Tag Archives: Pakistan

Being a Girl Student in FCC…

09/11/2026 Pippa Leave a comment

While trawling through archives I came across some time ago, I found the following piece of writing in The Folio. Forman Christian College, Lahore dated April 1960. I was intrigued by this short, two-page article on what it was like for female students at the time. What stands out, of course, is how the boys regarded girls as being from “another sphere,” and how this sense of difference is reinforced across the college’s different staff and spaces.

BEING A GIRL STUDENT IN F.C.C. Merel Bhan, VI Year (English)

How well I remember the first day when I told a group of my older acquaintances that I had decided to join FC College for my MA classes. A short silence followed this statement, then a sudden burst of speech.

“You must behave in a most prim and proper way,” advised B-

“Never must you smile or laugh unless you are in the classroom, and except for a few necessary enquiries do not even try to speak with the boys,” declared S-

“But,” I protested, “how will I ever enjoy the next two years if I am not even allowed to speak or discuss a subject with my classmates?”

“Study and only study must be your aim,” said J- with great emphasis. “Always keep your eyes down and look straight ahead, never around you”.

Ah well, it was farewell to all the gay carefree days I had had as a student. From henceforth my college days were to be suddenly very dull, and I tried to resign myself to the fact.

At last the dread day approached and I arrived at the college half an hour earlier than classes were due to start. I wore a very carefully practised sober expression and carried a notebook and pencil – items which I had hitherto been inclined to ignore. My brother conducted me to my classroom. I stood outside, looked around at first, but then, seeing a huge bunch of boys staring at me as if I was a creature from outer space, fixed my gaze upon a spot on the wall immediately above me and so waited. At last another girl came up to me. We both greeted each other enthusiastically but then hastily checked ourselves.

We had both previously studied amongst three hundred of our own species, now we found ourselves suddenly flung into the midst of the very boys who had every day passed the Kinnaird College bus-stand, whistling to the girls and calling out loud remarks, or who had been most vociferous in disconcerting speakers at the various inter-collegiate debates. The advice we had received was the same. Now that there were two of us, reinforced by each other’s company, we entered the classroom.

A steady silence and blear of faces greeted us as we made our way to the closest bench. As our vision cleared saw boys of all shapes and sitting in the class and smoking. Then the inevitable question followed.

“From which college did you do your B.A.?” We replied, and that was the last chance for speech as great deal of information was volunteered to us about courses of study and the professors. Even our monosyllabic answers were not allowed to emerge in the face of that information. We were told how hard we would have to study to pass the December examination, the books we were to read and the books we should have read to provide us with a background. The professors, we were told, were miserly as far as doling out marks was concerned, and then were enlightened about what appealed to which professor. The first conclusion we drew was that we were now firmly in a trap. Not only was the M. A. to be dull, and also very difficult, but it seemed, according to the information we received, that our stay in the college would probably last only until the December examination.

Then we had our first lecture, which was very interesting and that, as well as what the senior girls told us about our college, did much towards toning down the earlier picture. We were told that the time-table was on the noticeboard, and all the girls, in a good, firm group, went to look at it. The notice-board was surrounded by boys of all kinds – bearded boys, chubby cherubie little boys, tall boys, bespectacled boys, fat boys, thin boys, boys with a poetic temperament who had quarrelled with their barbers, and boys sporting the Yul Brynner style. We could not peer over them or around them. We failed even to glimpse the time-table. A girl’s height was great disadvantage, I decided, particularly in a boys’ institution. I made a mental memorandum to buy a pair of high heeled shoes at the first opportunity, but even these, as I have since discovered, have failed to supply a remedy.

At the first lecture we had been supplied with a lengthy book list, and so after a week or two we went to the library to take out some of the books. All of them were out. The librarian told us that we had been very lazy and warned us to be quick next time. The next time, as soon as the book list was handed out, we decided to proceed immediately to the library. However, as the last book was named we heard the squeaking of chairs and a hustle behind us. We saw two boys flash through the door. This occurrence was explained when we walked into the library. All the book were drawn out. From then on we became part of the great “Scramble for books.” This was a great race to decided who would get a particular book first or at least be first on the reservation list. We girls whispered and planned now to get books on a particular subject a week before we were due to start work on it. We wrote down the names and numbers and very confidently handed it to the librarian. He look at it, shook his head, and said, “Sorry, Madam, they are out. However,” he added, “You can take this book.” He drew out the book and gave it to us. We were indeed the first to get it, but, we wondered, would it be worth reading if no one else had wanted to take it?

