Viva la spanking!

By Anum Pasha

Last week Sophie, a friend working at one of the glossy fashion weeklies, received an obnoxious call from a woman who sounded like she was going to bring down ‘da house,’ and for once in three years, my friend contemplated on resigning from a flashy, fame n fortune kinda magazine career. The drill: This angry old woman had lodged a complaint against a fashion advertisement demonstrating the act of… uhh well, the damsel in excitement, was unzipping the male model’s ‘tagged’ jeans, right in the middle of the fashion weekly.

 

Frantic, Sophie looked through the magazine and her eyes met the blaring act of obnoxiousness – at once, religion, morality and ethics – all three that were instilled to her from the grandparents and at high school, danced around in agony in just about every corner and she didn’t really feel like coming back to a cubicle which advocated something so sleazy.

 

The world of fashion in its glitz and glamour is no doubt, an extremely appealing one. All the Sophies of planet Pakistan are pigeoned by that fascinating new billboard Crossroads has started putting up, the ever-changing Mobilink campaigns, the ‘massive-sized’ Hoorain billboards(great cash flow), and so on. All goes well, and very few of us realize it’s about time fashion advertisement gets a good mama’s spanking.

 

Whitening creams were always supposed to make you turn a white from the black, since obviously, white was the prettier one. The nanis and the daadis always stressed on the need for a gori chitti bahu for their charcoal-black shmucks and one lucky manufacturer knew they it had a fantastic market to exploit. Funnily enough, while tapping my fingers on the steering, trying to pull patiently through a crazy red signal on the road, I saw a model’s gorgeous Karachi tan on a gargantuan bill-board sporting a magical whitening tube. Ha. Ha. Ha.

 

One fashion model who came in the picture some three years ago, immediately became a symbol. A gorgeous brown face, fantastic curves, and a voiceless mouth – the perfect ingredient mix for a Pakistani fashion model and maybe that’s why the naïve thing agreed to an ice-cream add campaign that didn’t look anything like she was savoring the taste of a product. Sadly enough, the fags behind the entire thought-process of an advertorial like that one, need to be shot dead and no, there is no legroom for debate.

 

Retail brands were always preppy, cool and came up with fantastic add-campaigns some years ago until emaciated fashion models became the focal point of the industry. It’s obviously like a rat race, with no end at all…when baggy-boned fashion models become the face of these retail brands, it’s proven that idea synchronization has failed at the top management levels, target markets have been frazzled… and everyone is doing what everyone is doing. Nevertheless, there are STILL some who aren’t exactly air-headed and really, make-up service brands like New Look haven’t gone all out putting icing on already caked faces that have no glow, no meat – nothing that complements the average, curvy Pakistani female. Just recently, while flipping through a lifestyle magazine, I stumbled on New Look’s fashion advertisement, and noticed that the female model’s arms were a little on the chubbier side, and there was seriously, no need for a photoshopped, chopped out image – because it looked damn good and very Pakistani.

 

Another enjoyable experience was looking at an add campaign repeated every now and then in coffee table magazines and daily newspapers. Great, you convinced the only female vocalist the music industry really has to pose for you, but please put some thought in there as well. We still don’t quite understand how she was made to look like a drag queen in raunchy, faux fur and landay waley dresses while standing next to a f****e. When a female musician agrees to wear a chain around her belly while dressed in track pants and a pea cap on the head, the implied ‘sporty’ look really doesn’t make complete sense. And also, what the entire ‘sporty’ image has got to do with a f****e is utterly baffling.

Another most intriguing billboard is a product of my favorite drink. I don’t see how a female model’s chest facing an apple makes divine sense. Maybe it does and the tube lights in all of us can’t really grasp the point in its complication! Sometimes when everything looks damned, you want to believe there’s something wrong at home… and not abroad. Nevertheless, slogans such as– ‘Let’s get cheesy!’ are a number too. Fine, lets. But not when a sultry looking female is posing… having little to do with the product. Very cheesy!

But the situation isn’t all that bad. For one, I simply love the face of Mobilink. With their ever-changing billboards at the Main Boulevard, one doesn’t get tired of seeing Vinny over and over again. Not only because she’s an artistic face, but also because there is a lot of brainstorming put in there unlike most of the wannabe brands that have only the cash and zero aesthetics to change add campaigns twice every week

Whether it’s a fashion model’s nudity in white sheets that causes offence among the majority of the audience, or it is Chinyere’s very simple and elegant advertising line, those behind these campaigns need to think beyond the money. When target audiences are confused, work is projected outside the fabric of this society, and values are long forgotten, there is small hope, with no legroom for growth.

The friday times

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Professionalism

By Anum Pasha

The wedding season began with a bang and the flurry of clothes making began right away. Loaded with exams, coursework and countless other commitments, I knew there was little time for rallying round with the best cloth and making sure that the kaam went brilliantly and also, making sure that the Master Sahib from the adda returned my outfits back on time. Still, I persistently coerced Mother to get fabulous designs off one of those fashion magazines, get into the driver’s seat, and wola, hand me princess-attire! Mother thought of it as a superpower hassle and hence, it just did not work out. Someone at work then suggested a quick order at some design house which was obviously meant to be hassle free, luxurious, and fast. I couldn’t wait to place an order.

