Fasana Badosh
By Akhlaq Ahmad
Sang-e-Meel
ISBN: 978-969-35-3712-3
466pp.

Since the birth of literature, cities have figured prominently as metaphorical characters in fiction. They draw the jaded and the dreamer, the insider and the outsider, the opportunist and the altruist. And even though they are fixed in terms of their hierarchies, they depend on — and foster — social mobility.

Besides being a journalist, Akhlaq Ahmad is a prolific short story writer. His Urdu stories have appeared in major literary magazines in Pakistan and India. He has also translated hundreds of short stories into Urdu for many magazines, including the famous Sabrang digest.

Fasana Badosh [Tale Wanderer] is a new collection of 24 short stories by Ahmad, in which he treats Karachi as a character with its own personality. His deep affection for Karachi is unmistakably woven into the fabric of his stories. These narratives predominantly feature individuals from diverse linguistic communities, yet they are united by their lives in the same vibrant metropolis.

Whether it’s the warmth of a greeting exchanged on a bustling street or the spontaneous joy upon seeing a friend after a long absence, these experiences are universally understood, transcending ethnic or dialectical differences.

A gripping collection of Urdu short stories feature Karachi as a vibrant metropolis in which individuals from diverse communities are united through their lives

In the story ‘Gutka’, a dynamic scene unfolds in Murree, a city far from Karachi. A person, caught up in the immediate present, suddenly spots a face from their distant past — a long-lost friend. In a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, all semblance of decorum vanishes. Manners are forgotten as the individuals rush forward, their excitement erupting in a flurry of enthusiastic kicks and punches, accompanied by the loud, familiar call of the friend’s nickname, Gutka!

This raw, boisterous greeting speaks volumes about the depth and history of their bond. The name ‘Gutka’ itself, while referring to a specific cultural item made of areca nuts and chewing tobacco, encapsulates the unique intimacy shared between the two individuals. The very act of using such an informal, perhaps even crude, moniker — and shouting it with such abandon — underscores a friendship forged in shared experiences and comfortable familiarity, where societal niceties are replaced by effusive, genuine affection. It signifies a relationship so solid, so personal, that such a greeting becomes a triumphant declaration of enduring connection.

Ahmad’s ability to capture the essence of a place is remarkable. Specific mentions of familiar road names, the vibrant hum of bustling thoroughfares, or even the stark descriptions of collectively endured harsh weather, resonate far beyond mere observation.

These details act as powerful anchors, drawing the reader back to their own lived experiences. It’s as if the author has tapped into a collective memory, articulating sentiments that the reader himself or herself has cherished — or perhaps wrestled with — about their own native city. This shared understanding fosters a sense of belonging and validation, reminding us that personal connections to our urban environment are part of a larger, shared human narrative.

The story ‘Baara Joker’ [Twelve Jokers] revolves around a disturbing undercurrent that often ripples beneath the surface of middle-class life, punctuated by unsettling acts that have become alarmingly normalised. Among these is the quiet vanishing of men, often spirited away under the cloak of night. These disappearances occur without explanation — no stated reason, no identified captors and no clear authority cited. The sheer abruptness leaves families reeling, utterly devoid of information about their loved ones’ fate. What follows is a poignant, almost surreal, period of hushed uncertainty for the neighbourhood.

Despite the palpable gravity of the situation, people often continue with their daily routines, caught between a shared, unspoken understanding of a serious crisis and the gnawing absence of concrete facts. In this delicate balance, some offer genuine solace and support to the affected families, while others, sadly, seize upon the vulnerability to exploit the situation. This complex interplay of fear, resilience and opportunistic behaviour paints a stark, yet increasingly common, portrait of life in contemporary Karachi, where the extraordinary has, regrettably, become an everyday narrative.

Amidst the kaleidoscope of distant lands and unfamiliar horizons, the writer found an unexpected anchor: a face from the past. In the story, ‘Kami Harami’ [Kami the Rascal], this chance encounter, a ghost from memory that surfaces in a bustling borough market of London, serves as the catalyst for a deeply personal narrative. The story that unfolds isn’t just a reunion, but a poignant exploration of a cherished friendship and the abrupt departure of a dear companion.

With the practised hand of a storyteller, the writer delves into the circumstances that led to Kami’s expatriation. This isn’t a simple journey abroad: it is an exit, a severing of ties that beg for understanding. In the bustling yet often harsh environment of Karachi, a labour union worker, nicknamed Kami Harami, finds himself embroiled in a fierce battle for justice. His conviction lies in championing the rights of a widow, ensuring that she receives her rightful dues. This principled stand, however, was perceived as a direct challenge by a powerful local business owner, who wields considerable influence. The confrontation escalated, leading to a scandal that deeply affected the owner.