As we were such a large minority we believed in the maxim, “Unity is Strength,” and we would always sally forth in a group of eight. We would go first to the library or the class or the common room. As time went on and we began to feel more at home, we broke up into smaller groups, and instead of going to the common room to relax we started sitting the lawns. We began to pay visits to the tuckshop as we now regarded this college as ours as well. Thus we girl students were slowly emancipated. We began to have hilarious times here without feeling self-conscious.

Having now been in the college over a year I observed a few things which should prove to be invaluable precepts for girls hoping to join this college.

A girl student must always walk from one place to another at a moderate pace. To run is unforgivable. Even with the rain coming down at its heaviest she must keep up a stately pace, to avoid raising a laugh from the boys.

She must always consider herself as being from another sphere, as that is how the boys regard her. She is a curiosity, not a person belonging to the earth, and because of this she should not mind if the boys stare at her in the same way every day for two years. She is an alien being in their domain.

A girl is the Weaker Vessel. She must always keep that in mind only then can she bear the treatment meted out to her. Thus she can fully make use of the advantages of “Ladies First” — no waiting in queues for her. She must also always be willing to receive information on books and study as she is incapable of finding out for herself. Even if somebody hands her book on the sixteenth century to study Wordsworth from, she must not object. She can never know as much as a boy.

The only topic on which girls and converse is study, and that is usually in the form of much advice on the boys’ part. The girl student must receive unquestioningly.

Pakistan, Partition, Short Essays

From the Archive to the Courtyard: Returning to the Swaminarayan Temple, Karachi

08/16/2026 Pippa Leave a comment

Overlooking the entrance is this commemorative clock tower. HM King George Silver Jublee, 1935

In April 2020, I wrote a blog post on the Swaminarayan Temple in Karachi. Calling it a “blog piece” was something of a stretch, it was really a set of fragments from the archive: letters exchanged between Liaquat Ali Khan, Prime Minister of Pakistan, and Gopalaswami Ayyangar, Minister for Transport and Railways in the Government of India. These letters concerned the Temple and a dispute over the land it sat on, who it belonged to, Hindus or Muslims.

In April 2026, six years later, I finally visited the place I had visited only through those archival documents.

An Impromptu Return

I was in Karachi, visiting the Aga Khan University, but in the back of my mind was a quieter wish: to find the Temple I had read about and see what had happened to it. So, on a day spent exploring the layered history of this remarkably cosmopolitan city, we made an impromptu stop on M. A. Jinnah Road, formerly Bandar Road, a six-kilometre artery running through central Karachi. The location sits at the heart of what was once an old Hindu neighbourhood, not far from the city’s historic civic centre.

Tucked between the noise and clutter of the bustling commercial road, we found it: a small, unassuming archway, easy to miss unless you were looking for it. This was the entrance to the Temple, with a guard monitoring those entering. For security reasons, the complex doesn’t admit strangers or casual visitors, but after speaking with the staff and learning that I was Sikh, they were satisfied the visit was made in good faith and let us in.

Inside, the complex opened onto a large courtyard, exactly as it had been described in the letters I had read years earlier. At its centre stood the Temple and the Gurdwara, side by side, with homes belonging to Sikh and Hindu families arranged around the courtyard’s edges. This question of residence — who had the right to live there — was precisely what Ayyangar and Khan had argued over in their correspondence, with Ayyangar pressing for the space to be reserved for Hindus.

Karachi Before Partition

The dhabawalla
The Gurdwara is currently being renovated
The Gaoshalla, which was inaugurated on 20 August 2003.

Before Partition, Karachi was a major port city, one that had grown from a small fishing village into a vibrant, multi-religious urban centre. Hindus and Sikhs dominated its industrial and commercial life, prominent in banking, education, retail, and local business. Muslims, Christians, and Parsis were equally woven into this cosmopolitan fabric. Traces of all these communities from the pre-Partition era survive today as part of the city’s inherited heritage.