 

People recommended superpowerish names but my budget was kind of tight and I didn’t want to empty wallets for a best friend’s wedding alone. An acquaintance then sent me to this really artyfarty, outlet inside Al-hafeez tower on the Mm alam road and I knew I was at the right place. The clothes were full of funk, colour, and to my liking, I didn’t see any auntyish stuff lying on the racks. From the works, it seemed that the designer was a young, energetic chap and I knew this would come out well – naturally, young people are more enthusiastic, welcoming and the homely sort. Big names have always sounded uncomfortable and egoistical.

 

Anyhow, I settled an appointment with him and arriving at the outlet with expectations of good response, I told him my range, made him sketch a few designs of the kind of lehnga I wanted and went home sort of satisfied but something was obviously wrong. Yes, I didn’t know what exactly. All through the following week I then went ballistic ringing the designer to set an appointment.But, he was busy.Everytime I tried settling a time, I failed and this awkward, ugly feeling which arises when you run after heedless darzis swelled in me. But obviously, I chose to ignore it.Finally, I arrived at his outlet once again to finalize the order.

 

This time round, realizing that the man was probably caught up in some project, I did him a favor by reducing my work for him – I showed him one of those not-available-anywhere-amma’s lehngas and asked him to design a shirt and a dupatta with it. He refused to take outfit measurements and instead, asked me to send a sample shirt. What if, things went wrong at the end day? And clearly, there would be little time for alteration. But in that case too, I surrendered. Obviously, he was now supposed to charge less now – But, Mister chose to stick to the same price range like stubborn elfy. Anyhow, I had no choice now and he also promised me to give it back on time. Somehow, I was happy. Even designers with a remarkable reputation return orders on time or else their career can be at stake. So things were good.

 

Three days before the Mehndi, I ringed Mister once again to make sure that the jora was completed by the due date and Mister, very conveniently gave me hundred percent assurance that it would be ready. Everything was fine. But again, that feeling of getting tired running after careless tailors from the adda grew up inside me. Ignoring such feelings was the right thing to do.

 

D day came and I expected a call from Mister. But, no call at all. Finally, tired and irritated, I called him again and was told that the boy at the outlet would let me know when exactly to collect the order. I waited. No call from boy- at- the -outlet. Seven hours to the mehndi, I rang the outlet and the boy, to my horror, had no clue about the whereabouts of the jora. Three hours later, I was told that the jora would arrive at around nine thirty pm and definitely; this was the shock of a century. This was action time now. Raged and livid to death, I ordered the boy to drop the jora at my place but hell, ten thirty pm saw no jora as well. Baffled and shocked, I left for the mehndi in an outfit made last year.

 

Upon returning home from the Mehndi, I gave this entire two-week episode a long thought. Wearing an old outfit at the Mehndi was neither the killer nor the end of the world –it was the haute couture, executive-style façade of these professionals which gave the actual headache. Dude, if this is going to be the attitude of young, new kids on the block, what could an experience with traditional, ten, twelve-year old names be like? I always hear people praising the wonderful improvement in the Pakistani fashion industry but hell, this is simply window-dressing. We need to understand that flashy labels, exotic-looking outlets, giving shoots in voguish magazines and dressing up manikins with eye-catching pieces is not the answer to a professional attitude. In fact, when the end result comes to hand, it’s a bigger piss off and one really wants to question this tale of professionalism.

 

Wed – locked

By Anum Pasha  

 

The wedding season is dancing in rapture, just around the corner. The spell has enchanted everyone; from my aunt who has all prerequisites including inherited, Burmese diamonds covered for a wedding but a daughter-in-law, to a boring batch mate who is longing for the winter wedding bashes to kick start, only because the summer has been too long and too mundane. Not that Liberty market is not a fish-market three sixty-five days a week, but this time round with the scorching September sun, and Ramadan frenzy, the place is buzzing with mother-in-laws, to-be-brides, and brother-in-laws, as well. And Liberty market is just not the only place at drone. Meet Rimaa’z – the place to be at when it’s your baby girl’s turn on the matrimony- ride.

 

Speeding through a business which is continuing still after a decade, Rimaa Farid’s wedding arrangements have been an instant hit in town. Trained as a beautician in London at the Alan’D School of Hair Dressing and Make up, which is one of the largest privately owned institutes in the UK, Rimaa began a creative career spontaneously. Back in 1993, the aesthetically-driven enthusiast rallied around with mehndi thaals at a family friend’s wedding. Noticing her fervor and commitment to the task, Rimaa’s mother coaxed the girl to give a chance to the artist in silence, within her. Following her intuition and mother’s course, Rimaa began with introducing Rangoli as integral parts of the Pakistani wedding arrangements. Rangoli is devised from rang (color) and awaali (row of colors) and apart from being one of the four focal points  (choli, latka jhatka, a barrel of extras for dancers, and a chest-pumping heroine) of desi dance numbers in larger-than-life, Bollywood flicks, it is a common form of art outside homes in India.

