She said he had been admitted to a hospice facility in his native Northern Ireland 10 days ago and was receiving round-the-clock medical attention. “He passed peacefully surrounded by family and friends,” she wrote in the post’s caption.

Sheehan said her husband “was an inspiration to everyone who was privileged enough to come into contact with him, not just in the past few years during his illness but in every day of his life”.

She said Patrick had lived as full a life as anyone, calling him, “A titan of a ginger-haired man.”

The actor was best known for his work on stage, which continued despite his MND diagnosis and the effects of the debilitating ailment. His adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Richard III was especially lauded and his wheelchair-bound performance as the play’s titular character won him the Judges’ Award at the Stage Awards last year.

Patrick had numerous television acting credits, including an appearance as a wildling rioter on season six of the popular fantasy series Game of Thrones. He was also a co-writer on the BBC series My Left Nut, which was based on his own experiences as a teenager; the series won three awards from the Royal Television Society.

Tributes poured in from people who had worked with the actor, with Jimmy Fay ─ the executive producer for the Lyric Theatre in Belfast ─ saying, “These islands have lost a great artist, and the sky is brighter tonight with his star. Mick showed great strength and dignity in light of his diagnosis [of] MND. He remained resilient and focused, creating dynamic work throughout his struggles.”

The MAC Theatre said anyone who encountered Patrick’s work would “carry a piece of him with them” due to its personal nature.

The one-act story by Saqib Deshmukh follows Nighat (Jaffri) and Tariq (Khan), two old friends reconnecting after years apart in the restroom of a London wedding hall.

As the 40-somethings begin reminiscing about the past and their youth spent together, more present woes begin to show. Nighat expresses her feelings of being trapped in her current life, particularly regarding her inability to have children, while Tariq grapples with his responsibilities as a father and husband.

The tension builds and builds until the bubble finally bursts with Tariq confessing a desire to rekindle their lost romance — and putting everyone in an awkward position.

Jaffri posted about the play on Instagram, telling fans the story was for anyone who “ever had a relationship that didn’t quite end” or “ever carried something unresolved”. She called it “intimate, layered, and very close to the bone”.

Elaborating on her character, the actor said Nighat was “A woman shaped by memory, love, resentment, and everything we don’t say out loud.” She said the play was “about relationships that don’t resolve neatly. About what lingers. About the versions of ourselves we leave behind… and the ones that come back.”

Meanwhile, the Tara Theatre, where Rukhsati has four shows from April 23 to 25, said the play was about “love, life and lotas”, exploring “complex relationships in a South Asian/Muslim context and the nature of change in our communities”. Tickets for the limited run are now available on the theatre’s website.

An MBA in Marketing and MIS from the Institute of Business Administration, Karachi, Zaidi is known for his expertise in strategic planning, governance, financial management and organisational development, said a press release issued on Thursday.

He brings to Napa over 30 years of executive leadership experience in multinational and local organisations. He previously served as CEO and country general manager of 3M Pakistan (Pvt) Ltd. His earlier senior roles include leadership positions at Mobil Askari Lubricants and Caltex Oil Pakistan.

At Napa, he will be supported by the head of music Hamza Ali Jafri and the head of theatre Bazelah Mustafa, the press release concluded.

Originally published in Dawn, March 6th, 2026

Cover photo: National Academy of Performing Arts

Set 10 years before the events of the hit television series, the play’s synopsis reads, “A long winter thaws in Harrenhal, and spring is promised. At a lavish banquet on the eve of a jousting tournament, lovers meet and revellers speculate about who will contend. But in the shadows, amid growing unease at the blood-thirsty actions of the realm’s merciless Mad King, dissenters from his inner circle anxiously advance a treasonous plot. Far away, the drums of battle sound.”

Director Dominic Cooke, revealed to Deadline that there would be a star-crossed lovers element to the play, with Lyanna Stark — whose hand has been promised to Robert Baratheon — and Rhaegar Targaryen falling for each other. He said there was a “bit of a Romeo and Juliet-type story with those two”.

Cooke mused that Lyanna’s character was similar in some aspects to Joan of Arc in Henry VI or Rosalind in As You Like It. Her fan-favourite brother, Ned Stark, will also be at the tournament as one of the major characters.

George RR Martin, the author of the A Song of Ice and Fire books which inspired Game of Thrones, said he had never expected the books to be much more than what he wrote. He explained they were a place for him to let his imagination loose and he was surprised when his work was adapted into a television series.

For the upcoming play, Martin said he hadn’t seen it coming either, but welcomed it “with great enthusiasm and excitement”. “Theatre offers something unique. A place for mine and the audience’s imagination to meet and hopefully create something magical,” he said.

The author also explained his choice of theatre group to bring Game of Thrones to the stage. “For me, the RSC was the obvious choice when thinking about putting a Game of Thrones story on the stage. Shakespeare is the greatest name in English literature, and his plays have been a constant source of inspiration to me and my writing. Not only that, he faced similar challenges in how to put a battle on stage, so we are in good company.”

Talking about The Mad King’s playwright, Duncan Macmillan, he said, “Duncan’s masterful script honours the world completely, and I am so excited for both fans of the series, and perhaps people who have never picked up one of my books, to experience this new story in a theatre.”

The RSC’s co-creative directors said the themes of Martin’s work were similar to Shakespeare’s own in how it explores “the true nature of authority through the lens of young people grappling with inherited identities”.

The play has been co-produced by HBO, which makes sense when you consider Game of Thrones repeatedly broke the network’s records for viewership numbers. The legions of fans it has amassed are sure to flock to the theatre for its prequel too.

French playwright Florian Zeller’s The Mother attempts to paint a picture of the day after motherhood, and Usama Khan brings it to life for a Pakistani audience. For something the director said was a “pure translation of the original script”, the subject matter was not at all out of place in a local context.

Directed by Khan and led on stage by the dynamic Nimra Bucha, The Mother is running at Karachi’s National Academy of Performing Arts from January 9 to 18. The supporting cast comprises Sonil Shanker, Eshah Shakeel, and Ashmal Lalwany.

The first scene opens in a sparsely furnished, white room. Haleema (Bucha), an ageing mother of two, comes alive as her husband, Saad (Shanker), gets home from work. Haleema asks Saad how his day was and talks about an upcoming business trip of his. She then gets to the primary conflict of the play and asks her husband, “Why doesn’t Arsalan reply to my messages?”

Saad tells her that her son (Lalwany) was probably just busy with his partner (Shakeel) and that this was just the natural order of things. The building tension between the two was palpable when Haleema, as if she’d warped back to the beginning of the play, asks her husband, “So, how was your day?”

The back and forth continues till the scene ends, and in the next one, we see Saad come back from work and get asked how his day was and when the business trip to Bhurban is.

While the script does eventually progress, repetition is a key theme of the play, with details, characters, and the energy onstage changing to present multiple versions of the same event.

Zeller’s answer to how someone deals with an empty nest is that you don’t, and that it eats you up on the inside until you can’t tell fact from fiction.

Arsalan does eventually come home after a fight with his partner, Sana, only to be suffocated by his mother‘s overbearing love as she refuses to give him even a moment’s peace. Troubled by his own love life and his mother’s state, he waits for her to leave and confronts his father over something the senior had to tell Haleema.

Saad leaves for his conference, but not before we see his wife attempt to confront him over an alleged affair and threaten to harm herself. She also thinks out loud about how Sana is trying to steal her son — I didn’t know the French had saas-bahu tropes in their plays too.

Sana visits the house in two alternate scenes, one where she admits to trying to steal Arsalan — with the boy literally wrapped around her as she says it — and another where she‘s come to make amends with her partner. When Haleema shoos the girl away, her son, who had been ’sleeping’ throughout the interaction, comes onto the scene and asks his mother what had just happened.

The mother-son fight ends with Arsalan leaving the house in a fit of rage, a final nail in the coffin of Haleema’s sanity. A hospital bed is brought on stage, and a doctor (Shakeel) forces the older woman onto it; we find out she had overdosed on sleeping pills.

The final scene, with Haleema in the hospital, also has two versions. One where Arsalan physically strangles her to death and another where he kills her motherhood by announcing he will be moving in with Sana permanently; which death is worse, only a mother can tell.

The fact of the matter is, there was not a single point in the 90 minutes of the play that I was bored. The acting was spectacular, Bucha commanded the audience’s attention, and Shanker played a very convincing middle-aged Pakistani husband. Shakeel, playing four separate roles as a counter to Bucha’s character, tied everything together.

I was, however, left wondering what exactly was real and what wasn‘t; unfortunately, my attempts to ask the director and cast didn’t yield much in the way of results. Khan did tell me he wanted people to see themselves in his plays. Bucha added to this, saying, “I think it’s a play that starts a conversation.”

When asked what he wanted the audience to walk out of the theatre with, Khan said that was up to them and that his job was just to portray life on stage. Bucha said, “I would love for people to go home and talk to each other in the family, to look at each other, notice [each other]. See your mother, listen to her, she wants to be heard.”

Shanker said he wanted people to “start thinking” and “start questioning”. He told me theatre, when done right, was more than just entertainment; it can be educational, cathartic, even therapeutic, but it needs support from audiences and especially from the state.

Cover photo: The Last Show.

In his science fiction play The Process of Convincing, Bilal Ahmed approaches these ideas with humour and eccentricity, staging them through the tedious bickering of a couple trying to conceive a child to save their turbulent marriage. Except they’re trapped in a dystopian alternate reality shaped by the “stoppage,” where parenthood must first be approved by an unconventional doctor and a being that does not yet exist.

Following its pilot run in November, the play returned to Karachi for three days at the National Academy of Performing Arts, from December 19 to 21. Directed and written by Ahmed, who also played a leading role, the cast included Manal Siddiqui, Zulfiqar Ghouri, Ameed Akber, Iqra Kainat, and Saad Rasool.

The first scene opens with a married couple, Maria and Asher (played by Siddiqui and Ahmed), arguing nervously before an appointment at a doctor’s clinic. Unsure and anxious, they are, like many other married couples, forced to hide their frustrations behind a facade before leaving the house. “We’ve been waiting 13 months for this day. This is what we wanted the most, right?” Asher tells a reluctant Maria, to which she responds, “What if we go there and they decide to reject us?”

After a series of seemingly trivial squabbles, ranging from Asher’s business deals to vague references to the “stoppage,” Asher reassures Maria of their decision. “It’s okay; we’re good people,” he says.

The play then shifts to the next scene, opening with Asher humming Frank Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ as he paces back and forth while the two wait at the doctor’s clinic.

“All these sounds and movements are making me more anxious. Will you please stop it?” Maria tells Asher as their mundane bickering continues in the waiting area. The exchange is interrupted when the doctor, played by Ghouri, enters in a wheelchair. He is accompanied by two unnamed characters (Kainat and Rasool), a couple who have successfully conceived and now serve as a quiet contrast to Maria and Asher’s uncertainty. The doctor’s arrival shifts the mood of the scene: unpredictable and uncanny, he’s easily one of the play’s most striking presences.

The third scene spells out the rules of the world it has been hinting at all along. Finally, inside his room, the doctor begins by announcing, “All your documents went through. That means we’re good to go.” In an unusually loud and high-pitched voice, he says, “I’m sure you’ve read the rules of the process from the email I sent you. BUT, it is our policy to go over them again before we begin this process.”

At this point, the audience is both intrigued and amused, caught between the doctor’s over-the-top performance and the mysterious process he’s describing.

“As a couple looking to conceive a child, you’ve agreed to take part in the process. And as you know, the process is one government’s answer to the phenomenon called… the stoppage,” a line delivered in a shriek that makes Asher gag.

“The selected couples must go through a 60-minute interview with the representatives of the children who may or may not choose to be born into their lives,” the doctor continues. “In this interview, the candidates must convince the other party why they’re best suited to bring a child into the world, into your homes, give them a satisfactory life, and help the child become a functioning adult.”

The rules continue to pile up. “No electronic devices are allowed in the communication room. No metal objects are allowed. The door, once locked, will open only on two conditions. Either if the time is up or if you guys have been accepted.”

When Asher asks for a hint about what happens inside, the doctor refuses. “Well, I wish I could help you with that, but that’s not how it works. Look, guys, once the door is locked, anything that is said inside the room stays inside the room.”

With the tension built up, the lights now dim to a deep blue, and the audience brims with anticipation as the story shifts to its final scene (which Ahmed later described to me as the play’s “magnum opus”). Here, Asher and Maria confront the voice of a possible future child, embodied by a ‘box’ (voiced by Akber), who asks, almost painfully, “Are you guys good people?”

The conversation quickly evolves into an intense exchange, with the ‘box’ asking about Asher and Maria’s lives, what they do and whether they can provide a life worthy of being chosen.

“I’m a banker,” Asher says. “We help a lot of people. You see, son, when people need money, they go to one of my banks, and we give them something called a loan. It’s how we help them.”

With the box sceptical, Asher paints a vision of a life of comfort and privilege for their future child: “You’ll want for nothing. I’ve made sure of it. You won’t have to go through the obstacles me or your mother had to go through. Think about it. You’ll have the finest education money can buy. Just think about it, son.”

But the dialogue remains painfully honest, as the ‘box’ replies: “And with it will come all the burden of your success. Everything that you are; everything that you couldn’t be. Everything that I am not, but you would want me to be.”

As the conversation drags on, the audience learns secrets about Asher and Maria’s lives, their poor choices and past regrets, and the tension shifts once again into a squabble between the two, their frustrations and vulnerabilities laid bare. The only difference now is that the ‘box’ acts as a quiet mediator. The scene culminates with the ‘box’ turning neither green nor red, in contrast to what the doctor said, but instead with loud sirens and a glitch that leaves a million questions unanswered.

The hour-long performance draws to a close with ‘Golden Brown’ by The Stranglers playing in the hall, leaving the audience in reflective silence.

The idea of the play, Ahmed told me, came to him over tea while sitting alone. “Gen Z often says, ‘We never asked to be born.’ I thought, what if a child could actually question their parents, asking, ‘Are you good people?’ That’s where the idea started,” he said. “Initially, the script was just this conversation. But I quickly realised it wouldn’t be engaging enough, so I created a world around it.”

Ahmed developed the play around six months ago, though he wrote the initial draft in just 15 days. “When you write, you have to justify everything,” he explained. “You have to anticipate the questions the audience might ask, as well as the questions you have as a writer. That’s why the play is structured as a ‘walking story,’ with the set divided into three main sections, moving the characters from point A to B, C, and D before ending in the final scene with the ‘box’, which Maria and I speak to.”

Ahmed described the pilot run of the play in November as a test for both himself and the cast. “I was directing and acting, which is tricky. I had to act as a third eye sometimes, even using proxies for myself during rehearsals.”

When asked why the play was performed in English despite the risk of excluding the local audience, Ahmed explained that the idea was to write something with a potentially wider, more global reach, while also being reflective of himself. “What does Bilal represent?” he asked. “It was a do-or-die for me.”

All photos provided by Bilal Ahmed.

The story kicks in when Mr Waseem receives a call from an investigation officer at the Arts Council. That’s when the calm living-room vibe cracks open. It turns out Mr Waseem, played by Hussain, has built an entire fake identity to secure a financial support scheme meant for struggling artists. He pretends to have a limp. He claims his wife is deaf so she can qualify for the same monthly support. One lie became two, and then the lies kept piling up. His wife has no clue. And now the officer is coming over to check for scams, and get signatures on documents.

Once the officer arrives, the chaos begins. The lies have to look real, the characters have to act in ways they didn’t prepare for, and the house slowly becomes a stage for improvised trickery. What starts as a “small harmless lie” grows into a full circus, and Mr Waseem’s scramble to stay believable drives most of the humour.

