. Much to my dismay, everything was closed. Everything.

And then it dawned upon me. It was Thanksgiving Day. A national holiday! What in the world was I thinking before?

So, drenched from head to toe, I returned back to the covered safe haven of the Arch-Laclede's Metrolink station, which is situated on the lower deck of the nineteenth-century Eads bridge. The historical bridge that crosses the St. Louis riverfront (of the Mississippi) to the East and connects Missouri to Illinois. There, I waited for fifteen minutes or so for the next train back to the airport. It was during this wait that I took the photo. I just felt it was a really nice frame. The Gateway Arch stands to the South of the station and can be seen through its many old brick arches.

The wet concrete floor of the Gateway Arch parking lot in the photo, the forlorn autumn trees and the grey, cloudy sky in the background are all vivid reminders of that cold, wet and foggy St. Louis morning and everything else that went terribly wrong afterward.

Yes, the day went from bad to worse when three hours later I rode the train from the Airport again, this time to the Union Station. It started to snow on the way. In severe snowfall, I walked six blocks from the train station to where the bus was stationed on Market Street. Later, just after ten minutes into hitting the road, the windshield vipers of the bus gave way. The driver refused to take a risk and returned back to the stop. After his attempts to fix the electronic system of the bus failed, he asked the company to send a new bus. It took five more hours for that new bus to arrive. All in all, it was a day to forget, but this photo just brings everything back. Perhaps in a good way, since I survived the onslaught of that day's weather to reminisce about the frigid experience from the warm confines of my apartment.

OK. Let's get this thing running again.
Charge to 200. Clear!

*Zap!*

When Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay finally managed to reach the top of the Mount Everest, they found a cow sitting there before them. Hillary couldn't believe his eyes and thought that maybe he was hallucinating after the gruelling climb. But, when the cow walked up to them and, after inspecting Hillary from head to toe, winked at Norgay who replied with a pat on its forehead, Hillary could not come to terms with this reality and almost choked on his "wtf" and could've literally been both the first man living and dead, on top of the Mount Everest. The cow stared at him for a while, then made a sarcastic face and uttered a mocking "moo". Norgay, who was classically trained in Cow, turned to Hillary and translated: "Sir, she's saying 'Suck on my udders, bitch!'"

Well, Hillary and Norgay might deny this encounter but I'm pretty sure it happened this way... Ok, ok! I wish!

Because everytime I've gone hiking or trekking along the northern regions of Pakistan, I have found them cows at the weirdest of heights. You know hiking is not easy for a fat, slouchy git like me and then, there are those slopes that you die climbing, sweating in your undies and all, and when you finally reach to the top, two things happen:

1. You see another even-more-steep incline straight ahead
2. You see cows.

Now, the first part can be forgiven because Mother Nature didn't create those steep mountains expecting overweight tourists to come one day, bouncing gleefully with their fancy cameras going tik tik tik everywhere, and exclaim "oh my gaawwwd, it's so bootyfulll" and then kill themselves while climbing the slopes that initially looked like a 'piece of cake' to their delusional selves. But what about the second part?

C.O.W.S.



It's like the omnipresent cows are there to rub it in for all of us out of shape, unhealthy, dairy-loving fatsos. They graze on the grass and then shit on it and they do it everywhere! It's a simple programming routine, really. Graze, shit, repeat.




Now, annoying as they might be, they are extremely useful for the domestic industry. Apart from the dairy products, the cow patties are burnt to power cooking stoves, so that's some indigenous energy production right there for you. No kidding. I might rant againt them but the cows don't give a shit (even though they do excrete copiously).

"Moo-yah!" they must look at us and say.

It's 3:17 am here... oh well, time doesn't matter! It's June the 10th and there is just one day left before the FIFA World Cup 2010 begins, maybe more, but I'm not in the mood for doing the maths right now. The fact that I had completely forgotten about it, is bothering me. I only remembered now because one of my seniors from university, who is a mad-cap football lover, has been piling up all those crazy fanboy status updates on his facebook recently and they have become so frantic now that they couldn't escape my notice. Reading his proclamations about his favourite team has made me kinda nostalgic about the team I've supported ever since the first world cup I remember watching and it has made me a little sad too, because I don't have a friggin' clue as to what has been going on with this particular team in the build-up to the tournament.


It started in the summer of '94. The World Cup was being played in the United States so we were getting late night transmission on national TV in Pakistan. Football was new to me at that time and in a nation still basking in the glory of the '92 cricket truimph, I watched these tiny creatures running frantically on the old grainy screen of the Russian television set with avid amazement. I have always had a sleeping problem and the World Cup was the best available cure for the lazy summer vacations of a seven year old.