 

Initially, Rimaa began practicing her love for Rangoli art with the use of fresh flowers. Usually with all the ‘uncalled-for’ jahez requirements, Rolex-giving traditions hanging amidst the air, and budgets going sky-high, this medium becomes an expensive one. Hence, Rimaa tried her hands on glitter, sawdust, dyed rice and spices in order to suit her clients’ budget and create floral motives ranging from anything symbolic to themes picked up from nature – be it a peacock, swan or mango.

 

Soon after, the road to discovering new facets of her talent began and what started as an experimental check on the grounds at family functions became a long-lasting line of business for Rimaa. Someone at one of these private family events noticed Rimaa’s passion for work, and requested the touch of her magic wand at the Pearl Continental Hotel in Lahore. And then there was no looking back.

 

While the crazy onslaught of weddings is going to hit the town hard, I tire at even the idea of attending all of them this year – so what of the proud parents of the bride-to-be and groom-to-be? While bells ring for some, those of us who are not acquainted with such an experience as yet are forced to wonder: Who are the people who go to Rimaa Farid and others in the business to take charge of their weddings? And why do they go? When I put the questions across to Rimaa, she explained, “Well, we have all kinds of people coming – the gold keepers and also, those who try to keep it simple with a RS 50,000 budget on hand. However, all of them want convenience and zero pressure.” Perfect, but are people with zero aesthetic sense looking for such ‘convenience’ or is just a glut of gold pots waiting to be unlocked?

 

Currently, Rimaa is racking brains to come up with a theme for the décor of Chandni Lounge, a Savvy PR event. In collaboration with Aamir Mazhar since last year, Rimaa has been responsible for the décor at the Havana Club Night, the Gelato Affair Launch, and Moonlight Euphoria. Working on a daily basis with the best caterers around town, Rimaa is glad she is compatible with everyone in the business but prefers her clients confirming bookings at least two months before the wedding event, so that every little detail can be worked out with the caterers.

 

While browsing through Rimaa’s fan community on Face book, I stumbled across another facet of Rimaa’s talent which is more than merely interesting. Not only is the woman a maestro when it comes to everything related to décor, she also has some good experience with ‘Special Effects.’ Yes, the ones you see on the Zee Horror Show and its desi counterparts, like Aks Kada, a horror series Rimaa worked on with Productions Underground.

 

Where the old school crowd may only hiss at the abundance of money wasted on canopies, and seven- course meals, and the call for ‘face-value’ during shadis which last fifteen days each, many of us may want to leave everything from the stage to the henna art to someone as talented as Rimaa Farid.

 

 

 

 

 

Come on, let’s make it better!

By Anum Pasha

My editor wants me to catch a teeny weenie break from the usual, tragedy-oriented real-world issues and hence, this laissez-faire, nonchalant frame of mind. These are one of those days when I’m trying to figure out how things could be made a little bit better and by ‘things’ I most definitely do not imply my preferred subjects of dimwit politicians caught in sullied lime lights, pathetically sad oh-I-want-to-suicide-teens, pseudo-young Lahore-blondes and the likes of those. Come on, let’s make it better.

 

The Orkut Mystery                            

 

Long, summer nights have not only made me watch a plethora of strange, stupid flicks but can also be accounted for my packing on the pounds in front of what they call the personal computer while scrolling pages after pages of random peoples’ profiles on‘Orkut’ which contains a literal definition implying ‘orgasm’ and hence, the power of this beta version can most definitely be understood. Nonetheless, pursuing the commonly, orkutting activity, I learnt how a handful of ladies (all sizes and ages, mind you) have either found it very cool to not wanting to ‘frandship’ with their wooers or are simply, ignorant of the purpose of this social network by Google. A number of my prey have very conveniently clarified that they do not want any friend shippers lending soft hands of friendship towards them. Knock knock, women, you need to be well-read: the login page very clearly states, ‘We are committed to providing an online meeting place where people can socialize, make new acquaintances and find others who share their interests.’ By legal terms, friendshippers are to be welcomed. If sleazy ladies are only in the mood for putting on a trendy, I’m a reserved-Pakistani-image, and do not want to eagerly fulfill the purpose of this ‘social circle,’ then they must get off the boat immediately because it has to be too sizzling a place for them to handle.