The central idea of the play is simple: if artists were paid fairly, especially through royalties, maybe they wouldn’t be pushed towards desperate measures. The message is clear, but the delivery moves between comedy, drama, and social commentary. At times, the play tries to juggle too much. It wants to entertain, crack jokes, tell a moral story, and also drop serious takeaways. That mix works in some scenes but feels uneven in others.

A few creative choices could have been more contained. The background music, for instance, didn’t always help the scenes. It felt slightly loud in moments that didn’t need it. The final 20 minutes also stretched longer than necessary. The ending still worked, but a tighter close would’ve helped the overall flow.

Where the play really shines is the comedy. Hussain leans into the madness of the lie-spinning husband, and the script gives him plenty of room to play. Some jokes cross into crass territory, but a lot of the jabs are sharp and genuinely funny. The pop culture punches — Ahsan Khan, Humayun Saeed and Aamir Khan’s perfectionism, Aishwarya Rai’s daughter Aradhya, cricket legend Wasim Akram, and even the classic Memon pronunciation bit — land well with the audience.

One surprising standout is the “kooray wala (trash collector)” character. He enters as part of the chaos but ends up delivering a small moment about cleanliness and the state of Karachi. In fact, the city’s infrastructure and filth come up more than once, with the memorable line: “Shehr ka haal bohot bura hai. Ya mujhe Lahore bhejo ya Maryam ko yahan bulao (The state of the city is quite bad. Either send me to Lahore or call Maryam here).” It’s funny, but it stings because it’s true.

The dialogue carries the play and some lines echo in the audience’s mind long after the curtains close. “Cheating ko Waseem bhai se zyada koi nahi janta (No one knows cheating better than Waseem Bhai),” “Kitne Sherry maaro ge, har ghar se Sherry niklega (How many Sherrys will you kill? A Sherry will appear in every house),” and “Kabhi yahan gir rahe ho kabhi wahan. Kya Indian forces ne tayyar kiya hai (You’re always falling all over the place. Did the Indian forces prepare you)?” These are the punches that keep the audience hooked. Sherry, the upstairs friend who joins the lies with full energy, adds another layer of fun.

In the end, Monkey Business is a light-hearted watch. It makes you laugh, slips in a few reminders about ethics and survival, and gives you a glimpse of how artists hustle behind the scenes. It rambles a bit, and preaches a little, but also entertains. And sometimes, that’s enough for a night out.

This is Monkey Business’ second run — the first was in April this year. Monkey Business is running at the Arts Council of Pakistan in Karachi till December 18.

Photos: Jawwad Mushtaq via Yasir Hussain/Instagram

He then asks the audience to put their phones on silent, including alarms, and refrain from recording. The play runs for less than an hour, he adds. “Pachpan minute mein yeh azaab tal jayega [in 55 minutes, this torment will be over].”

What follows is a disorienting journey anchored primarily in conversations between two unnamed characters, whose dialogue explores the intricacies and contradictions of human nature and the fragile, shifting idea of ‘home’.

I went into the play not quite knowing what to expect (the description was as confusing as the production itself), but left wholly impressed, struck by how much depth and humour could emerge from such a deceptively simple setup. For someone who counts The Sunset Limited among their favourite movies, the play hit all the right notes; a reminder that the right words, delivered with precision, can resonate just as much as any visual spectacle.

Directed by Sonil Shanker, written by Khan, and translated into Urdu by Kulsoom Aftab, Dreams of Ithaca is described by its creators as an “absurdist odyssey through dreams, nightmares, and strange trams and signals”. The play premiered on Wednesday night at the World Culture Festival 2025, held at the Arts Council in Karachi.

The first scene opens with the two characters (the man, played by Shanker, and the woman, played by Aftab) bickering over nothing in particular. Shanker’s character pleads for her to listen, but she curtly tells him not to disturb her, insisting she’s “busy doing nothing”. Their trivial back-and-forth creates a push-and-pull rhythm that is both absurd and captivating.

Initially puzzled by the aimless argument, the audience is soon drawn in by sharp dialogue, sly humour, and the occasional profanity that makes every exchange unpredictable. Shanker’s character desperately tries to share his dreams and his sense of never feeling “at home”, while she brushes him off with vague deadlines she barely remembers, insisting that nobody feels at home anyway.

The next scene (referred to as the “signal scene” by Khan) shifts the atmosphere, reminding the audience why the creators issued a warning at the start.

Here, the two characters are strangers. Shanker’s character is trapped at a pedestrian signal, pacing anxiously as he runs late for his flight, only for the light to remain red. Each time he tries to cross the road, he’s blocked or hit by passing vehicles, leaving him baffled as he struggles to make sense of the absurdity around him.

Meanwhile, Aftab’s character remains mostly silent, smirking and offering the occasional word at long intervals, which only fuels Shanker’s growing frustration. As his anger mounts, Shanker’s character becomes violent, and what began as a mundane wait erupts into sudden, unsettling chaos. It is a darkly comic, absurdist moment that keeps the audience unsure whether to gasp, laugh at the profanity, or feel a creeping sense of unease.

By the end of the 55 minutes (which felt much longer, thanks to the play’s immersive experience), you’re left with more questions than answers. While not everything is resolved, one thing is certain — Dreams of Ithaca is not for the faint of heart.

Dubbing it as one of Khan’s most controversial plays, Aftab spoke to me about the compromises involved in performing such work; deciding when to tone down, when to tone up, and negotiating the many challenges that arise during the performance.

“People often laugh at scenes where women are attacked,” she said. “You must have noticed today as well. But this audience learned, by the time the play progressed, that they couldn’t just laugh at women’s victimisation.”

She described the performer’s experience as a constant tension: terrified before going on stage, thinking only about whether the audience would connect, or feel ashamed, uncomfortable, or responsible. “Usually, out of 500 people, maybe five really engage in that way,” she said.

Khan shared that the inspiration for Dreams of Ithaca came from his own experiences after moving to Ireland. He found himself constantly grappling with questions of home: what it means to belong, where home truly lies, and the sense of leaving or losing it.

“Overall, there’s a consistent running theme in the play of being home or leaving home or defining home,” he said. He added that gender is also a key theme, woven throughout the story and closely linked to the idea of home.

Khan has been working on the play for quite some time and described it as an ongoing project. Even the performance staged in Karachi was not based on the final script. Originally written in English for a Western audience, the play included references to Ithaca (the homeland of Odysseus from Homer’s Odyssey).

The Urdu translation was completed recently by Aftab, who also helped adapt parts of the script for a Pakistani setting. For instance, the signal scene, originally set in the West, was rewritten to take place at a local pedestrian signal, making the absurdist scenario more relatable to a local audience, Khan explained.

He also noted that the characters were deliberately left unnamed. Regarding audience reception, he said he intended the play to be absurdist, dark yet comic, and that, to some extent, this was achieved. “People were laughing, people were disgusted at some moments.”

Photos: Arts Council of Pakistan Karachi/Instagram

As far as cultural events go, this is it — a celebration of the arts with unmatched scale and ambition. There are painting exhibitions, dance and acting workshops, talks, film screenings, theatre performances and concerts. And in case you’re wondering what happens and when, it’s best to consult the ACPK’s website, because the schedule provided to the media runs over six pages, in a font so small it could double as fine print!

The WCF will run daily until December 7, from midday into the night. From what Icon has learned so far, what one looks forward to the most may disappoint, and what one doesn’t expect to wow will be mind-blowing (as you’ll read below).

Most events are free, although a few — such as concerts and workshops — may cost up to Rs 1,500.

For the past six months, if not more, Ahmed Shah — president of the ACPK and the perennial man-with-a-plan (whom Icon interviewed in July) — has been fine-tuning this mother-of-all events with the kind of immaculate obsession usually reserved for clockmakers and mad scientists.

No matter how hard anyone tries — and why would one try in the first place — it is impossible to write about the WCF without mentioning Shah. From greeting dignitaries at the gates, charting schedules, managing the placement of posters, mingling with and directing volunteers, to addressing every journalist — no matter how obscure their publication — by name, Shah is the perfect host and admin of the event.

Micromanaging every aspect of the WCF — including shushing the audience and asking them, with a mix of politeness and sternness, to play by the rules of theatre by not storming the stage after the performances are over and turning off their phones (he really shouldn’t have to do this, but phones still rang), the president of the ACPK reconfirmed what everyone knows of him for so long: he has the memory of an elephant, and the finesse of a diplomat who is having the time of his life.

The WCF, like the institution’s other big events — Aalmi Urdu Conference, Pakistan Literature Festival, Women’s Conference — bears Shah’s unmistakable stamp: an appetite for scale, a taste for variety, an unshakable belief that Karachi, and that the ACPK in particular, should be hailed as the region’s beating cultural heart.

In one of our past meetings, Shah had mentioned that he wants the ACPK to be seen less as an elite arts venue and more as a vibrant venue — a place that thrives in perpetual rehearsal, and is open to everyone, whether they are rich, poor, a member or just a passerby whose imagination is caught by the bold posters on its pink walls. Such ambitions, naturally, carry high stakes. Hosting international artists is one thing, but doing so in Karachi — a city once infamous for volatility — makes security a paramount concern.

That is why, when you tilt your head up, you’ll see snipers and guards stationed atop the ACPK building, keeping an eagle eye on the crowd. On the ground, security remains visible but never intrusive, whose vigilance comes alive when dignitaries step into the compound.

A day before the WCF began, Commissioner Karachi Syed Hasan Naqvi announced that the police and all security agencies in Sindh have taken co-ownership of the event. Clearly, pulling off an event of this magnitude is a matter of national pride.

The WCF’s other major stakeholders include the Government of Sindh (GoS) and the Geo Network, the festival’s media partner — though that hasn’t stopped the event’s coverage in other publications and channels.

Surprisingly, during the three days I spent at the ACPK, I didn’t see any actors or celebrities attending the events. But then again, I suppose they don’t matter, because the real hero-celebrities of the WCF would be Sindh’s Chief Minister Murad Ali Shah and Minister for Arts, Culture and Tourism, Syed Zulfiqar Ali Shah — the festival’s star patrons.

The GoS’ annual funding has always sustained the ACPK’s operations — to the annoyance of a small number of Sindhi arts factions. In fact, during the two sessions I attended, Sindhi journalists voiced their concerns about their culture’s visibility at the WCF. Ahmed Shah, in his calm but blunt way, reminded everyone that the festival represents all of Pakistan — including Sindh, Punjab, Balochistan, KP and Kashmir.

Such pre-emptive complaints seem premature, especially when Sindhi musicians (such as Akbar Khamiso Khan) and short films (Rohi) are woven into a programme that is poised to run 10 times longer than most other cultural events. Besides, it’s only logical that the ACPK, based in Sindh and funded by the GoS, would feature Sindhi culture prominently, since that is one of the few proven ways to get the attention of those in the corridors of power. But I digress.

To accommodate the WCF, one assumes the annual allocation received a modest top-up. Shah clarifies that most of the funding offsets the ACPK’s salaries and running costs (the electricity bill alone is a whopper), and that no separate budget exists for events such as the WCF.

Still, a 39-day event doesn’t come cheap, especially with headliners such as Ustad Rahat Fateh Ali Khan (a WCF ambassador), Bilal Saeed, and Sajjad Ali sharing the stage with lesser-known international acts, a good number of whom are young and upcoming stars.

Shah’s professional fondness for the youth remains evident. At a Q&A, he called out volunteers by name — some returning, some new, some from other cities.

Earlier this August in Hyderabad, the ACPK’s youth appeal was tested, drawing a 200,000-strong crowd to a mega musical night celebrating Marka-i-Haq and Pakistan’s 78th Independence Day. The concert, featuring Ustad Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, Sanam Marvi, Akhtar Chanal, Kaifi Khalil and Young Stunners, was organised in mere days. In contrast, the WCF was planned for nearly a year.

Between October 30 and November 1, young people were everywhere at the ACPK compound. Some were volunteers, many were journalists from networks — the loudest and most unruly of the lot — but a good number were simply curious visitors.

Amin Gulgee’s pre-opening act, The Game, was an unfortunate casualty of overcrowding. Wearing a mediaeval-inspired helmet, Gulgee smashed statues resembling symbolic visages of mankind near the main auditorium’s stairs. Behind him sang a veiled woman in black; another, with long golden nails, drifted in circles around him. It was as surreal as surreal could be — if only one could see it properly. Those near the stage could see little, thanks to Gulgee’s own media team blocking the view; the press’s incessant hoots didn’t help the experience.

The WCF opening ceremony, held an hour later inside the auditorium, was far more controlled. It featured excerpts from local and international performers: Shah Jo Faqir, Nepal’s Madan Gopal, Belgium’s Lucy Tasker on bass clarinet, Syria’s Ammar Ashkar with dholak player Irfan Ali, Akbar Khamisu Khan on an alghoza, France’s Zakaria Haffar on a santoor, Congo’s street dancers, the US dance troupe Ballet Beyond Borders, and Bangladeshi vocalist Shireen Jawad.

As far as inaugurations go, the night was grand. However, the true measure of the success of any festival is its day-to-day rhythm. It isn’t humanly impossible to attend every exhibition, workshop, talk, film screening and performance over the next 39 days, unless one camps out on the premises.

Thankfully, the first day offered a compact sampler.

The inaugural day, November 1, was a self-contained world, encompassing nearly every creative discipline the WCF promised to celebrate — a vibrant art exhibition, short films from across the globe, a participatory workshop, a theatre piece alive with metaphor and, as night fell, a concert that tied it all together in a rousing crescendo.

The day began a bit slow, though mostly on time (a rarity in Pakistan).

The first stop was the art exhibition Peace & Pieces, Vol 1. Among the collection, Argentinian artist Adrian Bojko’s acrylics and oils on canvas greeted visitors as soon as they entered the ACPK’s Ahmed Pervez Art Gallery. Bojko’s works are vivid abstracts, whose interpretations, he says, belong to the viewer.

“I just paint,” he told Icon, when asked about the details and inspiration for a particular painting called The Wild One that, to this writer, had a vibrant, alive silhouette of a woman surrounded by darkness. That was not what he had in mind when he painted it, Bojko said, clearly preferring the viewers’ imaginations to interpret his works as they see fit.

On the adjoining wall, the mood shifted from interpretive to specific. Yaz, an artist from Comoros, rendered people with the skilful precision of his blue ball-point pen. A few paces away from Serenity (a skilfully rendered portrait of a woman with her eyes closed), hung a small portrait of Ahmed Shah himself, immortalised in ink.

At the bend of a wall, the exhibition turned tactile. Niharika Momtaz — a jewellery and textile designer, curator and representative of Bangladesh’s creative works, showcased pieces from Bangladeshi artists Bubly Barna (whose works were inspired by her own motherhood), Shambhu Acharya and Soborna Morsheada. Also on display were the works of Sweden’s Domi Forest. The artworks will be displayed for a week before being replaced by Vol 2 of Peace and Pieces.

The second stop, the film screenings, dimmed the tempo. After the sensory sprawl of the art show, the cinema hall felt a little low in spirits. A pre-screening talk between Dr Omair Ahmed Khan and Nepal’s ambassador, Rita Dhital, explored cinema’s link with culture.

When the lights dimmed, The School’s Wall (directed by Nepali filmmaker Mohan Shrestha) unfolded with quiet restraint. The nearly silent film was about an impoverished boy who shines shoes for a living and takes care of his ailing father, but dreams of being educated. Tender, but without an impactful culmination, it set the tone for both the good and the bad aspects of the evening.

A Heart So Gentle, by Ayesham Haseeb, never made it past the projectionist’s struggle and, although the new projector was expensive and pristine, it was played via VLC player, which has a tendency to pixellate if not configured correctly.

Then came Rohi, a Sindhi language short documentary by Ghulam Abbas, which took the viewers to its eponymous sun-parched desert. Its imagery and message, about the arid state of Rohi and the plight of its people, were emotional, but the editing and pace were rushed (the colour grade was a tad overdone as well).