Partition in the Punjab tore the province apart and forced millions to flee from the communal violence. Karachi’s experience was different, and its rupture more drawn out. With limited infrastructure to begin with, the city also became the new capital of Pakistan, and the Muslim League leadership, with its ideological and political roots in Aligarh, relocated there to begin the work of building a homeland for the Muslims of British India.

As the historian Sarah Ansari writes, Sindh was, in relative terms, spared the worst of the violence that convulsed the Punjab. With a population roughly 75% Muslim and 25% Hindu and Sikh, the province “managed to keep a fairly clean record” through the difficult weeks around independence, even as communal sensitivities grew (Ansari, p. 53). Even so, the authorities eventually judged that rising tensions required admitting more refugees into Karachi.

What followed still confounded observers. Unlike the Punjab, where the mass departure of non-Muslims was seen as tragically inevitable, Sindh had been marked by comparatively few communal clashes, thanks to what Ansari calls a “peaceful imprint” in relations between communities, reinforced by the authorities’ firm early efforts to maintain order (Ansari, p. 54). That relative calm did not hold. By January 1948, a serious outbreak of communal violence, instigated by Muslim refugees, first targeting Sikhs travelling through the city and then turning on local Hindus, signalled how far Karachi’s demographic and political character had shifted. By this point, Ansari notes, the city had become heavily “impregnated” with Muslim refugees (Ansari, p. 56).

This violence triggered a rapid exodus of non-Muslims from Karachi, with thousands leaving for India. The economic consequences were immediate. Commercial firms and banks were already short-staffed lost much of their remaining workforce, and, as Ansari puts it, “business virtually ground to a halt” (Ansari, p. 57).

This produced a real dilemma for the provincial government. Ansari records that Sindh’s Chief Minister, Khuhro, and his colleagues recognised that the province’s best interests lay in retaining as many Hindus as possible; Khuhro accordingly moved to cap refugee numbers, with any surplus to be removed from the city (Ansari, p. 57). This put the Sindh government directly at odds with the central Pakistani administration, which was simultaneously trying to resettle the huge inflows of refugees arriving from the Punjab.

At the heart of this stood a genuine contradiction: the instinct of “Sindh for Sindhis,” bound up with a desperate need to preserve Karachi’s economic life, pulled against the equally urgent need to absorb refugees who had uprooted themselves in search of a promised homeland. It was within this contest of high politics that small, local places, like this Temple and the community around it, became caught up in questions far larger than themselves: who could stay, who could leave, and who a piece of land, and the city itself, ultimately belonged to.

The Communities Today

Karachi’s Hindu community is now a small fraction of what it once was. Hindus make up just over 1% of the city’s population today, around 244,689 people, according to the 2023 census, a steep fall from the majority-Hindu city Karachi had been before 1947. Estimates of how many temples remain vary widely, from a handful of prominent citywide institutions to dozens of smaller neighbourhood shrines; what’s clear is that only a fraction of the pre-Partition total survives.

A few, like the Swaminarayan Temple, the Ratneshwar Mahadev Temple, and the Lakshmi Narayan Temple at Native Jetty, remain architecturally and historically significant, while others are modest sites serving small, localised pockets of the community; Tamil Hindu families in Madrasi Para, for instance, still gather to worship the goddess Mariamman. Sindh remains home to the great majority of Pakistan’s Hindus, making the community, alongside Sikhs, one of the last visible threads connecting Karachi’s present to its pre-Partition past.

By comparison, Karachi’s Keshdhari Sikh community is smaller still. More prominent are the Nanakpanthis, who live in larger numbers in Thar and practise more syncretic traditions. The Gurdwara, dedicated to Guru Granth Sahib, sits on the ground floor of the complex and, at the time of our visit, was undergoing renovation. It’s a modest, functional space, serving what remains of the city’s Sikh community. There are thought to be around three other gurdwaras in Karachi, together serving a population estimated at somewhere between 2,000 and 4,000 people. The population of the Nanakpanthis, on the other hand, numbers perhaps closer to two million in Sindh Province.

Inside the Complex

Walking through the complex today, that layered history is still visible, if you know to look for it. There’s a vegetarian restaurant-cum-dhaba, shops selling religious items, and a shared sacred space that houses both Temple and Gurdwara — a small, living trace of the pluralism that once defined the city.

