The jewels of Jaipur
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: January 26. 2010 4:33PM UAE / January 26. 2010 12:33PM GMT
In the heart of Jaipur’s Pahar Ganj quarter, and within the pink walls of the Old City’s criss-crossed bazaars, one of the Rajasthani capital’s oldest industries thrives.
In tiny workshops and emporiums, jewellery designers and craftsmen shape and polish the gemstones and precious metals on which Jaipur’s gem trade rests, patiently working rough stones into brilliant jewels.
One trader explains: “This work is centuries old, and the traditions have made Jaipur’s gem trade famous around the world. You won’t find anything like it anywhere else.”
Johari Bazaar, one of Jaipur’s premiere gem trade centres, is crammed with tiny emporiums. Each sells ornate wedding jewellery, heavy strings of precious and semi-precious stones, traditional Rajasthani ornamentation and Jaipur’s signature meenakari: lacquered and coloured enamelled pieces often inlaid with precious gems.
A walk through Johari is dangerous for your purse – traders promise heavy discounts on the Tibetan turquoise, African garnets and tourmaline and citrine stones from Jaipur that hang in thick strands in shop windows or nestle in tiny boxes, brilliantly-cut edges glinting.
A short walk from the pink-hued and fluted walls of one of Jaipur’s most famous buildings, the Hawa Mahal, or Wind Palace, in the heart of the Old City, is Rakesh Khandelwal’s Gems Art jewellery store.
“We import from all over the world,” Khandelwal says, spilling Tibetan turquoise beads and lapis lazuli stones from Afghanistan across a glass counter.
“These cost between 15 and 100 rupees (Dh1-8) a gram, and the precious stones much more, depending on weight, clarity and the type of cut used. The stones are brought here and then shaped by Jaipur craftsmen – they’re very well-trained, traditional craftsmen.
“Also we stock and make a large range of traditional Rajasthani jewellery, especially necklaces made from small, diamond-shaped semi-precious stones. We use colour patterns and styles that have been used and developed over two, maybe three centuries now. There’s a huge mix of modern and classical design.”
The history of Jaipur’s gem industry stretches back to the reign of Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh in the first half of the 18th century. He was responsible for much of the city’s physical and economic growth, and he invited jewellers from across India to come to the city as a way of sustaining Jaipur’s flourishing gem and jewellery trade.
Despite the obvious appeal of the jewellery on offer, there have been times when the industry has struggled to stay afloat. The international conflicts in the first half of the 20th century caused a sharp drop in the availability of gemstone imports, the growth of foreign markets, and the development of the synthetic jewellery industry.
However, the development of strong gem workers’ associations, and a commitment to continuing the high-quality training and import business that supports Jaipur’s locally vital trade, has cemented the importance of the contemporary industry.
Often coming from a long line of jewellers, contemporary gem craftsmen are based in workshops around the Old City’s Pahar Ganj and Bapu Bazaar areas, traditionally a Muslim quarter.
These skilled craftsmen cut and shape almost 90 per cent of the gemstones used in India’s gem and jewellery trade.
Very few of these gems are mined in India, and Jaipur’s traders run a huge import industry to keep the local trade running.
Globally imported, the gems are then cut and polished to local specifications in the city’s workshops, where entire families can be employed.
Jahangeer Khan and his family run the Almas Jewellers in Pahar Ganj, cutting and shaping stones in tiny workshops behind their gem-filled store.
“Most of the jewellers and gem stores are family run, like ours, so we work at home, and then we sell the stones here too. This area is a Muslim area, where a lot of skilled craftsmen and families live, and have a history of being based, and these streets are famous for the gem industry. There are a lot of workshops and stores, all family run.”
From behind his lathe, Khan explains the process of turning something ordinary into something exquisite.
“A lot of our stones are imported – we take some from India but they come largely from Brazil and Africa and a lot of the stones are bought and shipped in from markets in Bangkok.
“The stones are first cut to size, then we take out impurities, spots, blemishes,” he says, slicing a rough-cut lemon topaz stone in half, and then shearing away jagged edges, fingers dangerously close to the spinning circular blades.
Momentarily checking the rapidly changing size and shape of the stone for imperfections, Khan hews the gem into something approaching a square, and then moves to a second machine.
“There are a few stages – cutting, rough shaping, and then we start shaping more closely, to get sharper edges, a flat base, a perfect circle – and then finally we polish and buff the gems into the jewels you see in the shop, ready to be bought or made up into pieces of jewellery,” he explains.