Rasm-i-Doori by Omar Bin Safia, a silent short about a college girl haunted by her mother’s absence, was repetitive and amateurish. The Endless Night from Sri Lanka, a boy’s quiet witnessing of his family’s fracture when his father drives away his mother one night, was the best film of the night. However, it, too, lacked a substantial climax.

By the end, a pattern had emerged: the stories and their protagonists were steeped in silence and grief. Is that the only way to gain recognition in a film festival? When the lights turned on, the audience didn’t know whether they should sit or move on.

Thankfully, the momentum returned in full force at the ‘Ballet Beyond Borders’ workshop — a session on the fundamentals of contemporary dance. By the time I arrived, it was halfway through, but the room was alive with rhythm and motion. What struck me wasn’t just the discipline but the laughter and openness in the session. It felt less like class and more like a little community gathering.

The high carried into the next act: Te Turperuarit (Ashamed), an Albanian adaptation of Ayad Akhtar’s Pulitzer-winning American play Disgraced, about a Pakistani-American lawyer whose life unravels over one dinner party as identity, religion and resentment collide. Directed by Altin Basha, who couldn’t make it to Pakistan, the play starred the excellent and intense Adrian Morina, Blerta Syla Surrol, Aurita Agushi, Kushtrim Sheremeti and Endrit Ahmetal, who helped deliver a powerful climactic turn.

Morina, Surrol and Ahmetal, in particular, gave searing performances; fierce, wounded, conflicted, arrogant, pleading. The play’s themes of identity, assimilation, self-erasure (Morina’s character defied and hid his origin to fit in with Americans post-9/11), played out with such conviction that language itself became secondary (the performance was in Albanian with English subtitles that often were out of sync with the action on the stage).

The applause at the end was deafening and, at that moment, I thought the night couldn’t be topped. But the Mega Music Concert, which had been waiting for the play to end, brought a different level of excellence to the night.

I arrived late, after a brief dinner, missing Shireen Jawad and Madan Gopal’s sets, but not Zakaria Haffar’s vivid mastery of the santoor. Lucy Tasker followed with a mesmerising clarinet solo that one just didn’t want to end. Her clarinet later joined Akbar Khamiso Khan’s amazing alghoza in a spectacular fusion that ignited the courtyard, drawing Congo’s dancers into joyful improvisation at the footsteps of the stage.

Then Ammar Ashkar took over, moving through Le Tehajja, Ya Bu Rdayyen, Aal Rozana — the last two being Syrian folk pieces — before surprising everyone with a rendition of Aafreen Aafreen with Tasker.

Akhtar Chanal followed, his booming voice lifting the crowd into collective ecstasy — a semi-finale that gave way to Bilal Saeed’s big finish. The courtyard pulsed, lights strobed, and phones rose in the air, the screens flickering like fireflies. With dancers and performers vibing to the beat, one felt as if the world had come alive under one roof (or, to be precise, under the cloudless night sky of the ACPK compound).

To think, this was only day one of 39, where art did what it does best — erase borders, connect hearts and keep the world turning, one song, one performance, one story at a time.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, November 9th, 2025

As guests arrived to take part in the inaugural ceremony, they saw eminent sculptor Amin Gulgee and his team engaged in performance art in the open-air area outside the main auditorium. Their piece was called The Game. Then the invitees stepped into the main hall for formal proceedings.

Sindh Chief Minister Syed Murad Ali Shah, who was the chief guest on the occasion, said the Arts Council has become the cultural heart not only of the city but of the entire nation.

“What began with the participation of 44 countries [last year] has now remarkably evolved into a festival representing 142 nations and more than 1,000 artists. Karachi, unpredictable, vibrant, alive… has always embodied the soul of Pakistan. Today it welcomes the world. This festival celebrates art not only for its beauty, but for its power, the power to heal, connect and resist. In an age of ongoing conflicts and deepening polarisation, we gather here as dancers, poets, painters, musicians and filmmakers from every corner of the world, speaking one shared language: humanity,” he said.

The chief minister said in the province of Sindh, culture is not merely a policy; it is a legacy. The poetry of Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai echoes in shrines and streets. “The rhythms of Sufi dhol and kafi continue to beat in the hearts of our people. We do not simply support culture, we live it.”

He thanked all guests who had travelled from their countries to participate in the event. “Karachi remains the city where the world feels at home.”

Earlier in his welcome address, Arts Council President Ahmed Shah profusely thanked all those who had helped him organise the event. Pointing out the importance of the artist community, he said artists raise their voice against genocide.

“In the last two years, the biggest genocide of the 21st century took place in Gaza. All over the world, even in those countries that support Israel, their people raised their voices against genocide. It was the artists whose voice was the loudest. I was worried, how can I arrange the largest festival when there’s a genocide happening in Gaza? Thank God, with the support of the international community, there’s a temporary ceasefire. We can celebrate that ceasefire,” he said.

“The other thing is global connectivity and diplomacy through culture. Culture unites people. There’s a travel advisory from the US, but American artists are sitting here in the auditorium,” he added.

The speeches were followed by some brilliant performances. Shah Ja Faqir warmed everyone’s hearts by presenting Sur Marvi in their soul-stirring style.

Madan Gopal from Nepal sang a lovely song about his country in which he included the word Karachi.

Lucy Tasker from Belgium displayed her skills as an instrumentalist. She masterfully played the bass clarinet. It was an improvisational piece.

Ammar Ashkar from Syria appeared on stage with the dholak player Irfan Ali. He mixed his Arabic folk tune with a touch of Sindhi folk. It was a delightful combination.

Arguably, the highlight of the show was Akbar Khamisu Khan’s performance on the alghoza. He played a composition that made the audience, which had packed the hall in the blink of an eye, clap to his track joyously.

France’s Zakaria Haffar added a different colour to the stage with his delicate playing of the santoor. He, too, was very good.

The shift from purely musical to purely rhythmic changed when Congo’s street dancers entertained the guests with their youthful and energetic act. The younger lot in the audience especially liked their dance.

Another dance act followed, featuring the American group Ballet Beyond Borders. They presented two solo pieces: a fancy war dance and a contradiction. Both were expertly done.

Bangladesh’s Shireen Jawad also did a commendable job with her singing.

The festival will continue till December 7.

Cover photo: Arts Council of Pakistan / Instagram

Originally published in Dawn, November 1st, 2025

The Palestinian art director of the Freedom Theatre staged his play — entirely in Arabic — as part of the Arts Council’s World Culture Festival in Karachi on Oct 25. The play mirrors his own life — he was born and raised in the Jenin refugee camp in the West Bank.

While speaking to Images and through the play, Tobasi redefined the term ‘resistance’, going beyond the definition commonly held by the world.

The play — originally written in 2017 — followed Tobasi’s life and portrayed different aspects of growing up under Israeli occupation, beginning with his father’s arrest during the first Intifada when Tobasi was around five years old.

Tobasi and childhood friends fought for the resistance during the second Intifada when they were just teenagers after having trained for only a day.

He was sent to the Ktzi’ot prison in the Negev desert after he was captured and spent four years there.

Tobasi takes pride in his struggles and believes that as an artist, he must fight for his values. “When I look at other artists, other people, other companies […] I’m happy that I come from that place that made me who I am today,” he said.

“I’m not doing art for entertainment. I’m not doing art because I have nothing to do. I’m not researching and spending time to find the subject to talk about,” the playwright explained. “My life is full of very important things that I need to talk about.”

Following the course of Tobasi’s life, the play explored ways to resist an occupation without weapons.

The Freedom Theatre Associate Director Zoe Lafferty said the play was “about exploring the different methods” of resistance. “It’s more cultural resistance than armed resistance,” she told Images after the performance.

However, the play is not about putting the gun down and starting a separate movement. Rather, she explained, armed resistance was part of it as well, calling resistance without guns a “romantic idea of the West”.

She said Juliano Mer-Khamis — the award-winning Arab-Israeli actor and director who was Tobasi’s mentor — would always say the third Intifada would be a “cultural intifada” and that was what the group was exploring in the play.

When the word ‘resistance’ comes up, there is an underlying assumption that it involves weapons and violence. But Tobasi was taught to view resistance through the lens of culture by his teacher, Mer-Khamis.

“Theatre can be as violent as a gun […] stage can be your AK-47,” Mer-Khamis told a 21-year-old Tobasi after he joined the Freedom Theatre on his return from prison.

Tobasi decided then not to join the resistance. However, his former group’s leader, Fadi, started blackmailing him, alleging that he was colluding with the Israelis. His only way to prove he wasn’t an Israeli spy was to join the resistance. They offered Tobasi huge sums of money as well, something he was desperately in need of, given the lack of opportunities to earn.

However, Tobasi instead chose to join Mer-Khamis.

Mer-Khamis, the son of a Jewish mother and Christian Arab father, founded and ran the Freedom Theatre in Jenin’s refugee camp in the northern West Bank. He taught Tobasi what it meant to resist through culture.

While speaking after the play — which concluded at Mer-Khamis’ death — Tobasi said he was sure his mentor was “smiling now in his grave that I continue the message in the same way he wanted”.

Mer-Khamis was driving his car in 2011 near the theatre with his infant son and a babysitter when a gunman ordered him to pull over and shot him five times.

“He challenged me so much as a Palestinian that I don’t know what to do […] I’m just weak, crying,” Tobasi said, adding that working with him “was a very big challenge”. That challenge resulted in his departure from the Freedom Theatre at one point.

“I told him, ‘I’m going to go be an actor without you and come back’,” he said, hoping at the time to make “myself without him”. This dream was short-lived because Mer-Khamis was killed before Tobasi could finish his studies in Norway.

“I lost him,” Tobasi lamented.

Following Mer-Khamis’ death, the playwright returned to take his place as the artistic director of the Freedom Theatre where it all started.

“I dream about him a lot,” he said, adding that he wanted Mer-Khamis to see where he had reached in his life. “And I was like f*** [you], Juliano. If you see me today. I am [in] your position. I am the artistic director of the Freedom Theatre,” Tobasi said.

“I dream about him all the time. I promise you, he comes to my dream smiling, and he’s happy […] ‘you’re doing well’. And I’m sure he’s smiling now in his grave that I continue the message in the same way he wanted,” the playwright added.

Cultural resistance

Tobasi said it was very important not to portray resistance as a single tool or in one colour. He wanted Palestine to not only be known for the people who died with guns but for the people who brought its culture to the world.

“Many people got to know Palestine through artists, through writers Mahmoud Darwish […] Edward Said, all these intellectual people who shared Palestine in different cultures,” he explained.

“It’s our right to resist in all the ways possible. It’s all we should fight with. [With] culture, with art, with my mother making food, with the teacher in the school, with the doctor in the hospital,” Tobasi said.

“We should create the culture of resistance [for] everyone, wherever you are, whatever position you are in,” Tobasi said. “We should make our life resistance”.

Lafferty said that while it was a right to carry out “armed resistance when you’re being occupied”, it was also important to “find ways to take the story outside”.

“We don’t see them as necessarily separate or one is better or right […] We know throughout history that you don’t get rid of your oppressors without armed resistance,” she said.

However, the director added that the purpose of the play was to explore different methods of resistance through culture.

“Obviously there’s boycotts, civil disobedience […] protests […] all sorts of different ways,” she said, adding that the people under Israeli occupation were “experts in all the different strategies and methods of resistance”.

Lafferty, while using Tobasi’s example, said that he had faced oppression at the hands of the occupier and took up arms as a consequence to resist at one point in his life, which was why he could talk about it.

Last year, Tobasi was abducted for 24 hours after the bombardment started in Gaza and was tortured by the Israeli police. “Our producer […] was taken in December, and he’s been held since then […] Another one of our young students, Jamal was also taken for eight days,” Lafferty said.

While talking about how the conflict did not start on October 7, she said: “It is not new when you have this moment in the play and his clothes are taken off, and he’s blindfolded and he’s left on the ground.

“We’ve seen these images again, […] however many years later, and there are so many moments like this, where you’re both watching history and you’re watching the present,” she said.

“Many of the things he describes in this play […] going back 20, 30 years, we are seeing in Gaza now,” she said.

Growing up under occupation

Tobasi introduced around nine people in the play — Mer-Khamis, Sami, Munir, Ashraf, Sanaa, his parents and his sisters.

The four friends — Sami, Ashraf, Munir and Tobasi — grew up in the streets of Jenin. Ashraf, the leader of the pack, dreamt of playing for Real Madrid, however, Sami had little faith in Ashraf’s dreams.

“You live under occupied territory, you cannot play for Real Madrid,” Sami used to tell Ashraf when they were kids.

Little did these boys know that they would be fighting in the second Intifada together; that Munir would be shot in front of Tobasi’s eyes; that he would try “to piece” his friend’s brain together.

Tobasi said one of the biggest shocks of his life was losing Munir the way he did. “All I remember from that, that time before he got shot […] he’s loved by everyone in the camp. You can imagine what kind of character he is. Everybody loved him. Everybody loved him,” he recalled.

When asked about what Munir would be doing today if he had lived under normal circumstances, Tobasi, reminiscing about his “very soft, nice” friend, said he would have expected him to travel a lot.

“Munir is someone who loves travelling, who loves other cultures. And I think Munir would be a very smart man who can find solutions […] creative ideas for things,” he said.

Munir, according to Tobasi, was not a big, tough man, however, he “loved a tough play or soccer game”.

Ashraf, an adventurer who loved nature, would be travelling on his motorbike jumping on the mountains or in the rivers, Tobasi said, however, he probably wouldn’t have managed to play for Real Madrid as he had wanted to when he was a child.

Tobasi confirmed that all three of his friends whom he grew up with were dead, as opposed to the play’s ending where Sami’s fate is left undiscussed.

He explained that the reason for excluding Sami’s death from the play was to maintain its dramaturgy. “We cannot make everyone martyr, martyr, martyr,” he said.

Tobasi in the play fell in love with Sanaa whom he used to write letters to via his young cousin, Mustapha. The initial conversation between the pair was confusing, as Tobasi did not know what to ask her after Sanaa had told Mustapha to ask Tobasi to write to her.

“What is your favourite colour?” Tobasi asked. “Orange,” she replied. Tobasi wore an orange shirt on the stage as he related this heartbreaking love story.

The pair, throughout the play, carry on their love story through letters and calls. During his time in prison, Tobasi kept calling Sanaa via a fellow prisoner’s phone.

The couple broke up after Sanaa grew busy studying for her medical exams, prompting Tobasi to “never disturb her again”. Though he saw her on the street after he returned to Jenin, he couldn’t muster the courage to approach her.

Sanaa of the play was married to someone else after Tobasi returned from Norway. “I think she’s [still] married,” Tobasi told Images.

“To be honest, I saw her […] after I came back from Norway. Some years [later] I saw her, but I saw her with her husband,” he said. Tobasi didn’t know whether Sanaa followed her dream of becoming a doctor

When asked why he returned to Jenin — and life under occupation — after experiencing normalcy in Norway, Tobasi said: “It’s not about you anymore. It’s about the family.”

“For sure, I’m outside, I can be safe, I’m happy, but I am worried about them. When I am there, I am with them,” he explained, adding that he could not live with the times where he was unable to communicate with his family.

“I start to imagine things that make me so worried and not really enjoy what I’m doing,” he said.

He hoped that the crisis would be over soon and he could take his family out of Jenin, however, he was not sure about his father who refused to leave their house, despite receiving bomb threats. “I left my house once when I was young. I’m not leaving again. If I die, I die in my home,” Tobasi quoted his father.

According to the play, Tobasi’s father was arrested after the first Intifada. His father, like him, had supported armed resistance once as well.

In his interview and through the play, it was evident that Tobasi had absolute clarity about his life’s purpose — for the people of Palestine to be known for what they have given to the world, and will continue to give.