The tour of the Gurdwara and the Temple was a genuine pleasure. It offered a glimpse of what shared sacred space can look like, of coexistence without enmity, worked out not in the abstract but in the daily rhythms of a shared courtyard. And yet that same courtyard is also a haven, in the truest sense: a refuge for residents who now form a minority in a city their communities once helped to build and run. What was once simply home has become something closer to a sanctuary, but it is also a marker of how much has been lost.

Postscript

Reading the Ayyangar–Khan letters in 2020, I saw this Temple only as a set of claims and counter-claims on paper, an argument about land, rights, and belonging, conducted at the level of Prime Ministers and Ministers. Walking into the courtyard in 2026 closed a strange loop: the same space, no longer an abstraction in an archive box, but a living, if diminished, community still holding on, quietly, amid the noise of Jinnah Road.

These places of worship survive because of the generosity of those who serve the community.

References:
Sarah Ansari, Life After Partition: Migration, Community and Strife in Sindh, 1947-1962 (OUP, 2005)

Original Post Swaminarayan Temple, Karachi

India, Pakistan

A South Asian Feast at Edgbaston

06/23/2026 Pippa Leave a comment

Last week, I indulged in some cricket. Not just any cricket match, but a South Asian feast at Edgbaston, for women’s T20. The morning match, like the morning itself, was relatively mild in temperature, and resulted in Bangladesh winning against the orange army, the Netherlands. But by the afternoon, the temperature was considerably higher during India’s match against Pakistan.

I’ll be honest — I’ve only been to one “proper” cricket match before, which was last year when India were playing England. The prospect of watching this old rivalry play out on the cricket pitch was enticing and irresistible, despite knowing how heated and at times even how ugly the audiences can be. It was also women’s cricket, which has come a long way, and determined to show some gender solidarity, I went along to the historic grounds.

As I arrived at the ground, I could already sense that this match was going to draw large crowds. Indian blue dominated the space, with a few patches of green. Inside, I caught the tail end of the morning match and was in time to see Bangladesh seal victory against the Netherlands. The atmosphere was pleasant and inviting, reflecting the sportsmanship we associate with sport at its best. The Dutch team was incredibly obliging, posing for selfies and engaging warmly with supporters despite their loss.

As the ground transformed between matches, the audience shifted, the tension changed, and crowds began to fill their seats. The ICC T20 match began without a handshake — mirroring the precedent set by the men’s teams and undeniably bringing politics into the sporting arena. As national flags were unfurled across the pitch and audiences rose for the anthems, I noticed the people in the row behind me did not stand for Pakistan’s anthem. From their mutterings, it was clear this was a deliberate decision. I was intrigued and irritated in equal measure. The crowd itself was multi-racial and British-born (Gujarati and East African heritages), yet they chose to imbibe and perform a fierce subcontinental nationalism thousands of miles away from home. This stood in sharp contrast to the joy of Bangladesh’s victorious chase against the Netherlands with the sudden, sharp shift in gravity when India and Pakistan took the field.

I had also been warned not to expect much from the Pakistan team, given how significantly India has invested in women’s cricket in recent years. I therefore found I was decidedly with the underdog; no one really likes a one-sided affair. Also, some years ago, I spent time at Kinnaird College for Women in Lahore for research, and while there, I was impressed by how important an institution it was, as many fine female cricketers have emerged from there. Five players in the current Pakistan squad have ties to the college, including Aliya Riaz, Ayesha Zafar, Iram Javed, Sadia Iqbal and Natalia Pervaiz.

However, despite a few glimpses of determination from the Pakistani side, the match was largely dominated by India’s women. The crowd was loud, raucous and seemingly oblivious to the fact that this one-sided contest was itself displaying the more unattractive face of nationalism. The problem with sport, of course, is that it forces you to pick a side — there is very little room to sit on the fence. As spectators, the crowd creates its own dynamic within the stadium.

Despite the crowd being very multi-racial and multi-religious, the vibe and the chants were distinctly Hindu, with the most popular in my vicinity being ‘Ganpati Bappa Morya’. This was among the sold-out crowd of 18,814, setting a new Women’s T20 World Cup attendance record for a group-stage double-header. While historic rivalries like these are great for drawing crowds and promoting women’s cricket, the flip side is that the political rivalry is imported as well.

