Abdul Jabbar Gull, one of Pakistan’s most celebrated sculptors, has spent decades exploring the human form and its deeper philosophical and spiritual dimensions. From his early days in Mirpur Khas to residencies across the world, Gull has continuously challenged himself. His work seamlessly blends technical mastery with profound reflection on individuality, society, and the metaphysical. In this interview, he shares insights into his creative journey, his teaching philosophy, and the ideas that continue to shape his sculptures.

Growing up in Mirpur Khas, far from Pakistan’s established art centres, what were the earliest moments that quietly shaped your creative instinct?

There were no formal art schools or structured exposure to the art in the city. In many ways, that was a limitation, yet it sharpened my instinct to observe and refine things independently. Even in primary school, I was praised for my handwriting and the careful presentation of my notebooks. That early recognition, though simple, planted a seed and made me aware of the importance of aesthetics. Later, I became fascinated by local signboard painters, mesmerised by their precision on a large scale. Assisting them became my first informal training. Gradually, this self-driven refinement shaped my creative instinct long before I imagined art as a profession.

At the National College of Arts, you explored multiple disciplines before committing to sculpture. What was it about sculpture that felt like a moment of recognition rather than a choice?
I initially enrolled as a design student and continued in that department until my third year. However, design often meant working within a client’s brief, responding to external demands. I realised that, while I respected the field, I longed for greater autonomy. I wanted to create without negotiating my vision.
When I transitioned to Fine Arts, I explored painting, printmaking, miniature and sculpture. Sculpture, in particular, unsettled and intrigued me. Unlike drawing and painting which felt intuitive and familiar, sculpture demanded physical labour, spatial awareness and patience. It challenged me technically and conceptually. Many people discouraged me, saying sculpture had limited commercial prospects. But I was drawn precisely to that difficulty.

The human form appears repeatedly in your work. What continues to draw you back to it as a central phenomenon of existence?
The human form is, for me, the most compelling subject in existence. My academic training equipped me with the technical ability to sculpt anatomically accurate figures, but beyond technical mastery, the form began to open deeper questions. When I sculpted something as seemingly ordinary as a hand, I realised how complex and sensitive it truly is, how many subtle movements and textures exist within it. That close study gradually shifted my focus from surface anatomy to existential inquiry. Who are we beyond our physical structure? What lies beneath visible identity? My interest in spirituality and Sufism naturally merged with this investigation. Series such as Ordinary Soul and Winged Thought emerged from this dialogue between the physical and the metaphysical. Over time, I developed a vocabulary where the form became simplified yet symbolic and was recognisable without a signature. The human figure remains my way of exploring individuality, universality and divine connection simultaneously.

You describe your subjects as ordinary souls. Who are these souls to you and why do their stories feel essential to preserve through sculpture?
From a distance, a crowd appears uniform. Yet when you look closely, every individual carries a completely distinct story, personality and experience. That tension between sameness and uniqueness fascinates me deeply.
When I speak of “ordinary souls”, I refer to everyday individuals — people who may seem ordinary in societal terms but possess extraordinary depth. There is humility in recognising oneself as part of that collective. I see myself among them. My sculptures attempt to preserve that quiet dignity, that individuality hidden beneath surface perception. Spiritually, I believe every human being is unique, yet connected to a universal whole. The challenge is to remain humble while acknowledging that uniqueness.

Politics and global power structures also surface in your work. Do you see sculpture as a form of resistance, reflection or quiet documentation of our times?
I believe it functions as all three. As artists, we are not isolated from political or social realities. Certain events demand a response; silence can also become a statement. However, I rarely approach such themes directly or didactically. We exist in both a physical and a spiritual realm. In the physical world, we react, critique and document. In the spiritual realm, we withdraw, reflect and seek connection. My practice attempts to hold both spaces simultaneously. Through symbolism and metaphor, I engage with contemporary realities while maintaining contemplative depth. The documentation is there but encoded.

From Johannesburg to Seoul and Spain, your residencies exposed you to vastly different cultural and working environments. How did these experiences reshape your understanding of scale, space and audience?
Travel fundamentally transforms perception. My first residency in South Africa was particularly formative. It exposed me to a layered history of colonisation, racial complexity and cultural hybridity. I encountered diverse identities coexisting within one landscape, and that broadened my understanding of audience and context. Subsequent travels across Asia, Europe and Africa further expanded my sense of scale and material possibility. Different cultures respond to space differently; they perceive form differently. These experiences reshaped not only my artistic language but also my worldview. Exposure dismantles narrow thinking. It teaches humility and adaptability.
Your sculpture, Winged Thought, has been used for the Hum Women Leaders Award three times. What does it mean to see your work celebrated this way? Was there a consistent vision behind its design? 
It is both rare and deeply meaningful to see one’s work become part of a national platform. Hum Network entrusted me with complete creative freedom, which was essential. Without that freedom, the work would not have carried the same integrity. Winged Thought symbolises energy, intellect and spiritual elevation. While some interpret it as an angel or butterfly, I see it as a manifestation of thought — and thought, to me, is pure energy. There are structural balances within the sculpture that represent the limits and possibilities of human intellect.
What made the awards special – all similar but differently made – is its dual nature: it is both a trophy and an original artwork. It holds symbolic, aesthetic and material value. That fusion reflects my consistent vision; to create something timeless, meaningful and worthy of the women it honoured.

Having taught sculpture for over a decade and continuing as visiting faculty, what do you hope younger artists learn beyond technique, especially in an increasingly fast image driven world?
We are likely the last generation to witness both analogue processes and the digital revolution. When we were students, access to information was limited; today, it is instant and infinite. This shift is extraordinary but comes with responsibility. I often tell students that Google provides information, not knowledge. Knowledge arises when information is questioned, tested and internalised. In today’s image-driven culture, there is pressure to produce quickly and seek instant validation. Yet art is not about speed; it requires depth, patience and sustained inquiry. True growth is gradual, built through repetition, reflection and humility. Intellectual curiosity and critical thinking are essential for work that endures.

How has teaching influenced your own practice and does guiding others ever challenge or renew your artistic certainty?
Teaching has profoundly shaped my practice because I have never allowed myself to feel complete. The moment a teacher assumes final authority, growth stops. Art resists certainty, and the classroom constantly reminds me of that. Students often raise questions that unsettle my assumptions, and sometimes they suggest solutions I had never considered. Such moments are both humbling and energising. They prove that learning is reciprocal, not hierarchical. Teaching also forces me to articulate instincts — to explain why a form succeeds or fails — which sharpens my own understanding. Younger generations bring fresh perspectives shaped by technology and global culture, keeping me open and evolving.

Receiving the President’s Pride of Performance Award in 2024 marked a significant milestone. How do you reconcile institutional recognition with an artistic journey rooted in questioning and uncertainty?
Receiving the Pride of Performance was a profound honour and I feel sincerely humbled by it. As one of Pakistan’s highest civilian recognitions, it carries immense significance. However, it was never my ambition, nor did I shape my career around awards. For me, art has always been a journey of inquiry, questioning form, identity, spirituality and society. Recognition may acknowledge a chapter, but it does not conclude the dialogue.

