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urban review
Playing the Ustad again Interdependent
art Indiana
Jones and the last straw
urban By Neil Edward Halliday Step out onto a Karachi street and look around. The air is thick with pollution, cars whizz beside you with millimetres to spare. The noise of poorly-tuned motors is almost overwhelming. Vehicles which should have been condemned two decades ago putter along, held together by bits of string, chewing gum and whatever else their owners or drivers can use to keep them going. This is normal, you say. I am from the west (actually, Australia is east of here), a developed nation, a nation which can afford the best kinds of vehicles. Here most people are poor, you tell me; they cannot have the latest Mercedes, or Volkswagen. Things must be better in Sydney, mustn't they? you ask me. Well, I reply, the traffic
is more orderly, perhaps because people are more worried about getting The city of Sydney developed around its urban railway and tramway network. As public transport reached further from the centre, increasing amounts of cheap land were released in the outlying areas. Even sixty years ago, many Sydneysiders did not own cars; they didn't need them. They could get where they wanted by train, tram and bus. In its heyday, the tram network was the second largest in the British Empire, surpassed only by London's. After World War II, things started to change. The 1930s had been an era of economic depression. The depression bit deep in Australia, even more so than in the USA, though most people have images of soup kitchens in New York slums when they think of that time. The war came just as prosperity was arriving. After 1945, then, people were ready for something new. The Australian Government sponsored General Motors to take over the home-grown firm of William Holden & Sons, carriage-builders (ironically, they had built the tram bodies for many of Australia's capital cities). The new Holden EH motor car had arrived! The people took to it in droves. It was the Australian dream. Freedom of mobility, at an affordable price. The trains and trams started to look tired and worn out. Why wouldn't they be? They had performed sterling service during the war when they had carried more passengers than ever before with very little maintenance. The trams got in the way of the increasing number of cars on the street -- or was it the other way round? A journey from Circular Quay to Central Station, Sydney's main city centre tram route, increased in time from 20 minutes to 40 minutes. The New South Wales government decided on a programme of replacing trams with buses. Buses could move, dodge around cars, were not tied to fixed paths. All around the world, modern cities were giving up their trams. Sydney followed suit: on Feb 25, 1961, Sydney's last tram ran on the route to La Perouse in the south-eastern suburbs. The trains fared a little better, but patronage also declined. Some lightly patronised branches were closed, but, by and large, the network remained intact. In recent years it has even expanded. But until the last few years, the railways have had to fight a hard battle for funds for new lines and new carriages. What money there is is spent on road expansion. Sydney now has double the amount of urban freeway it had in 1990. And yet traffic is even worse. The buses are still there, but they are crowded too, and are often horrendously late, particularly in the peak hours. But what does this have to do with Karachi? you ask. Our cities are so different, political and economic situations are not comparable. But aren't they? The problems in Sydney today stem from a failure in town planning. Sydney's last great town planner was Dr Bradfield, in the 1920s, the same Dr Bradfield who signed off on the design for the famous Harbour Bridge and fought the politicians for it to include four lines of rail and six lanes for road traffic, an unheard of amount in those days. He foresaw the direction Sydney's expansion would take and formulated a master plan with extra railways and tramways to cope with transport demand, as well as new roads. Alas, the depression of the 1930s put paid to his scheme. After the war, the state government promoted the 'County of Cumberland Plan,' retaining the railways from Dr Bradfield's plan, but paralleling them with freeways. But they only built the freeways. It is always easier for a government to announce a road-building scheme than a public transport initiative. For a start, we all use the roads, whether we drive or not. People walk, ride bicycles or motorcycles -- in Karachi, they ride on donkey-carts too! And it seems so simple: too much traffic? Build a road, of course! The traffic will thin out. Well, maybe. But this has not been the case in most, if not all, developed nations. For a start, road developments like overpasses and underpasses