Magazines
NON-FICTION: THE LOST LOVER
Aap Ka Akhtar Shirani: Shakhsi Khaakay, Tajziya Aur Matan
By Professor Muhammad Akram Saeed
Maqsood Publishers
288pp.
Akhtar Shirani, the legendary Urdu poet who transformed the traditional contours of romantic poetry, has been rediscovered in a recent book — Aap Ka Akhtar Shirani: Shakhsi Khaakay, Tajziya Aur Matan. It is a timely intervention in an era where Urdu’s romantic tradition risks fading from public memory.
For many millennials, the name might ring a faint bell — perhaps from a fleeting moment of television humour, when the iconic comedian Umar Sharif, meeting cricketer-turned-commentator Ramiz Raja, teasingly asked why he was giving an “Akhtar Shirani look.” For a generation more attuned to memes than mushairas, the name may sound like a relic from another time. Yet, behind that lighthearted reference lies the story of one of Urdu’s most celebrated romantic poets — a man whose verses once defined love, beauty and youth for an entire literary age.
A recent biography resurrects the aura around Akhtar Shirani, one of Urdu’s most influential but often forgotten romantic poets
For someone like me, who discovered the work of the great Saadat Hasan Manto only after turning 18, I first came across Akhtar Shirani as one of Manto’s pen sketches. Manto admired Shirani’s emotional purity and lyrical idealism but also hinted at how that same sensitivity consumed him. He portrayed the poet as passionate in love, vulnerable to pain, and neglected by a society that adored his verses but ignored his suffering — “a man forever searching for the same beauty and affection he created in his poetry.”
Aap Ka Akhtar Shirani by Professor Muhammad Akram Saeed picks up this thread, reintroducing the forgotten romantic poet of yore through a collection of sketches and analyses by various authors. A lecturer with over two decades of teaching at Government College, Sheikhupura, Saeed’s portrayal moves beyond the textbook image of Shirani as a “poet of love”, revealing instead a craftsman of language and feeling whose verses still echo with tenderness, longing and timeless human emotion.
What sets Saeed’s work apart is his refusal to romanticise the poet’s ruin — instead, he pieces together the contradictions of Shirani’s personality with compassion and literary discipline, allowing readers to see the man behind the myth. With carefully chosen excerpts and biographical reflections in the 288-page book, the author reminds readers that Akhtar Shirani was not merely an echo from the past — he was, and remains, a voice of timeless yearning.
The book reveals the true creative power and poetic depth of Shirani. Admired by the renowned critic Agha Sorish Kashmiri and the celebrated playwright Agha Hashar, Shirani was influential in shaping literary greats such as Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi and Abdul Hamid Adam, who held him in the highest regard. Larger than life in his days, he slipped away quietly — his funeral, held two days after his death on September 9, 1948, was overshadowed by the passing of the Father of the Nation, Quaid-i-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah.
Tributes flowed at the time from some of Urdu literature’s finest voices, which are included in the book. Among them is one by Ahmad Nadeem Qasmi, who openly acknowledged that it was Akhtar Shirani’s poetry that inspired him to become a poet. His tender romanticism and lyrical grace stood in refreshing contrast to the political and reformist tones that dominated his era. The book also carries pen sketches of Shirani by luminaries such as Shoukat Thanvi, Sadiq-ul-Khairi, Mirza Adeeb and Nawabzada Nasrullah Khan, aka Baba-i-Jamhooriat.
Each chapter transports the reader back in time, vividly recreating the Lahore of the 1930s and 1940s — its gatherings, its charm, and the vibrant literary spirit that defined an age. The clip-clop of tongas Shirani once rode, echoing alongside chants of “Pakistan Zindabad”; the serene Lahore where he received love letters from “parda-nasheen” [veiled] admirers; and the city’s vibrant culture of mushairas, literary magazines and roadside hotels — all come vividly to life once again.
Born in 1905 in Tonk in Rajasthan, Akhtar was named Daud by his father, Hafiz Mehmood Shirani, a distinguished professor of Persian. When Daud was nine, his father returned from the United Kingdom, full of dreams and expectations for his only son — but destiny had other plans. Father and son were seldom on the same page, a clash that nearly every writer has touched upon in their sketches of him.