Though Tobasi’s story is one of pain and suffering under the occupation, he returned to Jenin after Mer-Khamis’ death to take his mentor’s place and continue his work.

In the play, Tobasi took centre stage: “This is it. My chance to turn things around! It’s time to begin.”

Junejo, who is an actor as well as a playwright, felt that it is not easy to define contemporary theatre because of the various layers around the term itself. Farooq, a theatre and a film actor, pointed out that contemporary theatre at times appears as if it’s a departure from conventional or traditional theatre. If one takes a look at traditional theatre, it may appear almost one-dimensional and didactic, she noted.

“Meaning making was kind of limited to the person who was creating something but I feel that with contemporary art, there is a really interesting space for possibilities, because the reader or the viewer is almost a part of it. It is more immersive and because of that, meaning in modern writing is a little less in your face and is a little more ambivalent,” she said.

Fizza Hasan, one of the founders of Theatre Wallay, a theatre troupe based in Islamabad, felt that theatre has not been the most vibrant medium in Pakistan, if its history is to be traced, because the theatre scene has not seen many original plays and most are adapted from other parts of the world. She feels, however, that contemporary theatre has been doing a lot of experimenting due to the conditions surrounding it: “Anything which is contemporary is extremely immediate. It is the now, so anything which is the now becomes very hard to define because it is only with time and distance that we can get the view of anything to be able to find [it].”

She added that contemporary theatre comes as a result of circumstances, which are not limited to socio-political dynamics. Rather, it is the financial ones because the theatre groups existing in pockets make do with all that is available to them. “For me, contemporary theatre in Pakistan is a theatre that can solve problems, and still find expression — borrowing things from traditions across the world and creating a new hybrid experimental form that is still able to make it to the public despite all the limitations that are being placed on theatre.”

Kanwal Khoosat of Olomopolo Media said the current space is very interesting because it keeps evolving and changing, especially because of how informed it is about global trends.

“Places where there is no segregation between the two ends, the storytellers and the consumers, and when there is democracy, meaning that the process of storytelling is much more immersive, more visceral, and the quality that we try and attribute through it. Yet, in general, there is much more information coming from the people who are consuming it, in not just assumptions on the part of producers but of the stories,” she said.

“More technological advancements are also being incorporated in the way that we are trying to tell stories. When it is evolving, it also means that we are not really dependent on anyone.”

Junejo, agreeing with the others, added that the landscape of Pakistan is very interesting because despite the barriers, creativity will find a way to thrive out of nothing. “That’s something I really [take pride in]. I’m from Karachi, so we have a little bit of theatre happening every now and then, even when there are strange and awful restrictions that come around time and time again.”

He said that he has worked quite a bit with those who can be called traditional and has noticed how people engage with the text itself by asking questions around it.

“This means under all these restrictions, we tend to think a lot more creatively and we tend to become far more challenging of the circumstances and we tend to become more vibrant in the things we try and I’m very proud of that,” he said.

Junejo added that abroad, there is a lot of room for the abstract and the grey, and contemporary theatre is also guilty of focusing so much on the sub-text that sometimes it is forgotten that perhaps it was just a simple story waiting to be told without too much reading between the lines.

“Sometimes all it takes is relatability. The play [Rasti] and I are doing — we are going crazy at each other for about an hour and we have all seen it at home. There is not really anything particularly intriguing about it, but what makes it interesting is what they are arguing about may very well be relatable in some sense to some people, or hopefully to many people, and people are struggling through the very issues we are telling a story about.”

He said when we forget the fact that we are telling stories, we are wrapped up in concepts, and that is something we are guilty of. “It is as if we are applying first world solutions to our third world problems, and that just does not mesh. So, when we are talking about being exposed to the trends of today across the world, we also tend to suffer. This is because we have so much access to people and their stories from everywhere, and we have access to try and bring those voices to light and we tend to get burdened by that, and eventually we are not looking at the simplicity of the story,” he said.

Cultural void and the role of state and audiences

Hasan spoke about a cultural void as well as confusion in Pakistan about rejection of the different cultures that could have assimilated after Partition.

“African theatre has been able to mix traditional forms with contemporary and Western forms of theatre to produce a kind [of its own], which is spellbinding. This brings us back to a cultural void, because post-Partition, we have had to rewrite history and our culture. Therefore, the traditions from South India, and the subcontinent — we disowned them, and have not been able to replace them,” she said.

“We have been living in what is a cultural void concerning theatre more than anything else because theatre means performance and performance often means performance is about the body. Due to a unilateral and narrow approach to Islam itself, we rejected the performance of the body alongside all forms that were indigenous to people of the subcontinent,” she explained.

When a question came about the state’s role in promoting theatre, it was unanimously agreed that the state takes a backseat when it comes to supporting theatre that does not adhere to the narratives it wishes to propagate. Khoosat said that sometimes when the state takes on a ‘cultural event’, it almost appears like a zoo where participants from different provinces are put on a stage that is alien to them and they are asked to represent their “culture” in a vacuum.

“We all are aware that we live in a police state, where we all are constantly surveilled, and this isn’t limited to Pakistan of today but has been the case for a long while now. The government would very happily support a kind of very insipid imitative theatre full of glamour and song and dance that is not causing them any harm. But the minute you try to do a theatre piece with a bit of relevance to any kind of social or political issue, any kind of theatre with relevance to a people and the way that they think, that is where the support stops,” said Hasan.

Khoosat added that even though there are many stages in Lahore, public spaces push theatre companies to showcase their work without charging anything. “The packaged chips available at the canteen would not be subsidised but they want us to not charge anything, which again goes to show the support,” she said.

“I am not sure about Karachi or Lahore but in Islamabad we are a long way from creating an atmosphere where people will gladly pay to watch theatre. The idea of paying for artistry is questioned a lot,” Hasan said, stressing on the role of the audience for a more self-sustaining future of theatre.

Farooq felt that while she was growing up in Lahore, “cultural night” was the term given by elders for a time where entertainment was consumed, yet it seems very confusing as to what exactly the term entailed. It begs the question of the relationship the audience had with theatre itself alongside the state trying to control what is shown to the people.

Junejo spoke about corporate sponsorships being forced into scripts even when it is not needed. Due to lack of funding, some have no option but to accept those changes even when they appear like a compulsion.

There was a delectable variety of performances on display beginning with the local talent of Ustad Sabzal (banjo) and Farhan Raees Khan (sitar). They played two tunes, the first of which was a folk number. The jubilance of Khan and the extraordinary skill of Ustad Sabzal lent a distinct flavour to the composition. They followed it up with a truncated version of ‘Laal Meri Pat’, which was thoroughly enjoyed by the audience.

The international representation in the event started with music from Azerbaijan when Sahib Pashazade and Kamran Kerimov appeared on stage. Sahib was holding a lute in a unique way while Karman was holding a drum. The moment Sahib hit the first note, it was evident that someone who has command at what he does was ready to impress the attendees. That he did. He played with the kind of frenzy that one associates with a romantic poet. When the drum joined in, his performance became more calculating and controlled. It was lovely to hear and watch.

The instrumental was followed by a dance act from South Africa’s Jazzart Dance Theatre. A group of half a dozen (or so) dancers danced their hearts out to a composition that had a steady beat but melodic ebbs and flows. It was storytelling sans words. It depicted the volatility of a situation that the artists tried to grapple with and overcome. The audience loved it.

Governor of Sindh Kamran Tessori was the chief guest on the occasion who formally opened the festival. He needed to go somewhere so he requested the organisers to allow him to deliver his speech in the middle of the performances. The governor said he’s told that there’s no other example in the history of Pakistan of such a festival.

“It is an honour for me that the council’s President Ahmed Shah has given me this opportunity to inaugurate the festival. I welcome all the artists representing 40 countries and the consuls general present here to the city of Karachi. I believe that culture and language are the identity of any nation.”

The governor’s address was followed by the World Culture Festival anthem sung by local and a few international artists.

Next up was Mani Chao and his group’s dance interpretation of ‘Jugni’, — the famous version that Arif Lohar sang along with Meesha Shafi in Coke Studio Season 3. There were some other performances lined up for the evening as well.

Ahmed Shah also spoke on the occasion. He thanked the foreign dignitaries for coming to the event and said the credit for organising the festival goes to his young dynamic team; it’s a collective effort.

“We have gathered 250 artists from 40 countries. I believe in the power of culture, art and music. This is best weapon to curb terrorism and extremism… I want to showcase my artists from all over Pakistan. We have a 5000-year-old civilisation… We are the most peace loving nation in the world.”

The festival will conclude on October 30.

Chief minister on cultural roots

Meanwhile, according to a statement issued from CM House, Chief Minister Syed Murad Ali Shah said that in an age where divisions and intolerance threatened the fabric of societies, “we must draw strength from our cultural roots that teach us to accept, respect, and celebrate differences”.

Speaking at the World Cultural Festival hosted by the Pakistan Arts Council, Karachi in collaboration with the provincial culture department, he said that culture could be defined as all the ways of life including arts, beliefs and institutions of a population that are passed down from generation to generation.

“Culture has been called the way of life for an entire society including music, poetry, codes of manners, dress, language, religion, rituals, and art,” he said.

Shah said that music was considered the heartbeat of culture.

“It is a universal language that transcends borders and speaks directly to the soul,” he added.

He urged the people of Pakistan, particularly Sindh to uphold the values of coexistence, tolerance, and unity, more than ever.

Originally published in Dawn, September 27th, 2024

Participants in the session included artists from Argentina, Hong Kong, Iran, Kenya, Malaysia, Croatia, France, Thailand, and Pakistan. Renowned Pakistani musician Ahsan Bari moderated the discussion, said a press release issued on Wednesday.

During the session, Argentine musician Diana Baroni remarked that with technological advancement, learning has shifted online, and humans are becoming increasingly dependent on machines. “We are slowly dying. We must unite to outsmart AI and bring discipline to change the world.”

Kenyan guitarist Komora said that AI is destroying human creativity. “What takes us eight months to create, AI produces in eight seconds. Art does not need AI, and whoever relies on AI is not an artist.”

Kenyan singer Liboi added that AI is affecting artists just as it affects ordinary people.

Croatian choreographer Dr Tina said that AI is taking away jobs and artistic identity: “I am a choreographer, and I do not take help from AI because it destroys creativity.”

Malaysian theatre coach Bella Rahim advised artists to trust their hard work instead of AI. “If AI tells you what you already know, leave it. We must stand united as a community.”

Kenyan visual artist Okamar Onesmus said human life is becoming mechanical. “We are drifting away from books. AI should be used for information, but its comparison is necessary.”

From the Kuwaiti group, Palestinian dancer Rawan Sameer Salamah said she had seen many artworks that lacked real emotion and story. Ahsan Bari expressed joy that artists from around the world were gathered under one roof, calling it a positive sign for the future of humanity.

The open mic session of international artists was followed by the screening of French Shorts, a dance and music workshop, the Sindhi theatre play Hojamalo, and the Urdu theatre play Kuttay.

The dance workshop was conducted by Kuwait’s LAPA Dance Company, attended by Arts Council President Mohammad Ahmed Shah, Dance Academy Director Mani Chao, Jahanzeb Shah, singer Arman Rahim, Palestinian artist Rawan Sameer Salamah and Croatian choreographer Dr Tina, who trained students in professional dance techniques.

During the session, Rawan Sameer Salamah raised the slogan “Free Palestine” and performed the traditional Dabkeh dance.

Participants showed deep interest in Palestinian culture and its dance of resistance.

Meanwhile, Hojamalo, written by Ayoob Gaad Lateef and directed by Ali Gul Mallah, featured Amjad Gul Soomro, Wahid Raza, Faheem Mughal (Pakhi), Laiba Baloch, and Ali Gul Mallah.

The story revolves around a middle-class man who avoids hard work but longs to be famous like “Jamali”. Pressured by his father’s taunts, he starts a YouTube channel and features his wife in songs, causing his father-in-law to take her away. When he attempts suicide, people rescue him, leading to reconciliation as the community celebrates by singing Ho Jamalo.

The day concluded with the Urdu theatre play Kuttay, directed by Muhammad Ali, featuring Rasheed Ahmed, Zubair Baloch, Mati Mukhtlif, Faisal Khaliq, Ali Raza, Bharat Kumar, and Abdullah Dar. The play is a socio-political satire portraying the instincts of power, greed, and survival within humans. It highlights how oppressive systems crush humanity, forcing people to compromise their dignity and values merely to survive, exposing the ongoing struggle between human beings and the systems that govern them.

Originally published in Dawn, November 15th, 2025

I was aware the play would be about mental illness, and though this is a refreshing development, I was also a little worried: as open discussions about mental illness are still new to Pakistan I figured I'd see a lot of rookie mistakes in the play.

And while the play had a lot of positives, there were some drawbacks that might be worth mentioning.

The play revolves around Gulzar, a boy with bipolar disorder, his parents, Sohail and Afia, and friends Sofiya and Murtaza.

Here's what worked in Suno! — and what didn't.

What worked: the play showed mental illness is still a taboo subject in Pakistan

In Pakistan, if you need to see a psychiatrist, you must be crazy.

This attitude is wrong, and many are starting to see that, but it is embedded deep in our mindsets. Suno! depicts this well, with the father outraged when the grandmother suggests Gulzar needs therapy. The father would prefer to believe his son is possessed rather than face the fact that a psychiatrist should be called into treat him. The mother also talks of how therapy implies her son is 'insane'.

That this view persists in society in undeniable, but to right it, we need to at least address it and Bangash is correct to point it out.

Also read: Why Deepika's fearless disclosure is important for South Asia

What didn't work: the characters showed a lack of empathy during a funeral

No one seemed to be reacting appropriately to the death of a relative.

The play opens with the janaaza of Gulzar’s grandfather. I cannot comprehend comic relief during a funeral. Sofiya’s mother Shehla is complaining about how ‘achaanak janaaza rakh diya’ and how she couldn’t find anything to wear while commenting on Afia’s dressing. It’s a janaaza, people!

Even if people don’t care about the person who died, it’s difficult to imagine anyone in this society having such an attitude.

What worked: the play correctly pointed out how we undervalue communication

Too much distance between a parent and child is never a good thing.

Sohail refuses to listen to his son, to the point that he is violent and Gulzar feels isolated due to this. Both parents, upon seeing him disturbed, conclude that he must be worried about his exams. By the time Afia (played by Syeda Danya Zaidi) decides to ask Gulzar if something else is bothering him, he has already pushed them away. A major cause of most mental illnesses is lack of communication and a sense of isolation.

The play does well to introduce this concept in the beginning so that one can connect the effect with the cause.

What didn't work: the play didn't seem to portray the illness in question properly

Bipolar disorder is a serious disease, but Gulzar’s affliction often seemed more like teen angst.

The manic episodes that characterize bipolar disorder weren’t present, for example. I also didn't see any of the anxiety or paranoia that bipolar disorder is said to bring on.

Perhaps it was lack of acting skills or dialogues, but it was not convincing enough.

What worked: the play showed how one person's illness can affect the whole family

A family also suffers due to one person's mental illness; it's important to understand how.

Sohail (played by Hammad Siddiq) shows us how a family can have complex reactions to depression or other mental illnesses in their midst. He lets the audience know he can’t face his son while he’s in the hospital and we're also shown how the family is almost ostracized due to Gulzar being seen as ‘crazy.’ However, the family continues to support Gulzar and his treatment, which is how it should be.

What didn't work: the psychiatrist's character ruined the purpose of the play

So, according to the play's characterisation, the psychiatrist that the grandmother calls for Gulzar needed a psychiatrist himself.

He was an unnecessarily comical figure who was more annoying than helpful. This was actually the worst thing about the play. What was the point of showing a psychiatrist playing with his phone during a session? That even if you decide to seek therapy, it won't help because they’re crazy too?