to bypass notorious intersections only move the congestion problem 'downstream' to the next choke point. So, say the planners, we'll build a freeway. Bypass all the choke points at once. But that approach has problems of its own. Quite apart from the problem of the unsightliness of freeways in an urban setting is the problem of where to put them. Do you put them above the existing roads and condemn those on the ground level to a life of everlasting gloom? Or do you bulldoze through properties, displacing thousands of people, usually those least able to afford new homes? But, by far, the worst problem with freeways is simply this: new roads encourage new drivers. Take the case of a person who lives ten kilometres from her place of work. There is a bus route two streets away which drops her a block away from the office. The bus runs once every fifteen minutes and takes twenty five minutes to get there. She has to get up, walk two streets to the bus stop in good time for the one she wants to catch, then get out and walk when she gets to the other end. Sometimes the bus may be a little late; then she might have to run. All in all, it might be a 35 to 40 minute trip each way. Now give her a freeway. Suddenly she can drive to work. No walking needed! Jump in the car, and be at work in 15 minutes. Now multiply our hypothetical commuter by two thousand. Suddenly, many, many people who formerly used public transport are now driving. The public transport was not that inconvenient, but it simply cannot compete with the perceived convenience of the car. Why do I say 'perceived convenience'? Because as long as our one hypothetical commuter is the only one to switch modes, there isn't a problem. She gets to work in 15 minutes. But get two thousand cars onto the freeway at the same time, and the result is a traffic jam. Her journey time might end up even longer than on the bus. Except that now the bus has either been discontinued through lack of demand, or, if it still runs, is probably even slower as all the cars pouring off the freeway into the downtown streets cause traffic chaos. And yet people continue their love affair with the car. Well, even if it isn't any faster, it is cheaper to drive than pay for public transport, they say -- but that is false economy. There is ongoing maintenance of the car, fuel prices, and of course, the money needed to maintain the roads has to come from somewhere. Even if there are no road taxes as such, the government must use money it would otherwise use elsewhere (health, education, industry development) to keep the roads free of potholes -- and then the community as a whole suffers. There is also the curious fact that freeways encourage sprawling cities, which encourages car use which encourages freeway development -- a neverending spiral. The reason for this is that places bypassed by freeways tend to decline, because people don't go there as much. But places at the ends of freeways tend to prosper because the traffic is delivered to their door. They then get congested, and the freeways are extended further out to remove the problem -- then those places decline, and the places at the new end of the freeway experience a boom and so it goes. On the other hand, look at what happens when a public transport line is built. In recent years throughout North America and England -- and to a lesser extent in Australia -- there has been a light rail revolution. Many cities which junked their trams in the post-World War 2 car frenzy have reinstated them, or their modern equivalents. These cities, with very few exceptions, have found that public transport tends to rejuvenate the places it passes through. New businesses spring up around the station areas to cater for people passing through on their way to and from work. Neighbourhood become safer as more people walk through them. Rubbish is cleaned from streets as more people demand a better environment to reach their transport point. In poorer areas, land prices tend to increase, giving landowners better assets, and more money to make property repairs. All of which leads me to the point I want to make: public transport is the most important plank in the development of social equity. You can build hospitals, you can build schools -- but if people can't get to them, then what good are they? (I know of at least one case in Australia where an ambulance was caught in such a bad traffic jam that the patient had to be airlifted by helicopter to get them to hospital in time). However, if you build a public transport system and encourage people to use it, cars stay off the road. The roads get clearer. The air gets cleaner too: even a diesel train carrying two thousand people is more efficient than two thousand cars on the road. The city becomes a more pleasant place in which to walk. Barriers break down. Rich and poor alike have access to the same public spaces. So