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DOCUMENTARY : THE COLOUR OF LONGING
Anchor’. It is such a simple, little word. It is brimming with literal and literary connotations, but has now been rendered unremarkable and characterless due to its daily use on television.
In Umar Riaz’s documentary, The Colour of My Heart (Rang Hai Dil Ka Mere) — a reimagined and reworked version of his 2018 documentary Some Lover To Some Beloved — the word reacquires the length and breadth of its meanings through Dr Arfa Sayeda Zehra.
If you do not know of the late Dr Zehra, a celebrated human rights activist, scholar and educationist, then there is a high probability that Zia Mohyeddin, Daud Rahbar, Faiz Ahmed Faiz or his daughters, Salima and Muneeza Hashmi, would seem little more than mere names to you. This documentary, therefore, may not be a fit for you — yet, it should be.
In a film structured into chapters, Dr Zehra introduces and sometimes narrates — and most importantly, binds together — a winding recollection of Zia Mohyeddin’s life. Dr Zehra sets the tone of the documentary’s contextual premise of lovers and the beloved by briefly explaining poetry, ghazals and romanticism.
A documentary on the late Zia Mohyeddin, The Colour of My Heart, is a story of fallibilities, insecurities, regrets and the eternal pursuit of fleeting personal triumphs
As a text before the first chapter clarifies: “Ghazals often regard a mysterious Lover addressing and yearning for an unnamed Beloved.” Although it sets the intellectualness of the premise, in the case of Moheyuddin, the applicability of mysteriousness is less ambiguous: he is the Lover, and his yearning for excellence is the Beloved.
The Colour of My Heart, however, is neither a memento of a genius nor a rags-to-riches story of an underdog actor who attained global acclaim. It does not dwell on the actor’s successes in film and television or on stage, and barely touches on a few milestones here and there. Instead, it is a story of fallibilities, insecurities, regrets and the eternal pursuit of fleeting personal triumphs. It is a story that is all too human, of a man who was all too human.
Framed in a tight close-up, a stainless steel counter serves as a clock, marking the years from 1931 to 2013. With each tick of a falling number, a small projector, propped up on books in a cramped, dark room, unfolds a packet of history for the ailing Zia Mohyeddin.
It only takes a second, but the great thespian, braving the pains and shivers of old age, becomes his younger self’s awestruck audience. His eyes widen, and his hands clasp his cheeks as that younger version recounts passages from Hamlet with immaculate theatricality — “Or that the Everlasting had not fixed; His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! Fie on ’t, ah fie! ’Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed!” The memory is both bewitching and bittersweet.
Zia Mohyeddin — one of those rare Pakistani graduates of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts (Rada) — tells us that he hasn’t been the same after a series of surgeries in old age. He may have 18 months or so to live, he says, and yet still pines for that elusive high of everlasting triumph.
Mohyeddin first felt that when he was three years old, when he succumbed to the strange desire to climb a high archway — something that his parents had forbidden. He was 10, performing in a play his father wrote, when thatexhilaration returned for the second time. His second triumph, however, also introduced him to his eternal nemesis: nerves — the jitters before a performance that plagued him even as he aged.
The film recounts just enough of his milestones to acquaint the uninitiated with his iconic stature. It touches on his time abroad, when the great director David Lean discovered him at a stage performance of A Passage to India and cast Mohyeddin in Lawrence of Arabia. We then see him return to Pakistan to host The Zia Mohyeddin Show — or as he called it, a “poor man’s David Frost Show” — which thrust a “halo of stardom” on his head.
The film then briefly touches on his return to the UK, where he produced and hosted Here and Now, and his eventual return to Pakistan, where he headed the National Academy of Performing Arts (Napa). From there, the focus narrows down to his annual Zia Mohyeddin Readings and his struggles to maintain familial ties.
From the run-time they get, one assumes that these are the central pegs of this version of his life story. That is, until the narrative shifts to Faiz and Rahbar.
In one of Zia Mohyeddin Readings, he laments that he didn’t get the opportunity to record Faiz despite the poet’s personal request. The film then turns to Faiz for the next 20 minutes or so, spotlighting one of the greatest poets of this — or any — generation through the memories of his daughters, Mohyeddin and Dr Zehra.
One learns just how charming Faiz was — a man who entertained discussions of both left and right wings in politics, and, when things got a little heated, assumed the role of a peacemaker. “Faiz never fell prey to anger,” Mohyeddin tells us; at most, he would call someone “an imbecile.”