You mentioned that the younger generation seeks instant results and often abandons their efforts. What advice would you give them?
I am cautious about generalising an entire generation. Every era carries its own pressures and privileges. Today’s youth have unprecedented access to global archives, instant communication and platforms for visibility. Yet speed can become a trap: when results are expected immediately, patience weakens and depth suffers. My advice is simple, slow down and allow ideas to mature. Do not abandon direction because recognition is delayed. Read across traditions, from William Shakespeare to Allama Iqbal and Rumi. Question dominant narratives. Information is abundant; discernment is rare.

The post Sculpturing the Inner Soul – Abdul Jabbar Gul appeared first on Glam Magazine.

SPOILER WARNING: This article contains spoilers from Suzanne Collins’ Sunrise on the Reaping.

The unveiling of the second official trailer for The Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping has reignited global anticipation for Suzanne Collins’ dystopian universe. Set 24 years before Katniss Everdeen’s story and 40 years after The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, the film explores the notorious 50th Hunger Games, also known as the Second Quarter Quell.

By examining its narrative stakes, casting, fidelity to the source material and evolving visual language, Sunrise on the Reaping emerges as a particularly significant return to Panem, one that revisits a familiar world through the eyes of the character who helped audiences understand the Games in the first place.

Why Sunrise on the Reaping Exists: The Nuance of the 50th Quarter Quell

Unlike conventional prequels created simply to expand a franchise, Collins’ Hunger Games prequels have distinct thematic purposes. While The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes examined the origins of authoritarianism and Coriolanus Snow’s relationship with power, Sunrise on the Reaping focuses heavily on propaganda, media manipulation and the control of information.

The novel demonstrates how the Capitol constructs its own version of reality, including the replacement of deceased tribute Louella McCoy with a drugged body double, Lou Lou, to preserve the illusion of order.

The Second Quarter Quell itself intensifies the Capitol’s cruelty. Instead of 24 tributes, 48 are selected, with four children taken from each district. The rule is presented as a deliberate reminder that for every Capitol citizen killed during the rebellion, two rebels died.

At its heart, however, the story is about humanising Haymitch Abernathy. For years, audiences have known him as Woody Harrelson’s cynical, alcoholic mentor. The novel strips away that image to reveal a 16-year-old boy who is intelligent, funny and hopeful, before the Games and their aftermath reshape him permanently.

Timeline of the Panem Saga:

[10th Hunger Games] (Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes) ── 40 Years ──> [50th Quarter Quell] (Sunrise on the Reaping) ── 24 Years ──> [74th Hunger Games] (Original Trilogy)

Casting and Characters:

Director Francis Lawrence and casting director Debra Zane faced the challenge of casting younger versions of characters audiences already associate with iconic performances. Leading the cast is Joseph Zada as Haymitch, portraying the character before years of trauma turn him into the hardened mentor audiences know. Mckenna Grace plays Maysilee Donner, whose connection to the mockingjay pin creates one of the story’s most important links to Katniss’ era, while Whitney Peak plays Lenore Dove Baird, Haymitch’s girlfriend and a key connection to the Covey legacy.

The supporting cast further bridges Panem’s past and future. Jesse Plemons plays a younger Plutarch Heavensbee, Elle Fanning portrays an earlier Effie Trinket, Kieran Culkin takes on Caesar Flickerman, and Maya Hawke and Kelvin Harrison Jr. play younger versions of Wiress and Beetee. Ralph Fiennes’ President Snow places another interpretation of the character within the franchise’s timeline.

Rather than simply imitating the original actors, the casting appears focused on capturing the characters before they became the people audiences remember. That distinction is especially important with Haymitch. Zada’s performance feels more open and optimistic than Harrelson’s, reflecting the person Haymitch was before the Games took that optimism away.

Visual Grammar

Over the course of the franchise, Panem has developed a distinct visual language. Sunrise on the Reaping appears to preserve that identity while introducing a palette suited to its own era.

District 12 remains grounded in muted slate, earthy browns and overcast greys, reinforcing its poverty and oppression. The Capitol, meanwhile, retains its theatrical artificiality through brighter colours, retro styling and exaggerated production design.

The most striking departure comes in the arena. The Second Quarter Quell’s landscape is deliberately beautiful, filled with lush greenery, flowers, streams and bright skies. The trailers appear to embrace this with a more vibrant, saturated colour grade. The effect is deceptive by design: the brighter and more idyllic the arena looks, the more disturbing its violence becomes. The Capitol has effectively transformed nature into a colourful stage for death.

This distinguishes the film from the darker, more desaturated visual language of the later original films while remaining recognisably Panem.

How Faithful Is It to the Book?

From the trailers, Sunrise on the Reaping appears remarkably attentive to Collins’ novel. The arena closely reflects its description, including the distinctive eye-shaped Cornucopia, while the presence of 48 tributes establishes the scale of the Second Quarter Quell.

The trailers also preserve important character and symbolic details, particularly Haymitch’s relationship with Lenore Dove, the bird-and-snake striker and Maysilee’s connection to the mockingjay pin. Even smaller elements, including Glenn Close’s transformation into Drusilla Sickle, suggest that Collins’ descriptions have been taken seriously.

Some scenes have inevitably been rearranged or expanded for cinematic pacing, but the footage so far suggests an adaptation that is attempting to preserve not just the events of the novel, but its atmosphere and thematic intent.

There is, however, one notable limitation: the film’s PG-13 rating. Director Francis Lawrence has acknowledged that Collins’ novel “pulls no punches”, but certain moments cannot be depicted with the same graphic detail on screen. He specifically referenced the disturbing sequence involving a character holding a child’s severed head, explaining that it could not be shown explicitly within a PG-13 film.

That does not mean the film will necessarily be less violent. Lawrence has stressed that they still go “full on” with the story’s tragedy and trauma. Instead, the most graphic moments will likely rely on editing, sound, reactions and suggestion rather than explicit imagery. In this sense, the adaptation can remain faithful to the impact of Collins’ violence without reproducing every gruesome image literally.

A Familiar World, Seen Differently

What makes Sunrise on the Reaping particularly compelling is that its audience already knows how Haymitch’s story ends. We know he survives. We know he becomes Katniss’ mentor. We know what the Games eventually cost him. The suspense therefore lies less in whether Haymitch will live and more in watching the person he once was disappear.

The trailers suggest a film deeply conscious of that irony. Its bright arena, theatrical Capitol and youthful cast all exist against an audience’s knowledge of what comes next. The beauty becomes unsettling because we know what it is concealing, while Haymitch’s optimism becomes tragic because we know how difficult it will be for him to hold on to it.

Sunrise on the Reaping therefore feels less like a return to a familiar franchise and more like a return to the foundations of it. It takes the character who once stood behind Katniss and places him at the centre, revealing the boy behind the legend and the machinery behind the spectacle. If the final film carries through what its trailers have established, its greatest strength may lie not in recreating the Hunger Games audiences already know, but in showing why the Games left scars that lasted long after the cameras stopped rolling.

The post The Return to Panem: Deconstructing the Anticipation, Casting and Aesthetic Evolution of The Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping appeared first on Glam Magazine.

HUM Network celebrated Pakistan’s 79th Independence Day with patriotic fervour, bringing together its employees, families and distinguished guests. Led by Chairperson Sultana Siddiqui, the gathering honoured the nation’s journey, sacrifices and enduring spirit of unity.

The occasion served as a tribute to the nation’s remarkable journey, celebrating the enduring values of unity, resilience and patriotism that continue to shape Pakistan’s future.