Akhtar moved to Lahore with his family at the age of 15 where, after a few years of half-hearted attempts at studies, he abandoned academics for journalism and then later poetry — a decision that would define his life. Restless and impulsive, he threw himself into literary pursuits, founding and later folding several literary magazines with equal passion and impatience. Known for his love of cigarettes and drink, Akhtar lived a life of shifting focus — brilliant yet erratic, devoted to art but perpetually at odds with order.
Shirani was the first major Urdu poet to change the gender of the ‘mehboob’ [beloved] from male to female, introducing a more personal and emotionally direct form of romantic expression. This shift gave Urdu poetry a new intimacy and made Shirani’s work accessible to broader audiences, particularly younger readers who saw their own emotions reflected in his verse.
One of the most fascinating aspects highlighted in the book is Shirani’s frequent use of the name “Salma” — a symbolic presence throughout his poetry. To many, Salma was both real and imagined, a poetic ideal through which Shirani expressed love, beauty and longing. In doing so, he broke from classical tradition.
Admired by the renowned critic Agha Sorish Kashmiri and the celebrated playwright Agha Hashar, Akhtar Shirani was influential in shaping literary greats such as Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi and Abdul Hamid Adam, who held him in the highest regard.
Many believed that Salma was merely a metaphor — like Zuleikha, Rehana or Azra, names he also used — yet others insisted, with evidence in hand, that Salma was very much real. Whether real or imagined, “Salma” became the prism through which Shirani explored the interplay between longing and loss — turning personal yearning into a universal idiom of love.
The book recalls Shirani’s deep admiration for Maulana Muhammad Ali Jauhar, the celebrated journalist, poet and freedom fighter. Jauhar recognised Shirani’s extraordinary talent early on, praising his lyrical voice and inviting him to write for his influential magazine Hamdard. This association not only affirmed Shirani’s place among the literary elite of his time but also connected him to the vibrant intellectual circles of pre-Partition India.
There was a moment when Shirani, as editor of a literary magazine, approved a poem critical of Dr Allama Iqbal, when Iqbal was the crowd’s favourite. As the poem stirred controversy and fears for Shirani’s safety, friends advised him to go underground — but Shirani only smiled at their concern.
As a reader, I believe Akhtar Shirani’s life has all the elements of a feature film — a blend of passion, conflict and tragedy, vividly reflected in the book. His story is marked by a lifelong clash with his father, whose death — just months before his own — left Shirani weeping like a child. The mysterious presence of “Salma” who, according to one account, came to pay her respects at his funeral, adds a layer of poetic intrigue. His growing distance from his family due to his indulgent habits, and the eventual betrayals by friends and confidants, complete the arc of a life that was as dramatic as the verses he wrote.
In revisiting Akhtar Shirani, Professor Saeed does more than resurrect a forgotten name — he restores a voice that still whispers to anyone who has ever loved, lost or dreamed. Shirani’s verses remind us that, while times change, the ache of beauty remains eternal.
The reviewer writes on old films and music and loves reading books.
X: @suhaybalavi
Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, November 30th, 2025
Recycling things is one of those habits that makes you feel proud, like you did something good without trying too hard and also helped the environment.
We all have things lying around, some in use, some totally useless, and half the time we don’t even notice them. So one random moment, a thought came into my mind: why not turn a paper cup into something useful instead of throwing it away? And then I came up with making this tiny DIY craft dustbin from a simple paper cup. It’s a small, fun idea that actually “works” and looks cute on the table. Let’s start making.
Things you need:
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Two paper cups (you can also use plastic)
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Scotch tape
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Scissors
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Craft stick one
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Pencil
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Glue stick
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Two pieces of coloured paper (green and any other colour)
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Hot glue (optional)
Directions:
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Put the cup upside down on any coloured paper (other than green). Trace a circle around the rim with a pencil and cut it out; pictures 2 and 3.
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Take another paper cup and cut off the curved top part along with about one centimetre of the cup below it; see pictures 4 and 5. This trimmed cup will go inside the main cup later.
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Cut a cup-wrap shape from green paper. Then cover the outside of the main cup with a glue stick; pictures 6 and 7.
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Make a small slit at the bottom of the cup, with scissors or a paper cutter, just big enough for a craft stick to slide in easily; pictures 8 and 9.
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On the craft stick, measure about one inch from one end, flatten the curved sides and paste the flattened part down one inch from one side of the remaining stick; see pictures 10 and 11.