The next switch is to Rahbar, Napa’s Professor Emeritus, Mohyeddin’s cousin and — lest one forget — Riaz’s uncle. Rahbar, ailing yet still expressively enthusiastic in the shaky, home-video-esque footage, recounts the film’s opening peg — which most of us have forgotten by then.
Rahbar was an accomplished essayist, poet and scholar of comparative religions. A master of Arabic, Persian, Urdu literature and Indian classical music, he giddily — yet reluctantly (telling someone to go away was his style, one assumes) — talks about ghazals, and why lovers, longing, veils and distance are necessary ingredients in them.
Returning to Mohyeddin and his wives — Sarwar Zamani, Nahid Siddiqui and Azra Mohyeddin — as well as a side story about a sweet, innocent infatuation from his youth — we learn of the man’s immaculate, particular and, at times, infuriating nature. Things had to occur in a precise way, at the right time. For all of his relationships, Mohyeddin admits that he is a bit of a loner, moving from one country to another, seeking a triumph that is forever seemingly out of reach.
There is also a heavy, unmistakable sense of finality embedded in the film’s ambience. Dr Zehra, Sarwar Zamani, Rahbar, Faiz and Mohyeddin himself are all gone. This reality lends the film a rare, archival gravity, preserving the last, fading echoes of a generation of intellectuals.
The Colour of My Heart, thus, is a film about personal longing, history and selections — the latter specific to Riaz as a filmmaker. The film decidedly portrays Pakistan as a country where chaos ensues, showing one side of history where riots erupt, and cars burn. It also avoids naming dictators, presidents or politicians.
Compared to its earlier version — Some Lover To Some Beloved — which this writer also revisited, this is a polished upgrade. Not starkly different, but better. It showcases the man as most knew him, rather than a man measured by recollections of his successes.
A Distribution Club release, The Colour of My Heart is rated ‘U’ (Universal) in Sindh and Punjab, and PG (Parental Guidance) in Islamabad. Running 103 minutes, the film comes to cinemas from February 6, and is not just for the intellectually inclined
Published in Dawn, ICON, February 1st, 2026
A recent video showing a Quran that survived the devastating fire at Karachi’s Gul Plaza has reignited a centuries-old conversation. Throughout history, accounts of Bibles, Qurans or Buddhist sutras emerging unscathed from catastrophic floods and fires have been celebrated as Divine interventions. While these events offer profound spiritual solace, a closer look reveals a fascinating intersection of material physics and psychological bias.
From a physical standpoint, Dougal Drysdale, Professor Emeritus at the University of Edinburgh, suggests that a hardbound book’s survival is often due to the ‘Closed Book Effect.’ When shut, a book functions as a dense, oxygen-starved block of cellulose. Because fire requires a steady flow of oxygen to consume fuel, the tightly packed pages resist ignition by preventing airflow from reaching the interior.
In the event of a flood, the surface tension of water against tightly pressed pages creates a natural barrier. This prevents deep seepage for a significant period, often leaving the heart of the book perfectly dry.
American psychologist Thomas Gilovich explains that when a sacred text survives a disaster, it often becomes more than just a book. It is elevated to a sacred relic. This transformation, according to Gilovich, can significantly redefine a community’s cultural path. In the aftermath of the 2011 Joplin tornado in Missouri, US, survivors and news outlets frequently highlighted the ‘miraculous’ discovery of intact Bibles among the rubble of flattened homes.
The survival of holy texts in the aftermath of natural catastrophes is often termed ‘Divine protection’, revealing the cultural and spiritual narratives people love to attach to such instances
While hardbound dictionaries and cookbooks likely survived in the same ruins due to their similar physical construction, these secular items were ignored by the media as mere debris. The surviving Bibles were immediately elevated from functional reading material to sacred relics, often being framed and displayed as symbols of Divine protection.
By focusing on these specific books, the media triggered a cognitive bias that led people to view the event through a supernatural lens rather than recognising the simple physical durability of bound paper.
British scholar Susan Whitfield, in her 2004 work The Silk Road: Trade, Travel, War and Faith, details the discovery of the Mogao Caves in China. In that instance, the sealing of the Buddhist text the Diamond Sutra (868 CE) within a dry, walled-up chamber created a “natural vault” that protected the world’s oldest-dated printed book from the degrading effects of humidity and oxygen for nearly a millennium. The perception of such objects often shifts from the literary to the ‘miraculous’.
During World War I, pocket Bibles carried by soldiers occasionally stopped shrapnel due to the high density of their compressed paper. This led many soldiers to treat the Bibles as protective talismans.