Facing repercussions that threatened his safety and freedom, the protagonist was ultimately forced to abandon his life in the city and flee Karachi. This isolated incident is, tragically, far from uncommon in the region. It vividly illustrates a systemic issue, where influential figures frequently weaponise the police force against their workers.

False cases are a common tactic, designed to instil fear and maintain control. In severe instances, like the one depicted, the pressure and persecution become so unbearable that the victims are left with no recourse other than to seek refuge beyond the country’s borders, leaving behind their homes and livelihoods, due to the unchecked power of those at the top.

Demonstrating Ahmad’s extensive background as a journalist, certain narratives within this collection stand as compelling testaments to his seasoned experience. One particular story, ‘Ooncha, Lamba, Tanha Sardar’ [The Lofty, Tall, Lonely Chief], vividly recounts the life of a formidable protagonist, a man whose roots are deeply embedded within one of the nation’s most recognised ethnic communities. The narrative meticulously details the Sardar’s strategic choices, charting his ambitious ascent to prominence in the country’s political landscape.

The account highlights not just the struggles and triumphs of the Sardar’s career, but crucially, the principles that guide his actions. As the protagonist reaches his twilight years, the story illustrates a remarkable and voluntary transition of power. He willingly cedes his esteemed position to his son, a decision explicitly framed within the established customs and socio-cultural norms that govern their community. This resolution offers a nuanced portrayal of legacy, leadership and the enduring influence of tradition, all filtered through the lens of journalistic observation and storytelling acumen.

The stories in this collection should appeal not only to the people of Karachi but also to those who like to explore narratives with multiple viewpoints from different backgrounds.

The reviewer writes short fiction in Urdu and is currently working on her first novel

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 12th, 2026

The Argentinian genius of a writer Jorge Luis Borges once said: “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” Libraries, big or small, personal or public, are captivating, but bookstores are equally fascinating for some of us. There is a freedom that you feel in a bookstore that is not the case when in a library, particularly a public or a university library, where a certain discipline has to be observed.

During my stay abroad or travels taken over the years, I have always been overawed by bookstores offering old and new books and enjoy visiting them even more if they house a café, where you can get yourself a cup of hot black coffee while browsing through books or magazines. Such activity brings so much pleasure and deep comfort.

Dillons bookstore on Gower Street, one of the largest multi-storeyed bookstores situated in central London, was my permanent haunt during my longer stints in the city for work and studies, spanning from 1995 to 2000. It was later acquired by those running the bookstore chain Waterstones and is now called Waterstones, with the café still named Dillons. Maybe that is to keep the legacy of the old store alive.

The range of subjects and the titles available under each of the subjects was remarkable. Since my primary interest was fiction, creative non-fiction, history and poetry, there was hardly a title I looked for that was not found there. I remember some leading writers visiting the store on occasion for book-signing events.

After I left London, I kept visiting Waterstones on Gower Street on my subsequent trips as well, before falling for a relatively smaller Foyles bookstore at Southbank by the river Thames. The Foyles at Southbank has some sales staff who are passionate about books themselves and introduce you to contemporary writings of merit. It has a wide collection of children’s books and a good stationery store as well. I have already written once about Saqi Books near Bayswater in London, which I visited a few weeks before it was closed down in 2023. It was one of finest bookstores offering titles in both Arabic and English.

In New York, my friends Sajid Samoon and Hasan Mujtaba once took me to the majestic New York Central Library and then to the Strand bookstore on Broadway. The first visit to Strand made me feel so rich and exuberant. The store has a collection of old, new and rare books, magazines, maps, and reference materials, all together in the millions. By any standards, old books were quite reasonably priced.

The Strand has a different ambience compared to the British bookstores. In fact, it is even different from the bookstores Second Story and Kramers near the Dupont circle in Washington DC, where another friend Nazeer Mahar took me when I was visiting the city some years ago. Second Story offers a good collection of second-hand books, including some rare books on a variety of subjects. It also has maps and archival materials. Even when old or used, the books are in good shape. Perhaps, some are restored after acquisition by Second Story itself.

In the same vicinity, Kramers is not just a bookstore but also houses a nice bar and a fine restaurant. Many artists, authors, booklovers and foodies gather at Kramers. Besides contemporary and traditional collections, it offers a good number of audio books as well. At Kramers, after buying a couple of books, Mahar and I had our meal after sharing a somewhat rustic beverage.

After I left London, I kept visiting Waterstones on Gower Street on my subsequent trips as well, before falling for a relatively smaller Foyles bookstore at Southbank by the river Thames. The Foyles at Southbank has some sales staff who are passionate about books themselves and introduce you to contemporary writings of merit.