The celebrations were led by HUM Network Chairperson Sultana Siddiqui, who welcomed the HUM family and honoured guests to mark one of the country’s most significant national occasions. Paying tribute to the sacrifices that paved the way for Pakistan’s independence, she reflected on the visionary leadership of Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah, whose unwavering determination and steadfast resolve transformed the dream of an independent Muslim homeland into reality. She emphasised hard work was the key to success for the nation and oneself.

The event was graced by the presence of Consul Generals and diplomats, whose participation highlighted the enduring spirit of cultural understanding and international goodwill, reinforcing the importance of fostering meaningful connections while honouring Pakistan’s rich history and cultural heritage.

The headquarters were adorned with national flags and patriotic décor, creating a vibrant atmosphere of national pride. The gathering embodied HUM Network’s longstanding tradition of celebrating national milestones as one united family, bringing together people in the true spirit of the occasion. Guests were also treated to a traditional Independence Day brunch featuring halwa puri and lassi, offering a taste of Pakistan’s culinary heritage.

The event concluded with a renewed sense of optimism and pride, as attendees reflected on the ideals upon which Pakistan was founded and paid homage to the sacrifices of the nation’s forefathers. Through the celebration, HUM Network reaffirmed its commitment to preserving the country’s cultural identity, promoting national unity, and honouring the legacy of those whose vision and sacrifices made Pakistan possible.

The post HUM Network Commemorated Pakistan’s 79th Independence Day appeared first on Glam Magazine.

1. What’s your most random talent?

I can drive off-road surprisingly well.

2. Which fictional world would you move into tomorrow?

The world of Superman.

The future of Quetta, whether it will always be overlooked or if things will eventually get better.

4. What’s your “I can talk about this for hours” topic?

Current affairs.

5. Which smell instantly takes you somewhere else?

The scent of red roses. It reminds me of my father and brings back deep personal memories.

6. What’s one thing you miss from a simpler time?

7. If your energy today were a weather forecast, what would it say?

A tornado with a chance of thunder.

8. What would your warning label be?

“Aap hamare paas aaye hain, aap muskuraiye.” (You’ve come to me, so at least give me a smile.)

9. What’s a hill you’re willing to die on?

That Balochistan is far safer and more beautiful than many people assume.

10. What’s the most impulsive thing you’ve done?

Going on a luxury shopping spree without much planning.

11. What’s your comfort boredom activity?

Doomscrolling.

12. What’s one thing you’re still figuring out?

How to stay completely true to myself while also being the best person I can be.

13. What’s your most unnecessary but beloved habit?

Randomly breaking into dance in the middle of a conversation.

14. What feels overrated to you?

Some Gen Z fashion trends.

The post Short n Sweet – Adnan Behrani appeared first on Glam Magazine.

Long before Punjabi rap and urban fusion became a global phenomenon, Roach Killa aka Rehan was blending reggae, hip-hop and Punjabi music into a sound uniquely his own. Born in Libya, raised in Canada and now based in the UK, the artist has built a career on crossing cultural and musical boundaries. From groundbreaking chart successes to collaborations with some of South Asia’s biggest legends, he speaks about the experiences, struggles and inspirations that have shaped his remarkable journey.

Your collaboration with Arif Lohar resulted in one of the most celebrated Punjabi anthems of recent years. How did the song come about?
That happened very naturally. I met Arif Lohar in England in 2018 through a mutual connection. We sat together casually at his brother’s house, and he asked me to play him a couple of beats. I played one beat and he liked it, then I played another with a distinctive flute melody. Instantly, he started singing along. Once he heard it, he loved it, and with Dr. Zeus producing the track, it became a powerful combination of legends and new energy. There was no overthinking, no big studio setup — it was just musicians vibing together in the moment. Sometimes the best songs are born like that.

It seems you’ve developed a knack for turning dream collaborations into hit records. You’ve now teamed up with Abrar-ul-Haq on a track that’s already making waves?
After the success of the Arif Lohar collaboration, doors opened. A close friend, Jibran, shared a musical idea with me, and we kept discussing which voice would truly suit the song. Eventually we realized it had to be Abrar-ul-Haq. Once we presented it to him, he connected with it immediately. For me, working with him was another full-circle moment because I grew up listening to his music too.

Songwriters often draw inspiration from people and moments around them. Your mention of “dimple” in the track has intrigued fans—what inspired that lyric, and who, if anyone, is it dedicated to?
That line came about in a funny, spontaneous way. When I came to Pakistan after gaining success abroad, I kept seeing huge billboards of Hania Aamir everywhere. I asked my friend, “Who is she? She’s everywhere — and she’s very pretty!” Later, while writing the song, I needed a rhyme for the word “cute.” The image of those billboards popped into my head, and the line “dimple is cute” came naturally. It wasn’t planned as some grand dedication — it was just a spontaneous lyric born in the moment, which is often how songwriting works.

You were born in Libya, raised in Canada and now living in Birmingham. And you come from a Pakistan family. How have these diverse cultural influences shaped your identity as an artist?
I think my different backgrounds and cultures have deeply influenced my music. My mother’s side of the family is Iranian, my father’s side is Punjabi, I was born in Libya, and then I grew up in Canada before eventually moving to England. So, I’ve been exposed to Arabic, Punjabi, Urdu, Persian, Jamaican and Western influences all at once. I’ve always believed language is important because it carries culture and emotion. Being born in Libya also left a strong impression on me. I was there during difficult political times, even witnessing air-raid sirens and bombings as a child. Those experiences made me understand life from a different perspective very early on. At the same time, growing up in Canada exposed me to reggae, hip hop and multicultural communities. All of these influences come together in my music. I don’t think there are many artists who can naturally blend Punjabi, Urdu, Arabic, reggae and Western sounds in one identity. I feel blessed that my upbringing allowed me to be that diverse artist.

Your stage name, Roach Killa, is one of the most distinctive names in Punjabi music. What’s the story behind it?
When I was younger, some people used to call me “Roach,” and the nickname just stuck. Later, when I started making music, I wanted a name that would stand out and be impossible to forget. I combined “Roach” with “Killa” and created something unique. Whether people love it or hate it, they remember it — and that’s important in music.Another reason I liked the name was that it didn’t immediately tell people who I was or where I came from. People couldn’t easily judge whether I was Punjabi, Pakistani, Indian, white or black; they had to listen to the music first. I’ve always believed that music should be judged on its own merit, not on an artist’s appearance, ethnicity or background. Looking back, the name has become a huge part of my identity and represents the individuality that I’ve tried to bring to my music throughout my career.

At a young age, you were drawn to Reggae, a genre not commonly associated with South Asian artists at the time. What initially attracted you to it?
When I was a kid, my brother brought home a tape by Apache Indian. I remember looking at the cover and thinking, “This guy looks Pakistani or Indian.” Then I listened to the music and heard Punjabi mixed with Jamaican reggae and dancehall. That completely connected with me because I was growing up in neighbourhoods where there were a lot of Jamaicans and people spoke Patois around us. So, for me, reggae never felt foreign. It felt natural. That’s why later on I also moved to Birmingham in England, because Punjabi music there had already started blending with reggae culture in a big way as Birmingham is one of the main hubs for Punjabi urban music. I also loved the mystery and freedom of reggae culture. People didn’t know whether the artist was desi, white or black — they judged the music first. That idea has stayed with me throughout my career.