The Codex Amiatinus, frequently referred to as the ‘Grandfather’ of Latin Bibles, has survived for over 1,300 years due to its immense physical durability. According to Drysdale, this enormous volume, created around 700 CE in Northumbria, England, weighs over 34 kilogrammes and was crafted from the skins of more than 500 calves.
The use of high-quality parchment makes the Bible significantly more resistant to fire and decay, as organic animal skins lack the highly flammable, oxygen-trapping fibres found in wood-pulp paper. This Bible remained virtually untouched for a millennium, preserved by the stable environment of an Italian abbey that served as a ‘natural vault.’
In West Africa, the Desert Manuscripts of Timbuktu offer a compelling example of texts surviving environmental factors, a story often framed as miraculous. When Islamist militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute in 2013, there was widespread global concern over the potential loss of thousands of ancient Islamic manuscripts. However, according to the researcher Mauro Nobili, the extreme aridity of the Sahara desert was critical in aiding their preservation for centuries.
The persistently low humidity prevented mould growth and kept the delicate ink stable, allowing for their long-term survival, which many viewed as a modern miracle. However, the more vulnerable manuscripts were secretly shifted to safer locations before the militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute.
During the Viking raid on Lindisfarne — a tidal island off the northeast coast of England — in 793 CE, a legend emerged concerning a sacred book, Lindisfarne Gospels, which was said to have been dropped into the sea by fleeing priests. Three days later, it washed up perfectly dry. While this specific account is often considered apocryphal, the physical survival of such ancient texts is frequently due to their durable leather and metal bindings, which act as a protective shell for the internal vellum.
Gilovich would point to stories such as this ‘dry’ recovery of a Bible as prime examples of how the media and oral tradition prioritise miraculous narratives over the mundane reality of material science, thereby reinforcing spiritual beliefs.
According to the prominent professor of psychological sciences J. Park, communities frequently transform these survival stories into powerful symbols of “Divine protection” as a means of processing the profound trauma of disasters. This phenomenon ultimately highlights a dynamic intersection, where material science meets deep human sentiment.
While the inherent fire-resistant properties of vellum offer logical, scientific explanations for the physical survival of many books, the human psychological element remains paramount. The inherent human need to find order, meaning and hope within chaos is what elevates these surviving sacred objects from mere material items to vital spiritual anchors for a community’s recovery and continuity.
The endurance of these texts represents a profound intersection between material science and human psychology. It is not merely the density of vellum, the chemical stability of ancient inks or the aridity of a desert that ensures survival. Rather, it is the way these physical realities interact with our inherent drive to find order in the wake of destruction.
Gilovich’s research posits that when a community witnesses the survival of a sacred text, they are not simply observing a quirk of physics. They are engaging in what Park describes as “meaning-making”, using the survived sacred object to process trauma and reclaim a sense of ‘Divine protection.’ Whether through the preservation of the Diamond Sutra in caves, or a Bible or a Quran found amidst the ruins of a modern disaster, these serve as a bridge between the tangible and the transcendent. Their survival is a testament to the fact that, while fire and time may consume the material, the cultural and spiritual narratives we attach to them remain indestructible.
Yet, it is equally important that we recognise the physical realities of their endurance, acknowledging that the science of material durability does not diminish the ‘miracle’, but rather provides a rational foundation for understanding how the written word survives the very elements meant to destroy it.
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Different varieties of leafy green vegetables (locally known as saag) are commonly grown in the Subcontinent due to the favourable growing conditions here. These green vegetables are prepared in traditional meals that contain the signature South Asian touch. However, Swiss chard remains relatively unknown to many.
Swiss chard is one of the easiest-to-grow leafy green vegetables. Unlike other leafy green vegetables, Swiss chard has beautiful bright green-coloured leaves with white, yellow or maroon midribs and stem. No wonder that a few sub-varieties of the Swiss chard are referred to as rainbow chard!
It is also known as spinach beet and leaf beet, while other names reflect the colour of its stems. For instance, the ones with white midribs are referred to as silver beet and those with red or maroon stems are known as rhubarb chard. Its striking colour combinations make it attractive enough as an ornamental plant.
Scientifically known as Beta vulgaris L. var. cicla, Swiss chard belongs to the Amaranthaceae family, which was formerly known as the Chenopodiaceae family. While it is also considered a beet, its root is inedible. Due to its close resemblance to spinach and beet root, it is not recommended to grow Swiss chard near either of them. Pests and diseases affecting beet root and spinach will likely attack Swiss chard as well.
While many other types of saag dominate South Asian kitchens, Swiss chard — of Mediterranean origin — remains largely unknown here…
Contrary to its name, Swiss chard does not originate from Switzerland. The origin of the ‘Swiss’ prefix remains contentious. One theory is that it is widely grown in Switzerland. In fact, Swiss chard primarily originates from the Mediterranean region. However, it is extensively used in Swiss cuisine.