 

Annie and the Likes of Her

Amidst the influx of fresh pop stars is latest sensation Annie with two of her videos from the ‘Princess’ album on air and unfortunately showcased on most of the Pakistani music channels we have on the idiot box. While flipping channels, I came across a young damsel shifting shoulders from right to left in a black, tacky, retarded top and then, oops, smack, figured out that it was a dance step! I noticed how she first vocally introduced sentences of Urdu and then those of English with one particular notion ‘Don’t leave this Princess’ which left me into contagious fits of laughter instantly. I wanted to figure out as to why exactly she was referring herself to a Princess – Does Annie by any chance have a connection with the Mughals, some Prince from Brune/Belaire or maybe, the Princess Diaries alone? Baffling! To make it worst, she’s got a picture of herself on the album cover with a tiara on her head, a smile plastered on her face and I think it’s sad that ordinary girls believe that ‘Prince William of USA’ will fly on horseback to take them away. With the commercial, Pakistani music scene making waves since the advent of musicians such as Aaroh, Jal/Atif Aslam, Strings and Hadiqa Qiani, emergence of senseless, meaningless music is a stain on the white sheets. Just when the music industry was streaming with original pieces, some freshies simply hopped in only to distort the picture by throwing in black niggas blabbering stuff in the middle of an already senseless I-want-to-be-a-rich-Princess-one-day song. We welcome original talent and not that influenced from the West and showcasing only a desperate struggle to be like ‘them’ and not ‘us’ and my concern right now is that such freshies are only in the hunt of publicity even if it scores a bad one; nevertheless, this is a wake up call for all image-distorting dudes and dudettes out there!

The Identity Crisis on Aaj Tv

She loves to flaunt vibrant colors in the form of the prettiest saris available. He is fascinated by hitting on both aunts and uncles which results in the production of excited squeals and giggles on Saturday night on Aaj TV. Yes, you got that right, it is the Begum. On a serious note, I most definitely do pity her/his current situation; the ever -blatant identity crisis. Seems like all human psychologists need to get together to bring out a solid solution for the Begum – he/she has still, after forty eight years of age, been unable to decide whether he/she wants to be a male or a female because, the in-between only reflects the existence of eunuch and if that is the Begum’s sole aim, then what is he/she doing on Aaj Tv alone? For the sake of humanity alone, the Begum must decide before he/she is thrown in a pile of similar I-want-to-be-both-man-and-woman mentally imbalanced cases and is driven madder than he/she actually is.

 

Yes, folks, we are in dire need of making it better.

A cola shot and a flavored drag

By Anum Pasha

So I’ve been reminiscing about the good ol’ days when a couple of us snuggled in front of the idiot box for a rerun of the American-driven, Friends series, a household name across the globe. My favorite parts were certainly those when all the characters got together for a mugga’ coffee…latte, cappuccino, and… well, very mouth-watering to see Chandler and Monica snuggle cozily on a sofa in Manhattan. And then there was the very girly, Gilmore Girls, where a day at the Stars Hollow began at six am with a hot, cuppa’ coffee at Luke’s Diner, where the entire town’s population hurried in for scrambled eggs, iced tea, bagel and what not. Yum.

 

Recently, while I sat through a lecture on ‘society and culture,’ some God-sent female raised a point on the fast-developing café culture in Lahore. Karachi was always hipper, sexier and all the works… but Lahore? Kitchen Cuisine started with a big, big bang and back in fourth grade, it was a luxury to tease the taste buds with the biggest, chocolaty-est cupcakes in the city! Then came the Coffee, tea and Company and it wasn’t long before, a tornado happened, and left us culture-confused people in the midst of Café Rocks, Café Sevenzzz, the Pancake lounge ( oh, you get the yummiest smoked, cheese omelet there but…) Café Life (err..life?) and another trillion, cafes which have names I have trouble remembering at twenty.

 

Just last night, I had a far-fetched argument with the granny about generation gaps… well, the two words scare the life out of me now, because even while I got rid of my teens, I feel the time is here when I’m feeling ‘it’ with my younger brother and his teeny-boppers. These are a bunch of boys and girls who like going to dark, dingy places like the one above Pancake Lounge (ya, I’ve forgotten the name)… for sheesha and perhaps, a drag of the fags they stole from daddy dearest’s cigarette box. These are a bunch of boys and girls who have their cards laid out on the coffee (?) table… I don’t want to hurl mockery at fifteen something’s prattling smoke- rings out of their small mouths somewhere in Mini-golf, but it makes me laugh quietly.

 

So we got that right. Dark, dingy and smoke-y – the question is, why are bursting hormones asking for such environments? Is it very essential for a sheesha evening out with classmates to be one which might shock the living daylights out of a parent who might just be passing by? Last year, the infamous ‘cat fight’ video that sped faster than germs, was one scoffed at by the entire student male population of the city…oh wait, even my forty-something bawarchi and his driver friends had it saved in their Nokia 1100’s. Apparently, the 17-year old females come from a prestigious English medium school, with branches all over the city – and one in Islamabad too, now. No… this wasn’t that verbal, you-re-a-b***h battle. It was one where pretty girls (oh well…) kicked each other in the a**, in the front, and almost everywhere else. Most uncles and aunties, who discussed the scene over dinner tables, presumed it had to be a love triangle… or some 18-year old macho that went to that huge boys’ school. The missing point of discussion, remains, that this blow happened just outside the Pancake Lounge in Defence- in the wee hours of the morning when the girls thought it were a good idea to bunk sociology class. Nevertheless, it’s sad how a breakfast lounge turned home to a scandal that not only blemished the reputation of these crazy females, but left a strong question mark on the cultural values within this generation… if there are any, at all.