Long before Punjabi rap became mainstream, you were blending Punjabi lyrics with Reggae and Dancehall. Did you realize at the time that you were helping create a new lane in the industry?
Honestly, no. I think artists rarely think in those terms while they’re creating. Music is about capturing a moment and expressing what feels natural. At that time, blending Punjabi with reggae and hip hop simply reflected how I had grown up. Later on, people started calling it a new lane or a new genre, but for me it was just authenticity. We were making music that sounded like our lives.

What challenges did you face introducing a sound that many listeners had never heard before? Was the music industry ready for your style when you first emerged?
Definitely not. In our culture, there was a stigma attached to it. People would say, “Why are you trying to sound black? You’re desi.” A lot of listeners expected Punjabi artists to only do traditional bhangra music. But that wasn’t my reality. I grew up in a Western environment surrounded by reggae and hip hop, so my music reflected that. The backlash was real, but it also motivated me. I always say: criticism can either stop you or sharpen you. For me, it made me work harder and prove that Punjabi music could exist in an urban, international space too.

Your song Yaara Dildara became the first rap song to reach number one on the BBC Asian Network. What did that achievement mean to you personally?
It meant a lot because I had gone to England with almost nothing — about $300 in my pocket, sleeping on friends’ sofas, walking long distances just to save money for food. So, when Yaara Dildarareached number one on BBC Asian Network, it felt like validation for the years of struggle. So that meant a lot because once you get to a level where people accept your music as an artist, it only motivates you to do more. What made it even more special was that the song was doing something completely fresh at the time: authentic hip hop rap blended with qawwali and Sufi elements. It even replaced Imran Khan’s “Amplifier” at number one, and that was a huge song back then. For me, it was proof that taking creative risks could pay off.

You’ve collaborated with artists ranging from Apache Indian and Spragga Benz to Gippy Grewal and Garry Sandhu. How was the experience and which collaboration challenged or surprised you the most?
Every collaboration has its own story. I’ve been fortunate to work with legends across reggae, Punjabi music and Bollywood, including Arijit Singh and Neha Kakkar. For me, the biggest thing is when an established artist wants to work with you because of your talent, not because you paid for a feature. That’s when you know your music is truly being respected. One collaboration that felt especially meaningful was working with Arif Lohar. Growing up listening to songs like “Billo”, I never imagined I’d one day create music with him. That was a dream come true.

Having witnessed the industry’s evolution over the years, how would you describe the biggest changes in Punjabi music?
Punjabi music used to be dominated by traditional instruments and folk structures. Now, artists keep the authenticity of Punjabi vocals but pair them with urban and Western production. If you listen to artists like Sidhu Moosewala or Bilal Saeed, the vocals remain rooted in Punjabi or Urdu culture, but the soundscape is global. That’s a huge evolution. Punjabi music is no longer confined to one region — it’s part of international pop culture now.

Today, Punjabi music enjoys global recognition. What do you think artists from your generation contributed to making that possible?
We broke barriers. When we started, there were very few platforms for Punjabi urban music. No streaming, limited radio support — we were selling tapes and CDs by hand. Artists from our generation helped put places like Toronto and Birmingham on the Punjabi music map. We made diaspora identity part of the music. Today, Punjabi artists can reach global audiences instantly through streaming, but that infrastructure was built over decades by earlier generations pushing boundaries.

Do you feel pioneers of Punjabi rap and urban music receive enough credit for laying the foundation for today’s success?
Honestly, no. I think our culture sometimes forgets its pioneers too quickly. People say “old artist” instead of “legendary artist.” If artists before you hadn’t taken the risks, many of these lanes wouldn’t exist today. In rock music, legends continue to receive lifelong respect. I hope our industry develops that same culture of honouring the people who paved the way.

Has your creative process changed significantly since your early days in the industry? And what inspires you today compared to when you first started making music?
My core process hasn’t changed much. I still believe the best music comes from the heart, not from chasing trends. If you only follow trends, your song expires when the trend does. I also avoid listening to too much outside music when I’m creating because I don’t want to subconsciously copy anyone. I want people to hear Roach Killa, not a version of someone else.

Every artist faces setbacks. What did it teach you?
One of the hardest things has been dealing with the political and cultural divisions that sometimes affect artists. Music has no borders, but artists often get pulled into conversations that have nothing to do with music. I’ve always believed musicians should have the freedom to collaborate across cultures and countries. When people listen to a song, they respond emotionally first. Music connects human beings before politics divides them. That taught me to stay focused, like a horse with blinders on — not distracted by noise on either side.

Now looking back on your journey from a young reggae enthusiast in Canada to an internationally recognized artist, what achievement makes you the proudest?
Every achievement is special, but the proudest moment for me was creating a song that became a global anthem associated with Pakistan: “Aa” featuring Arif Lohar and Deep Jandu. That song is played in stadiums, PSL matches, IPL matches and events worldwide. Knowing that your music becomes part of your country’s cultural memory is incredibly humbling. Even if I stopped making music tomorrow, that legacy would remain.

When the story of Punjabi music’s evolution is written what chapter do you believe Roach Killa would represent?
I’d say we represent one of the pioneering chapters of Punjabi urban fusion music. We weren’t the very first chapter, but we were among the artists who helped define and expand this sound globally. Especially with reggae and dancehall influences in Punjabi music, I believe my name will always be part of that story.

The post East Meets West and More – Roach Killa appeared first on Glam Magazine.

By Rumana Husain

Beloved

Mary Roy

Dreamer Warrior Teacher

07.11.1933 – 01.09.2022

Founder, Pallikoodam

Thus reads the headstone for writer Arundhati Roy’s mother – an eighty-nine-year-old matriarch who was not your everyday, easy-to-understand, easy-to-live-with, easy-to-love (or be loved by) mother.

In her latest book, Mother Mary Comes to Me, published in 2025 by Penguin Random House UK, Roy has written about her mother, Mary Roy, but also, inevitably, about herself.

As memories unfold, the lives of mother and daughter become inseparable, revealing a relationship marked by affection, rebellion, admiration and hurt. Mary Roy was a formidable woman. Founder of the progressive school Pallikoodam in Kerala, she also fought the landmark legal battle that secured equal inheritance rights for Syrian Christian women.

Arundhati Roy neither sanctifies nor condemns her mother. Instead, she allows her contradictions to stand, making Mary Roy all the more real. What delighted me most, however, were the glimpses into the Booker Prize winning author’s own life that surfaced unexpectedly. I had long known that she had studied architecture, but I was surprised to learn about her early involvement with films: writing screenplays and acting, as well as her marriage to filmmaker, researcher and author Pradip Krishen. Equally unexpected was discovering that she became stepmother to his two daughters, a role about which little is generally known.

The memoir also revisits Roy’s years as a fearless reporter and activist. Her journeys through the Narmada Valley, where she stood with people displaced by the dam projects, her courageous time among the forest communities – the Naxalite movement, and her writings on Kashmir remind readers that her literary achievements have always been accompanied by an unwavering engagement with political and social realities.

Fatherless, motherless, and almost brotherless, but not friendless, her extraordinary experiences are woven into the narrative not as digressions but as integral parts of the life she has lived.

What struck me throughout was Roy’s refusal to simplify either her mother or herself. Love coexists with anger, gratitude with resentment, intimacy with distance. The book becomes not merely a memoir of a remarkable woman but a meditation on memory, family and the complicated ways in which parents continue to shape us.