After being cut to size, gem workers use circular lathes to sand and shape the gems into recognisable cuts, sharp edged and multi-faced to reflect as much light as possible.
Chemical solutions are then used to polish and buff them, revealing the flawless shape and transparency achieved by gem craftsmen.
Khan’s family deal in a huge array of gems, from semi-precious lapis lazuli and turquoise which sells for around Rs20 per carat, to finely-cut and sparkling diamonds, which sell for around Rs10,000 per carat.
Cheaper and equally dazzling gems are also on offer – a hefty 154-carat lemon topaz gem costs around Rs3,000 and elegant pink tourmaline sells for Rs4,000 per carat.
As well as working to craft an array of stunningly polished and cut gemstones, Khan’s family work with silver and gold to create a range of ready-to-wear jewellery, and sell huge strings of onyx and opal-coloured beads.
“We use gold and silver work to make the gems into necklaces, bracelets, rings – so you can buy a stone and then have a unique design crafted here – and the metalwork is not expensive, so many people chose to have something made for them.”
Exporting entirely to foreign markets, Kahn explains the wholesale industry forms the bulk of the family’s trade.
“We ship abroad – America, Europe, particularly France, Italy and Greece, and elsewhere. And we frequently deal with the tourist trade and foreign buyers. A lot of Jaipur’s industry exists for the export trade, and it is very lucrative.”
Jaipur’s gem trade is not just a sparkling claim to fame, or celebrated tradition, but also a highly valued export industry. Estimates this week by Jaipur’s Gem and Jewellery Export Promotion Council Chairman, Vasant Mehta, put the city’s total gem export value at just over $21 million (Dh77m) for the 2008-09 financial year, declaring: “The contribution of gem and jewellery industry to the Indian economy is undeniable.”
The revenue generated by the Jaipur’s gem industry is one of the highest contributors to the national exchequer, drawing in around 14 per cent of the total revenue generated by merchandise exports.
The substantial economic clout the industry carries is attracting ever-increasing national support and investment.
Sweeping efforts to establish India’s first National Manufacturing and Investment Zone in Rajasthan announced recently are aimed squarely at Rajasthani trade and exports, and regional government pledges, also made recently, have promised both land and increasing support from the legislature for the gem industry.
Although several Johari Bazaar traders lamented a fall in sales, Khan explains how the industry continues to enjoy wholesale success.
“We’re selling in huge volumes around the world – we have buyers coming from Delhi this week – and wholesale traders buy huge volumes of all types of jewel.
“It’s where a lot of serious gem traders make their money, so although some shops see a drop, the wholesale market is still very important, and it makes up most of our trade.
Khan adds: “Also this is Jaipur’s most famous industry, and the centre of India’s gem trade. We have the most skilled well-trained craftsmen and we create a huge range of jewellery. The industry is an ancient one, and it is still vital to the city.”
Bright weave: the silk producers of Varanasi
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: January 19. 2010 10:26PM UAE / January 19. 2010 6:26PM GMT
Babloo Mehendra whips a cobalt scarf through a silver ring and grins.
“See? Pure silk. You can pull pure, natural fabrics through a ring, but not mixed or synthetic. You can do it with all our shawls; it’s a sign that we sell pure silk products here. The real thing.”
In his tiny and immaculate shop near the edge of the River Ganges, Mehendra sprawls a mounting pile of silk scarves and saris, the jewel-coloured fabrics shimmering. Proud of his organic dyes and pure silks, he pauses over a wide and dazzling silver-green brocade. Six metres of it – the amount it would take to wrap a full sari – can cost up to $1,000 (Dh3,670)
“It takes a day, maybe two, to weave a shawl,” Mehendra says, “but it can take up to six months to create something like this, weaving single silk strands together by hand for the colour and texture, and then adding embroidery, metallic threads and beading. So it’s expensive but it’s worth the level of work. It’s a unique trade to this city.”
Varanasi, India, is so renowned for its silk trade that shoppers travel from across the country to search for wedding fabrics and wholesale opportunities. Many of the city’s silk emporiums export their products around the globe.
Nestled at the crossroads of the Varuna and Asi rivers from which it takes its name, Varanasi has long attracted pilgrims, traders, conquerors and craftsmen. Each has left a commercial legacy and helped establish the city as a trade centre.
What started as a ritual use of cotton fabrics in burial ceremonies held along the city’s ghats has expanded into an artisan industry.
The beginning of Varanasi’s silk-weaving history is a subject of debate, but locals say the silk empire began in roughly 1300AD when many skilled Gujarati weavers decamped to Varanasi following a great fire.