I slipped out of Edgbaston before the final ball was bowled, once it was clear that Pakistan’s fate was sealed. The Pakistani supporters were also gradually slipping away, as they were outnumbered by the Indian supporters and defeat was certain. I wanted to avoid the crowds, who were already in high spirits — literally and metaphorically. And yet, leaving early also meant carrying away a cleaner impression of the day. Because for all the noise in the stands, the tribalism, the political point-scoring, the refusal to stand for another nation’s anthem, it was the earlier match that offered a different story. The Dutch women who smiled and posed for photos despite their loss. The Bangladesh crowds pleasantly mingling with the Dutch spectators. The Pakistani team who played with dignity in front of a crowd that had largely already written them off.

India, Pakistan, Poetry Corner, Short Essays

Between Worlds: On Hate, History, and the Possibility of Belonging

03/30/2026 Pippa Leave a comment

The last three days have been an uncomfortable reminder of how far we have slipped — or perhaps how far we never truly moved — in our relationship with hatred and bigotry. Yet within that discomfort, I also found unexpected moments of beauty and hope, each one a small act of resistance against the noise.

A Sufi Voice in Leamington Spa

On Saturday, I visited the Gurdwara in Leamington Spa to hear Dr Asma Qadri, a scholar of Punjabi language, literature, and culture, speak on Punjabi poetry and the Sufi tradition. Her focus was Baba Farid (1173–1268), a figure of remarkable spiritual and literary stature. In the Guru Granth Sahib — the sacred scripture of Sikhism — there are 112 shaloks (couplets) attributed to Baba Farid, and at their heart is a message of interfaith harmony, compassion, and non-violence. That a Muslim saint’s words were enshrined in a Sikh scripture centuries ago speaks volumes about a pluralism that many today seem intent on dismantling.

Farid, if you are maltreated
Do not react with violence and projection
Visit the Other
And kiss his feet in humility and affection!

Source: Harjeet Singh Gill, Sufi Rhythms, Patiala University, 2007

Baba Farid was born near Multan, his lineage traceable to Kabul, from where his family had migrated to the Indus Valley. He later moved to Delhi, where he received spiritual instruction from Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki, a saint of the Chishti Order. He eventually returned to Punjab and settled in Ajodhan (present-day Pakpattan), from where he led the Chishti Order until his death.

What is perhaps less widely known is that Farid is believed to have travelled to Jerusalem around 1200 CE — not long after Saladin had recaptured the city from the Crusaders. A small shrine there, still accessible, is said to mark his presence. Navtej Sarna, a former Indian Ambassador to Israel (2008–2012), writes about this connection in his book Indians at Herod’s Gate: A Jerusalem Tale (Rupa, 2014) — a quiet, often-overlooked thread linking the Indian subcontinent to the Holy City over eight centuries. Read further: Indians Herods Gate and Jerusalem’s 800-year-old Indian hospice

After the lecture, our group of three — drawn from different faith backgrounds — sat together for langar, the community meal served at Gurdwaras. There is something deceptively simple and profoundly radical about langar. The act of sitting together, regardless of religion, caste, or status, and eating the same food dissolves hierarchies that societies expend enormous energy to maintain. It is a challenge that remains genuinely difficult in parts of India, where communal and caste taboos still govern not just what people eat, but with whom and where. In that shared meal, something ancient and necessary was quietly affirmed.

The Descent into Dystopia

The following day, I made the mistake of listening to a News Agents podcast: Why MAGA Hates Britain. I say mistake not because the journalism was poor — it wasn’t — but because the content was genuinely dispiriting. The podcast drew on interviews conducted at the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC), where the blatant hostility toward Muslims was on full display. What struck me was not just the bigotry itself, but the absolute self-assurance with which it was expressed — the sense of a parallel world, hermetically sealed from doubt or nuance, in which hatred had been fully normalised and even celebrated.

It is worth noting that CPAC is not a fringe gathering. It draws senior politicians, media figures, and policymakers, including Britain’s shortest-serving prime minister, Liz Truss, who has found the political validation that eluded her at home in MAGA circles. When hatred is mainstreamed in those spaces, it travels outward with authority and legitimacy. The podcast was a sobering record of that.