 

 

Another one thing that I fail to understand is the distressing ambience at places like Café Zouk. Normally, when dinner evenings happen, a group of friends get together for catching up and exchanging grapevine… not, blaring music and lights so dim you can barely read the menu. For sure, there has to be a defining difference between a ‘café’ and a ‘club,’ – unfortunately, this city hasn’t really gathered that as yet. Abroad, café’s are nice and cozy with clean fun but when you take some foreign friends to a Café Life which is a swarm of hooligans adorning bandanas and holding a Marlboro, the picture isn’t that pretty.

 

Just recently, a sixteen-year old was telling me about his trip to Pizza Hut during Ramadan… apparently, the customers ran out of patience because they weren’t being served on time, and hence, this resulted into a fist fight – actually, a pizza fight which was brought to death by police intervention. Funnily enough, the boy’s eyes sparkled with excitement and pride as he continued to narrate the experience when he made sure he had destroyed five of their pizzas. So this is what a bunch of boys do when let loose, for iftari…nice.

 

In all seriousness, the borrowed ‘café’ culture from the West is a failed one in my poor country. The experience of growing up with kids who only like meeting up with homies in murky venues is a distressing one and the thought about my own growing up like that, already frights me. I don’t want to start a blame game here like them politicians are on national television, these days… but at the end of the day, parents who know little are held responsible for adolescent, public behavior. So much for a cola drag and a flavored shot!

In all seriousness, the borrowed ‘café’ culture from the West is a failed one in my poor country. The experience of growing up with kids who only like meeting up with homies in murky venues is a distressing one and the thought about my own growing up like that, already frights me. I don’t want to start a blame game here like them politicians are on national television, these days… but at the end of the day, parents who know little are held responsible for adolescent, public behavior. So much for a cola drag and a flavored shot!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A number in one

By Anum Pasha

Lahore used to be ‘rural’ when it came to shopping malls, fashion design houses, and everything-under-one-roof-concepts well-ventured by the commercial counterparts of Karachi. They had Labels – we had not an iota of that. They had Nadya’s – we had zilch compared to that. They had the delightful Gelato Affair – we didn’t have a hint of that either. They had the exuberant Zamzama I only wish was in my neighborhood – we were given the pocket-sized Pace (lifts, escalators, and all the 90’s rage) which never really worked out as a ‘mall’ for the super-savvy.

And then at last, shopaholics like the ones at my office were given the raison d’être to put a lifelong end to eternal ranting – and one by one, the Fountain Boulevard (Karma, Nike, Calvin Klien), the Al-Hafeez Plaza (Fahad Hussayn, Imperial shoes, Masoom’s), Xinhua Mall(NEXT, Yellow, and Nomi Ansari) poured on us like torrential rain. Now, there’s another one of these –at 10-Q.

A large, elephant-grey building just opposite the elitist SukhChain and parts of it still closed for renovation, no one would have thought the venue would be home to exquisite products and fashion/beauty services. No one would have thought this was something to write home about until – both Zarmina Masud Khan and Price Right officially launched their separate fashion/beauty outlets.

The place dressed in white net and bright lights, it looked like a bubble was finally going to burst there. Your answer to the bold fashion intellect, Zarmina stood smiling, playing host in a Chinese-doll inspired, silk Kimono-top, brown, suede boots and waist-length, poker straight hair, with her signature, black bangs wrapping the forehead. Starting out approximately two years ago when the fashion world was abuzz with the Karmas and HSY’s (still is, uhh) and it looked like there wasn’t more room for others – or the bigwigs just didn’t want to make that space, Zarmina’s entrée was a breath of fresh air. She is fascinating, artistic, and energetic. And her work shows all this and more.

A 180-degree turn from kicking her way at ICI as a graphics designer to replacing ‘graphics’ with ‘fashion’, the tiny queen decided to take her own aesthetics and fashion sense a little more seriously. The end product was an outlet amidst Nadya’s (Karachi), Nabila’s Nail bar and Papermoon (gift-wrapping). Dull grey walls, a cozy atmosphere, and a chic, wooden floor, the venue is of minimalist design and embraces Vaneeza’s heroic poster in Zarmina’s favorite fabric, ChickenKari. Her latest collection is all about the glamour – the base colors of fabrics are normally pastel whites but also travel into reds and pinks. One look at her work – and you know the girl likes sequin, crystals, and the always-in-style banarsi. One look at her work – and you know you like it too.

Just when you thought that was all 10-Q had to offer, you had to think again. Sliding my way though the exuberant crowd, I stopped at ‘Price Right’ – a spa house dedicated to the good smell. Launched by Mohommad Hameed, Price Right is for everyone – men, women and babies. Small in space, the outlet is full in stock with two basic UK/US brands, Healing Garden and Calgon. The shop is absolute retail therapy and its products, a must-have to celebrate yourself the luxury style. A perfect source of ‘me-time,’ the Healing Garden products are available under a number of names: Lavender Therapy, Travel Therapy, Smiley Kids, and so on. A little cramped to stay put at, the shop is nevertheless, of the yummiest scents in town.