What the play should've shown was a sympathetic, competent healthcare professional who anyone would've felt comfortable opening up to.

Suno! was a good attempt to highlight an issue that needs to be discussed more in Pakistan. Any faults it had, I would blame them on the technicalities of producing a theater play. Perhaps if the acting skills of the cast and the script had been stronger, this play would have been a wonderful experience. However, the message is still there and I was glad to see an effort like this being made.

Welcome to V-Gen — Error 404: Not Found, where nothing is static; actors evolve into props, and props evolve humanity.

runSimulation(actors, props).status = “interchangeable”;

Imagine a black and white world where robots move robotically to the backdrop of wall to ceiling newspaper headlines — that’s what V-Gen is all about! It’s a quirky play that uses weapons- grade, sci-fi-powered satire to shine a light on some of Pakistan’s biggest issues.

An original play directed and written by Bazelah Mustafa, V-Gen introduces us to subtle quirks of Pakistani culture, at times scathingly reviewing our society, where incompetence, nepotism, and moral decay are so strong that even advanced AI fails to fix it.

The story follows a top-secret AI development project led by an inept team — hired through connections rather than merit — finalising the workings of the AI named Vision (not the Marvel kind though) for the launch ceremony.

Social commentary

The play’s real punch comes when Vision, the AI, is asked to show off what it has learned about Pakistan after being fed raw data from local Pakistani newspapers. When the team asks Vision to tell them what it knows about Pakistan, Vision starts listing all kinds of negative news, which freaks the team out. They quickly move on, brushing it under the rug as a ‘bug’ — because nothing’s ever that bad in Pakistan, right?

‘Glitches’ like these are actually the heart of the play — showing us the sad reality that no matter how hard you try to cover up corruption, incompetence, and decay of the system, it eventually shines through.

Another powerful scene shows the juxtaposition of celebration and pain by having us follow the story of a man injured in a stampede on Independence Day. The injured man is taken to a government hospital — suffering from load-shedding, overcrowded hallways with women giving birth to one side while the staff parade around with holier-than-thou attitudes as if nothing was wrong.

Comedy of errors

The play is an absolute riot. In one scene, the team asks Vision to answer an important religious question after feeding it religious data. Vision, being a logical machine, gets lost in trying to figure out which sect or interpretation to follow to answer the question, leaving the team frustrated at the lack of a concrete answer. This part of the play points out the many confusions and divisions within religious interpretations in Pakistan’s theocracy.

Then there is a scene, where a woman (played by the director herself) interacts with the robot, asking it to speak to her with love, leading to an unexpectedly hilarious intimate moment that shows us Vision’s more sensitive side — something the team never anticipated.

In another hilarious scene, Vision learns Pakistani curse words (on its own) and cusses the team out unexpectedly for an amateur mistake they make while ordering food to their “top secret” location.

The robot’s creativity takes centre stage as it mimics famous Pakistani singers such as Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, explaining “bottle se bachna kyun zaruri tha [why it’s important to stay away from the bottle”. In the climax, Vision reads a satirical launch speech in the tone of Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif, poking fun at how political leaders make big, fluffy promises.

A set built on newsprint

The set was definitely the highlight of the play. With newspapers covering almost every surface of the stage, it perfectly showed how we’re constantly inundated with biased information that shapes our worldview. The set design gave off a cold, lifeless vibe, showing how bureaucracy and tech can stifle creativity and critical thinking.

Creative set design choices such as a laptop wrapped in newspapers and a cluttered bookcase filled with the same emphasised how deep our programming goes.

“When I started my rehearsals, I knew I wanted to work around newspapers so we decided to bring a stack. Believe me, newspaper headlines are more dramatic than any script I have ever read in my life. And yes, the smaller and unrecognised the newspaper, the more interesting the headlines!” Mustafa explained.

Overall, the messy and cramped set showed the characters’ incompetence and how their systems were falling apart, giving it a very dystopian atmosphere. However, I felt the addition of a few more interactive elements, like levers and consoles with flashing lights and switches, would have had a very significant impact on the sci-fi theme the play tried to depict.

Ending unplugged: cognitive dissonance

The ending was very open-ended, wrapping up with a powerful scene where the human characters themselves start turning into and acting like robots. The line between human and machine blurs, making us think about how the AI itself is changing the very nature of humanity.

Although not directly saying it, the play calls into thought deep questions about the mechanical nature of human society as well as the deep inherent flaws that exist within it. These observations become glaringly apparent when articulated by an artificial intelligence that is fed the corrupt data that humanity has generated. We are left wondering about the implications of AI interfacing too deeply with the flaws of human society and being transformed by it into the worst aspects of humanity itself.

The stars of the show

The robotic movements of the cast — Ali Sher, Raam Govind, and Tanveer Gill — were quite good. They reminded me of some of the futuristic robots I’ve seen in videos from Boston Dynamics. The director’s cameo was a surprising move; I didn’t expect it at all, but she completely nailed that intimate scene with an AI — only she could pull it off! For the first time, my attention was drawn to someone other than Vision.

What I really appreciated about Mustafa’s direction was her ability to add in subtle nuances that represent the heart and soul of local Pakistani culture. Also, each successive iteration or version of Vision was played by a different actor that brought their own flavour and touch of life to the robot and its behaviour — and together the concept of Vision became greater than the sum of the whole.

During my post-play conversations with Mustafa, she shared an interesting observation: “When I see driverless cars in the developed part of the world and then the poor road conditions in the underdeveloped part of the world, Alexa turning the lights in my smart home that frequently suffers scheduled power outages, it all makes me wonder about the intersection of technology in different societies.”

Review Concluding…. runSimulation(humanity, technology, interface).status = “404: Harmony Not Found”;

All photos provided by The Arts Council of Pakistan, Karachi

A heartwarming Punjabi musical and tribute to Punjabi singer Amar Singh Chamkila, Kaur is the story of singer Sarabh Jodh Kaur, played by the brilliant Farheen Raza Jaffery, and how the women in her life (her sister-in-law, Gurpreet Singh played by Amjed herself, and her friend Parminder played by Shae Gill) carve the trajectory of her life and help her achieve her goals and dreams. In a parallel world, Kaur also narrates the story of Rocky and Parminder (played by Gill), and her journey from home in a village to a bar singer in the city.

Essentially, Kaur is a story of women, their camaraderie and the magic that happens when they uplift each other. It’s also a story of breaking stereotypes, of chasing dreams and the courage that one needs to make those dreams a reality, even in the face of adversity.

Everything from the storytelling and direction to the dialogue delivery, choreography, singing, set design and outfits was brilliant and on point. In many parts it felt like a West End or Broadway musical. Among the cast, everyone did absolute justice to their roles. Jaffery was brilliant as Sarabh Jodh Kaur, and no one could tell it was her debut theatre performance. We are all aware of the brilliance of her vocals, but her acting was equally strong and convincing. In some parts, particularly the last scenes of the play, it felt as if the actor was crying and going through all that in reality.

One expects nothing less from Amjed, who was a natural in her role as Gurpreet Singh. She delivered a mesmerising portrayal, effortlessly embodying her character with depth and authenticity. Her emotional range captivated the audience, making the experience truly unforgettable.

Gill as Parminder showcased remarkable vocal talent alongside a compelling portrayal, seamlessly blending acting and singing. Her emotive delivery and stage presence left a lasting impression, elevating the entire production. There were way too many artists who performed their roles to perfection but besides the leads, Hamza Ghaznavi as Bhagatveer, the villain, and Sadia Sarmad as Bebay (the mother) were masters of their craft and brilliant in every way.

Amjed, the director and mastermind behind Kaur, wrote on her Instagram that Kaur, in all of her trials, became both the test and the reward. “This team has seen miracles and absolute divine intervention at play. Through all the distress of the first show this beautiful ensemble stuck together. For which, I will forever be grateful. Lekin jis show ko maatha tek ke banaya ho, uski rakhri o aap karda eh. I have never felt more grateful, more humbled by the power of persistence and faith. And in the end, that standing ovation wasn’t just for the play-it was for Kaur’s unwavering spirit.”

While there are way too many people to give credit to (the curtain call went on for a good 10 minutes!), Hamza Mustafa, the assistant director deserves immense credit as does Shahid, the choreographer. Zara Shahjahan’s clothes were not just stunning but also fit perfectly with the plot and the setting.

Just like any piece of art, every viewer takes home a different perception and so for me, Kaur was, in many ways, a reminder of how important female friendships and the girls in our life are and how they are the ones uplifting us in times of need. It was a reminder to keep your girls close and to hold them dear as they will be your anchor through life’s darkest shadows. It was also a reminder to keep your dreams alive, to keep that “jodh” in you alive, to keep the flame of that spirit alive!

In many ways, Kaur has set a new bar for Pakistani theatre and redefined Punjabi theatre in a women-centric and empowering way. Musicals of this grandeur and scale are not common and so the performing arts space seems to have a promising future. Kudos to everyone who put this together — the hard work shows and paid off. If you’re in Lahore, the good news is that Kaur is doing a rerun this coming weekend. Don’t miss it!

All photos by Saad Sheikh

Directed by Dawer Mehmood, the play is a production of KopyKats Productions which has produced original Urdu theatre plays since 2007.

At a press conference at the PNCA, the organisers said Saadhay 14 August was all set to bring laughter and satire to the capital.

The play would begin performance in Islamabad after completing 100 shows in Karachi.

It drew packed houses from the first performance till the last, said President Arts Council of Pakistan M. Ahmed Shah at the press conference.

The play, which features some of the most known national figures from both the past and present, is part of the trilogical series that was first staged as Pawnay 14 August, 10 years ago.

The play’s legendary writer, Anwar Maqsood, stated: “This series is really close to my heart and was made while keeping something positive while also considering the current plight of the nation. We expect that Saadhay 14 August will receive the same level of support in Islamabad as it had in Karachi.”

According to Mr Shah, “Anwar Maqsood has actually brought theatre back to Islamabad, and when it is his screenplay we are sure it will be adored and admired by the public and would draw huge crowds to the theatre.”

The organisers said like Karachi they hoped to exceed the expectations of the crowd in Islamabad.

The play had all the necessary ingredients for a successful theatrical presentation, including a superb script written by none other than Anwar Maqsood, outstanding acting, scenes and sets that were carefully built with attention to detail of each region being portrayed.

The play is the perfect example of how a serious issue could be handled in a lighthearted, entertaining and humorous manner while still capturing the audience’s attention, the organisers said.

Originally published in Dawn, January 7th, 2023

Directed by Anwer Jafri, the play revolves around a woman named Tehmina (played by Naina Black), living in a restrictive marriage with her husband Murad. She initially appears happy, but over time, she realises that her role in the marriage is like that of a doll — controlled and belittled by her husband. When a secret from her past threatens to be revealed, she begins to question her life and independence. In the end, she decides to leave her husband and children to find herself, symbolising her desire for freedom and self-discovery.

It sounded good on paper, but the reality wasn’t as great.

The good

Experimental approach

The adaptation took an experimental route by presenting the play at almost a meta level. It started off like a rehearsal, with the actors’ spots marked on stage and characters chatting about their entrances while stagehands handed them props. While this was an interesting idea, it could have been smoother with better interactions from the stagehands. The props could have been more symbolic, representing the characters’ emotional struggles and adding depth to the rehearsal concept.

Another cool idea could be having the actors turn the pages of their scripts during the performance. As they do, the pages could become torn, stained, or altered, reflecting the characters’ journeys and how their choices shape their identities.

This concept had much more potential and could have been expanded to add a unique dynamic to the play.

Nuanced take on class differences

One of the standout moments in the play was a powerful interaction between Sheema Kermani’s character Sakina and the female lead. In this scene, a wealthy woman shares her complaints with a poorer woman, leading to a thought-provoking chat about their different lives.

What made it really special was how it highlighted class differences, especially when Sakina talked about the difficulties of getting healthcare and basic necessities for the poor in Pakistan compared to the rich. This conversation gave us a real look at the struggles women from various backgrounds face, showing the harsh realities of inequality in accessing essential services. It was a strong reminder that, no matter their circumstances, women often fight similar battles for dignity and respect.

The bad

Lack of immersion

Let’s put aside the fact that it was an adaptation and focus just on how it was performed on stage. Even then, the play struggled to create the kind of immersive experience you’d expect. The atmosphere fell flat, and there was no real depth that would help me connect emotionally with the story.

Key moments, such as the romantic scenes between Tehmina and Murad (Paras Masroor), their arguments, the altercation between Saleem (Imran Khan) and Murad, or Murad getting offended by Sakina’s cold stares all felt bland and lifeless. Even the set design, lighting, dialogue, and sound didn’t add much, leaving the stage feeling empty.

Because of this, I couldn’t get invested in the characters or really care about their decisions. Their struggles, which should have had an impact, felt distant and hard to relate to.

Characterisation

The characters felt like exaggerated versions of themselves, almost like caricatures, which made it hard to take them seriously — especially Saleem, Murad, and Tehmina. Their performances didn’t feel believable or convincing; it was more like watching puppets being controlled by strings — which I highly doubt was on purpose.

Sakina started off strong, but by the second half, her role felt more like a lecture on feminism. While Pakistan definitely needs feminist education, it could have been integrated into the story more naturally.

Speaking of Samina, there’s one thing that I couldn’t figure out: what was the inspiration of Sakina’s character? Was she inspired by the character of Anne Marie, a nursemaid who helped raise Nora (Tehmina in this case) and serves as a mother figure to her in the original play or was she a manifestation of Mrs Linde, a childhood friend and confidante of Nora? Because the play established her as a poor woman taken in by Tehmina out of empathy — a major deviation from the original play, where there is no such character.

Loopholes in the story

The story had some glaring issues that made it hard to connect with. The wife’s manipulation, like keeping secrets from her husband and roping her cousin into getting a bank loan because her husband was depressed and she wanted to help him financially, felt forced because her husband has been shown to be controlling and somebody difficult to keep secrets from. Meanwhile, the husband’s erratic mood swings — from being abusive to suddenly loving, then cutting her off financially — were so rapid they felt disjointed and gave me emotional whiplash.

Saleem, who was supposed to help with the loan, crossed the line by romantically pursuing his own cousin under the guise of visiting to teach the kids, completing the unholy trinity of irredeemable characters. On top of that, the mother’s decision to leave her children didn’t carry much emotional weight since the kids never actually appeared on stage, leaving no real connection between them and their mother, making her departure feel hollow.

Lack of meaningful character arcs

One big issue in the play was the lack of redeemable characters and meaningful character development. None of them really went through any significant change. For instance, Tehmina felt like a typical wife who only seemed to wake up to her situation after getting a lecture from Sakina. It left me wondering — was she just tired of the physical abuse from her husband? We never really hear her talk about it, so her decision to leave after 12 years felt forced rather than a natural progression.

Then there’s Murad, who comes off as this atypical man. He calls Tehmina “Guriya,” showers her with fancy clothes, and acts all romantic, but also shouts at her and pushes her aside whenever it suits him. In the original story, Torvald is more of a father figure to Nora — traditional but not physically abusive. Sure, he can be emotionally controlling, but Murad’s behaviour feels more erratic and less relatable.

Then there’s Sakina — why is she so invested in giving Tehmina a lecture on female independence? It felt a bit one-sided.

By the time we hit Act 2, the drama fell flat. There were intense moments, but because they didn’t feel earned from the buildup in Act 1, the emotional weight just wasn’t there.

Lack of complexity and depth

The play didn’t really dig into key themes, like Tehmina’s struggle for identity beyond just being a wife, mother, and daughter-in-law. It missed her internal battles with duty and the sacrifices she makes for her family, her relationship with her mother-in-law and children, and her family background before she married Murad. On the other hand, Murad’s focus on appearances and his dependence on societal norms were barely explored.