Let me now take you to my favourite bookstore in Delhi. Between 1994 and 2014, I visited India multiple times for a host of reasons — academic or literary conferences, research work on education and child labour, progressive writers’ moots, poetry readings or track-2 dialogues. I haven’t been to India since but always feel happy when I find a mention of Bahrisons Booksellers, one of the cosiest and friendliest bookstores anywhere.

It is located in the Khan Market. The market is named after Khan Abdul Jabbar Khan (commonly known as Dr Khan Sahib), the elder brother of Bacha Khan. The market was established in 1951 to support the refugees who had migrated to Delhi from what is now Pakistan. Bahrisons was established there in 1953 by a refugee from Malakwal, district Mandi Bahauddin, now Pakistani Punjab. I have met the next generation, the couple who are running the bookstore now — Rajni and Anuj Malhotra. Once, Anuj and I had a long chat on the partition of Punjab and the suffering inflicted on refugees on both sides as a consequence.

Over the years, Khan Market has become an exotic and expensive shopping area in India. However, Bahrisons not only exists but thrives as a bookstore. It must have been hard to survive the pandemic a few years ago and then manage the old business of selling books under extensive market pressures in the neoliberal world.

I can say that, until 2014, books were much more affordable in India as compared to the UK or the US. That made one crave for more and to buy more. The joy of visiting Bahrisons is only comparable to the feeling I once had when my dear friend Divya Singh in Delhi used to send me wonderful books covered in bubble wrap in hard envelopes.

The writer is a poet and essayist. His latest collections of verse are Hairaa’n Sar-i-Bazaar and No Fortunes to Tell.

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, April 12th, 2026

There is a scene in the sci-fi film Avatar that tells you everything.

Jake Sully — a paraplegic marine, broken and discarded by his own civilisation — arrives on the planet Pandora as a spy. Within the film’s runtime, he tames the supreme aerial predator leonopteryx, becomes Toruk Makto (rider of the great leonopteryx) and leads the indigenous Na’vi against the very military he came with.

The indigenous people of Pandora do not merely accept him. They anoint him. The land, the creature, the prophecy — all of it folds around the outsider and declares him chosen.

This is not a coincidence of plot. It is a structure. And it is ancient.

Fantasy returns obsessively to the same architecture: an outsider enters a world not his own, encounters a people whose customs are foreign to him and, through exceptional ability and romantic initiation, fulfils a prophecy the indigenous people had kept for themselves.

The trope is not the result of a personality flaw in individual storytellers. It is a narrative technique. And from Robinson Crusoe to Dune’s Paul Atreides and Avatar’s Jake Sully, it has been doing the same work…

Paul Atreides in Dune becomes Muad’Dib, rides the sandworm and leads the Fremen against the empire strip-mining their world — before building a larger empire of his own. In Game of Thrones, Daenerys Targaryen arrives among the Dothraki as a transaction, a girl traded for an army. She takes the heart of the khal [warlord], learns the language, walks into fire and emerges khaleesi [queen].

The pattern is not the prophecy. The pattern is the transfer. The pattern holds across genre, medium and decade.

STRUCTURE AS IDEOLOGY

The Martinican philosopher Édouard Glissant called this vulnerability by its right name. His concept — the right to opacity — holds that indigenous and marginalised peoples are entitled to keep their cultural practices, their prophecies and their interior life inaccessible to outsiders.

Glissant understood that, to become readable to the nation, to the empire, to the state, is to become conquerable. Interpretation precedes extraction. The anthropologist arrives before the soldier, but the soldier follows. What can be translated can be taken.

Fantasy, in this sense, is the literature of violated opacity. The outsider hero does not merely observe the indigenous world. He masters it. He learns the language faster than the natives expect, bonds with the sacred creature no one else could tame and earns the intimate trust of the people’s most powerful woman.

This last element is not decorative. It is what scholars have called the Pocahontas theology. It holds that, if the incoming outsider takes the heart of the indigenous woman, he acquires — through the covenant of romantic and eventually marital union — legitimate access to her body, her people, her land and the intimate knowledge of her culture.

The Catholic Church formalised this logic through marriage doctrine. Colonial law extended it. Fantasy renders it cinematic.

This is why love and prophecy travel together in these narratives. The prophecy legitimises the claim in the eyes of the people. The marriage transfers the property. Together, they produce a hero who is both spiritually endorsed and legally entitled. He has not conquered. He has been chosen.