let us come back to Karachi now. You stand at a unique point in history. We know that rising oil prices are not going to go away, that any relief will only be temporary. We know that the world's climate is changing as a result of human activity pumping excess carbon dioxide into the atmosphere -- a significant amount of which comes from car emissions. We know things will have to be done. As far as I can see, freeway building here is in its infancy. Perhaps you could learn from our mistakes, instead of repeating them. It is my sincerest hope that the next time I come here, there will be at least the nucleus of a major public transport undertaking, not more roads. Karachi at the moment is dirty and noisy -- but it is an amazing place, vibrant, alive! Don't kill that spark -- nurture it, give it the infrastructure it needs to survive, in health, in education, and especially in public transportation and in a couple of decades you will live in one of the world's greatest cities. Neil Halliday is an Australian train driver and passionate advocate for public transport who, previously a parliamentary staffer, helped to draft the Australian Democrat Party's policy platform on transport in Sydney. neiledward13@hotmail.com
An evening of classical dance at the Arts Council Auditorium, Karachi was a moving tribute to young, upcoming dancers -- and most of all, to Sheema Kirmani By Beena Sarwar Sheema Kirmani shines
through her students. At an evening of classical dance in Karachi on May 24,
she performed and showcased the work of sixteen students, ranging from
newcomers to The evening began with her six junior-most students, aged eight to eleven, presenting the Manipuri, one of the four major schools of classical dance and the first dance that the Ghanshyams taught their students at their Rhythmic Arts and Yoga Centre that Sheema, then 14, joined when her family moved to Karachi in 1964. Her father, an army officer, insisted that his children learn classical music; her mother pushed her to dance. (Another daughter of an army officer, Tehreema Mitha, also danced professionally for several years in Pakistan before settling in the US. Her mother, the indefatigable Indu Mitha, continues to teach dance in Islamabad). The Ghanshyams, a gentle, soft spoken couple from Calcutta who made Karachi their home had studied dance with the famed Uday Shankar at his dance centre at Almora. Carrying forward his tradition, they taught a range of dance styles and techniques, ranging from the Manipuri, to the Bharat Natyam and Odissi, as well as Kathak. Sheema, who began teaching dance in 1981 at the Ghanshyams', follows this path. When the Ghanshyams were hounded out of the country during the Zia regime in 1983, she was away in India doing a second year-long dance apprenticeship. Vigilantes began attacking the rented residence which doubled as their dance institute, smashing windows and spray painting graffiti on the gate threatening 'Islamic punishment' to anyone coming there to sing and dance. The Ghanshyams had to literally "run for their lives", recalls Sheema. They wanted her to take over the Institute but fled before she returned. Sheema started teaching dance at home with three former Ghanshyam students. Other dancers like the late Rafi Anwar also continued to teach, going to students' houses. Throughout the Zia years, except for three, year-long stints in India to study dance, Sheema Kirmani stuck it out in an environment hostile to the classical arts, particularly dance and women in the performing arts, facing insecurity and threats philosophically, keeping a deliberately low profile. "What keeps me going is my own creative work. I am part of this society and have as much right to be here as anyone else," she reasons. "I have always lived here, and I love it here, the weather, the flowers, the fragrances. If someone doesn't like dance, I say don't come to see us. I am not imposing myself or my ideology on anyone. But others feel free to tell us what to do and what not to do." Sheema is no complainer but when asked about the daily struggle involved in being a dancer, she agrees that it is not easy. It's difficult to get a venue, it's hard to make a decent living, and it's expensive to put up performances. This last one-day event had no corporate funding but involved costs like cards and brochures, and renting lights, sound equipment and auditorium. Students paid for their own costumes and one newspaper gave her a complimentary advertisement. Power failures meant that the costumes weren't ready until the performance day itself, so there could be no full dress rehearsal. Ideally, there should be several days of rehearsing in costume, on stage, with lights. Society generally looks down on dancers despite the efforts of performers like Sheema to "bring some respect to it". She recalls overhearing one guest talking to another at a dinner