The play could have also addressed cultural pressures on women to conform to certain roles, the stigma around divorce, and the societal expectations that often leave women feeling trapped. The adaptation missed a chance to showcase how these themes resonate in contemporary Pakistani society, providing a deeper understanding of Tehmina’s struggles and the societal structures that impact her choices.

Lastly, it would have been great to see how family dynamics play a role in Tehmina’s choices. For example, the influence of her extended family could really affect her freedom and decision-making.

Where was the dance?

As a reviewer, I can overlook a lot of changes from the original play, but I can’t forgive the lack of dance, especially with someone as talented as Sheema Kermani in the cast. In A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen, Nora, who inspired Tehmina’s character, performs the Tarantella in Act 2 for her husband, Torvald. This dance is super important because it shows how Nora is trying to distract him from reading a letter that could reveal her secret. It really symbolises how trapped she feels, always having to put on a show and hide her true self.

So, I was surprised that we didn’t see any dance in this adaptation. Even though Kermani’s character was different from Tehmina’s, they could have included a dance — maybe by another classical dancer — to keep that key part of the story alive.

Having said that, Gurrya Ka Ghar puts a fresh spin on Ibsen’s classic, even with a few bumps along the way. It’s exciting to see local productions like Tehrik-e-Niswan boldly reinterpreting important stories for our culture, sparking conversations about women’s independence and class issues.

All photos courtesy Arts Council of Pakistan, Karachi

On Wednesday evening, theatre director Mohsin Babar staged a 45-minute play titled Soch Badlen, Zindagi Sawaren with a group of 15 actors and musicians at the Liaquat Memorial Library Auditorium in Karachi. The play juxtaposed two families; one struggling to make ends meet with multiple children, the other more stable with just two, and used their stories to explore how family planning choices shape futures, dreams, and daily realities.

Backed by the Ali Hasan Mangi Memorial Trust, the play opens with an overburdened mother juggling a house full of children, each one loud, hungry, and demanding her attention, while trying to make do with barely enough to get through the day. Hovering in the background is her mother-in-law, the cherry on top, who insists that “children are a blessing” every time the mother shows signs of exhaustion.

Cut to the next scene, and the contrast is striking: a small family of four going about their morning with ease. The parents are engaged with their two children, who are cheerful, well-fed, and preparing for school. There’s laughter, stability, and space, both emotional and financial, to breathe.

The play drives home a simple message — when families have more children than they can afford, everyone pays the price.

“The idea [of the play] was to make family planning more readily available, accessible, and to ensure that it actually happens,” Naween Mangi, founder of the Ali Hasan Mangi Memorial Trust, told Images. She said the Trust had been working on family health for over a decade in several districts of Sindh, including Larkana, Qambar-Shahdadkot and Dadu, focusing on family planning since early 2021.

“We were seeing family sizes reaching seven to eight people just for the nuclear family,” Mangi said. “And every problem we were looking at — education, health, women’s rights, poverty — everything was compounded because of the large family sizes.” She added that despite family planning being a relatively taboo subject, the people she worked with were receptive to her efforts, largely due to the trust built over years of engagement.

However, Mangi pointed out, simply talking about an issue doesn’t always leave a lasting impact. “Sometimes when you see something, especially when it’s holding up a mirror, the message kind of sticks,” she said, adding that she found theatre to be the most effective medium to get her message across.

While film or video screenings risk audiences zoning out because of overexposure, a live performance commands attention in a way a screen can’t. “It’s a new experience for them, especially for the women. It’s also a real break.”

The sentiment was echoed by the play’s director Mohsin, who said showing something through physical actions tends to have a much stronger and quicker impact on a person.

“When you act something out on stage, the person sitting in the audience sees it unfold,” Babar told Images. “And if even one part of what’s being shown reflects what they’ve personally experienced, they immediately relate to it. They think, ‘yes, this happens.’ That connection is formed, and the story becomes their own. That’s the power of a live performance.”

Speaking to the audience after the play, Dr Naseem Salahuddin, an infectious diseases expert at Indus Hospital and Health Network, said population control is critical given Pakistan’s limited resources and the strain on education and social services.

She recalled a patient who came to her with tuberculosis in both lungs so advanced that cavities had formed and she could barely breathe. “It was a severe, drug-resistant form of TB, and she was pregnant with her fifth child at the time,” Dr Salahuddin said. “Her treatment was supposed to last at least a year and a half due to the seriousness of the condition. The baby was born during the early months of her treatment, but before the full course was even completed, around the one-year mark, she became pregnant again, likely with her sixth or seventh child.”

She said the patient still struggled to breathe. “I asked her husband if he understood the state of his wife’s health. He casually replied, ‘I fly pigeons.’ I asked him, ‘Do you earn anything from flying pigeons?’ He said, ‘No, but God will provide.’ I don’t know, maybe that poor woman has passed away by now.”

Dr Salahuddin, who has spent her career working with patients from low-income areas, said she has witnessed the immense toll that repeated pregnancies take on women. Many of the families she treats cannot afford basic healthcare and often resign themselves to their circumstances, believing that the divine alone will provide. But, she emphasised, it’s crucial to change this mindset and make informed decisions for the sake of women’s health.

Soch Badlen, Zindagi Sawaren will run from August 4 to 13 across different villages in Larkana, Qambar-Shahdadkot, and Dadu.

The play introduces the audience to four seemingly separate stories: a mother and her son; a husband and wife; a brother and sister; and a young couple entangled in romance. These intimate vignettes are threads that weave into the larger narrative of Siachen, the story of soldiers stationed amid the unforgiving heights of the glacier.

Through their voices, the audience is invited to glimpse the personal sacrifices that come with duty.

At its core, Siachen explores the heavy toll exacted on soldiers who leave their families behind. Birthdays, weddings, Eids, moments that mark the rhythm of ordinary life are lost to them in the harshness of snow and silence. The play captures the longing for home, the enduring hope of reunion, and the emotional weight carried in service to one’s country.

Yet, beyond the patriotic fervour, the narrative quietly suggests a more unsettling truth: the conflict itself is futile. On both sides of the border, ordinary people yearn not for conflict but for dialogue, understanding, and peace. This rings especially true after the recent episode in May, when tensions between India and Pakistan nearly escalated into a full-scale war, leaving many shaken by how fragile peace can be.

The soldiers are not truly at war with each other, but rather trapped in a cycle that benefits no one. Watching the play at a time when the Asia Cup is unfolding and cricket teams themselves are caught up in politicised rivalries lends this point even greater relevance. By drawing parallels between sport and war, the play exposes the artificiality of enmity.

Maqsood skillfully underscores the irony that while borders divide, culture unites. Characters casually reference the films, songs, and dramas enjoyed across the border, reminding us that the people on either side are not strangers but reflections of one another. In nature, borders do not exist; it is only the human mind that insists upon them. This subtle yet powerful message transforms Siachen from a story about soldiers into a meditation on humanity itself.

No Anwar Maqsood production is complete without his signature satire, and Siachen is no exception. The play brims with biting humour that spares no institution. The army, the navy, cricket boards, political parties, and even revered historical figures all come under the sharp edge of Maqsood’s wit.

The comedy is uproarious, yet it lingers with afterthoughts that are both uncomfortable and revealing. This balancing act, laughter tinged with recognition, is what makes Maqsood’s writing so enduring.

The technical aspects of the production further elevate the play. The set design was a standout achievement, vividly capturing the frozen desolation of the glacier. From the snow-laden visuals to the bleak chill of the surroundings, the stage itself became a character, underscoring the relentless wrath of nature. Costumes and props, too, were thoughtfully crafted, reinforcing the harsh realism of the soldiers’ environment.

Mehmood’s ability to draw cohesion from the ensemble cast was evident throughout. Dialogue delivery was crisp, sometimes rather needlessly loud, and interconnected, with actors feeding into each other’s rhythm seamlessly. One could tell the accents had been honed with care; the Pashto-accented Urdu was handled with precision, never veering into caricature, while maintaining authenticity.

Among the characters, the Bihari soldier who inadvertently wandered into Pakistani territory left a lasting impression. His diction, cadence, and body language exuded a natural authenticity. Nervous yet determined to fit in with small white lies, he embodied the unease of being caught between belonging and exclusion. His performance alone served as a reminder of the blurred lines that politics insists on drawing.

The attention to detail in accents, gestures, and interactions showcased the production’s meticulousness. Nothing felt half-hearted or out of place, and every character seemed firmly rooted in their role. This sense of integrity made the play feel less like a staged performance and more like a lived experience unfolding before the audience.

Rewatching Siachen reaffirmed why it continues to resonate with audiences. It is a play about borders, yet it dismantles them. It is about soldiers, yet it speaks to civilians. It is a comedy, yet it carries the weight of tragedy. And above all, it is a reminder that while nations may divide, people remain whole.

For anyone seeking not just entertainment but reflection, Siachen offers both in abundance.

The play runs until September 30, a deadline worth noting for those who do not wish to miss an experience that transcends the stage.

Cover image by Kopykat Production

The play followed Mahjabeen Raza, a best-selling author whose book The River Has No Memories is being adapted into a telefilm in Urdu. Mahjabeen, originally an Urdu short story writer, has ventured into English literary fiction, and the play opens with her being interviewed by Heritage News English. What begins as a routine promotional appearance (after several global literary tours) soon turns into something far more layered, revealing cracks not just in her public image but in her inner world.

Throughout the 10-minute interview, we see reflections of Pakistan’s publishing industry — its hierarchies, insecurities, and cultural divides. Having some experience in this field myself, I could relate to the tension of moving “upwards and onwards,” while those you once called friends quietly turn into silent spectators, observers, critics, or worse, rivals.

The play subtly exposes how Pakistani writers who shift from Urdu to English are often “accused” of betraying their language or pandering to global audiences. Yet, ironically, global publishers see our stories as deeply local, raw, and authentic. This duality of being too Western for home and too Eastern for the world sits at the heart of Mahjabeen’s struggle.

The dialogue also touches upon the economics of writing, the uncomfortable realities of royalties and the perception that authors chasing international acclaim are complicit in capitalism. Without giving away spoilers, the narrative eventually folds into a psychological thriller. Mahjabeen believes the interview has ended, but due to a technical glitch, it continues to air, and her own image appears on the TV screen. What follows is a chilling conversation between Mahjabeen and her recorded self: her conscience, her alter ego, or, as one might say today, her chatbot (that’s just how I saw it).

This exchange is where the play becomes eerily relevant. In that lonely dialogue, you can feel Mahjabeen’s isolation, her frustration within a hollow marriage where she feels like an outsider, and her need to confide in a digital version of herself. The boundaries between reality and reflection blur. When the illusion breaks, it’s like the collapse of every façade she built — her self-image, her moral justifications, her relationship with her husband Asif, a software developer now working in the US.

Raana Kazmi’s performance carried the entire play. In a confined space with minimal movement, it was her face, tone, and timing that drove the emotion. She balanced dignity and despair, shifting between subtle control and breaking vulnerability. The on-screen Mahjabeen felt slightly robotic, but perhaps intentionally so. It mirrored the dynamic of talking to an algorithm that listens, prompts, and learns — just as chatbots do today. The reworking of Karnad’s script felt deliberate, updated to fit the context of digital loneliness and misinformation in a tech-saturated age.

The references to Karachi’s everyday realities, Saddar, commute troubles, and KDA bungalows, gave the play a strong local grounding. These small details spoke to the city’s class divide, the familiar “pull ke is paar and pull ke us paar” sentiment. It’s rare to see Karachi represented with such cultural nuance in English theatre.

If there was one limitation, it was the venue. T2F’s intimacy worked well for emotional engagement, but this story deserves a bigger stage and wider reach. The subjects, identity, the intimacy of a married couple, and the moral cost of ambition, need to be part of a larger public dialogue. Yet even if it does travel further, it might only resonate with a certain audience: those fluent in English and familiar with the creative or literary scene.

Still, Broken Images leaves you thinking long after the lights go off. How many of us would survive if we had to face our own true selves and admit the truths we hide behind our screens?

The play is running at T2F on Saturday and Sunday from 7:00–8:00 PM and 9:00–10:00 PM on both days.

Last November, this epic came to life in bold and breathtaking fashion at The Second Floor (T2F) in Karachi. It wasn’t just a performance — it was a defining cultural moment. Now, it’s back, bigger and better than ever, at the Arts Council of Karachi this weekend.

Directed by Yogeshwar Karera and produced by Raana Kazmi — both part of a dedicated drama group called Mauj. — the play marked a significant milestone in Pakistan’s theatre history when it was shown earlier. That a group of Pakistani actors was telling a story rooted in Hindu mythology on a local stage was not just an artistic choice — it was a statement of inclusivity.

I was among the few privileged to witness this delight last year and it held my attention from the second the actors stepped on stage.

The storytelling was sincere, the performances layered with restraint and nuance, and the stage, featuring dynamic lighting, soulful live music, colourful costumes and minimal yet evocative design, enhanced by the smart use of AI, heightened the acts without overwhelming anything.

This was a production that deeply understood its source material, treating it not as a spectacle but as a sacred narrative.

A few days before the second run of Ramayana I spoke to Karera and Kazmi as they reflected on what it meant to stage the show in Pakistan today.

“I never once thought that staging the Ramayana would be a threat or disliked by anyone. This story has inspired me, and I wanted to bring my version of the Ramayana to life as a visual treat and grandeur it deserves. I genuinely believe Pakistani society is more tolerant than it’s often given credit for — and I was sure it would be well received,” Karera shared.

As things were intentionally kept minimalistic, a special focus was placed on each character’s presentation. Kazmi as Sita was especially moving, expressive yet resilient, grounded in quiet strength. Ashmal Lalwany as Ram, poised and full of grace, offered a portrait of calm reason and emotional depth, and Samhan Ghazi as Raavan was ferocious — exactly as he should be.

The cast also includes Aamir Ali as Raja Dashrath, Waqas Akhtar as Laxman, Jibran Khan as Hanuman, Sana Toaha as Rani Kaikeyi and Ali Sher as Abhimantri, with live vocals by Monica Ahmed.

Reflecting on the characters, the set design, and the performance as a whole, Kazmi said, “Since the day Yogi brought up the idea, we at Mauj. were immediately intrigued — drawn to the story’s boldness and grandeur. Somehow, we just knew this would be something special, both to perform and to watch as an audience.”

As a viewer, one of the most gripping aspects was the use of AI in shaping the sets and how it brought the entire act to life. The AI-generated visuals synced seamlessly with each scene — from trees gently swaying in the wind to the Raja’s palace creating a grand setting — all coming together beautifully to transport the audience to the ancient world of the Ramayana.

On this use of AI, Kazmi explained, “Why not use the tools that exist, especially when they can elevate the experience? AI enhanced our sets tremendously. People have used projected stills before — but AI-generated is something I haven’t seen that done in Pakistan before until we experimented.”

More than a performance, what unfolded was an immersive reimagining of the Ramayana — not as a distant myth, but as a living, breathing experience. Karera and the rest of the team transformed the ancient tale into a vivid tapestry of meaning, where every gesture, note, and flicker of light worked in harmony to echo lessons of love, the triumph of good over evil, family, and more — all conveyed with grace and dignity.

In a country often viewed through the lens of a single faith, this performance quietly asserted that cultural heritage cannot — and should not — be confined by religious boundaries. It reminds us that when told with such care, these stories can resonate far beyond their origins.

This wasn’t just a play. It was a quiet revolution; one told with grace, passion, and, most of all, heart.

Ramayana is being staged at The Arts Council of Pakistan in Karachi from July 11 to 13.

The event rekindled hopes of reviving theatre productions in Sujawal.