Besides enjoying pure fiction, my readings (and writings) have always leaned towards biographies, memoirs, history, art and travel writing. Such books deepen my understanding of people and places and often nourish my own writing. Mother Mary Comes to Me belongs to that rare category of memoirs that leave one thinking long after the last page has been turned – not because they offer neat resolutions, but because they embrace life’s ambiguities with honesty and grace.

About the author

Arundhati Roy was born to Mary Roy, a Christian from Kerala and her husband Rajib Roy, a Hindu Bengali tea estate manager, on November 24, 1961, in Shillong, Assam, India. She is an author and political activist who is best known for the Booker Prize-winning novel The God of Small Things (1997) and for her advocacy of environmental and human rights issues. Her political writings criticise fascism, social injustice, and globalisation, among other issues. Roy has faced legal challenges, including imprisonment and charges of sedition and contempt of court for her activism. Nevertheless, her commitment to the aforementioned causes has sustained a spirit of revolution within the Indian political landscape. In 2017 Roy published The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. It is her second novel in 20 years. However, her literary output largely consists of politically oriented nonfiction, much of it aimed at addressing the problems faced by her homeland in the age of global capitalism.

About the writer

Rumana Husain is a Pakistani author, artist, and educator with a deep commitment to storytelling, art, and social impact. She was the co-founding Senior Editor of NuktaArt, an international art magazine that ran for a decade

(2004–2014). She has authored two critically acclaimed coffee-table books: Karachiwala – A Subcontinent within a City, which explores Karachi’s rich ethnic and religious diversity, and Street Smart – Professionals on the Street, a tribute to the city’s blue-collar workforce. Rumana has written and/or illustrated over 90 children’s books, and recognised with awards in Pakistan, Nepal, and India. In addition to children’s literature, she is a regular contributor to national newspapers. She has served as the head of a private school, co-founded The Bookgroup, wrote and illustrated children’s books and teacher manuals. She worked with the Children’s Museum for Peace and Human Rights as Head of Activism and Outreach.

The post Mother, Daughter and the Spaces Between appeared first on Glam Magazine.

For many years, Faysal Qureshi has remained a constant in an industry defined by change. From his beginnings as a child artist to becoming one of Pakistan’s most celebrated actors, his journey has been marked by reinvention and an uncommon willingness to challenge himself. Behind the accolades and iconic performances lies an artist who still approaches every new role with the mindset of a student, convinced that evolution is the only way to endure

1. You began your journey as a child artist and have now spent more than four decades in front of the camera. Looking back, which phase of your life shaped you the most as an actor?

I think the foundation of an actor is built in childhood, and that’s where I learned the most. I had the privilege of working with some of Pakistan’s greatest artists such as Qavi Khan, Abid Ali, Firdaus Jamal and many others. They would take me to sit with director Yawar Hayat sahib. He used to speak about life and acting in such a philosophical way that I couldn’t understand what he meant.

Years later, while working with Abid Ali sahib, I told him, “You were building my motherboard.” He laughed and said, “Now you understand.” They gave me a foundation that has stayed with me throughout my career.

2. Very few actors remain relevant through changing eras, audiences, television trends and now social media. What has enabled you to sustain such remarkable longevity?

For an actor, change is essential. Every year, you have to evolve and do something different. If you stop changing, you stop growing. I’ve been incredibly fortunate because my seniors guided me at every stage of my career. Sajid Hassan once told me that no matter what happens, I should always bring something new; that advice stayed with me. Whether it was actor Nadeem, Javed Sheikh or any senior artist I worked alongside, they were always generous with their knowledge. When I moved into films, I continued learning from experienced actors there as well.

Now we’ve entered the social media era, and I’m still adapting to it. I’m a very one-track person. When I’m working, I’m completely immersed in my work. I don’t naturally think about taking behind-the-scenes photos or documenting every moment. That’s something the younger generation does very well. I’m learning, slowly.

3. From Boota and Bashar Momin to Channar Khan in Khaie and the multiple personalities of Behroopia, your career has been defined by remarkably diverse roles. What excites you most today—the character, the story, or the opportunity to surprise your audience?

Without a doubt, it’s the opportunity to surprise the audience. Whenever I get the chance, I try to do something completely different from what I’ve done before. That’s also why there are sometimes long gaps between my projects. After Case No. 9, for example, there was almost an eleven-month gap before my next major project because I didn’t want to repeat myself. Behroopia immediately caught my attention because it explored multiple personality disorder. The idea of portraying nine different personalities within one character was incredibly exciting. Initially, I wasn’t convinced because I felt the character’s age didn’t quite fit me, but after the script was reworked, I came on board.

For me, the excitement always lies in the challenge. Whether it was Boota, Bashar Momin, Channar Khan or Behroopia, each role pushed me in a completely different direction. I remember that after Boota, many people believed I could only play Punjabi-speaking characters. Then Umrao Jaan Ada came along, and people questioned whether I could carry an Urdu-speaking role. When it was released, I received tremendous appreciation.

4. You’ve previously said that when you begin a role, you ‘put Faysal Qureshi to sleep’ so the character can come alive. What does that transformation look like for you?

Every character has their own personality, their own way of thinking and reacting. Someone like Channar Khan, for instance, is nothing like me in real life. That’s why the first thing I have to do is let go of my own identity. If you don’t, there’s always going to be a conflict between you and the character. People know who Faysal Qureshi is, but when they watch a drama, they shouldn’t see me—they should see the character. I’m not a method actor. My preparation happens before I reach the set. I discuss the script, the character arc and every detail with the writer and director beforehand. Once I step onto the set, all the preparation is done. Then I simply enjoy becoming that person for as long as the camera is rolling.

5. More than a decade later, Bashar Momin remains one of Pakistani television’s most iconic dramas. Why do you think it continues to resonate with audiences?

Bashar Momin came at exactly the right time. It wasn’t just another drama—it felt different. At the time, television wasn’t producing projects on that scale. The wardrobes, the production design, the locations, the casting and even the storytelling were unlike anything audiences had seen before. We were inspired by the scale of Turkish dramas and challenged ourselves to create something equally ambitious for Pakistani television. Sometimes, everything simply comes together and people connect with it in a way you never expect.

Could it be made in exactly the same way today? I’m not sure. Audiences have changed, and so have critics. Today, every creative decision is analysed and questioned. Back then, people were more willing to simply enjoy a story. I always say that if the audience is entertained, then you’ve done your job. Not everything needs to be over-analysed. We’ve spoken about revisiting Bashar Momin over the years. In fact, we were discussing it again recently. Whether it happens or not, I don’t know, but if it ever does, it would have to evolve with today’s audience rather than simply recreate the past.

6. You’ve experienced fame before social media, during the satellite television boom and now in the age of digital fandom. Has the meaning of stardom changed?

There was a time when stars maintained a certain distance. People admired them because of their work, but they didn’t know much about their personal lives. Today, audiences want access. They want to know what you’re doing, what you’re eating, where you’re travelling and what happens behind the scenes. Actors who engage with their followers regularly have built very strong relationships with their audiences. I genuinely admire people who can do that. Personally, it’s still something I’m learning. If I’m at home, I’m usually reading or watching films. My learning process never really stops, so social media doesn’t always come naturally to me.

7. Being one of Pakistan’s most sought-after actors also comes with enormous expectations. Do you ever feel burdened by the pressure to live up to your own reputation?

