Weaving Stories of Strength, and Soul

In Pakistan’s evolving art landscape, few names resonate as deeply as Kulsoom Aftab, a director, dramaturge, poet, actor, and mentor whose artistry transcends boundaries. From her acclaimed Urdu translation of Stanislavsky’s “An Actor Prepares” to her unforgettable performances in Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra’, Kulsoom has carved a space where intellect and emotion coexist powerfully.

Q: You’ve worn many creative hats — director, actor, writer and dramatist. How do you switch between these roles, and which one feels most like home to you?

I don’t really switch at all. Most of the time I find myself doing everything, whether it’s my own projects or my production house’s work. For years, if I was acting in something, I’d also be asked to check the dialogues or handle production details. Only in the last couple of years have I had the luxury of just showing up as an actor, performing, and then going home.

But in theatre, I’m still my own ticket-seller, producer, director, and actor. Especially because I mostly do original plays or dramatic remakes which require that level of involvement. And honestly, theatre feels most like home to me. Whether I’m directing, acting, doing dramaturgy, or even just managing a festival, being in that space always feels right.

Q: Your Urdu translation of Stanislavsky’s ‘An Actor Prepares’ is a huge milestone. What inspired you to take on such classic and intense work?

Shararat! That’s really how it began. I had been teaching theory at NAPA for almost a decade, but I wanted to learn acting formally. When I went to Dr. Enver Sajjad and asked him what to study, he simply told me: “Don’t read. Just act.” But I insisted on reading theory first. He reluctantly handed me ‘An Actor Prepares’.

When I read it, I was shocked that such a foundational book on acting had never been translated into Urdu. It’s the first book that actually turned acting into an academic subject. I pushed Dr. Enver Sajjad to translate it, but he declined due to health reasons. Eventually, with support from our dean, Rahat Kazmi, I took it on. Dr. Enver translated half before his health declined, and I carried it forward. What started as mischief turned into a mission and eventually a co-translation.

Q: Why Stanislavsky, specifically?

Because it’s the source. Every major theorist after him stands on the shoulders of ‘An Actor Prepares’. Without it, acting education is incomplete. In Pakistan, we had institutions of performing arts but no Urdu translation of this fundamental text and that made me angry. It’s not just a manual, it’s an invitation to discover your own method. That openness is what drew me to it, and I do hope to translate the rest of the trilogy one day.

Q: You’re a strong voice for female empowerment and meaningful content. How do you see the industry evolving in that space?

I’m cautious when we say “evolving.” Women are mostly carving their own space rather than being given it. Institutions rarely make conscious efforts to place women in positions of creative or administrative authority. Yes, women are often welcomed in supportive roles, the ones that carry pressure but don’t demand credit.

Personally, I stopped trying to be responsible for every woman. I decided the one woman I must always answer to is myself. By doing that I found myself connecting with other women, telling them: ‘This was your right, you could have asked for it.’ My work has been grassroots, starting from my own institution, and slowly spreading outward.

Q: As a woman in the arts, what challenges have shaped your journey the most?

The biggest challenge was invisibility. I would sit in rooms full of men and hear, ‘We don’t have any writers.’ And I was right there. That hurt deeply, I cried at home sometimes but it never broke me. Somehow, life always gave me a chance to be seen again.

I tell young women this: don’t abandon your identity at the first sign of hardship. Many women do. They think it’s easier to hide who they are, but that phase as difficult as it feels is just one part of the journey. If you hold on, there’s always another step waiting that can change everything.

Q: Your documentary ‘Our Jacob’ won hearts. What was the most powerful moment for you during its making?

The irony is, I wasn’t supposed to write it at all! The concept was by Naseem Himoz, but when he fell sick close to the deadline, I had to step in. I wrote the first draft in a single night, then refined it later.