A Fragment from 1947

Turning away in revulsion, I returned to my own research — a space in which I can explore the ideas that still feel worth holding onto. Almost serendipitously, I came across an advertisement from September 1947 in the Bombay Chronicle, published just weeks after Partition had carved the subcontinent into India and Pakistan, leaving 1-2 million dead and over 15 million people displaced. The advert’s message was striking in its urgency and its pathos: the violence and bloodshed that had torn communities apart must now be put aside. The “children of God” must be taught how to live together rather than being “poisoned” by the hatred that had consumed the preceding years.

The text reads: If there is any image of God on earth, it is the children. Theirs is a world of purity and innocence where hatred and spite are things unknown. They play together and grow together and never care to know which of them is a Hindu and which a Moselm. Let us not poison these flowers with the venom of communalism. Let them grow with a healthy mind and a healthy outlook, so that they can build up a glorious future for themselves as well as for the country. Keep your children away from the deadly communal monster by all means. Hindu Muslim Ek Ho! Advertisement inserted by C.K. Sen & Co. Ltd.
*Bombay Chronicle* 26 September 1947. Photo taken by Pippa Virdee from NMML, Delhi.

What moved me most was the implicit admission within that language: that society had already been poisoned, and that the antidote required active, deliberate effort. It was a call not to innocence but to conscious repair.

The Distance That Grows

That advertisement also stirred a more melancholic reflection. There was a time, however brief and fragile, when greater openness between India and Pakistan seemed imaginable — when the possibility of travel, communication, and even reconciliation had not yet been foreclosed. The Wagah-Attari border crossing, for decades a symbol of that flickering possibility, remains closed following the Pahalgam attack of April 2025. Yet that closure is not merely a consequence of one incident. It reflects a deeper estrangement — one that has steadily worsened since the BJP came to power in 2014, as the distance between the two countries has grown not just diplomatically but also culturally, emotionally, and imaginatively.

When borders close, it is not only people who are separated. It is stories, families, histories, and the ordinary human exchanges that quietly resist the narratives of enmity.

On Connecting the Moments

What struck me, looking back across these three days, was how tightly these experiences were bound together — the lecture on a 13th-century Sufi poet, the langar table, the CPAC recordings, the 1947 advertisement, the closed border. They form a kind of map of where we are and where we might yet go.

We are constantly surrounded by voices that insist conflict is natural, that difference is danger, that the world is a zero-sum competition between faiths and peoples. But Baba Farid’s couplets, preserved across centuries and across religious traditions, suggest otherwise. The langar meal, served to strangers, suggests otherwise. Even that desperate 1947 advertisement, placed in the shadow of catastrophe, suggests otherwise — because in the middle of all that devastation, they still believed it was worth trying to preserve unity over enmity.

Conflict has never resolved anything. It only plants the seeds for the next generation’s hatred. What endures are the moments when we chose differently — when we visited the Other, and sat with them, and ate.

It remains up to us to remember our neighbours — not as symbols, threats, or abstractions, but as people, first and foremost. This message is a recurring theme in advertising campaigns that, while not so distant in time, feel increasingly remote in spirit. The YouTube clips, from just a decade ago, speak a language of interfaith harmony that the intervening years — and the political choices made within them — have done their best to drown out. That they once existed, and were made for mass audiences, is itself worth remembering.

Hindu Muslim Unity: Best Creative and Inspirational Indian Ads | Part 1 | Creative Ads

Hindu Muslim Unity: Best Creative and Inspirational Indian Ads | Part 2 | Creative Ads

Humsaye Maa Jaye by Bushra Ansari and Asma Abbas – Official Video

Pakistan, Partition, Poetry Corner, Short Essays

Reimagining Punjab Through Ustad Daman’s Poetry

08/15/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

During the writing of my book, “From the Ashes of 1947: Reimagining Punjab,” I endeavoured to incorporate some of the poetry and literature that encapsulated the emotions and sentiments of the aftermath of the Partition of Punjab. My intention was to highlight the contributions of Ustad Daman, a lesser-known figure in certain regions of South Asia but a significant figure for many, particularly in Lahore, the city of his birth. As another year passes and we inch towards the 80 years of the Partition, his work assumes a heightened relevance in the contemporary context.