There are times when you accept a project because of friendship or relationship within the industry rather than because it’s the perfect script. Sometimes you want to support a producer you’ve worked with for years, or help someone who stood by you earlier in your career. Then the audience asks, “Why did you do this drama?” It’s a fair question. Every actor faces moments like that. At the same time, I also feel an enormous responsibility because people have certain expectations from me. They expect quality, and I’m grateful for that. As long as audiences continue to expect the best from me, I consider it a blessing because it means they still care about my work.

8. Pakistani dramas are now watched across South Asia, the Middle East and beyond. In your opinion, what makes our storytelling resonate so strongly with international audiences?

People are naturally curious about other cultures, and Pakistani dramas present our culture in a very authentic way. More importantly, we’ve always been strong storytellers. Whether it’s the writers, the directors or the actors, we’ve consistently focused on telling emotionally engaging stories.

I’ve experienced this first-hand while travelling over the past year for film Deemak, cricket events, meet-and-greet and fundraising programmes. I have met people not only from Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and Turkey, but also from other countries who said they watch our dramas and genuinely enjoy them. Many don’t understand every word, but they still connect with the emotions. Another reason is that our dramas are concise. Most stories conclude within 30 to 35 episodes, so viewers remain invested from beginning to end instead of following a series for years. And, of course, we’re fortunate to have incredibly talented—and very beautiful—artists who have become recognised faces around the world.

9. With Deemak, you ventured into one of Pakistani cinema’s few serious horror films. What attracted you to the project?

When producer Rafay Rashdi first approached me, I assumed it would be another horror comedy because that’s generally what audiences associate with the genre here. When he told me it was a serious horror film, I actually asked him, “Who watches serious horror films in Pakistan?” He insisted that I hear the story first.

After our narration session, I was intrigued, but I’ve heard many great narrations that didn’t translate into equally strong scripts. So I waited until I read the screenplay. Once I finished it, I immediately called him back. What really impressed me was that the horror felt grounded. The situations were believable and emotionally relatable rather than relying on cheap scares. Even the supernatural elements were approached thoughtfully.

When I learned that the cast included Samina Peerzada, Sonia Hussyn, Bushra Ansari and Javed Sheikh, I felt even more confident about the project. For me, however, the biggest lesson from Deemak is that no film succeeds because of one person. People often praise actors, but filmmaking is a collective effort. A great actor cannot save a weak script. A brilliant script cannot survive poor direction. Likewise, even with a great script, cast and director, weak cinematography or sound can affect the final product. Everything has to work together. Even the biggest stars cannot guarantee success. If that were true, every Tom Cruise film would be a blockbuster.A good film is never the achievement of one individual—it’s the result of an entire team working in harmony.

10. Having worked through the era of PTV classics and today’s streaming generation, where do you think our storytelling has improved—and where have we perhaps lost something along the way?

Storytelling has definitely evolved, because audiences have evolved. In the PTV era, there was only one channel. Viewers had the patience to watch long scenes and slow-paced narratives because there were very few alternatives. Today, that’s no longer the case. People have countless choices. They have television, YouTube, OTT platforms and social media all competing for their attention. If you don’t hook them within the first episode—or sometimes within the first few minutes—they’ll simply move on to something else. Writers and directors understand this reality now, and I think they’ve adapted remarkably well. Today’s competition is much tougher. At any given time, there are dozens of dramas airing across different channels, all competing for the same audience. So when a drama manages to stand out today, I believe it’s a tremendous achievement.

11. You’ve spoken passionately about protecting Pakistan’s entertainment industry. What concerns you most about its future?

My biggest concern is employment. When one prime-time slot disappears from local television, you’re not just losing a programme—you are taking work away from more than a hundred people. Every drama supports actors, assistant directors, writers, camera crews, makeup artists, technicians and countless others whose livelihoods depend on these productions. That’s why I believe local productions should always be prioritised.

Governments have been very supportive of our film industry through grants and incentives, and we’re grateful for that. But at the same time, if imported content is given additional advantages, it creates confusion. I’m not afraid of competition. Pakistani dramas have proved themselves before. We produced classics like Meri Zaat Zarra-e-Benishan and Man-o-Salwa when Turkish and Indian content dominated our screens. The issue is ensuring our own industry continues to create opportunities for young actors, writers and technicians. That’s how an industry grows.

12. From Muskurati Morning to Salam Zindagi, hosting introduced you to people from all walks of life. What did those experiences teach you that acting never could?

Hosting completely changed my perspective. Before Muskurati Morning, I was living in what I call my own little bubble. As actors, we can become disconnected from everyday realities. Through those programmes, especially the episodes centring on social issues, I met people whose stories stayed with me long after the cameras stopped rolling. Some of those experiences even inspired characters and storylines in my later dramas. There were also stories that were simply too heartbreaking to share on television because families and children were watching. Those years grounded me. They helped me understand the struggles ordinary Pakistanis face every day, and that understanding made me a better actor.

13. You’ve often spoken about the importance of reading. In an age dominated by short-form content, do you worry that we’re losing something important?

Reading gives a person depth. Every book adds something to your thinking, your vocabulary and your understanding of people. All of that stays with you. You can’t gain that depth simply by scrolling through reels. It helps in acting and directing. I’m not against social media, but I do believe reading develops empathy and imagination in a way that quick content simply cannot. Whenever I meet young people who have genuinely read literature, the conversation is completely different. You can immediately sense the richness of their thinking.

14. Your light-hearted reels with your wife, Sana, have become hugely popular online. How did they begin?

It was entirely Sana’s idea! One day she said, “Let’s make a reel.” Now tell me, who can say no to their wife? So we recorded one just for fun and uploaded it. Our friends loved it, and then the response kept growing. We never planned to become content creators. Whenever we happen to have some free time, we’ll make a reel simply because we enjoy it. There’s no strategy behind it. It’s just something fun we do together.

15. Despite being one of Pakistan’s biggest stars, you’ve managed to maintain a remarkably grounded personal life. Is that a conscious choice?

When I’m working, I’m completely focused on work. But the moment I get home, I’m just another member of the family. I do the grocery shopping, help around the house and take care of everyday responsibilities. Fame stays outside the front door. That’s how I’ve always tried to live.

16. After decades in the industry, countless awards and hundreds of projects, do you still get nervous before a new role?

Every single time. Whenever a new drama begins, I genuinely feel as though I’m doing my very first project. I constantly call the writer and director. I ask questions. Sometimes I worry so much that they start laughing and tell me, “Sir, everything will be fine.” But I don’t think I’ll ever be completely satisfied with my work. The day an actor believes there’s nothing left to improve is probably the day they stop growing.

17. If today’s Faysal Qureshi could sit down with the young boy who had just entered the industry, what advice would he give him?

I’d tell him one simple thing: start taking care of your health when you are young. I came from a time when life was all about struggle. We were constantly running from one project to another and didn’t have the luxury of focusing on fitness. Today, no matter what happens, I make sure I’m at the gym every morning. If I could go back, that’s the one habit I’d have developed much sooner. Everything else—the success, the failures, the lessons—helped shape who I am today.

The post The Continuous Evolution of Faysal Qureshi appeared first on Glam Magazine.

A seminar titled ‘Karo Kari: Bury This Barbaric Practice’ was organized at the Karachi Press Club under the platform “Dukhtaran-e-Karachi.” Senior political leaders, human rights activists, lawyers, parliamentarians and members of civil society strongly condemned the inhumane practice of so-called honour killings and demanded strict implementation of existing laws.