THE NOVEL AS A WEAPON

Palestinian-American scholar Edward Said argued — and this is not metaphor — in Culture and Imperialism that the novel itself was among the primary narrative instruments of colonisation. This is not metaphor. Robinson Crusoe — most commonly cited as the origin of the English novel — features a shipwrecked Englishman who encounters strange peoples, subdues a native he names Friday and builds a functioning colonial outpost on the island he treats as unowned.

What is adventure, Said asks, but an act of enterprise? Moby Dick is the obsession of a white captain with a white whale. Heart of Darkness is a journey into the African hinterland that is really a journey into the European self. The fantasy novel extends this tradition — Crusoe with magic systems, Captain Ahab with his white whale obsession, Heart of Darkness’ Kurtz with a prophecy already written in his name.

But the story did not stay in the library. It was put into the classroom.

In 1835, Thomas Babington Macaulay wrote his infamous Minute on Education, proposing the creation of “a class of persons Indian in blood and colour, but English in tastes, opinions, morals and intellect.” The curriculum was the mechanism.

Colonised children across Asia and Africa were made to read the very texts that cast their own peoples as silent, waiting and illegible. They memorised Robinson Crusoe. They studied Rudyard Kipling. They were examined on their comprehension of The White Man’s Burden — a poem whose burden, notably, the white man had appointed himself.

The colonised did not merely encounter the outsider-hero narrative. They were made to reproduce it, to praise it, to aspire toward it. The most intimate conquest is not of territory, it is of imagination.

The consequences persisted long after formal empire ended. Several generations of postcolonial intellectuals have described the condition of seeing themselves through the coloniser’s eyes — of internalising their own opacity as backwardness, their own customs as primitive, their own prophecies as superstition.

The curriculum taught them to identify with Crusoe rather than Friday, with the arriving hero rather than the people he arrives among. It made the coloniser’s ascension feel not merely plausible but natural, even desirable. That is a more durable conquest than any garrison.

THE MANUFACTURED MESSIAH

The most uncomfortable version of the fantasy trope remains Dune. Frank Herbert wrote it as a critique. Paul Atreides is explicitly a messianic figure whose rise the author distrusted. But the novel contains a detail more damning than the ascension itself.

The Fremen prophecy that names Paul as their messiah was not ancient. It was planted. The Bene Gesserit — a secretive sisterhood that manipulates bloodlines and governments across the empire — had seeded messianic myths across dozens of cultures generations earlier through a programme called the Missionaria Protectiva. The purpose was explicit: manufacture a prophecy in advance so that a Bene Gesserit operative could later arrive and fulfil it.

Herbert was not merely warning against charismatic leaders. He was showing that the prophecy itself was a colonial instrument, engineered by outsiders for future exploitation. The Fremen did not dream their messiah. Someone else dreamed him for them and then sent him.

Readers still turned it into a power fantasy. That is what four centuries of conditioning produces — an audience trained to experience the coloniser’s welcome as a happy ending, even when the author is explaining the mechanism to their face.

ANOTHER ENDING IS POSSIBLE

Glissant’s opacity is not absence. It is resistance. When a people’s prophecies remain untranslated, the outsider cannot fulfil them. He cannot arrive and find that the ancient texts describe him. He cannot tame the sacred animal because he does not know it exists. Opacity is the condition under which a people’s future remains their own.

Fantasy keeps writing the same story because empire keeps needing it told. And the story has a name by now. The white saviour complex is not a personality flaw in individual filmmakers. It is a narrative technology — one that recasts colonial entry as selfless sacrifice and indigenous acceptance as the highest honour.

Jake Sully does not go home richer. He stays and leads. That is the refinement. The old empire took the land and left. The white saviour stays, loves, suffers and redeems — and in doing so, makes the taking feel like a gift.

What is telling is what other traditions did not produce. The great messianic figures of non-Western imagination are always of the people, never apart from them. The Mahdi in Islamic eschatology rises from within the community of believers. The Hindu avatar descends into the world in forms native to it — Rama among men, Krishna among cowherds. The Jewish messiah is awaited by the covenant people, not delivered to them by an outsider who happened to wander in and prove himself.

No Fremen prophecy, honestly told, would have named a Harkonnen. No Dothraki legend, left intact, would have awaited a Valyrian princess. These are not gaps in other cultures’ mythologies. They are evidence of a different relationship between a people and their own future — one in which the future was not expected to arrive on someone else’s ship.

The prophecy was never native. It was always the outsider’s because someone wrote it that way, long before the ship arrived. And the ultimate victory of the empire was ensuring that the children of the colonised learned to believe it too.

The writer is a banker based in Lahore. X: @suhaibayaz

Published in Dawn, EOS, April 12th, 2026