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Carefully push the smaller end of the stick into the slit at the bottom of the cup, leaving the longer part of the stick outside; see picture 12.
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Now insert the smaller cut cup (the one we trimmed earlier) inside the main cup; picture 13.
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Take the circle you cut from the coloured paper in step 1, place it on top of your dustbin as a lid and tape it on from one side with scotch tape. When you press the stick outside, the inner cup lifts upward and the lid opens just like the real dustbins; see picture 14.
Isn’t it amazing and cute DIY?
The writer can be contacted at ithecraftman@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, Young World, December 6th, 2025
My school had taken us to the State Bank Museum as part of its educational field trip programme. I was on cloud nine, as I had a keen interest in finance and how the commerce and banking system operate. My friends had brought snacks for the trip and we enjoyed them along with constant giggles and commotion. The view was mesmerising as we passed the beach, watching the waves seamlessly crash into the sand.
As we reached our destination, my eyes immediately locked onto the massive building. It was a fine piece of stone and brick, with the marble shimmering in the distance. I noticed the lead used for the windows and the concrete shaping the entrance. According to the guide, the materials used in designing and building this colossal structure had been imported from England and Italy decades ago and had been well preserved ever since.
The air conditioner’s cool air greeted us as we entered the museum’s premises. The guide showed us a presentation about money and how it had evolved over the decades. After that, we were escorted to a room with large paintings.
They resembled Roman mosaics and contained a great deal of colour and detail. I learnt that the paintings explained how commerce worked in ancient times through barter trading and then gold. Agriculture was also visible in the paintings, highlighting its significance, and then modern-day banknotes and vaults were also depicted. We looked at a few other paintings, but quickly began to feel listless, as did the others; only a true artist could comprehend and appreciate the effort put into them, which we were not.
Moving on, we entered a room filled with glass cases. They contained numerous coins of various colours and sizes. Different figures were engraved on them and they looked fascinating. Alongside them were ancient forms of money, such as seashells, miniature clay tablets and so on.
“These are ancient relics spanning from the kingdoms in India, such as the Guptas and Dravidians, to the Muslim and Mongol empires,” explained the guide.
I scanned the cases, pondering how each ruler was so eager to have their face minted on the coins of their kingdoms. I came across old banknotes as well, dating back to the time the British ruled India. The banknotes had pictures of King George of England on them and I felt as if I had teleported back in time, especially since the interior of the museum also resembled a British building from the post–World War II era.
The guide then led us to a hall decorated with stamps and posters collected over the past century. Looking at posters and stamps doesn’t really float my boat, so I slipped out of the crowd.
Suddenly, something peculiar caught my attention. Bizarre sounds were echoing from a room and curiosity gripped me. I made my way towards it. A person was inside, their face obscured by a veil. I was puzzled as to whether the figure was male or female, but I was determined to uncover their identity. Just then, I couldn’t control myself and sneezed.
The figure spun around and noticed me. I held my composure, keeping my eyes locked on the mysterious person, and spotted a rope within my reach. My heart began racing, yet I steadied myself and flung the rope at the individual’s feet, causing them to trip. The veil came off and, dumbfounded, I scratched my head briefly.
It was Elvis Presley standing there, staring at me!
“That man died decades ago… so how could he be right before my eyes?” I wondered.
Immediately, I smelt rubber and understood what had transpired. Without thinking twice, I yanked at his face. He resisted, but due to my dogged persistence, he had nowhere to run.
After relentless effort, I managed to pull the mask off and before me stood the manager of the bank. My jaw dropped.
My school teachers and students, along with the security, had gathered as I had caused quite a commotion. The manager was arrested on the spot and after a few inquiries, the police informed our school that he had been after the ancient relics. He had calculated their approximate worth ever since he assumed office. The value ran into the billions, and he was planning to steal it all under the guise of being manager.
The security forces and museum staff thanked me, and my school was notified that the executive board, as well as I, had been invited to the capital for a state dinner celebrating this remarkable achievement. I was to be awarded a medal and recognised as a national hero.
Published in Dawn, Young World, December 6th, 2025
“Guys, wait for me!” I called to my friends as I was packing my bag.
They didn’t seem to want to wait and just kept walking. I caught up with them, but they looked pretty miffed about me buzzing around them. They finally heaved a sigh of relief when I headed towards another door, as we went through different gates, me to the van area and they to the car parking.