Now, many would remember FIFA '94 as the end of Maradona's playing career



or the end of Escobar's living career





but I would, forever, remember it for the not so tall footballer with an athlete's body and a firm jaw who gave me both my first real joy and heartbreak of football. Oh, and who can forget the hairstyle!

For three matches, the fans prayed for him, urged him, begged him, made fists and fingers at him but he didn't budge. His tally of goals, a simple zero. A void as lifeless as a barren womb. But he remained stolid, not a frown could be seen on that wide forehead. He was supposed to be their shining star, their salvatore. The team scrapped their way through and they looked away from him, knowing full well that they'd require him in the most crucial of times but not knowing that the fate of the entire tournament rested on his rigid shoulders.

And then, when the Eagles had put them in to a corner and time was running short, he couldn't bear anymore. This was his moment and no one could take it away from him:



and:



The Divine Ponytail had arrived!

and from then on, there was no looking back.

Spain had no answer to his coolness



and Bulgaria, who had been surprisingly good uptil then, tried their best but in vain



But you see, it's not over till it's over! Twelve years before Zizou lost his head on another Italian's chest, one man had stood in the heat of the battle, his veins injected with painkillers, and looked at the goal. He had carried them that far. He took his run and



It was his tournament, and no one could have taken it away from him... except himself!

And at that moment, I realized that if you ever wanted to tell someone what true happiness was, you could just show them a footballer's reaction after he had scored a goal and if you ever wanted to show someone utter agony... well, just show them one who had missed a penalty.

Roberto Baggio stood alone on that ground, a mere human, his hamstring pain replaced by one far greater, the pain of defeat. He stood alone in that stadium of 90,000 as the samba boys danced all around him. For a long time, no one came to console him maybe because not even his team-mates could've felt the same agony as he was experiencing. Maybe there is no way to console someone who had just mis-kicked a World Cup away. I could taste the disappointment on the tip of my tongue right out of my television screen as Romerio and Bebeto cried with tears of joy. It was bitter and from that day on, I have always associated a miss as the natural outcome of a penalty kick to help me get rid of that bitterness.

I imagined myself in his place and in his shoes, my first thought was about committing suicide. Could one live with oneself after this? That was the response of a spectator. For players, it is extremely important that they consider defeat as a part and parcel of the game and Baggio returned to play some fine football. The curse of penalties continued for Italy, and it had to take true love's first head-butt to remove that, but not for Baggio. He even made a bloody commercial for Johnny Walker about it



That's my man!

I don't watch football too critically and my allegiance to football clubs and teams is purely emotional so I wouldn't harp about Italy's style of play, their defensive outlook and their tactical acumen. My support had already flown to Rome long before I could reason about football's strategies. Last year, while I was being interviewed by an HR official of a private firm for a job I had applied for, she asked me who my favourite football team was? and I said, "Italy."
"Because they won the World Cup?" She asked and I could only laugh and say, "No! because of Baggio."

There have been many impressive names in Italian football since then but I cannot discuss them at length here. The present team, however, seems quite lackluster on paper. Del Piero, Totti and Inzaghi are gone from the last Cup. So are Nesta and Materazzi. Cassano's been left out! I really don't like Iaquinta. He just can't score. Quagliarella must deliver. Slim chances of getting past the quarterfinals (the first round even) especially if they come to face Spain! So, let's see what happens as the Azzurri fight to defend their title.

Meanwhile, Five Rupees has done some great posts leading to the World Cup. Do check them out and I'll leave you with Shakira! Arrivederci!



PS: DO NOT IGNORE 2:38 !!!

It's on days like these that I feel ashamed at my being human, that I feel it's not worth living this life anymore.

I cannot say it better than it has been written here and here.

We are all murderers! We are all complicit in yesterday's events!

For people, who slept well last night and are of the opinion that those who are upset by this atrocity are wrong in being extra-sensitive about this issue, I'd say: "Come and see the blood on the streets"

Oh, and yesterday was also the day Pakistan went nuclear twelve years ago. Call it karma but days like these are never good for humanity!

I have decided to henceforth celebrate April 22 as "Catch-22 Day", for the rest of my life! I finished reading the book on April 22 and cannot think of a better celebration to bestow upon this day. Yes, even for the US, "Catch-22 Day" is better than Earth day!