The seminar was chaired by politician Nasreen Jalil, while the organizers included Aamir Siddiqui, Dr. Ubaid Ali, and MNA Sabeen Ghauri. Among the prominent participants were Chairperson Senate Human Rights Committee Senator Samina Mumtaz Zehri, renowned women’s rights activist Mahnaz Rahman, Nuzhat Shireen and others.

Addressing the seminar, Senator Nasreen Jalil stated that Karo Kari is not merely an outdated custom but an outright act of terrorism and murder against humanity. She said that Islam provides no justification whatsoever for killings in the name of honour and emphasized that the feudal mindset and oppressive tribal structures have pushed Sindh into darkness.

Senator Samina Mumtaz Zehri and Senator Khalida Ateeb highlighted those 34 women had reportedly been targeted in the name of honor in Sindh during the past four months, while the horrifying incident of a young girl being buried alive in بلوچستان shocked the conscience of humanity. They noted that police and administrative authorities often appear helpless before influential feudal elements, resulting in many incidents not even being registered through FIRs.

Senator Aamir Chishti stressed that society must rise above political affiliations and unite collectively to eradicate this brutal practice, adding that the sanctity of human life must remain paramount.

Speaking on the legal dimensions of the issue, Fareeda Mangrio emphasized the urgent need to strengthen prosecution in honour killing cases so that no criminal can escape the grip of the law.  The speakers expressed grave concern that more than one thousand women fall victim to such barbaric practices every year, while nearly fifty percent of the incidents remain unreported due to pressure from influential feudal figures and the parallel jirga system. Reference was also made to the recent Rubina Chandio case, where attempts were allegedly made to weaken the case by altering legal provisions.

Participants urged strict implementation of the 2016 Anti-Honour Killing Act in its true spirit, noting that under the law, courts retain the authority to sentence perpetrators to life imprisonment even if the heirs pardon the accused.

At the conclusion of the seminar, participants demanded that the government arrest all those involved irrespective of political influence and pledged that the platform of “Dukhtaran-e-Karachi” by MQM. Pakistan would continue its awareness campaign until the complete eradication of this barbaric practice.

The post Voices Against Karo Kari appeared first on Glam Magazine.

From a celebrated child star on PTV to an accomplished classical vocalist, Afshan Ahmed has spent decades balancing music with work and family. Her journey reflects artistic growth, deep classical training, and a lifelong dedication to meaningful music and human connection.

1. You began your journey as a child artist on PTV—what are your earliest memories of performing on Hamari Shaam?

Actually, my journey began before Hamari Shaam, on radio in a children’s programme called Bachon Ki Duniya where I used to sing regularly. Hamari Shaam was my first television appearance, and interestingly, it was hosted by my mother. I only appeared once because she didn’t want anyone to think she was promoting me unfairly. At that time, I was balancing both radio and television, but eventually I had to choose because both recordings happened on Sundays. For a child, television naturally felt more exciting because it was visual and glamorous, so I moved towards TV. Those early years were full of innocence and curiosity, and I think that environment shaped my comfort with performing from a very young age.

• Growing up with a mother like Asma Ahmed, how did her musical background shape your own artistic path?

My mother was my very first mentor, teacher and ustad. She is a naturally gifted artist who never formally learned music, yet she guided me from childhood with immense dedication. She would make me repeat lines over and over until every note and pronunciation felt right. That discipline stayed with me throughout my life.

Later, I formally studied classical music under Ustad Hameed Ali Khan of the Gwalior Gharana and trained with him for nearly twenty years. That was where I truly learned the technical side of music — understanding ragas, notes, structure and expression. But the foundation, the instinct and the sincerity towards music, all came from my mother.

• Your work with Sohail Rana on shows like Kaliyon Ki Mala made you a household name—what did that phase teach you about connecting with young audiences?

I was only six or seven years old when I sang “Dosti Aisa Naata” and suddenly became widely recognised. At that age, I didn’t fully understand fame. I only knew that everywhere I went, people recognised me, pulled my cheeks lovingly and spoke about the song.  Sometimes I would get irritated hearing the same thing repeatedly, but my mother always reminded me that these people loved me and were the reason for my recognition. Over time, I learned patience and gratitude. I think the reason people still remember me is because there was only one television channel and very few children’s programmes then. Audiences formed genuine emotional connections with artists.

• From children’s programming to mainstream television in the ’80s and ’90s, how did your music evolve as you grew as an artist?

Education was always prioritised in our home. We were taught that if studies suffered, everything else — music, sports, television — would suffer too. Later, after marriage and children, life became about balancing responsibilities. I never chose music over my family. I avoided late-night shows and public performances because my children and home came first. At the same time, music gave me incredible opportunities. I represented Pakistan in 14 countries and performed in several languages including Korean, Japanese, Turkish, Bangla and Russian. Whenever I travelled, I would carefully study the language and meaning of the songs with help from embassies and interpreters. Singing in people’s native languages created beautiful connections. As my children grew older and I found more time, I immersed myself in classical music. My voice matured, my listening deepened, and I gradually moved towards more meaningful and poetic forms of expression.

• You’ve worked alongside artists like Akhlaq Ahmed and Alamgir—what collaborations stand out most in your career?

I actually haven’t done many duets in my career, but one collaboration that became especially memorable was the song Babula Ve Le Jayen Na Log Mujh Ko from Heer Ranjha. It brought me tremendous recognition and is still sung at weddings today. I’ve shared stages and performances with many renowned artists over the years, but my career was never heavily centred around collaborations or commercial duets. My journey remained more personal and performance-driven. ‘Ai Khuda Meray Abu Salamat Rahein’ was a very popular solo ad song still remembered by people.

• You’ve continued performing at cultural events and festivals—what keeps you motivated to stay connected with audiences after four decades?

I genuinely love people and I love performing live because of the immediate emotional connection with audiences. But over time, my music has become more intimate and serious. I now enjoy singing ghazals, classical poetry and compositions inspired by poets like Mirza Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. These genres attract smaller audiences, but they are deeply attentive and emotionally invested. That atmosphere suits me more than massive crowds. My style has never been loud or flashy. I prefer music where poetry, thought and emotion are central, where listeners truly absorb what is being sung.

• As someone who has been part of both radio and television eras, how do you view the shift toward digital platforms and streaming?

The biggest difference is that earlier music involved patience, preparation and real connection. Today, everything has become instant and digital. Songs are uploaded quickly, remixed quickly and consumed quickly. I feel audiences have also become distracted because of phones and social media. Even at gatherings or music events, people struggle to stay fully present. In our time, recording even a three-minute song required days of rehearsal, practice, recording and filming. That process created depth and understanding. Today, overnight fame is possible, but often temporary. I believe organic artistic growth takes time, discipline and sincerity. Another thing I miss is simplicity in performance. Nowadays, many artists rely heavily on loud arrangements and large ensembles. For me, true confidence is when an artist can sit with minimal accompaniment and still move an audience purely through voice and expression.

• Music often preserves memories—are there any songs of yours that feel especially personal or close to your heart?

My childhood songs remain deeply special to me because they carry memories of innocence and early recognition. Babula Ve Le Jayen Na Log Mujh Ko is particularly close to my heart because of its emotional depth and the way people still connect with it today. But with age, my relationship with music has changed. I’ve gradually moved away from lighter songs and towards serious poetry and classical expression. Life experiences, struggles and maturity naturally change your emotional landscape. As you grow older, you begin to connect more with music that reflects real emotions and deeper truths.