We were a group of five, that perfect gang that was fit to be on a drama cast. We had the innocent Mishal, the sassy Bismah, the fashionista Rumaissa, the quiet Aliza and, of course, the high scorer (I’m only admitting this for a good intro), me. We had been together since day one of this year. But now, they were ignoring me.
Okay, so a little fact about me: I’ve always been ready to please people, ready to adjust. I make friends with everyone, though I kind of prefer if they are a bit like me.
Being totally unaware of why I was being ignored, I started guessing the reason. Obviously, I thought it was because I always wore desi clothes while hoodies and T-shirts made up most of their wardrobe. I assumed it was because I was a bit behind on trends. So, determined to change things back to normal, I decided to show that I was hurt.
I started getting quieter in class, more distant. I don’t know how I actually looked, but I might have done a great job; my classmates were asking what was wrong. But my friends weren’t. They were too busy in their own lives. All except Bismah, though. She always made me feel like I mattered.
It was just an ordinary science class when the teacher asked us to divide into groups of four for a project. The marks would be added to the final exams, so, for once, our class was taking it seriously.
“Hey, let’s do it together,” Bismah whispered. I nodded fervently. “Though we need two more members…” she trailed off.
“You can ask Mishal and Aliza,” I offered. I seriously thought that would do the trick. And it did.
We worked hard for a week, our WhatsApp chats flooded with ideas and documents. We actually got a pretty good grade, and I thought everything was back to normal, that we were travelling back to Friendshipville.
But the second we walked out of the classroom, they forgot I was there. Only Bismah stayed by my side. It was tempting to wave my arms and say, “Hello? You guys know I exist or was I only real for doing hard work so you could get a good grade?!”
But I didn’t say anything. I never do. I was officially replaced in my gang by Zunaira, Amira and Hannah. I just went into a loop of endless confusion and sprained trust.
It was just luck that one day, when our teacher shuffled our seats, I got a seat next to Zara, Maryam and Friha.
Zara was the cricket expert, like seriously, The Cricket Expert. She could hit ten sixes in a row and won us every match against other classes. Maryam was the music fan, the one who is a bit annoying and sarcastic, but a very good friend. Friha was the class buddy, always checking in with everyone and providing emotional support.
They had always supported me. Once, I was hesitant about talking about a particular thing because I thought people would think I was weird or cringe. Maryam and Friha had towered above me (even though I’m taller than both of them).
“Seriously, Fatimah, stop worrying who will think what,” Maryam said.
“Life’s too short to worry. What has to happen, has to happen,” Friha added, grinning.
Zara, as usual, was ready to distract my mind with a cricket bat in her hand.
They always stayed by me, never letting me feel alone in a crowd. They always made sure they had an endless supply of humour and comebacks for me. I was very hesitant about playing sports, but one day after a random game of throwball with them, I got so much encouragement.
“You should play a whole lot more, maybe even consider entering school matches,” Zara had said.
“Maybe… I don’t know. I just like playing with you guys. Thanks, though,” I had replied, grinning.
I always felt scared about setting boundaries with other people. But my new friends had already asked to set some rules. They made sure I wasn’t hiding anything that was bothering me.
I tried my best to be there for them as well. I remember that during the class party, Maryam had been freaking out because a girl in another class had worn the exact same dress as her.
“Please, relax,” I had hissed while she muttered about being accused of copying. “She has a different print on hers. No one has time to notice.”
I still talked to my old group, smiled at them and stayed friendly, especially with Bismah, who I still text, because I hadn’t really left them. I had just let them be more complete without me, more perfect without me. And honestly, I agree. They seem better off without me.
Sometimes there are places where you fit, but there are places where you fit even better. Sometimes it’s hard to let go, but sometimes, you have to.
I did, and now, when I see Mishal, Rumaissa, Bismah, Aliza, Zunaira, Amira and Hannah goofing around, I realise I not only found new friends, but I also let them be themselves more freely without me there, accidentally ruining their vibe.
I get it, it’s hard. But once you do it, chances are you’ll cherish your decision.
Stop running after people, stop depending on them.
See the people who trust you, who make you feel you have a place in their hearts.
Because they, I must say, might be the ones who are truly yours.
Published in Dawn, Young World, December 6th, 2025
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