What an amazing novel! Sometimes, as I struggled to breathe during the fits of laughter stimulated by the sharp witticism and intelligent satire of this fantastic book, I felt myself being oddly irreverent to the works of Douglas Adams, maybe because time and again, I was reminded of Adams by the sheer quality of this satire. But I don't think the two writers ought to be compared here. Anyway, Catch-22 stunned me with its sharp mid-air maneuvers, nose-diving from the peaks of the absurdly funny to the depths of dark tragic humour, leaving me in moments of utter despair, only to rise again like a crescendo of laughter. What amazing characters, and what amazing themes. From the anti-heroic, unashamed unpatriotism of Yossarian to the capitalism of Milo to the dilemmas faced by the Chaplain, Joseph Heller has covered the most unusual themes through brilliantly created characters (upon characters) with quirks both subtle and wild. From the inefficiency of the bureaucratic military officers to the questions of faith to the sanity of being insane and the crazy, absurd antics of each and every character conjuring up their own mayhem around the horrors of war, Catch-22 was a treat to read.

I'm going to check out the movie now, partly because I believe it's a really, really mean feat to film this non-linesr mammoth and partly because Alan Arkin playing Yossarian has to be awesome!

It has long been a dream of mine to travel and now that I'm writing about it, I feel amazed at the immense capacity of this six-letter word. From the back alleys of my city to the ruins twenty miles north-west of it to a highway snaking its way down the map, southward-bound, cities upon cities unfurling alongside, plains, deserts, all flowing down, towards the inevitably mysterious sea, all this can easily be encompassed in this tiny word: travel. And if you feel a bit dissatisfied by my claim, you're always welcome to add a little (s) at the end because it doesn't end there. Beyond the sea, another country, another world beckons! From a hike to a journey, from a trip to an adventure, the associations are numerous and their effects, often, indelible. Entire legends revolve around travel.


To me, travelling is about experiencing the hitherto unknown, understanding the history and diversity of the places you visit and confronting life with a sense of unbridled amazement. It is also about freeing oneself or perhaps getting lost, (accidentally or on purpose, one may argue!) like Ibn-e Insha wrote:

نگری نگری پھرا مسافر
گھر کا رستہ بھول گیا

Although if you're not interested in any of the above, it can be equally boring as well. Don't get my point? Imagine Daewoo on the motorway to Lahore! yaawwwwnn!



For the most part, I have lived in a small city that only upgraded from a 'town' while I was growing up here and is still looked down upon by those bullies among cities, those metropolitans. Had it not been for the planned serenity, beautiful even if dead and receptacle of political abominations, our beloved Federal Capital, my city would have just been another dusty stop for tourists on their way to one hill station or the other. So, maybe my wanderlust derives from living here, from the need to expand my horizons beyond what I could grasp from my rooftop.



I came upon this quote a good time back while watching a slideshow that boasted of winning some kind of award. It read,

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land."

I didn't really understand it until one day I stumbled upon a part of the city that I had never been to before. The narrow streets, the oddly built houses exuding certain shabbiness reminiscent of impoverishment and strange looking shops oozing out of every corner were quite resemblant of the general scheme followed elsewhere in the city. To top it, the area was quite polluted which indicated that it was yet another neglected locality. But despite all its commonness the fact that really struck me was that just moments before it had not even existed for me and now here it was, in its entirety, and this was simply fascinating. I realized that this place wasn't alone. There were countless others like it that I had over looked and ignored as I went about the city. Perhaps they were unimportant, perhaps they still are but they made me understand the quote.

When I saw our country, I never really saw it with the eyes it deserves to be seen with (and I'm only talking about the geography, although it might be true for the sense of denial on our political scene as well). I didn’t see it with fascination and I feel there are many who don’t either and it's probably only natural to take it for granted. I don't really count it as a fault but to develop that fascination and curiosity towards our land is definitely a feat worth applauding.

Some would argue, however, that we have our fair share of local tourists flocking up to the northern areas, we all admire and know about our landscape, however little that might be, we all brim with an otherwise missing national pride when we read about the arts, crafts and culture of our country, when we marvel over our folk music. But all this has never compelled us, at least not me, to go visit these places. What compelled me were a sense of adventure and happiness that came with travelling and the stifling smallness of my city. Now, that’s exactly why the Northern areas are the prime location for tourists, and not Multan or Thatta with all their fascinating sights and sounds, because the scenery in the North just cannot be associated with anything bad in our minds unlike Multan’s heat or Thatta’s remoteness. The mountains are relaxing and beautiful, the weather makes you happy and all vacations spent up there become fond memories. Despite 'Destination Pakistan 2007' being an epic fail, the historical monuments all over Pakistan attract considerable attention each year but I have always seen the sense of discovery missing from the Pakistanis visiting these places. Besides, travelling for the love of travelling and vacation tourism, although under the same umbrella, are somewhat different in nature.