by a well known television producer: "Why do you want to sit next to her? She's a dancer". Choosing to focus on her work rather than such attitudes, Sheema remains on the periphery of the social circuit although networking could help further her cause financially and socially. She recognises that she hasn't made things easy for herself -- "too independent-minded, too outspoken and too rebellious. But there are all sorts of people in the world, and that's how I am." Why the stigma against dance? "It is totally wrong to say that the general public is against dance. It's just a small minority that is against these things," says Sheema. "I danced before 10,000 people at the World Social Forum in Karachi, and before thousands at Bhit Shah at Rasool Baksh Palejo's Hari Conference last year. Last week, ten people had come from Larkana to see the performance and asked me to publicise such events in the Sindhi media. Ordinary people are not against dance and music. And why should they be, there's no nudity or vulgarity in it." Sheema does not engage in "art for art's sake". She has strong views on issues like the role of the artist, gender roles, social equality, peace and justice, her activist identity merging with the artistic. Her long-established theatre group, Tehrik-e-Niswan (Women's Movement) regularly crosses the two areas of art and ideology with performances that often incorporate dance. She is involved in the Pakistan-India People's Forum for Peace and Democracy, initiating dance and cultural events into the annual conventions. Sheema's dedication and conviction have contributed to Pakistan's small crop of classical dancers. Some of her students have liberal families who encourage them to dance. Most girls are still at school or college. Minha Jawed, who was part of the Manglacharan, an Odissi number along with Shama Altaf and Nida Akram, is a dentist. Another Odissi dancer, the tall, graceful Zohra Omar, daughter of the designer Nasra Ahmad and architect Najeeb Omar, is headed back the US for a masters degree. Suhaee, the 14-year old Bharat Natyam dancer who lights up the stage with her very presence, wants to take up dance professionally, supported by her mother the feminist writer Atiya Dawood and artist father, K.B. Abro. There are relatively few male dancers. One former student, Amjad Ansari, teaches dance in various schools; another, Mohammed Ahmed is a successful television playwright. Her best known male student is the Bharat Natyam dancer Mani Chao who has wonderful form and did a couple of excellent pieces juxtaposed with Sheema doing Odissi. His family, Baltis settled in Karachi, disapprove of what he does. So do the families of most male dancers even if they are doing Kathak, like Mohsin Baber. Baber, who did a graceful Kathak jugalbandi with Sheema's Odissi, was her student at the Pakistan National Performing Arts Group of the Pakistan National Council of Arts (PNCA). Sheema Kirmani taught at the PNAG for five years but last year "they ended the contract without even a month's notice and still owe me for my choreography". Sheema approached the National Academy of Performing Arts last September, but hasn't heard back from them. She recalls the support that the PNCA provided when Kishwar Naheed was Director General there and organised dance and theatre festivals for which she would pay performers. "No one does that now. They should have a public-private partnership, where the government gives grants to dancers and dance teachers to continue their work and hold performances on a regular basis without constantly worrying about money." Pierre Alain Baud unveils the first French biography of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan By Sarwat Ali Pierre-Alain Baud first met Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan in 1989 and became an instant fan. He followed Nusrat's career very closely and even after his death continued to think deeply about the international appeal of this phenomenal artist. He has now written a book, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, le messager du qawwali, which was launched at the French Centre, in Lahore last week. The book is in French and
as the author disclosed at the remarks he made on the occasion that within a
few months translations in English and Urdu will be also be available. Nusrat
Fateh Ali had made a great impression on the French in his early career and
it may not be an exaggeration to say that France was the springboard of his