Directed by seasoned Sindhi actor Rafique Essani, the play told the story of a boy who had been brought up with love and affection by his parents despite their limited financial resources. They put all their money towards providing a great upbringing for their child. But as time passed, instead of fulfilling his parents’ desires, the boy fell prey to bad habits and became a drug addict.

The story highlighted the need for a good upbringing for children in an era of digitalisation as well as the role of society in preventing the rise of drug consumption. The play also asked parents to ponder on the quality of their children’s upbringing. The public response to the play, written by Ayub Umrani, was tremendous, as they applauded the creativity of the writer in effectively underlining a core issue people are grappling with today.

Seasoned Sindhi actors, including Nasreen Naz, Kishwar Jabeen, Raffique Essani, Hussain Kalyar, Fahemida Saher, and Aslam Siyal were among others who acted in the play, much to the delight of the audience. Dr Abdul Ghafoor Memon, a historian, writer, and the former head of the Sindh Language Authority, who was invited as the chief guest, described the play as a “new soul for the dying trend of theatre and stage dramas in rural areas of Sindh.”

Social activist Dr Afzal Memon said a creative writer minutely observes the evils of society, and that transforms into a story to convey a message. He said this was a play that directly addressed a nagging social issue. Historian and poet Dr Abdul Hae Palijo delved into the historic past of Sujawal district, when performing arts were at their peak. He said that despite the lack of support from the authorities, the artists of Sujawal had proved their mettle.

Stage and television actor Essani, who has appeared in over 500 plays, dramas, and films, including Ghatu Ghar Na Aya, Sorath Rai Daj, Samaj, Parwarish, and others, and also directed this play, said the play aimed at attracting people from remote areas who could not otherwise afford expensive entertainment. NAPA was closely evaluating each and every play to revive the trend of theatre productions across Sindh, he explained.

When asked about the 28-year lull in stage performances in Daro, Essani attributed the decline to the overwhelming influence of television and social media. This phenomenon, he noted, has led to a prolonged absence of stage dramas in remote areas of Sindh, with Daro being one of the many small cities in the province to be deprived of this art form for over two decades. He expressed his profound happiness upon returning to his hometown of Daro from where he had started his career as an actor.

Sharing his reasons for choosing Daro for the play, producer Ghul M Chohan revealed that the youth in remote areas of Sujawal are addicted to gutka and other substances and the number of drug consumers is surging with every passing day. The play is part of a creative movement to prevent the flare up of this “curse”. He added that he was in contact with Bhittai Arts Circle to produce more plays that highlight social issues in Sindh, adding that literary organisations should also patronise dramas in far-flung areas of Sindh in order to bring an effective change in society.

“I thought the culture of stage dramas in Sujawal district was over, but Nasoor has given us a glimmer of hope for its revival,” said Bashir Ahmed Dayo, a former stage actor who quit acting due to insufficient resources.

A representative of the Sindh Culture Department, Zubair Ahmed Jaffrani, termed stage plays a pivotal tool for social reform. He said he had urged the authorities at the culture department to set up an auditorium at the Sarvech Sujawali library for cultural activities such as stage dramas. When asked about the culture department’s reluctance to support stage dramas in remote areas, he said the department typically prioritises mega cities. However, they do provide support for plays in remote areas if a sponsor is available to facilitate the event.

The show wasn’t just enjoyed by the residents of Daro — people from Mirpur Bathoro, Jati, Belo and other villages in the district also attended the one-time show. Though the staging of Nasoor was a one-off, two more plays are scheduled to be performed in Thatta and Sujawal after Ramazan, according to Essani.

All photos by Out Reach Theatre — NAPA

A few minutes into dance theatre production Khwaab at the Arts Council in Karachi and the audience is already brimming with anticipation. From this point on, dialogue takes a backseat and the only way to communicate is movement, rhythm, and expression. Every tilt of the head, every flick of the wrist, every beat of the foot tells the story of grief, love, and loss without uttering a single word.

Theatre is not as popular as film in Pakistan, and dance theatre is even more niche. But to assume it isn’t powerful would be a gross mistake. In 2018, performance artist Mohsin Babar, the brains behind Khwaab came up with the idea to narrate the tale of two lovers who, once separated, are granted a reunion for a single night where they live an entire lifetime. They laugh, play, dance, sing, and revel in each other’s company. But as the first light of dawn breaks, the magic is revealed to be a mere dream.

While that sounds like a lazy resolution at first, it’s Babar’s story execution relayed entirely through four different dance styles — kathak, sufi, contemporary and folk — that stands out. “They say for artists, there’s always a moment, something felt or received, a point that sparks it all,” Babar told Images. “So it was this point when I had a dream.” The 80-minute show features music from vocalists Moiz Ayaz and Wajhi Farooki, as well performances by Babar’s wife Aisha Khan and 11 other dancers.

Babar began his artistic journey in 1998. In Pakistan, he first trained under kathak master Hamid Hussain Shah Jaipuri, followed by guidance from another guru, Shado Maharaj. In 2008, he moved to India, where he studied kathak for three years under Rajendra Ganggani. His journey then took him to Germany in 2012, where he explored contemporary dance styles, elements of which are now visible in his work.

Even though initially conceptualised almost seven years ago, Khwaab did not develop into a full-fledged dance theatre until this year because of a lack of resources. Upon meeting Naween Mangi, founder of the Ali Hasan Mangi Memorial Trust, Babar found the support to bring Khwaab to life with the Trust backing its production.

“I met Mohsin Babar because he’s teaching my daughter kathak, and I was really struck by his artistry,” Mangi told Images. “You read about those true artists who create something and love that process of creation, and yet they don’t get the opportunity because they don’t belong to a certain group.” She noted that breaking through, not just in the arts but across the board, is harder for those from low-income or non-influential backgrounds, as opportunities often go to people with existing access.

“This husband and wife duo, they’re fantastic, and this is their story. Why have they been denied access to produce things like this?” she asked.

Mangi, who also runs a public art hall in Khairo Dero, Larkana, said that even though she was involved in every step of the production, from music composition to the costume designs and rehearsals, the final performance was still “the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.”

Babar and the team performed Khwaab across Sindh in Khairpur, Dadu, Hyderabad, Larkana, Sukkur, and at Alliance Française and Arts Council in Karachi. Speaking of this experience, Babar said, “The amount of love I’ve received there, people lifted me in their arms, carried me on their shoulders, and chanted my name. I’ve been showered with so much affection that I’m still traveling across Sindh. Inshallah, we’ll soon take this beyond Sindh, to the rest of Pakistan.”

His wife and former student, Khan, said the theatre’s last part, kathak in its pure classical form, is an art few people in Pakistan still practice. “We aim to promote kathak, carry it forward, and ensure that Pakistan also gains recognition in this art form,” she added.

Tickets for the upcoming shows in Karachi can be bought online or at the Arts Council counter. The show runs till Sunday, May 4.

These posters may both wow and alienate most people of the city — sometimes in the same breath. However, if one were to walk inside and see past the elitist appearance of culture, one would see what the ACPK President, Ahmed Shah, whose services to the arts have been acknowledged by the Sitara-i-Imtiaz and Hilal-i-Imtiaz, has accomplished.

In its present state, ACPK is not just a place for the select nobs, toffs and the swells of the city. It is a place for everybody, if they truly love the arts, that is. In the last decade, it has become difficult to separate the man, Ahmed Shah, from the institution, and vice versa. Together, the two form a singular power brand that serves as the patron of the arts for not just Sindh, but all of Pakistan.

But it wasn’t like that 25 years ago. Two and a half decades ago, ACPK, a non-governmental organisation whose origins date back to 1948 as an arts and cultural society, lay in tatters and ruin. Its buildings needed more than brick and mortar patchwork, and the halls craved cultural excitement.

Cautious of religious extremism, barely surviving on crumbs, and led into further despair by mismanagement, this public institution needed an exit from the era of cheap “stage shows” that sullied the name of comedy (read bargain-basement variety) that ran amok and fouled up most of the city’s cultural activities. By today’s comparison, the works that meant something more than entertainment — that were both serious and satirical, helmed or authored by names synonymous with literature and culture — were far fewer in number.

The ACPK auditorium was practically unused. The first change of breeze came when Shah offered it nearly free of charge as a venue for the 3rd KaraFilm Festival in 2003. The Karachi International Film Festival revamped the auditorium, sound and lights and even brought a new energy to the surrounding grounds. It drew massive crowds, often visiting the ACPK for the first time. The Festival would continue to use the ACPK till 2009. It would change the whole look of the ACPK as it existed then and establish it as a nerve centre of youthful cultural activity.

But the quiet revolution took its sweet time, play by play, activity by activity, election by election. Today, ACPK stands tall as the hub of cultural variety and a place to learn, hone, explore, profit from, and showcase the arts.

A man of culture

In his office (with walls lined with works of art by masters), Ahmed Shah tells Icon that what we see — and have yet to see — had always been his dream.

“I made these plans years ago, but making them a reality took years of patience and diligent, non-stop work,” he explains. Realising dreams requires energy, and Shah admits he has more of it than people half, or even a quarter, his age.

“[Most of the motivation stems from] my own satisfaction,” he says. “That’s what keeps me going. If you’re not working for your own contentment, if you’re not striving to dream better dreams, then you’ll lose energy. And when the dream becomes a reality, you start dreaming new ones. I’m 66 years young now, but the dreams haven’t stopped.”

Shah, in his own words, was once an angry, dissatisfied young man who was enamoured by the arts, but questioned its distance from the masses. When he started work at the Arts Council of Pakistan Karachi, more than two decades ago, people didn’t even have chairs to sit on, he remembers.

“Everything I did was deliberate,” Shah says, explaining the origins of his resolve to swim against the tide. “Back when I was still studying, I used to sit among progressive intellectuals, philosophers, psychologists — people such as Raees Amrohvi, Saleem Ahmed, Shaukat Siddiqui, Syed Muhammad Taqi and Qamar Jamil, among others. It was a different world altogether. I could’ve taken the easier route by becoming a doctor, engineer, chartered accountant or bureaucrat, but I chose otherwise. In a city such as Karachi, where institutions are few and one’s identity is often reduced to and defined only by one’s appearances, I knew I had to think differently.”

When Shah speaks, he imparts decades of his own learning experience for the benefit of the listener: the conversation is never in the tone of a know-it-all, or one-sided. When he speaks of culture — the backbone of our conversation — he doesn’t use the word lightly. “Culture isn’t static,” he says with the quiet conviction of someone who has spent a lifetime watching it morph, expand, get commodified, and occasionally rescued from oblivion.

“It’s not confined to just the arts or a painting on a wall,” he says, pointing to the works of art in his office. “It evolves constantly, much like the mobile phone in your pocket.” Shah’s analogy is more than fitting.

“Where once a fixed landline in the drawing room was the symbol of communication, the modern cell phone now opens access to global content, OTT platforms, and the very nerves of international culture. This access shapes our cultural identity, while also allowing external cultures to seep into our own,” he notes. “Culture is, at its core, a way of life. It is deeply personal yet shaped by collective experience.”

Ahmed Shah understands that culture is not merely folklore, literature or classical music. Instead, he sees culture as a constantly shifting landscape. It is influenced by religion, language, geography, clothing, and even by where one lives: whether it be a rural area or a bustling urban block.

“As Faiz Ahmed Faiz mentioned in his lectures that have been compiled in book form,” he adds, matter-of-factly (the book, one gathers from the way he speaks, should be available at the bookstore in the premises), “religion plays a central role in defining culture. Our prayers, our festivals — whether held in masjids, churches, pagodas or mandirs — all speak to that connection.” The diversity of cultural expression, he believes, is rooted in people’s daily lives, and the interplay between these layers, between the old and the new, is where culture truly comes alive.

Speaking about global cultural shifts, Shah draws a vivid image from history: the rugged clothes worn by dock workers at the Port of Marseille — and the jeans we wear today — were born out of necessity. Those early forms of jeans now find their way into high fashion, even worn by presidents of powerful nations. That’s how culture evolves, he says.

“Globalisation and industrialisation change and impact everything from fashion to thought.”

But amid this change, he warns, not all aspects of culture get preserved. “The culture of the elites — the hukmaraan [ruling] class — that’s what survives, and that influence dominates, adapts and dictates the times.”

The Mughals, he reminds me, adopted Farsi (Persian) as the language of power. Then came Urdu and, later, English, and thousands of words filtered into our vernacular. “So, if we want to preserve indigenous culture, we must first stop thinking of it as stagnant. Preservation does not mean halting evolution.”

Patronage of the arts

That evolution includes Gen-Z — a generation that Shah does not belittle. Shah explains that the way to ACPK’s future is the youth. This, however, is not a talking point from an electoral speech. Shah doesn’t judge the youth for their way of thinking, he accepts them just as they are.

“They’re creating new sensibilities, new expressions. Our job is to give them space — but never at the cost of tradition,” he says.

ACPK has expanded not just in infrastructure but in imagination as well. Classical music, experimental theatre, improv comedy and literature all find a home under its roof, he adds — but that’s not all. New additions to ACPK’s catalogue of initiatives include fashion design and film, for which Shah is creating education programmes.

The lack of widespread, affordable education of these art forms, and the non-existence of platforms or institutions to support and showcase emerging talent in both the fashion sphere and the film industry, has pushed both fashion and film to the point of near-extinction, he laments.

Shah also points out that film is the medium where all art forms meet. Its power as a cultural export cannot be dismissed or diminished. However, cinema culture won’t be born in the posh localities of DHA Phase VIII, he affirms — it needs grassroots vision, and institutions that understand and support the endeavour.

Shah says that the ACPK’s doors — its auditoriums, studios, sound stages, technical facilities — are open to anyone with a creative tilt: both youngsters and experienced professionals are welcome. And there’s more.

The young people who wish to shoot films or shorts, or want to set up fashion runway events, will be supported by mind-boggling discounts, Shah says, adding that he may even support them free-of-charge if the cause is absolutely genuine.

Television drama productions, corporates and commercial endeavours, on the other hand, have to pay the going rate, which, he adds, is still quite low when compared to rental costs of commercial studios and sound stages. The Arts Council, he adds, takes money from these corporations and puts it to good use: the money is diverted to support the young. “We don’t sell culture or the youth — we reinvest in it,” he affirms.

Still, the lack of funds and infrastructure remains a concern. “We need upgrades. More galleries, libraries, audio-visual studios, and classrooms. I have built them when I could, where I could, but that is not enough [for a city as big as Karachi].”

At this point, I ask Shah about how Arts Councils across Pakistan work, whether there is government support for such establishments, and why ACPK seems to be the most proactive of all cultural institutions.

“Every Arts Council in Pakistan is structured differently,” he explains. “The Lahore Arts Council and Alhamra are government-run. Ours, here in Karachi, and others in Sindh, such as Larkana, Khairpur, Sukkur, Nawabshah [Shaheed Benazirabad] and Mirpurkhas, function independently and are registered as NGOs [non-governmental organisations]. We operate democratically, as elections are held every two years. Whoever is elected must generate ideas and activities, and not just occupy the seat.”

Continuing, he doesn’t shy away from criticism of the broader system. “Many institutions that fall under the government operate without passion — even if there are passionate people in them, the system robs them of independence and freedom,” he says.

“For most of them, it’s just a job. No vision, no ideas. Boards are filled with big names, but they have no financial independence. They receive funding but can’t spend it the way they need to. It’s not any secretary’s or minister’s fault,” he sighs with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Often a part of most think-tanks and initiatives from the federal and provincial governments in Sindh, Punjab and Islamabad, Shah says the problem lies in “systemic inertia.” “No one takes, or is allowed the will to take, initiatives.”

Shah says this unjumpable hurdle is a colonial remnant. “From the time of the English, we’ve been taught censorship — this can happen, that cannot. Even Allama Iqbal’s poetry once needed a No Objection Certificate [NOC] from the Deputy Commissioner. Thankfully, that didn’t last.