Another theory is that the botanist who first classified this vegetable was Swiss and used the prefix to create a distinction from other leafy vegetables. The most common theory is that the European seed merchants added Swiss to distinguish it from the closely related French chard. If that were not enough to confuse you all, the word ‘chard’ is of Latin origin, meaning thistle — a common gardening term referring to a flowering plant which has prickly bracts.
Swiss chard seeds are easily confused with those of spinach, due to their stark resemblance. The seeds of Swiss chard are faded brown to dark brown in colour. They have a dry, rough texture and are irregular in shape. The seeds are hard and are surprisingly light for their size. Like spinach, one seed of Swiss chard can result in three to four seedlings. For this reason, it is known as a seed ball, containing potentially three to four seeds.
Being hardy, Swiss chard has minimal requirements. One of the best aspects about sowing Swiss chard seeds is that they can be grown in almost any available space. You can grow it on a strip of land, small pots and even around other plants in the same pot. However, when sowing Swiss chard seeds for a full crop, certain aspects should be taken into account.
In climates similar to Karachi, the seeds can be sown from mid-October onwards or when the temperature falls to 20 degrees Celsius. The potting mix should be pre-moistened and clear of pebbles and stones. Seeds should be placed half an inch below the surface and covered with a layer of compost. The soil should remain moist, not wet.
Depending on the desired yield, any pot size can be used, since the roots are small. Pots should then be placed in a cool shade with indirect sunlight. If the Swiss chard plant is being grown in an open field or in raised beds, it should be shielded from direct sunlight exposure, to minimise evaporation.
Some gardeners prefer to soak the seeds in water for four to six hours to ensure better and quick germination. In favourable conditions, Swiss chard seeds are likely to sprout within one week to 10 days.
Please send your queries and emails to doctree101@hotmail.com. The writer is a physician and a host for the YouTube channel ‘DocTree Gardening’ promoting organic kitchen gardening
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Dear Auntie,
Hope you are well. I am seeking your advice regarding a situation that has been bothering me for a long time. I’m a university student and I met this girl. She seemed very interested in me at that time and so was I in her. We had great chemistry, something I’ve never felt in my life. But I never confessed my feelings to her because of certain things I heard about her. Later, I found out she was dating someone. I internalised my love for her for quite a long time, almost a year, until I couldn’t hold it in, and confessed everything to her, even though I knew she was in a relationship.
The nature of my work requires me to face her and, whenever we work together, that chemistry-like muscle memory hits like a truck and I fall head over heels for her all over again. Even though getting her is nothing but a distant dream, I still can’t get over her and long for her all the time. It’s like a stalemate. I would really appreciate your advice on this.
Longing and Yearning
‘I Am Obsessed With a Woman I Can’t Have’
Dear Longing and Yearning,
This is a classic case of excellent chemistry but bad timing. Auntie has seen this film before and the hero always thinks that this one love is ‘different’. Maybe it is different for you. But the situation is very, very old.
Let’s start with the fact that you don’t want to face… that this is not love. This is emotional attachment, mixed with a heavy dose of imagination. And it is a powerful mix, made more powerful because the person in question is unavailable.
Every time you see her, your brain tells you “Ah yes, the unfinished business.” But notice something important… the girl chose someone else. This was not because you are not good enough, but because her life moved in a different direction. That is her choice, and chasing emotionally after someone who has chosen another path slowly kills your self-respect.
The chemistry you talk about is a result of you training your mind for a year to revolve around her. Of course, your brain runs back there. Our minds do what seems familiar and comfortable. Right now, you are feeding the feeling every time you replay moments and analyse your interactions with her. You are emotionally investing in a door that is firmly shut and you are wondering why you feel stuck outside. Of course, you are stuck!
It is time to start acting professionally with her. And it is time to stop any emotional conversations with her and avoid needless eye-contact. When your mind starts romanticising anything about her, interrupt it with reality, by reminding yourself that she is in a relationship and that you deserve someone who is available.
The person who is meant for you will not require this much suffering just to exist in your life. Mutual love is supposed to feel stable.
You are not losing her. You are grieving a life that you imagined. The grief will pass when you stop feeding it. You are simply holding on to an illusion because it once felt beautiful. Just let it be beautiful. And let it go.
Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis and/or feeling suicidal, please go to your nearest emergency room and seek medical help immediately.
Auntie will not reply privately to any query. Please send concise queries to: auntieagni@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
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