international recognition. A video film was also s When Nusrat's name is mentioned and there is no qawwali performance may seem incongruent so on the launch three short qawwali performances had also been organised. The first was by Asif Ali who had become a formal shagird of Nusrat Fateh Ali. Originally hailing from the famous qawwali lineage of Santo Khan Asif Ali was so influenced by the maestro that his elders permitted him to become the shagird of another clan. It was nice to see Manzoor Santo also pay his musical homage to Nusrat Fateh. The second performance was by Rehmat who was a singing companion of Nusrat and often in the videos of the maestro is seen flanking him. He also brought his young grandsons who showed immense promise. The third performance was by Dildaar who played the tabla in the group but he paid homage to his maestro by singing a couple of his famous numbers. Pierre-Alain Baud revealed in his short speech that at the time of the death of the maestro only thirty odd CDs had been released but after his death till now the number has gone up manifold. Nusrat's CDs have sold more than that of Elvis Presley internationally which says a lot about the popularity of the singer. And he thinks that it was the adaptability of Nusrat which was his greatest asset. He could mould his performance according to the occasion and the level of the audience. His qawwali at the shrine was very different from the one at a concert, and then for international audiences tailored according to the society he was performing in. Of all the forms, qawwali has been subjected to much experimentation and the rise of Nusrat Fateh Ali as a representative of the emerging trend of World Music placed it in the eye of a controversial storm. To many a traditionalist, this was both distasteful and irreverent as they hankered back to the more traditional style. In the last couple of decades, music has undergone such a tremendous change that older and most prestigious forms seem to be in the process of extinction while a few proving to be more resilient have adapted to these changes. Qawwali, as it is known, is a creative product of the South Asian environment. The musical structure in terms of raags and the rhythmic patterns as well as the text are very indigenous and a creative response to the situation as it existed for many centuries in South Asia. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's family belonged to Basti Sheikhan in Jallandhar. His father and uncle Fateh Ali Khan and Mubarak Ali Khan were very well known qawwals of their times. Another uncle Salamat Ali Khan was an outstanding harmonium player. Besides the traditional repertoire of Arabic and Persian kalaam they incorporated the kalaam of the Punjabi Sufi poets, and in the Punjab sang that to receptive audiences far more than the kalaam in dialects like Brij Bhaasha, Poorbi and Khari, more popular in the Delhi, Ajmer and Luckhnow region. Nusrat Fateh Ali was born in 1947 or 1948 in Lyallpur (now Faisalabad), settled in mohalla Lassori Shah, where the family had migrated from Jallandhar during partition. He got his training from his father and uncle. As a child he accompanied them on their numerous performances His father Fateh Ali Khan was well versed in raagdari-- he carried the melodic element in his qawwali while Mubarak Ali was a laikaar. The combination worked well to make them the foremost group in the subcontinent. Fateh Ali Khan died in the late sixties at a relatively young age and the responsibility of the group fell on the shoulders of Mubarak Ali Khan. He kept it intact till his death in the mid 1970s. Nusrat Fateh Ali made his first impression at the urs of Baba Fareed in Pakpattan as a young man and later on the annual music conference under the auspices of Radio Pakistan on March 23 in 1965, but was only recognised as a formidable force in 1976 on the occasion of the celebrations regarding the 700th death anniversary of Amir Khusro. The musical forms of our system are very insular and retain their purity. It is not easy to penetrate and subject them to change. The change if any is slow and depends on gradual assimilation. Due to his huge following and his appeal to a diverse set of people, Baud had expected that many more books on this phenomenon should have been published. But unfortunately except a couple of books in Pakistan and a few memographs, it appears that Baud's book is the first serious attempt in this regard. Qawwali was one form that lends itself to change and it was the genius of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan that liberated change from imitation. The recent show at Canvas Gallery, Karachi, reaffirms Jamil Baloch's immense potential as a creative individual By Quddus Mirza Several years ago, a
one-liner gained popularity among the young faculty of National College of
Arts. 'I made the moon' was the sentence the teachers were often found saying
to each other. It all began when a senior teacher, realising that image of
moon was being overly used by artists, thought it was about time he reminded
everyone that the moon was first painted by him. He was, of course, oblivious
to the innumerable representations of moon in the art of man -- with familiar
examples close to home including Shakir Ali who often painted moon in his