Shopping, anyone? (Lahore diaries)

By Anum Pasha
As a child living in Lahore, I was always impressed by the ‘modern’ Karachi culture with its crazy shopping complexes, the ‘Zainab market’ always packed with customers, the night life… and so on. Lahoris were always in the back seat when it came to experimenting with fashion such that everything from the very-high stiletto to skimpy clothing was borrowed from Karachi– initially.  They had everything: the fantastic ‘Zamzama,’ the wonderful ‘Gelato Affair,’ the beach (even if it’s not something close to one where you’d like to spend a nice holiday in that Victoria’s Secret swimsuit) We had not an iota of that.

But it’s not like that anymore. There’s the new ‘Xinhua Mall,’ the ‘Al-Hafeez’ plaza (which I call the ‘Masoom’s plaza!’), the spanking-new 10-Q at the Main boulevard and of course, the ‘Gol’ market in DHA. A handful in number, these are the spots one must hit when looking for everything besides the shalwar kameez. My favorite is the ‘Masoom’s plaza.’ Located just opposite the Pizza Hut on Mm Alam road, this building has everything from couture to prêt and from authentic Swiss watches to cheap Thai wear. What I absolutely love about the ‘Al-Hafeez’ plaza is that apart from a wide variety of shops (Imperial shoes, Fahad Hussayn, Kaarvan crafts, and D-3), this one has a little jewelry shop which stocks on gorgeous jewels in every color, stone, size and shape. Believe you me, this little space will be something you’ll be hooked on to for long – selecting some fine pieces, trying a few on, bargaining, and then finally paying money for value. The most exciting part about shopping in the massive malls in Dubai is that once you’ve gotten hold of everything on your wish list, there’s the divine food court to indulge in all of the world’s guilty pleasures: Cinnabon, Baskin-Robbins, Starbucks, and so on. Not that the ‘Al-Hafeez’ plaza is so massive you’ll need a food break once you’re done – but we definitely don’t mind a hot cuppa cappuccino at Masoom’s.

Speaking of food breaks – you get those at the ‘Xinhua Mall’ as well. When it first opened doors to shopping-starved Lahoris, I was impressed. Nomi Ansari, Ammar Belal, Arizona Grill, Yellow and NEXT under one roof – fabulous! Funnily enough, every time I visit NEXT in an attempt to pick myself something ‘foreign,’ I end up walking out of the shop empty-handed. Either I’m lacking on ‘Lahori aesthetics’ or just not interested in over-priced items which are simply not fascinating enough for me to take home. The bags look old and the shoes look like they’ve been worn more than just once: not my idea of shopping from an international brand. The stock isn’t replenished on time such that every time I visit, I see the same old red pair of patent peep-toes. Blekh! What’s even more ‘customer-friendly’ about the ‘Xinhua Mall’ is that it plays an incredible role in making sure customers are safe and sound (read safe and sound) within the building; the stair case is as slippery as it can get so that someone is bound to fall – and fall hard on the stair handle made from glass which will certainly make a lot of blood. Fantastic!

If you think you need to glaze your lifestyle with a touch of high-end products, a visit to the 10-Q at the Main boulevard is mandatory.  Home to the Pakistan Fashion Design Council (PFDC), this charcoal gray building offers everything with a magic spell called ‘luxury.’ I personally go the 10-Q if I want something creative designed by Zarmina Khan (fits my budget) or have a look at the exotic shoes by Nadya. But then again, the only constraint with this place is the ‘budget.’ If you don’t have it, you don’t have it at all. 10-Q caters to an exclusive niche and I don’t think I’d want to go there every time I think ‘shopping.’ Not all of us have money growing on trees. No worries, because there’s the Gol market for all your commercial needs.

Literally gol, this place is home to everything from ‘Essentials’ catering to high-end jewelry and accessory enthusiasts to the hub of mouthwatering delicacies, ‘Hot Fuzon,’ once just a small project established by Mariam and Sikandar and now a hot favorite of coffee and meetha freaks all over the city. Although shops like ‘Paris Fashion’ are drastically over-priced, the clothes on the racks are something you and I would like to clad in the winter– yummy sweaters, fruity scarves and so on. However, come summer and the clothing stores go from a ‘cute’ to a ‘tacky.’ The one and only hitch at the Gol market is the amount of walking one has to do while trying to locate a particular shop – there are no signs as such.

Now that Lahore has begun to make a mark in retail, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about sleepless nights spent envying the Karachiites and their shopping frenzies. Hmm – shopping, anyone?
Lifestyle, Daily Times  

Fly High or Die Young?

By Anum Pasha

A gun shoots in the clear, springy air which prevails over the city of Lahore in the month of March, sparks of fireworks create a miasma in the lightened sky, incessant blubbers of excited, and unwatched voices are heard, blaring music bombards the eardrums of many a players, and amid it all, a living fiasco; a single string slashes through the fate of a young one, and life, ends there and then.