Travel is about experience and just as we humans tend to steer clear of bad memories similarly while imagining or dreaming, we associate only the ‘positively grand’ with our plans. That's exactly why when someone like me dreams of travelling, they picture exotic foreign locations in HD and not the dusty broken roads that lead to enchanting but forgotten villages and the strange wilderness in our own country, not even the smaller cities we have so often heard the names of but never bothered visiting because all we ever truly believed was "Jinnay lahore nai takya, o jammya nai" and lest we forget, Tariq Tafoo considered it thoughtful to remind us, as he walked down Trafalgar Square one sunny afternoon:




So only recently, I realized that I hadn't even completely discovered my city yet and since then, although I've retained the original reasons for my love for travel but the places I have been wanting to visit have grown more diverse and real.

These days, I take a different route to work each day and try and explore different parts of the city I didn't know before. Trying to look out for their peculiarities and uniqueness, something that would let them stand apart; as distinct as the well known commercial centres, if not as famous. I'd like to really document them one day, pretty soon I hope, but all that for another post.


*Rawalpindi's aerial shot courtesy of Saad Asad Cheema

If you are in Pakistan and alive, hope you survive the bomb blasts this year too!

From tomorrow, Muslims all over the world will start celebrating the second of their two annual festivals, Eid-ul-Azha. A ritual of sacrifice; where animals preferably goats, lambs and cows are slaughtered in the memory of an ancient sacrifice of Ismael (Isaac in christian tradition) by Abraham, satirized and mocked here by Mitchell and Webb. Apparently, God replaced Ismael just in time with a sheep and so the sacrifice of four-legged animals is repeated annually to remind them (Muslims, not four-legged animals.. Although the distinction is a difficult one to make) of the passionate zeal of Abraham that even let him get over fatherly love. Things might have been different if Ismael would have been sacrificed that day. Anyway, presently, this could be quite a lesson in fanaticism and dogma. But that's for another day.

What's so incredibly worth writing about is that in this country of mine, the already impoverished order of things is pushed into further disruption by this whole fiasco of a festival. Plain barbarianism, I say, and I'm not even averse to the slaughter of animals.! I, for one, am not a strict vegetarian. I eat meat; would love to continue to do so, rather unapologetically (on the other hand, I do respect vegetarians for their amazing control and discipline). See, I have heard that in some other countries, they have "Slaughterhouses", you go and pay them, they'll slaughter the animals, distribute the meat amongst the poor and the needy (as is required by the so-called Islamic rule) and give you your share of the meat. But, no, we are too unsure of a good procedure so what we do is buy the animal straight from an animal fair, bring it to our houses where we keep it for a few days before Eid, then when the slaughter is due, we go and fetch the butcher, who brings his knives, slays the animal in our front porch or garage or in the street and skins it and then hangs the animal to let whatever that's supposed to happen, happen and then makes the meat right there! Piece by bloody piece! Now that is primitive to say the least. It is also insanely preposterous!

Needless to say, I have not found an ounce of the so-called spirit of sacrifice in the way this stupid ritual is performed in Pakistan. Hundreds of thousands of rupees could be put to a much better use. But, no, we have to kill poor animals in the freezing cold of winter and then have massive barbecue parties in our lawns and parks for the next whole month. Rent some deep-freezers, people, meat is on its way! And what about the skin of the animals. Generously donated to the fucking Jamaat-e islami and all those banned militant jehadi outfits from Southern Punjab so that they can sell them to the tanneries and further fund their operations and kill people from this money indirectly generated from killing, well, animals. A vicious cycle come round.

It is quite ridiculous. The bloodbath, the intestines lying on the pavements. No fucking civic sense. The heaps of professional beggars lining the doors of these well to do homes turned slaughterhouses (zibhakhanas, really!)

And then all sorts of idiotic entertainment stems from this farce. For example, what the fuck is this supposed to mean! Who are these people, and ordinary Muslims would actually trust this. Say wow! that's a reasonable price for such a strong, heavy bakra. Let's buy this and get it delivered via the Daewoo Bus Service to our city! Sure, very convenient!

and this

and this
Hilarious even if photoshopped!

*Quack Quack* is the only known sound ever to have been heard of the legendary and mythical YRD! How that sound was heard? When and where it happened? That's a mystery. It is said that these secrets are held in the ancient scrolls of the order of the happy Dumbfucks. They do not guard the scrolls with their lives, for the happy Dumbfucks lost the scrolls during the great happiness of Antermeith 161 and when the great happiness of Antermeith 161 ended, they were so dizzy from all the joy and laughter that they vowed to never give a damn about the scrolls.