canvases. There is no claim as superfluous as the one about originality in art: all of us live in an inter-connected environment and not just through Internet; we remain connected to each other through our collective consciousness (perhaps a primitive form of World Wide Web!). Ideas, images and techniques travel from one person to the other, as well as across societies. Thus if someone conceives an innovative idea, it is bound to be repeated in other people's works. The most obvious example of this coincidence ñ or cooperation -- is evident in the art of Cubism. The two leading members of this movement, Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque, were making paintings, which were so identical that it was difficult to differentiate between the two unless you spotted the signature at the corner of the canvas. Yet both, fully conscious of this similarity, were not bothered about it because both knew they will emerge out of this phase. Today, the two artists are recognised not only for their work in the Cubist tradition but on the whole body of their works. The matter of similarity is especially important in the context of Pakistani art because of the worth of art works; hence the issue of originality and imitation is not just an academic concern, it is like any other market phenomenon where a particular product must not be replicated by other groups or the unauthorised manufacturers. So, the artists have become protective about their method of painting, range of visuals and choice of materials. In a sense, it is a way of ensuring 'genuine' aesthetic items. On another level, though, these safeguards and controls can not be guaranteed in the realm of art. Artists, in their creative quests, often borrow, use, modify, amend and assimilate other artists' works. This situation is completely ethical and permissible since both the creator of a subject and the secondary user are drawing from a source that is common to a culture and a time. Thus, it is impossible to determine the actual initiator and the later beneficiaries. This situation is evident in the paintings of Shakeel Siddiqui and Ali Azmat both of whom are interested in depicting details of blank canvas or back of a stretcher as the subject of their art. Similarly, if one compares the work of Sophie Ernst and Huma Mulji, it is difficult to decide who first began using the image of dolls in natural surroundings. Is it as hard to associate the monochromatic lines with one of the two artists -- Mohammad Ali Talpur or Jamil Baloch? Not really, because one is aware how Talpur carved a niche for himself with his distinct lines, drawn in immaculate fashion on white surfaces. The overwhelming acceptance of his work is astonishing and indeed a great achievement. Viewing the latest works of Jamil Baloch (exhibited under the title 'Zuban' from May 20-30, 2008 at Canvas Gallery in Karachi), one is bound to recall the black and white canvases and line drawings of Talpur. In his new work, Baloch has also preferred to concentrate on monochromatic palette, while using paper, canvas and spray paint. The works of Jamil Baloch indicate an artist's urge to demand an equal amount of respect that is reserved for his contemporaries. And even though Jamil has demonstrated his incredible imagination and unsurpassable skill in the exhibition at Canvas, one feels that the artist had a lot more to offer than this. The deliberate decision to restrain himself into a certain mode of working, and within a specific chromatic scheme, did not convey his vast creative abilities; since Baloch is well-versed in the art of painting, drawing, sculpture, and his work has always been a reflection of his socio-political consciousness. However, the recent shift to a more minimal, cerebral, and circumcised aesthetics, seems to be a phase in the career of this intelligent young artist of our epoch. Although the work at Canvas appeared to be fabricated with a singular frame of mind (maybe to have different visual effects), but in this too Jamil facilitates us to glimpse his mastery of an illusionist. Strips of different tonal variation are placed underneath each other, creating a sense of depth and a feeling of space. The change in the direction of his mark and the repetition (that led to harmony) enhanced the visual effect of his pieces; one was bound to look deep inside these shapes built like images of buildings or views seen from behind a curtain. The sensitivity in terms of employing a single material reaffirmed Baloch's immense potential as a creative individual. However, one needs to remind him, and others too, that art is not about adopting one course; it is the diversity in expression that makes an artist valuable and visible in the world. This indeed is the destiny that awaits Jamil Baloch, only if he looks backs and realises his individuality and breadth as an artist.