Fresh barbeque steams the air with a tempting scent and up high in the sky; kites dance to the desi music plugged on every rooftop, mingle, kill and downtown, on the rooftops, another gunshot and a hubbub of manly noises mark some important celebration. Tonight, the sky is a blend of unique colors and it reminds me of coloring cases like those from grade one. I wonder how the birds feel.

Squads of boys dribble soccer balls on the pavement and a few wander in ecstasy while fixing their eyes on kite string nettled within branches of trees. There is togetherness and a springy, delightful moment prevails. The city, as I see, has been given a makeover. Dressed in yellow and red, the city is bobbing its head of gold, and driving people round the bend with the love for this sport. A couple drives through the Mall road on a motorbike and their seven-year old loves the fast wind blowing his little head while he enjoys on the front, and all at once, a high-pitched noise attacks the ears. Red liquor crawls over the shirt of the father who is in a state of disbelief, holding on to his dead child. Tragedy befalls the Tradition. A magical moment, a single string, and barrels of human blood wasted, gone.

Somewhere on the Shehr side men play drums, young boys and girls are gawking in awe at the Gora Sahibs who have come to witness the affair, kite makers smile in glee at the bags of money they have reaped from large sales volumes, and multinational, giant companies are left contented when they see how the city looks magnificent with their brand’s banners and posters marking the event itself. Merry making is well in progress while a household in Gawalmandi twists and turns in unrest – Young Fatima fell off the rooftop and was expected alive at least. In stead, every inch of the living element in this girl died and left a family completely powerless, hopeless, and forlorn. This is Basant, year after year.

When it comes to making a choice between flying high or dying young, it calls for a definite debate. In a series of years, this has been the first time that a tradition has deliberately been smashed to death. Year after year, the few weeks preceding the actual Basant day/night are spent organizing huge, culture-party-events for the city while the families who have lost loved ones to the grave, are thrown a bunch of rupee notes to hush the matter down. A small section of the daily newspaper is kept for such loss. Hardly anyone reads. However, in the face of this brutal entertainment, a ban was implemented.

Nevertheless, damage done was merely reduced. The weakness of governance appears to be evident as all rules were defied; nine hundred men and women were arrested last weekend and four fifty women, men and children were taken to hospital wards, injured. One youth died. Stray bullets hit nine-year old Zainab in Samnabad, a boy in Sultan Pura, twelve-year old Rashid in Lahori Gate while eleven-year old Ahmad and twelve-year old Saif were arrested from their residence on the account of kite flying. This is a long, brought-down-to-the-scale-list. It is evident that countless other cases have been buried under the ground. However, my standpoint is that had the heads implemented a proper decision, rebellion would have not occurred. People had jailhouses in mind, people had aerial firing in mind, people had news of throats slashed by metal and nylon strings but still, they played. Still, they rebelled. Somehow, this reminds me of totalitarianism from the Animal Farm.

Many suggested other safety measures such as implementing limits to kite flying sessions and restricting it to a few places only. An outright ban appeared to be harsh and definitely proved impossible. Police had to barge into households and men were reduced to ashes in front of their womenfolk. Sadly, the heads were unable to come up with a proper plan for an unruly, basant-prone mob that our city contains. Yes, millions of rupee was wasted that had earlier been used up to organize huge events for last weekend and a lot of anticipated foreign exchange was cut off. But what boggles the mind is one question: – In the face of so many young deaths, a number of slashed throats, and a number of appeals to ban the event completely, why hadn’t the ban been implemented earlier on? Human blood, I say, cannot be wasted. It would have taken one controller’s personal loss to pull Basant out of its roots and then thrown away, destroyed forever. I question, do our heads need to experience the ‘fall’ before ‘realizing?’ Do we need to fly high or die young?

Sunday

My Nation

By Anum Pasha

Lots has been said and written about the Earthquake which hit the Pakistan and its surrounding areas. Yes, thousands died, millions were left homeless, and another million still famished; countless were lying on mattresses transformed into hospital beds, a considerate number of arms and legs were amputated and yes, an equally good amount of relief aid was delivered to these areas. Volunteers flown in from all corners of the world, city schools made it compulsory upon the male population to dig graves at the quake-hit areas and counsel the survivors, the television displayed images of the catastrophe to keep the saved updated and amid it all, three months after the quake, everything seems to be a lot smoother.

And it only seems to be smoother. At school, I noticed how the Monday after the Saturday Earthquake saw truckloads of clothes, dry food, medicines, shoes, coffins and what not –It felt great; this could only denote a sense of awesome unity I had never seen before. Pakistan was becoming one, a nation. This happy feeling went through me and I volunteered to pack the huge amount. While tying the shoes in pairs, my eyes set on a strappy stiletto; the heel could easily set for more than a four inch, the straps, if worn properly, could kiss the calve of a lady and flamboyant designs of a glitzy,fuscia pink, sequence work embodied this piece. I stared at the pink piece, aghast. This was just the beginning. Next, I saw bundles of ties and belts carelessly thrown into a tattered suitcase which had a zip refusing to seal. Horrified, I wondered what the people were trying to do – Was this a cupboard-cleanup act in which women threw in whatever excess or filth lay inside their homes and men disposed off belts with buckles not functioning properly?