Ustad Daman, whose real name was Chiragh Din, hailed from Lohari Gate within the historic old city of Lahore. His father was a tailor who owned his own small shop. His elder brother, Feroz Din, joined his father in managing the business, but young Chiragh had no inclination to pursue the family trade. Instead, he harboured aspirations for education and a clerk’s position. He attended school, but this did not result in a clerk’s job. Disappointed, he returned to tailoring and established his own shop. However, his heart was truly captivated by poetry. He would abandon his shop to attend poetry readings. Inspired by his mentor, Ustad Hamdam, he adopted the pseudonym Damdam, but later changed it to Daman. (Source: Apnaorg)

The pivotal moment came when he received his first payment for reciting poetry in a public gathering. This marked the commencement of his journey as a poet. Initially, Daman composed poetry on conventional subjects, such as matters of the heart. However, as the independence movement gained momentum prior to partition, political themes began to permeate his poetry. Daman was a member of a group of traditional Punjabi poets who would recite poetry extemporaneously, while their pupils maintained the records. This tradition earned them the title of Ustads (mentors). (Source: Apnaorg)

Below are some references and material that highlight the significance of Ustad Daman.

Folk Punjab has a digital archive of his poetry including ‘Es mulk di wand kolon yaro’.

Ustad Daman, ‘The Poet Laureate of the Twentieth Century Punjab’ Fowpe Sharma, Revolutionary Democracy

Ustad Daman lived and wrote poetry as someone always on the wrong side of the establishment By Dr. Afzal Mirza, Apanorg.

Rammah, Safir. “West Punjabi Poetry: From Ustad Daman to Najm Hosain Syed.” Jounral of Punjab Studies 13, no. 1&2 (2006): 216.

Below the opening of Chapter 10, Virdee, P., 2018. From the Ashes of 1947. Cambridge University Press.

India, Short Essays

Dhurries: the Woven Threads of Memory

07/28/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

Earlier this year, I visited Ludhiana, Punjab, a place I try to make time for whenever I have an opportunity or a slight reason. As is often the case, no visit feels complete without visiting Mau Sahib, my father’s ancestral village near Phillaur. Although no immediate family members live there anymore, Mau Sahib holds a special place in our hearts, especially for my sister. She remembers it with warmth and nostalgia, as a place of her childhood.

Our visits have become something of a ritual—paying respects at the historic Gurudwara, partaking in the langar, and then visiting the nearby Sufi shrine. It’s a quiet pilgrimage that connects us with both our heritage and the memory of those who came before us.

During this visit, the Gurdwara was undergoing renovations. Amid the scaffolding and signs of change, we made our way to the basement area; a large, echoing hall that was mostly empty and only partially completed. The Guru Granth Sahib rested there with solemn grace in the middle of the hall, surrounded by an assortment of vibrant dhurries scattered across the floor. The scene was simple yet striking. I couldn’t help but take photos of the colourful, handwoven patterns.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by these beautiful pieces of craft, I was instantly transported to my study back home. There, in the middle of my room, lies a black-and-white dhurrie—a treasured piece handmade by my mother. The rug, is now a relic and a reminder of her remarkable talent, one of many handcrafted creations she lovingly produced over the years.

A close-up of a vibrant yellow and black dhurrie featuring geometric patterns, along with a colorful woven bag partially visible in the frame.

At the time, I must admit, I didn’t fully appreciate the time, effort, and skill that went into these works of art. But today, that dhurrie is a cherished heirloom. It reminds me not only of her hands at work but also of the deeper cultural traditions that she carried within her.

For those unfamiliar, a dhurrie is a handwoven rug or flat-weave carpet, traditionally made in India and Pakistan. They were mostly made from cotton or jute and thus accessible for all. Dhurries are often lighter, reversible, more versatile and useful for everyday use; they can be used as floor coverings, bedding, or even wall hangings. In rural Punjabi households, you often find these dhurries spread out for meals, prayers, weddings, and community gatherings, making them silent witnesses to the everyday rituals and rhythms of life.

What makes them so striking are the geometric patterns, vivid stripes, or sometimes floral designs, each inspired by the region and culture from which they originate. The bold designs are usually in bright colours such as red, blue, yellow, as well as using black and white.