What struck me most was the people of Jacobabad speaking about John Jacob a British officer who gave the city its name. They spoke of him as a healer, almost a saint. To this day, people visit his grave, believing threads tied there can cure back pain. It was fascinating to see how a colonial administrator became a figure of local spiritual reverence, and how deeply people protected his legacy. That was the emotional core of the documentary.

Q: How do you balance your work between stage performances like ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ and more intimate mediums like documentaries or poetry?

I don’t balance at all. Poetry comes when it wants to; you can’t summon it. Acting on the other hand, is deeply intimate and consuming. Honestly, no artist can work by ‘balancing.’ We work like mad people sixteen hours a day. When the pandemic forced me to pause in 2020, it was my first real break in ten years. There’s no balance because creating requires both survival and luxury. You must earn to live, but also create the illusion of having time, space, and beauty to write. It’s constant juggling.

Q: Your last play at NAPA, ‘The River’s Daughter’, was a powerful production. How was it received?

The response was overwhelming. At a time when theatre audiences in Karachi were shrinking, this play managed to pull people back in. And that success wasn’t just mine it was collective. Seniors, mid-career artists, students—everyone at NAPA contributed.

What made it special was that it was an original play, and unfortunately, there’s a bias against original writing in theatre. Even respected teachers and colleagues often avoided it. ‘The River’s Daughter’ broke that pattern. It had a powerful script, a versatile cast including Aamina Ilyas’s debut and Sheema Kirmani, and a troupe of folk musicians who brought raw authenticity. For me, that was the highlight, making folk singers feel at home in a theatre space, and making the production truthful in a Stanislavskian sense.

Q: You work closely with aspiring artists as a coach and student counselor. What advice do you find yourself repeating often?

The first thing I tell them is to read and not just books, but themselves. Self-reflection is the starting point of any artistic journey. Second, I remind them to take their work seriously. Not every moment is for laughter; discipline matters.

Third, silence—our art is built on silence. A performance can cost crores in lights, makeup, and production, but if one actor needs focus and another distracts them, it destroys the worship of the craft. Whether in theatre or on screen, silence is sacred. Many young students struggle with this, but it’s crucial. Fourth, I stress originality. Don’t copy. Your original idea will always carry more power than any adaptation.

Q: You have also started your own private academy. Please tell us about it.

Yes, it’s called Theakada (Theatre K Academy of Dramatic Arts Karachi), launched earlier this year. I had already founded Theatre K Productions back in 2012, but Theakada is my second more ambitious venture, a creative training academy.

The idea was born after my experience designing NAPA’s first-ever Master Class in 2022. I developed my own curriculum from over a decade of academic discourse. That course generated revenue and respect for the institution, but more importantly, it showed me the demand for new kinds of creative education. Our very first academic activity was an eight-hour masterclass with filmmaker Jami. Not a single person left the room. That’s the kind of immersive and transformative experience we want to create.

Q: Do you think enough platforms exist for young talent in Pakistan? What more can be done?

Platforms, as people imagine them, don’t really exist here. Young artists now have phones and can make two-minute films — that’s something. But the myth that someone will just ‘discover’ you and

put your face on a billboard is dangerous. Real platforms come from consistent, quality work. Right now, much of our theatre is in degeneration. There’s no strong lifeboat for young talent.

Q: What does “meaningful entertainment” mean to you in today’s digital age of viral trends and content overload?

For me, meaningful entertainment has to carry a message. We live in an age of endless, mindless scrolling. But once in a while, you stop. Why? Because something had depth, something touched you. That’s meaningful. And I’ll go further: it’s not just ‘meaningful,’ it has to be original. The moment you tell your own story, it becomes meaningful automatically. That’s what we lack today—originality.

Q: What advice would you like to give aspiring artists who want to enter this field?

Don’t chase advice. If you truly believe you belong in this field, just do it. But yes, listen to everyone. Sometimes the most unexpected feedback from a friend, a stranger and even domestic help can shift your perspective and improve your craft.