Weavers from Delhi and Rajasthan followed, and the development of new types of hand looms broadened production abilities. In the 18th century, artists introduced new designs in gold and silver thread. Varanasi became a creative melting pot, and patterns, brocades and styles developed.
Although the industry’s exact age is not known, Varanasi, or Banaras, silk is mentioned in the Hindu Rig Veda and Buddhist history texts, which, together with images from the Mughal court, provide clues to its evolution. They also point to Varanasi’s prominent and long-standing role in silk production and brocade craftsmanship.
Originally a leading Mughal-era export to Tibet and Saudi Arabia, silk has become a modern commercial trend, cementing Varanasi’s reputation as a centre for fine silk production. (All four of India’s silk varieties – mulberry, tussar, eri and muga, each named after the plants on which the silk worms are fed – are used to produce Varanasi’s famous cloth.)
Even with its rich heritage, the industry has not been immune to economic downturn or increased competition. Despite intermittent government bans on the import of cheap, pre-made silk, Mehendra says Chinese silk clothes (allegedly smuggled into India) still threaten the existence of Varanasi’s silk industry, as demand for the hand-woven, hand-printed and embroidered silks local weavers produce declines in the face of less expensive imports.
“A pure silk sari starts at maybe Rs600 (Dh48) and goes up to Rs40,000 depending on the embroidery,” says Prikash Ahmed, who comes from a family of weavers. He has been weaving silks for more than 12 years. “But cheaper fabrics and imports can sell for around Rs300, so we lose out if people chose the cheaper fabric, even though the quality is not as high as Varanasi silk.
“Some of the Chinese fabric is poorer quality, but it costs less because it’s ready-made and manufactured on mechanical looms, not by hand. Less work goes into it. It is not an art like Banaras silk but more people can afford it.
“Everything is getting more expensive in India. It costs more to buy food or pay for electricity, so people spend less on clothes and expensive products.”
Artisans working on traditional, hand-operated looms are also unable to match the level of production or the uniform weave that machines generate.
A clutch of NGOs and charities have been established to lobby for more industry support in Varanasi and to provide sustainable, fixed-price outlets where weavers and traders can market fabrics at their full value.
Varanasi Weavers Trust is one example. The non-profit organisation aims to encourage economic stability among members of the silk community by introducing fair trade opportunities and lobbying for government-supported emporiums for local products.
Nalin Kumar Pandey sells silk shawls and home furnishings at the Beni Shawl Emporium, a government-supported shop that ensures fair trade by fixing the prices of the goods on sale. It discourages bartering, Pandey says.
“People know we are selling pure silk products and that they are handmade by local weavers and embroiderers. We don’t mix threads or natural fabrics with synthetics and we don’t carry imported products, so shopping here benefits workers and those who buy the products. It’s a way to sustain Varanasi’s pure silk work.”
Since Varanasi is home to an estimated five per cent of India’s one million weavers, decreasing trade has been hard on the city’s artisans.
“It is more difficult to get a lot of work now because so much fabric comes from China,” Ahmed says. “We still make a lot of fabric here in Varanasi, but there are less jobs now than there were when I started this job. Not everyone can always get work. ”
Still, demand for traditionally made Varanasi silk remains. Much of it is produced in the Muslim Quarter, away from the ghats that line the Ganges and behind the old city. Tiny tailors’ shops and fabric houses are crammed together along Varanasi’s characteristically narrow lanes.
Silk scarves are typically woven from one or two colours of thread and follow a basic, Mughal-inspired pattern of scalloped flowers and wide borders. Sari fabrics are left unembellished, ready for artisans to add gold and silver embroidery or inlay with sequins or tiny glass beads for wedding saris, which form an integral and highly valued part of a bride’s trousseau.
Small flower patterns, foliage outlines, corner designs and brocade work are the most popular designs. Two-tone fabric, which changes colour in the light with the warp and weft of the weave, is also popular.
Workers say raw silk and smoother, more refined finishes are equally popular. “Tourists love to come here and buy the raw silks because they have more texture and colour,” Ahmed says. “And we export a lot of raw silk abroad for clothes and bags, bedcovers and furnishings.
“But Indian people come for the sari fabrics – for weddings, parties, formal clothes. They know they can get the best here because we have manufactured this cloth for so many years that everyone knows how good the quality is.”
At his ghat-side shop, Mehendra flicks a bright magenta silk shawl over his arm and says: “Tomato dye. We always use vegetable dyes, natural dyes. They last longer and give more vivid colours. Natural dyes don’t damage the fabrics, either.