A close-up view of a handwoven dhurrie featuring intricate geometric patterns in vibrant colors, including blue, black, and red, with a decorative fringe at the bottom.

Historically, dhurrie weaving was a thriving cottage industry in rural India. But it was also something more intimate and symbolic, especially for women. Young brides-to-be were often taught the art from a young age. Many dhurries formed part of a woman’s dowry, and their patterns weren’t just decorative. They carried stories—symbols of personal, familial, and spiritual identity, passed down through generations, like a family recipe.

In many villages, it was common to see women sitting on charpoys under the shade, rhythmically working on pit looms while chatting about daily life. Though machine-made textiles are now more common, the tradition of handwoven dhurries survives in some artisan clusters, supported by cultural preservation efforts and a renewed appreciation for handmade goods.

As I stood in that hall, looking at the scattered dhurries beneath my feet, I realised how deeply woven this craft is into the fabric of our collective memory. These are not just utilitarian objects; they are vessels of heritage, art, and emotion. Each thread, each motif, tells a story.

In many ways, my mother’s dhurrie now tells mine. And you may well be wondering about the one I have? This was prized away from my sister my years ago. She had a number of them, given to her when she got married, and I convinced her to part with one which then travelled with me to England!

India, Partition, Short Essays

Embracing Nostalgia Through Music and Gardening

05/06/2025 Pippa Leave a comment

A long weekend spent revamping the garden has left me feeling quietly thankful—grateful not only for the beauty of blooming flowers but the often-overlooked moments that bring small moments of joy to us. These are the everyday miracles that ground us, offering us gentle reminders to be present, and to be grateful for the life and family that support us and get us through difficult times. They act as pillars, always there in the background but without whom we could not exist.

In August 2016, I began this blog as a space to document my experiences during a visiting fellowship in Lahore, as well as to share other events and observations that captured my interest along the way. This has grown into a broader canvas—one where I could share photographs, music, and reflections, often framed with a touch of historical context. Over time, the blog has become not just a repository of memories, but also a means of connecting with others.

When I first considered what to name this space, I wanted something that could symbolise both personal growth and a diversity of ideas. I eventually chose Bagicha—the Urdu and Punjabi word for “garden.” The name felt right, evoking a place where different thoughts, emotions, and inspirations could coexist and bloom. Like any real garden, this blog has required time and care, and though life’s demands have occasionally interrupted the rhythm of posting, I’ve done my best to return and tend to it regularly.

This past weekend, I turned my attention to my actual garden, which had begun to show signs of wear and neglect. I found myself hoping that this act of renewal would also translate into a more productivity for my Blogging and provide inspiration for other writing projects over the coming summer.

After the work was completed, I treated myself to a quiet moment with a cup of coffee and a Karachi Bakery biscuit, enjoying the fruits of my labour over the long May Bank Holiday weekend. As I unwound, scrolling casually through Instagram, I stumbled upon a deeply nostalgic song: Mai Tenu Yaad Aawan Ga (You Will Remember Me), sung by the legendary Surinder Kaur and Asa Singh Mastana. This version, recorded in Toronto in 1980, is hauntingly melodic—its rich tones and heartfelt lyrics evoke a bygone era.

Surinder Kaur, often hailed as the “Nightingale of Punjab,” remains one of the most celebrated folk singers in South Asian musical history. Her voice, both powerful and tender, became a defining sound of Punjabi folk music in the 20th century. Asa Singh Mastana, her equally iconic counterpart, was known not only for his duets with Kaur but also for his contributions to Bollywood as a playback singer. Both Kaur (born 1929 in Lahore) and Mastana (born 1926 in Sheikhupura) belonged to pre-Partition era and migrated to Delhi after 1947. They continued the musical journeys that had begun in Lahore and helped shape the soundscape of post-Partition Punjab.

Their music carries the weight of memory, migration, and resilience. Listening to them, one feels transported—not just to another time, but to a shared emotional and cultural landscape that continues to resonate deeply.

Listen to this timeless song and linger for a while in its emotional undertones. I’ve also included some photographs to accompany the mood—a small attempt to honour the spirit of nostalgia and historical connections that Bagicha has tried to capture.