“Our independence is our strength,” he adds, signalling again to ACPK’s origins as an NGO that is not dependent on, nor takes orders from the government. That’s not to say that everything goes when it comes to artistic expressions, he explains, in the tone of a teacher who can discern just how much a boundary can be pushed. ACPK self-censors, but without compromising the work’s intention and integrity.

“It’s not suppression,” Shah clarifies, “it’s roshan khayal [enlightened] thinking. We push boundaries without breaking what is essential [to our societal and cultural norms].”

The ‘big four’

The scale of ambitions at the ACPK is grand indeed. At the vanguard of its initiatives is the annual Aalmi Urdu Conference, now in its 17th year; the Pakistan Literature Festival; The Women’s Conference and the World Culture Festival — the ‘big four’ that realise Shah’s ambitions to make ACPK and its events into brands.

The World Culture Festival, launched last year, hosted over 450 participants from 44 countries; this year, that number of countries has ballooned to over 120, with perhaps a thousand or more visiting artists and technicians.

“Think of the logistics,” he enthusiastically says. “People from Jamaica, Comoros, the USA, Iran, Russia, Ukraine, Palestine, 31 African nations and 30 from Europe. We have nothing to do with international conflicts,” he adds, saying the event functions as a hub of cultural representation and exchange — a platform where everyone performs at the exact same stage, shoulder-to-shoulder, side-stepping conflict.

This global recognition hasn’t come without challenges. “We’ve faced threats [in the past and even now],” he admits. “But the Arts Council of Pakistan Karachi has become a name that carries weight. We’ve become internationally acknowledged, the ‘big news’,” he says proudly.

Ahmed Shah is adamant that culture is not the privilege of the affluent. “Most intellectuals — men and women of letters, professors, poets — they’re from the lower-middle class. The real ‘elites’ of society are not the financial elites, but intellectual ones.”

He recalls inviting Mushtaq Ahmed Yousufi and Anwar Maqsood to the Arts Council. “Anwar Maqsood used to write only for TV. I brought him to the theatre,” he notes. Not only that, Shah brought in corporations and multinationals into the fold as patrons of the arts — a difficult job to accomplish, he admits. That interest opens doors for the young. “At the HBL gallery, [artist] Rashid Rana’s work is showcased alongside paintings by our fine arts students,” he says. “That is an achievement in itself.”

Alongside the rush of never-ending work, Shah is also quietly seeking a successor. “I won’t be here forever. The institution needs someone who shares the vision, not just a title,” he points out solemnly. Until then, he stands committed to extending support to every young artist and filmmaker, and emerging fashion designer, every voice that needs a platform — from gender rights forums to youth conferences.

“Culture is your identity. A society without culture,” he pauses, “is a dead society. Fashion design, communication design, film, theatre, visual arts — these aren’t luxuries, but signifiers of who we really are. Art moves, adapts, survives.”

And perhaps that’s the legacy Ahmed Shah hopes to leave behind: a culture that breathes. One that remembers its roots, welcomes the new, and belongs to everyone.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, July 20th, 2025

Cover image by Tahir Jamal/Whitestar

Mavalvala brought her one-woman musical, Blacklisted, to Karachi’s District 19 on Friday and, to put it briefly, she was nothing short of a revelation.

Through a deftly woven narrative spanning the course of an hour, Mavalvala tackled themes that hit close to home for many Pakistanis — the frustrations of a little green booklet that seems to fail you at every turn, a staggering number of visa rejections, the feelings of not belonging, and the bittersweet pull of the paths that lead you back to your roots.

The stage was embellished with all things Pakistan — a plush red rug, a lantern decorated with truck art, painted lamps that emitted a soft glow adding to the cosy vibe, Sindhi ajrak thrown over a trunk — after all, the play was an ode to home and home for Mavalvala has always been Karachi.

However, what caught my eye were the personal details tucked into the set — printouts of visa rejections nestled under the edges of the carpet and a picture of Mavalvala and her nani in a white frame that she adorned with a garland of marigolds during the show.

There’s something profoundly evocative when an artist lays their life bare, inviting the audience into their most vulnerable moments. Mavalvala’s audience was utterly captivated as they laughed at her childhood antics, and sat with bated breath as she recounted being “blacklisted but not really” before ultimately deciding to return home.

Not a single minute was wasted, and not a minute did the audience’s attention waver from her; a testament to not only her sharp wit but her talent as a storyteller. Mavalvala smoothly transitioned from one topic to the other, detailing her life events while simultaneously commanding the entire room’s attention with her powerful vocals and cheeky repartee.

The entire experience was elevated by the use of various media forms — the lights transformed to a deep blue as she was hit with another slew of bad news; an automated, Canadian-sounding voice (like an all-powerful overlord) announcing her visa rejection, and a live band playing alongside heightening the emotional impact of every scene. Mavalvala herself also played the guitar on stage, creating a more intimate atmosphere as she sat cross-legged in front of the audience and sang about home.

The entire show was phenomenal.

As an audience member, I was roaring with laughter when she talked about bullying her brother, I was moved to near tears when she spoke of her grandmother passing away and I found myself nodding fervently when she said, “No one is free until Falasteen [Palestine] is free”.

What Mavalvala did, rather expertly, was tap into the everyday feelings of Pakistanis — feelings of fear, hope, rejection — and in doing so she created a performance that felt deeply relatable, while still being unapologetically authentic to her lived experiences.

If there’s one local performance you watch this month (or the next), let it be Almitra Mavalvala’s Blacklisted.

Blacklisted is being staged at District 19 from January 23 to 26 and will be performed at The Colony in Lahore from January 31 to February 2. The play is written by Mavalvala, and directed by Jessica Fallico in association with resident director Amtul Baweja.

Have you ever wondered what to say to someone struggling with suicidal thoughts — someone feeling trapped, contemplating the end of their life? Would your words truly reach them, guiding them away from that dark path, or could those very words push them further, driving them to leap into the unknown?

What would you do in such a moment, where every step you take feels as fragile as the one they are walking, balancing between life and death?

These complex questions along with many other key mental health issues were thoughtfully explored in a brilliantly executed theatre play that opened its doors to Karachiites last weekend at T2F. The play delivered a much-needed reality check for a society grappling with depression, PTSD, and deeply personal struggles. A trigger warning was given at the start to those watching and after that, you spent the next 1.5 hours in the grips of the cast of ’night, Mother.

Originally written by Pulitzer Prize winner Marsha Norman, ’night, Mother was masterfully adapted and directed in Urdu by Sana Toaha. Not only did she flawlessly translate the play into a local context, but she also brought it to life both as a director and as the epilepsy-stricken daughter, Zehra, in this intimate mother-daughter drama.

Opposite her was the phenomenal Raana Kazmi, who didn’t just play the mother Maryam — she seemed to channel her very essence, delivering a performance that left the audience speechless. Together, they pulled the audience into their world, shedding away the layers of complicated emotional issues that are often neglected in our daily lives and should instead be discussed openly. The audience was fully in sync with the emotional highs and lows as the actors skillfully brought these issues to the forefront.

The play revolved around these two central characters, weaving a narrative that touched on family loss, illness, motherhood, ageing, and more. It gracefully blended dark humour, light-hearted moments, and even comedic anecdotes, all while moving toward the heavier theme of suicide. And, alongside these difficult themes, the play was also able to beautifully capture the bittersweet dynamic of the mother-daughter relationship, adding an emotional depth that resonated deeply with those watching.

Speaking about the creative process behind the production, director Toaha told Images that from the moment she first read the play, she felt it was deeply relevant to Pakistani society, where mental health issues are often shrouded by stigma and taboo. “I’ve seen so many people struggling with these challenges,” she said. “People even asked me why I was creating such a ‘depressing’ play, but I couldn’t ignore how relatable it was.”

Actor Kazmi, who previously directed the intense and critically acclaimed play Lungs, echoed Toaha’s thoughts. She emphasised the importance of addressing difficult topics, such as mental health and suicide, despite the discomfort they may evoke in society.

“I’m glad the audience understood what we were trying to convey,” Kazmi said. “It was heartening to see many people later share their own stories with us. It shows that they connected with what we presented.”

The impact of the play extended beyond mere understanding; many in the audience were moved to tears. Some even needed to step out for a moment to process their emotions. The pamphlets distributed before the performance, in collaboration with the Taskeen Health Initiative, provided essential resources and a helpline, helping create a supportive environment. Their helpline is 0316-TASKEEN (8275336).

T2F’s tailor-made setting

The setting itself was spectacular. The set that the team created at T2F felt like home and gave off exactly the kind of environment required for the play. The audience wasn’t just watching; they were inside Zehra and Maryam’s house, witnessing their lives unfold on one strange, unforgettable night. The whole look of T2F — from its kitchen area to the main hall — made it feel as though the space had been tailor-made for this act.

Even the themes within themes clicked

Ingenious in its creativity, it is important to mention that the play couldn’t have arrived at a more crucial time. With the nation burdened by political and economic instability, and brutal images from Gaza weighing heavily on people’s minds, the play felt both on point and timely. Toaha skillfully incorporated references to the ongoing atrocities in Gaza into the narrative, urging the audience not to turn a blind eye to the suffering.

While this wasn’t part of the original script, the adaptation served as a powerful reminder to confront the misery around us rather than detach from it.

At the end, the team thanked their partner, Yogeshwar Karera, and other supporters, including their collaborator Mauj. among several others, for helping bring the story to life, and it was clear that their combined efforts made the experience truly special. The play ran at T2F in Karachi from September 20 to 22.

If you or anyone around you is struggling with mental health, here are some places to reach out to for help:

• Rozan Counselling Helpline: 0304-111-1741
• Umang Hotline (Mental Health Support): 03117786264
• Taskeen Helpline: 0316 8275336

Last year, the government also launched Humraaz, a mental health application, along with an integrated helpline of 1166.

Lungs is not your typical theatrical production. It foregoes elaborate sets, light designs, and costume changes to focus purely on the dialogue and the raw emotions it elicits. The play follows a couple, M (Man) and W (Woman), through 60+ scenes, each capturing pivotal moments in their relationship. The opening act sets the tone with a heated debate about the decision to have a child, touching on themes of economic responsibility, climate change, and the burdens of motherhood.

Sitting in the audience, it feels as though you’re privy to an extremely private conversation. The simplicity of the setting amplifies the gravity of their discussions, making the audience reflect on similar life decisions. It’s heartening to witness such conversations on stage, especially in these pressing times as they mirror the very real concerns of couples striving for a sustainable future.

Tackling real issues

Despite the serious nature of the issues addressed — ranging from carbon footprints and economic pressures to the emotional challenges of parenthood and the corporate versus creative career dichotomy — there’s a lightness in the dialogue that keeps the play grounded and relatable. The characters’ exchanges, assumed to occur during mundane activities like grocery shopping or driving, inject a sense of everyday reality into their existential debates.

This balance between seriousness and playfulness prevents the play from becoming overly preachy, especially considering the issues it attempts to address. It keeps the audience engaged, drawing them into the couple’s world, and making them reflect on their own lives and decisions. The scenes, though numerous, flow seamlessly, capturing the ebb and flow of the couple’s journey through life.

Yogeshwar Karera, a National Academy of Performing Arts (NAPA) graduate, brings a nuanced performance to the stage. His portrayal of M is subtly powerful, with silent facial expressions that add depth to his character without overshadowing the dialogue. His acting is a class in restraint, complementing the script’s demands and enhancing the authenticity of the scenes.

Manal Siddiqui, also a NAPA-trained actor, delivers a powerhouse performance. Her dialogue delivery, facial expressions, and body language are spot on, capturing the emotional turmoil and strength of her character. There are moments when her performance seems to overshadow Karera’s, but this can be attributed to the script’s focus on W’s lengthy monologues. Together, their chemistry brings the script to life, making the audience feel every moment of their journey.

While this was Raana’s directorial debut, she has done an immaculate job with a focus on performances. Lungs sets a high bar for her upcoming directorial endeavours.

A play for our times

Lungs resonates deeply with today’s audience, especially young and fairly young couples who are about to enter this stage or are even considering parenthood, reflecting their anxieties and hopes, with their picture-perfect expectation of holding a baby’s hands and feet, to the more emotionally-demanding a child can grow up to be.

The conversations between M and W feel incredibly real and relevant, highlighting the responsibility all of us share in making decisions for a liveable and sustainable future. It’s a poignant reminder of the importance of thoughtful dialogue and the courage to face life’s challenges together.

The play is a testament to the idea that successful creative efforts don’t rely on ostentatious budgets, elaborate sets, or appealing costumes. Instead, it’s driven by a quirky, brilliant group of people determined to produce micro-budget pieces that push the boundaries of what’s possible with minimal funding. Its resonance demonstrates that even in a performing arts industry riddled with basic challenges, the rising swell of unique and creative voices cannot be suppressed. However, perhaps the play attempts to address too many issues for a single production to focus on effectively.

Mauj.‘s adaptation of Lungs is a testament to the power of theatre to provoke thought and foster empathy. The play runs at T2F from August 2 to 4, with tickets available at ticketwala.com. Don’t miss this opportunity to witness a compelling exploration of the human condition, brought to life by exceptional performances and a script that speaks to the heart of contemporary issues.

The show began with an address of welcome by Napa’s CEO Junaid Zubairi. Former senator and a board member of the academy Javed Jabbar, who has conceptualised the programme, was the second speaker.

He said the credit for making Napa goes to the federal and provincial governments as citizens of Pakistan are able to benefit from the extraordinary standards of teaching, guidance, of individual development and other fields such as cinema, television etc., without often being acknowledged. He also introduced and praised Kamran Lashari, the man behind the troupe.

Two show-reels were shown about the work done by the Walled City of Lahore Authority followed by Lashari’s speech.

He said he didn’t know what struck Jabbar to showcase the talent of his group in a city like Karachi.

“We are gated in 12 gates [in Lahore] so thank you for opening those gates. I’m delighted and overwhelmed because I’m the guy who’s carried Sindh inside me all my life. It was instant love. The romance with Sindh began as soon as I got into civil service. I carried the name Lashari, but we [his family] were settled in Lahore, we are culturally pucca Punjabis… What a great exposure my civil service [has given] which took me to far-flung areas.

“I landed in Umerkot in District Tharparkar for my first 18 months of service. I was instantly attached to the culture. Then I stayed in Sindh for about nine years, Thatta, Karachi West and the last posting was at Sukkur. Even today when somebody calls me I shorten the talk unless that person is from Sindh… This flame for culture in me was ignited by Sindh, most of all the District of Tharparkar.”

Lashari then spoke on the projects that he undertook after retirement. The second half of the programme constituted of vibrant performances introduced to the audience by Sabahat.

The first act was a kathak dance presented by the father-daughter duo of Zakarya and Jessica. It was a traditional rendition of the teen taal beat.

Next up was Jessica’s interpretation of the famous Rahat Fateh Ali Khan song ‘O Re Piya’ also used in the Indian film, Aa Ja Nachle. The dance format continued with another established artist Raja Mughal who first performed with the fire theme and then did a Bharatanatyam piece.

The mood of the show was elevated to a lively state when folk artist Fazal Jatt appeared on stage with a bunch of musicians in the background; and a dhol player to his right and a chimta player to his left, flanked by four dancers. He, in the form of storytelling using impressive vocal and rhythmic patterns, sang the famous tale of Sohni-Mahival. It was an instant hit with the audience.

Carrying on in the same form, he sang ‘Challa’ and rounded off his stint in front of the attendees with ‘Lok Boliyan’ that had some members of the audience clap to its lively beat. Apart from the vocalist, the dhol player that accompanied him was quite the livewire.

He exuded tremendous energy helping the whole act move with the kind of oomph that’s required for such a performance. The final item of the evening was a dhamal by Saen Abbas.

Originally published in Dawn, June 28th, 2024