“People look for quality, not synthetics or plastics. You can feel the difference when silk is mixed with satin or a synthetic material. The dye doesn’t hold as nicely, either. So people appreciate the natural colours and threads.”
In Varanasi’s fabric bazaars – hidden in a network of narrow, blue-painted alleyways behind the ghats – one shopper says: “If you want the best price but still quality silks, you have to shop here in Varanasi. The weavers have been doing this work for many years, so the ability they have has been passed down. The fabrics are still the same quality that made Varanasi famous for silks originally.”
Shoppers preparing for India’s busy wintertime wedding season also boost trade. One of them, Poonam, says: “I do buy cheaper silks, ready-made from China or elsewhere. But for gifts, weddings, parties – all special occasions – you want a quality product. That is made here, and that you can see it being made. You can request designs, exact colours and styles. When you are spending a lot, you want it to be perfect.
“People will always want this level of quality, and they want to own something with a history, something made by people with skill and who have had the trade passed down to them.
“Varanasi silk is a special thing. It will not be lost.”
Punjab wonderland
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: January 09. 2010 3:28PM UAE / January 9. 2010 11:28AM GMT
Behind Chandigarh’s wide boulevards and designer retail lies more than the development of an anomaly of an Indian metropolis – although with its quiet, clean, tree-lined streets, architectural geometry and relatively small population, that is exactly what Chandigarh is – an anomaly.
India’s first planned city, it was born from and has continued to develop a modernist architectural style and an artistic minimalism that set the city apart from the frenetic, colour-and-spice saturated haze that is other Indian towns.
“It is the biggest example in India of experimental architecture. It hits you on the head and makes you think. You may not like it, but it has made you think, and imbibe new ideas.”
Jawaharlal Nehru’s 1959 description of Chandigarh has as much resonance now as it did when independent India’s first prime minister described the effect of the town plan completed by the modernist architect Charles-Édouard Jeanneret-Gris, known as Le Corbusier.
The Indian Punjab capital was a post-Partition response to the influx of refugees spilling over the newly formed border with Pakistan. Planned living aimed to house a displaced populace, in a style not seen anywhere else in the country.
Le Corbusier’s design offered not just a settlement, but also a lifestyle – functionality amid a modernist aesthetic.
The blueprint vision had something of a Pyongyang-meets-Lewis-Carroll result that would not look out of place were Chandigarh to be conceived today. Wide concrete plazas crowned with space-age curved concrete structures, and minimalist angularity, typify Le Corbusier’s design.
Initial plans by the pioneering American design pair Albert Mayer and Matthew Nowicki might have produced an entirely different metropolis, but after Nowicki’s death in a plane crash and Mayer’s subsequent resignation, Le Corbusier was drafted in to finish Chandigarh’s design.
Driven by a modernist utopian ideal, Le Corbusier aimed to create self-contained “super-blocks”, where the Swiss-French architect’s four outlying concepts of living, working, circulation and the care of body and spirit could be perfectly balanced.
The results can be seen across the town, from Chandigarh’s high court buildings, which are dominated by a suspended concrete umbrella roof to its angular City Museum and Gallery, and the imposing Open Hand sculpture, which sits outside the primary-coloured secretariat buildings.
Conceptually, a nomadic, modern and elegant approach was adopted, with Le Corbusier’s love of human-scale dimensions resulting in pedestrian-friendly, low-density, low-rise architecture.
The unobtrusive geometry, and ban on fussy detail and human statues, immediately sets the city apart from the metropolitan chaos found in other Indian cities.
The city’s modern art vibe is continued by the work of a clutch of galleries, art colleges and local artists, by local architects continuing and developing modern structures that sit alongside Le Corbusier’s initial vision, and by large-scale outdoor monuments such as Chandigarh’s streamlined and minimalist war memorial site.
The City Museum charts the growth of Chandigarh as an artistic hub, from its ancient Harappan heritage when the area was a centre for pottery and sculpture production, to today’s architectural growth and artistic tuition.
Rani Mera studies art at the Chandigarh College of Art and says those who live in the city are aware of their heritage: “It is all around us, so of course we are going to be inspired. Everybody knows who Le Corbusier was and that it is his vision we live in today. So of course the city is going to produce more similar talent, and a love for modern art and architecture.”
Mera adds: “You can’t help loving the unique style here, especially if you’ve grown up with it. It’s utterly different to another city or town so we of course continue that kind of art, and we study a lot of modern art, like graphics and painting, and new buildings, in college.”