It is, however, still believed that YRD is quite possibly the creator and ruler of all the known parts of the galaxy (stretching from the vast planets of the shroomsville system to the vividly bright mountains of the crystallized nebulae of tryptaminea). In the second conference of the happy Dumbfucks, it was joked that the unknown part would only be assigned a creator after it becomes known.

The full form of YRD is rarely ever disclosed in the lost ancient scrolls of the order of the happy Dumbfucks and the very little that is known about it, is through the accidental teachings of the rogue happy Dumbfuck who got disillusioned from all the happiness surrounding him and tried to run away but changed his mind halfway through the runaway because he didn't know where to run to! Before returning, however, he did trade the only shred of the ancient scroll (then, not lost) that he possessed, and which he had actually secretly torn off before running away, for a map from the clever Trippies. The map was just a leaf of the tree of Guanon but since the rogue happy Dumbfuck had never seen either the tree of Guanon or its leaves, he followed the circular veins on the leaf to find his way back to the den of the order of the happy Dumbfucks.

The clever Trippies had never heard of the ancient scrolls of the order of the happy Dumbfucks and so they were able to accurately decipher the words written in clear orange letters on the shred, which they had swindled off the rogue happy Dumbfuck, as a possible full form of the terribly incomprehensible YRD.

The words in clear orange letters read: "Yellow Rubber Duckie"

Highlight of the day: nil, zilch, nada

zzzzzzzzzzz....

and I am doomed to stoop low and write about "my" day with "me" in it talking about "myself"...more than usual! Damn!

Sunday was boring, to the core. Woke up late, having refused an invitation to play a football match at 2pm by a friend (one match a week is enough, man! I'm not a fucking pro), and have stayed indoors since then. The only achievement being the tea I spilled on the carpet this afternoon, not my carpet though :P

Started watching Dexter's 4th season.. It's mind-blowing!! totally rocked... Read the reviews afterwards on tv.com; most people didn't like it! what? seriously! *shrugs*
Will try and come up to speed with the episodes this week :)


It's really cold inside the room and I imagine a light mist out there, no stars on a cloudy sky perhaps and a shiver-inducing chill... ah, but I'm too lazy, today, to go out and have a "real" look!

adios

I think I have found my blog's theme song! :)
"Musafir hoon yaaron"!!

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Last week, a friend shared a nice article, about the decline of Lollywood under pressure of religious-based policies and piracy, on facebook. The full text can be read here. It was an interesting read, with references to a famous actor of yesteryear (and now director) , evoking the general nostalgia that comes with remembering the gone-by glory days of any institution or industry.

The article talked of how Zia's policies ordained the film business to be vulgar which started the downfall and the governmental patronage that the film industry was looking for never really resumed after his era. I don't agree completely. Not that religious based govt policies and piracy have not hurt the film industry, they have indeed affected it for the worse but somehow by saying this, the industry tries to comfortably lay clear of the blame. It is also their fault that things are how they are nowadays: a dwindling decadent mess. Lack of equipment doesn't stop one from writing a good screenplay. It doesn't stop from using the talents of the great crop of actors and directors that we have here either. Take Syed Noor for example, Chooriyan, Ghoongat and Majajan are definitely films I remember (and I watched them in a cinema!) and as my friend pointed out in our discussion about this article on facebook, creativity is a thing separate from unhelpful policies. Stifling environments can help produce the best art sometimes and we have had Sabiha sumar's 'khamosh pani', Feryal gohar's 'tibbi gali', even Omar Khan's "zibakhana" (in its own sense of genre) in recent years that can prove this point.

I know that it is a vicious cycle and if the industry isn't thriving, it certainly puts a damper on creative forces. But still there was a time when these industry wallahs could have owned up to this problem and helped avoid the circumstances we presently find ourselves in. Now, I'm afraid, it is really a Herculean task.

Revival of proper film production companies would be great for this cause, but I doubt that would happen since the existing producers can make better money by switching to tv or advertisements. However, they need to understand that if Race and Singh is Kinng can open to packed houses in Pakistan (people paying as much as Rs. 200 for a ticket in these new Multiplexes in urban centres) despite of the fact that these movies are available in the market for a mere Rs. 60 then definitely piracy is not a major reason for our decline.

One more thing, I find most people who talk about the revival of Cinema, of the opinion that Pakistan needs good cinema. I disagree, we don't exactly need good cinema for this revival (although it would be more than welcome) we need commercial movies! run-of-the-mill comedies and cheesy action flicks that would help turn in the cash! Hell, "budha gujjar" did more good to the whole Punjab circuit than "Ramchand Pakistani" could do for a single city.