Perhaps, my nation has watched a lot of news on television and this generous load has made them forget that up north, it is nothing but deadly cold.Perhaps, visual displays of the lethal situation at Balakot alone have not helped people to remember that shabby ties, modish shoes and saris from dowry are not needed and cannot replace the warmth of blankets and jackets.

Five days later, I saw nothing. No truckloads. No medicines. No food. Nothing at all. This, as I saw, was the promise of the nation broken and a lot many still hungry and homeless. Where on earth has the strong will to ‘help’ disappeared off to? Maybe, my nation has forgotten that those affected have been traumatized forever, orphaned for a whole life, psychologically dead for the years to come, and economically deprived for a long time. Chic shoes, ragged ties, ragged suitcases and flashy dresses seem to be nothing but an insult hurled at the survivors.

This city disease has spread to the areas hit by the earthquake as well – Those who went to do volunteer work mentioned that the free phone service has led a number of eminent politicians to make both local and international calls chitchatting away while in the same places, a few feet away, lie families without roofs on their heads, tears in their eyes, and bruises on their bodies. Many of these political heads have been seen strolling around television cameras only. What, I ask, is there left to say?

Yes, a lot of other things do need to be taken care of. Roads have been blocked by mammoth-sized trucks from the cities, ambulances are speeding away every few minutes, villages have been flattened, people are family less and it is not right for small children to attend school. These are not children from the city; they don’t travel in great cars. They walk back home. This is nothing but asking for danger. The civil administration must understand that in the face of this tragedy, we are not ready for more loss. Moreover, school premises can be safely utilized as hospital wards and this would mean only a small number lying under the sky, their limbs amputated, diseases harming them more from the dead bodies resting nearby and temperatures freezing them to tears. This would mean shelter. This would mean life. This would mean my nation.

Remembering an Icon

By Anum Pasha

The noble man’s soul has two goals
To die or to achieve its dreams – Abdelrahim Mahmud(1937)

Starting this piece is a Herculean task. And I have been procrastinating since numerous hours in the effort of penning every word with utmost care. From what I recall of childhood days and election hysteria, I vividly remember my father glued to the television watching Benazir Bhutto address the nation – a puffy, English-style perm, the whitest, glowing complexion, a thin-bony structure, and cheek-bones so high. Back then, it didn’t make sense at all– the whole gaga goo-goo over a lady with a penetrating voice and regal posture.
Fashion clichés like ‘Fashion fades, style is eternal,’ and ‘Style is an expression of individualism mixed with charisma’ are, simply put, mere clichés within the dynamics of a material-driven, cash-churning world. The likes of Coco Chanel may utter stylish words of wisdom that later become precious notes for international fashion publications, but the entire concept of ‘trendsetters’ is one completely surreal to me. There are only a handful of people, like Benazir, with the knack for developing a particular style and then adhering to it devotedly for an entire lifetime. Which one of us truly manages to ‘design’ a trend and look like royalty? None – now that the curtain has fallen on BB’s glamorous and fascinating life.

Tracing down the very early elements of Bhutto’s life, it is impossible to miss out on her lush-black, shoulder-length hair, playing a beautiful contrast with her milk-white complexion and dazzling dark eyes. It is impossible to miss out the diva that she was back then – when they say, When in Rome, do as the Romans do… they say it just right. Seated with former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and father, Z.A.Bhutto, and donned in a lovely sari teamed up with a crisp, white sleeveless blouse, Benazir made a fashion statement at a time when most of us haven’t thought about plucking our bushy eyebrows.

Like a natural born leader, Benazir soon became the apple of the nation’s eyes – fleeting a gorgeously radiant smile and dressed to kill in a brighter than bright, shiny green blazer-style suit, the deity of beauty took oath as Prime Minister in 1989. What’s more essential to notice is that back then, the lady appeared by covering her head with a thin, white, chiffon veil and until the time of her death, it stayed intact – as if, an essence of her espirited life.

Flipping through her most recent pictures, I couldn’t help but appreciate the love for jewels Benazir had. Her sapphire ring, silver watch, creamy pearl earrings, and Coco Chanel glasses are testimony to her aesthetic sense. Leaders nowadays are a symbol of nonchalance when it comes to dress and design – within the local arena itself, it’s impossible to pinpoint one female politician who both looks good and speaks eloquently either on national television or in public. For sure, such a killer combination might not be easy to find in the future.

Her choice of colors and fabric amuses me completely. Soft satin, fur, and vibrant shades of red and orange are something you and I can’t carry in front of a ten thousand people. Images of Benazir applying cherry, plum lip gloss just a few hours before her death are masterpieces and I think, should be preserved as forms of classic art. It had to be her outlook – so enamoring that her crowd-pulling abilities were unmatchable and distinct while not discounting the fact that she is a woman leader in a male-dominating community that is Pakistan. Her last speech in Rawalpindi – in fact, really did seem like her last one. This, my friends, is a tragedy for the nation – and what is more heartbreaking is that like an artist’s piece of work, Benazir will be irreplaceable.

Sunday