Indiana Jones and the last straw Dear
all, Despite protests noises from our offsprings, we enthusiastically went to see the new Indiana Jones' movie on its opening night. Our children's generation
has just never been as enthusiastic about the Indian Jones as we were, But the fourth in the Indiana Jones films, made after a gap of18 years, proved to be a great disappointment, and somehow I wish they hadn't bothered to make it. It is as if the producers have just taken various elements of the genre and just put them all together in a fairly formulaic fashion. The film is so full of adventure sequences, brushes with evil villains, whip-cracking wizardry, ancient temples that magically slide open at the touch of a concealed lever and other such frantic episodes that it actually becomes pretty monotonous. It is almost like one of those wretched video/computer games which just go on and on without a plot development or narrative and emotional climax. Of course there are some good bits and some nice one-liners, but overall it is so formulaic and monotonous that it is actually difficult to sit through. One of the nicest elements of the movie is that it reunites Indie and the Marian (Karen Allen) character of the original Raiders of the Lost Ark movie with Indiana Jones; but unfortunately she is brought in almost as a cameo and doesn't have much of a role in the movie. Cate Blanchet is a nasty Soviet villain, and she parades around in intimidating grey uniforms and high boots and rehashes the ruthless cold war agent stereotype. Harrison Ford, although now of Grandpa age (65), does a good job as Indie, although you'd think he has acquired a different hat by now. And then the movie gets totally silly when it begins to deal with extra terrestrials and flying saucers, it is just too absurd to digest really and becomes almost embarrassing when it begins to go down the superior-intelligence-from-outer-space route. Why did Spielberg have to ruin everything about the Indiana Jones series by making this formulaic, monotonous film? Why did he have to take elements and motifs from the original and turn them into this flat, repetitive screen game sort of film? I suppose it will make a lot of money is the answer, but it really is a great let-down. And what I want to know is why sequels and remakes are getting worse rather than better. What is incomprehensible is why so many new films are totally failing to engage viewers emotionally or actually have a logical buildup and climax to them. I actually can't remember the last good movie I saw. Crash was a brilliant movie, but I don't remember much of it, especially not visually -- yet I can still remember and relive sights, sounds and emotions from really old movies -- Gone with the Wind, Dr Zhivago, Lawrence of Arabia to name just the obvious ones. What does this say about modern films? Or does it reflect something about modern life? Has the magic been completely taken out of the cinematic experience? And is it all due to the overload of visual and internet stimuli that we are now exposed to? Or is it just that cinema no longer enjoys the cathartic/theatrical/emotional importance it once did in our lives? Whatever the answers, I mourn the passing of the Indiana Jones magic... Best Wishes, Umber
Khairi
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caught for doing the wrong thing. The fines in Australia for what would here
be considered minor traffic infringements made out of necessity -- such as
running red lights -- are quite severe. But the traffic jams can be just as
bad, maybe worse. And to explain why this is so, it is necessary to look back
a hundred years or so. This exercise in history may provide a salutory lesson
for your city in planning it future.
experienced dancers. The end of the over-two hour long 'Jugalbandi' that
juxtaposed dance styles on one platform, drew sustained applause and a
standing ovation from much of the audience filling the Arts Council
Auditorium to its 500-strong capacity. It was a moving tribute to young,
upcoming dancers -- and most of all, to Sheema Kirmani for her lifelong
dedication as a teacher, creativity as a choreographer and as a dancer
herself.
hown on the launch which
the author had made during the lifetime of Nusrat. The film was based on
clips from his performances, his deep devotion to the genre of music and its
spiritual and social trappings. He is also shown training a very young Rahat
Ali Khan among the members of his clan including infants, opening a window to
a vanishing system where musical education and blood lines were inseparable.
This video film too will be available to the Pakistani audiences in the next
couple of weeks.
and they have told us many times that they simply cannot understand why are
we so excited about these films. Well, whatever they say, I am from a
generation that loved the Indiana Jones' character, loved the way he moved so
easily between being a nerdy academic and an intrepid action hero, loved his
wry one-liners and loved the film's general blend of archaeology, mysticism
and politics.