• When did your classical music journey begin?

My formal classical training began in the early 1990s after my son was born. That journey completely transformed my understanding of music. Classical music is an ocean — even after nearly twenty years of training, I feel like a student. I learned only a handful of ragas properly because true classical training requires immense patience, discipline and surrender. Sadly, my teacher passed away a few years ago, but I continue revising and practising everything he taught me. Classical music taught me humility more than anything else. At the same time, music was never my sole source of income. I studied Montessori education, ran my own school and later began working with an organisation associated with Hameed Haroon that supports women through vocational training. Helping women learn skills and regain confidence has been deeply fulfilling. Music and social work have always gone hand in hand for me.

1. Your sing-along music gathering is very popular. Can you elaborate on it?

The sing-along sessions actually began with my mother after her retirement from the Pakistan American Cultural Center, where she used to teach music. When she retired, I offered my school space for these gatherings, and slowly it grew from a few people to over a hundred participants. What we do is not formal teaching — it is more like music therapy. People come together to sing in chorus form, relax, laugh and emotionally unwind. Some participants don’t even sing; they simply sit, listen and enjoy the atmosphere. For those two hours, people forget stress and loneliness. I’ve seen how healing music can be. Across the world, music is used therapeutically because it brings calm, joy and emotional release. That is exactly what these gatherings aim to create — a safe, warm and happy space.

1. You have such an extraordinary relationship with your mother. Can you tell us about that?

I truly believe I was blessed with extraordinary parents. They encouraged us in every aspect of life — academics, sports, music, swimming, athletics — everything. My father was extremely broad-minded and supportive, while my mother balanced that with and discipline.

My relationship with my mother is built on deep understanding and companionship. We can communicate without words, simply through expressions sometimes. We can sit together for hours in complete comfort even when silent. We share many of the same interests and genuinely enjoy each other’s company. She protected and guided me throughout my career. Even when I was young and performing, she accompanied me everywhere. Because of that upbringing, I never allowed fame to overpower my sense of self. My parents constantly reminded me to stay humble and grounded. Whatever I am today, I owe greatly to them — especially to my mother.

1. After such a rich and enduring career, what does music mean to you today—and what legacy do you hope to leave behind?

Music has been a deeply enriching and heartwarming segment of my life, but I still consider myself a student rather than someone leaving behind a grand legacy. If I have contributed anything, perhaps it is through working with children, sharing little songs with meaningful messages and helping people emotionally through music. Despite not chasing stardom aggressively, Allah gave me immense love and recognition, and for that I am grateful. I feel content knowing I stayed true to my responsibilities, my values and my music.

The post Spanning Forty Years of Music – Afshan Ahmed appeared first on Glam Magazine.

The event was presided over by the Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Dr. Fateh Muhammad Marri, while Ms. Sultana Siddiqui, President and CEO of Hum Network Limited, graced the occasion as Chief Guest. A large number of distinguished scholars, former bureaucrats, faculty members, civil society representatives, students, and members of the media attended the event.

Mazhar-ul-Haq Siddiqui, who served as Vice-Chancellor for an unprecedented 13 years across three tenures, was remembered as a transformative leader who reshaped the institutional, academic, and administrative foundations of the University. Speakers described him as an architect of merit, discipline, and institutional integrity, whose tenure marked a defining era in the University’s history after Allama I.I. Kazi.

During his address, the Vice-Chancellor expressed gratitude to the family, friends, and colleagues of the late Siddiqui for their presence and reflections. He described him as a role model who set new benchmarks for academic leadership. He announced that the University would soon revitalise its Translation Bureau and undertake the translation of Siddiqui’s book into English and Urdu. He further shared that efforts are underway, in collaboration with his son, to establish an institution in his name to carry forward his legacy.

Highlighting his contributions, speakers noted that he revolutionised faculty recruitment through transparent, merit-based systems, introduced standardised admission processes, and strengthened academic credibility. His visionary leadership led to the expansion of scientific disciplines, establishment of new departments, and major infrastructure development through Higher Education Commission projects. The creation of the Quality Enhancement Cell (QEC) further ensured alignment with international academic standards.

He was also widely recognised as a champion of gender equality and inclusivity, creating a safe and enabling environment for female students and faculty through progressive policies and dedicated facilities.

In her keynote address, Ms. Sultana Siddiqui paid a heartfelt tribute, recalling him as a caring brother and a strong advocate of women’s rights. She credited his support as instrumental in her success and highlighted his commitment to education through the Fakhether Imdad Foundation, which provided free education to children in rural areas, transforming countless lives.

Commissioner Hyderabad, Mr. Fayaz Abbasi, emphasised the role of education in shaping the nation’s future and stressed the importance of character building and inclusivity in educational institutions, particularly ensuring safe environments for female students.

Dr. Fahmida Hussain described Siddiqui as a humble and principled individual devoted to education, while Ms. Mehtab Akbar Rashdi praised his wisdom, character, and alignment with the vision of Allama I.I. Kazi. Other speakers, including Mr. Mustafa Suhag, Dr. A.Q. Mughal, Dr. Qadeer Rajput, Dr. Siddique Kalhoro, and Dr. Khalil Khunbhati, highlighted his administrative strength, compassion, accessibility, and commitment to student welfare and faculty development. Special tribute was also paid to his wife, Apa Akhtar Jabeen, for her unwavering support.

Mr. Jahangir Siddiqui fondly remembered his brother as a man of exceptional courage and unwavering principles. He stated that Mazhar-ul-Haq Siddiqui never compromised on merit and had the integrity to refuse compliance with any directives he believed were unjust or contrary to fairness. He also shared a personal reflection, describing him as a devoted and caring son who remained closely attached to his mother, who always preferred to stay with him.

Mr. Zuhair Siddiqui shared that they inherited the values of humility, courage, and honesty from their father, who guided them at every step of life. He noted that Mazhar-ul-Haq Siddiqui was deeply concerned about rural development and firmly believed that Pakistan holds immense potential in its rural areas, and that meaningful investment in rural development is essential for national progress.

He further highlighted that his father was a strong advocate of girls’ education and believed that no nation can progress without empowering women. In continuation of his vision, he announced that the family is planning to establish a Human Resource and Skill Development Center at the University of Sindh and is actively working to carry forward his mission. His elder daughter, Ms. Nazia Inam, also shared heartfelt reflections, describing him as a deeply loving and compassionate personality.

The ceremony commenced with a welcome address by Prof. Arfana Mallah, while the formal citation was read by Prof. Dr. Misbah Bibi, Pro Vice-Chancellor, Thatta Campus. The vote of thanks was presented by Mr. Sajid Memon.

As part of the tribute, a documentary produced by University faculty members was screened, and an exhibition of rare photographs from Siddiqui’s tenure was curated by Dr. Saeed Mangi, Director, Institute of Art and Design.

The event concluded with a renewed commitment by the University of Sindh to uphold and carry forward the vision, values, and mission of Mazhar-ul-Haq Siddiqui, ensuring that his legacy continues to inspire generations to come.

The post A Journey of Mission: From Allama I.I. Kazi to the Late Mazhar-ul-Haq Siddiqui – A Tribute to Legends appeared first on Glam Magazine.