I am in the middle of a post-holiday malaise. Even though it has only been a few weeks since my adventure ended, it seems years ago that I was in the ocean and under the sun. The drudgery of my daily existence has set in, bypassing the images of sun and sand that had kept it at bay. It just so happens that I respond well to routines, and muster the courage to work out every morning, eat a healthy boiled lunch, work during the day and then return for a serving of self-loathing for dinner (thus far the best substitute for carbs after 7 pm that I have come across). But the drudgery of my days bleeding into one another can get a bit oppressive and before you know it, you start inventing and then talking to strange people in your head.
Luckily for me, most people on the streets of NY also talk to imaginary people most of the time, so no one stares at me inordinately. The week did bring a respite from my daily schedule as a series of events happened, as they tend to do, all at once. One was that I had a dear friend visiting me for the weekend. We met in junior school in Lahore while both of us were startled to find the other hiding under the same bush to avoid being made to play cricket. It was fortuitous then that the day of his arrival we both attended the opening of a show called ‘Go Figure’ at Aicon Gallery in SoHo. Curated by the formidably talented figurative artist (and occasional TFT contributor) Salman Toor, the show was unusual in that it focused solely on a selection of figurative artists working in and from present-day Pakistan. I have always (and suspect, will always) think that there isn’t enough figurative art coming out of our country, and I usually put it down to our collective national awkwardness around the human body. The opening was stylish and well attended, despite the fact that the wind was slapping me with a wet towel every two steps of the way, and once inside the gallery I was thrilled to kick off the weekend in a patriotic (albeit occasionally nude) art style.
Naseebo Lal, earthy and immortal in Coke Studio
As it happens when one has visitors, you tend to do a lot more than when they are in town. I went to Times Square, to Battery Park, Central Park, Fifth Avenue, went to see a Broadway play (‘Kinky Boots’, not worth it) and did pretty much everything you would think to see in a movie montage about the Big Apple. Alas life is not a movie montage, and the reality was that I was panting around with my arms folded constantly so as to hide the indignity of giant sweat stains in new and unusual places throughout my flimsy clothes.
The next day was Jashn e Azaadi, and as it so happened yet another of my best friends from school was in New York. The three of us were united for the first time in decades. Like many of our compatriots back home, we celebrated our country’s birth by wearing green and staying inside an air-conditioned zone while watching the first episode of the new Coke Studio.
I want to give Coke Studio a slow clap because it really is one of the cultural products, aside from our art, that makes me the most proud (better step it up, designers). The level of production, live filming and lighting schematic have been consistently, alarmingly good for the last eight seasons, and many of the tracks have made it into the soundtracks of my own imaginary movie (tentatively titled Slumdog Thousandaire).
Currently at the Aicon gallery, NY
We saw the episode on YouTube (sorry if that rubs the producers the wrong way but you can’t hurt me) and so I wasn’t sure what the actual order was, but I started with Zeb Bangash, as anyone should. I have been a fan of hers for years and years, so seeing her singing resplendently in that gharara made me want to run through the humidity of the East Village under the air conditioner drips while pretending it’s the barsaat (rainy season). I also really liked Naseebo Lal’s duet with Umair Jaswal, mainly because her name is so very cool and also because her voice sounds like a kiln with vocal cords. Obviously, though, Abida Parveen stole my heart and wrapped it in her swaying ajraks during her duet with Ali Sethi. The vocal range of both of them is simply astounding (also, in what I think will be a popular trend, I am now a huge fan of mysteriously sparkly black sherwanis). The duet reminded me of a more gender-balanced Whitney-meets-Mariah moment, and a fitting end to a weekend that luckily showed me some of the very best that Pakistan has to offer the world.
I may be a week late (blame the press) but Happy Birthday, Pakistan! Long may you bloom and grow.