The fallen-down-a-rabbit-hole experience that is Chandigarh’s Rock Garden is perhaps the most prominent example of this, a fantastical, winding maze of waterfalls, rock cliffs, statues, tunnels and hidden pathways – made entirely from recycled industrial and household waste.
Glittering shards of china cover walls and floors with mosaics, and armies of small figurines made from glass stand guard along the garden’s narrow alleyways.
Startlingly Gaudi-esque, the garden would sit neatly alongside Barcelona’s outdoor art, and is the work of just one man.
A self-taught artist and sculptor, Nek Chand began the garden with scrap he collected on bicycle-rides around the city, and a hobby became an obsession that has produced one of India’s most diverse and offbeat tourist attractions.
Chand is a man of few words who holds court in a pebble-lined office in the heart of the garden, where he quietly discusses continuing development in the garden with its visitors.
“It is an extension of our modern planning,” he says, “but it wasn’t planned as such, in the same way. It was a gift from God, this talent, and when I developed this. I found the items and recycled them to create something new and different.
“So you can say it is modern art but it is also a way to preserve the city because the garden recycles the old and produces something new.”
Chand admits ongoing development is equally organic, but says the garden’s existence is considered aesthetically significant.
“For the future, there isn’t a plan as such, just to keep developing the art that is here and adding to it. But we don’t draw up ideas, we just decide as an area develops what should go there and how we use the items we collect. I don’t know if it is important to Chandigarh, but as a centre of creativity though, the people who visit here appreciate it in terms of the artistic importance.”
The Rock Garden carries its own preservation story. Chand’s work lay undiscovered for more than 20 years while he slowly added to the evolving garden, until town planners discovered that his work had spread over acres of public land. Happily, the garden escaped destruction when officials realised the importance of what they had found.
Artistic development, preservation and promotion are found in the unlikeliest corners of the city. Inmates at Chandigarh’s Burail Jail work to clean and restore Corbusier furniture donated by the city’s municipal institutions, selling on chairs and tables to the many local restaurants with Corbusier interiors.
India’s most famous export is also finding its feet in India’s quirkiest town, with Bollywood directors and producers flocking to the city to shoot their films against Chandigarh’s unique backdrop.
Vijay Kumar, who runs Chandigarh’s severely named Bollywood Facilitation Cell, explains the rapid rise in interest in using the city as a base for filming.
“It’s almost perfect because of the range of locations here – there’s a lake, nearby hills and clean streets, and, most importantly, some of the most modern and unusual architecture in India. It’s an ideal place to film because it’s so diverse.
“Plus, it is a huge economic boost for the town – it’s a great advert because people love visiting places used in films, and Bollywood directors hire extras, dancers, cameramen and make-up artists from Chandigarh. So it brings a lot of money to the city.”
Nehru’s 1959 appraisal of the city’s ability to foster a new era of creativity and design could just as easily describe the continuing development of creativity and the modernist aesthetic in Chandigarh, and of Le Corbusier’s focus on living as well as design.
“Above all, I like the creative approach – not being tied down to what has been done by our own forefathers but thinking in new terms, of light and air and ground and water and human beings.”
Local concentration
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: January 03. 2010 5:10PM UAE / January 3. 2010 1:10PM GMT
Cut off from the rest of Kashmir by snowfall for up to six months of the year, Ladakh is accessible in winter by a bumpy and spectacular flight.
Surrounded by walls of Himalayan rock and ice, the valley – a three-day drive from the Dalai Lama’s Dharamsala residence, where the Tibetan government in exile is based – is home to India’s most remote and undisturbed Tibetan community.
The population is a mix of indigenous Ladakhis, Tibetan refugees whose families fled following the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1950, Muslims and Buddhist converts from Punjab.
Isolation has preserved an almost medieval tradition, evident in the flat-roofed, mud-brick, whitewashed houses and the wood-fire bakeries that make steaming-hot tingmo bread on cold mornings.
The introduction of tourism, electricity and the internet is bringing change to Ladakh, though. The main town of Leh – dotted with chortens and stupas (Buddhist monuments), drokpa (nomadic) women selling dried apricots and vegetables, and stores proffering yak butter – is also the base for dozens of trekking companies, tourist guesthouses and restaurants promising to cater to western taste.
Still, prayer flags stream from monasteries. Images of Buddha and the red and yellow ornamentation on buildings reflect a continual Buddhist presence – one that is apparent in the crafts that artisans in Leh work hard to market and maintain in the face of growing outside influences.
The paintings in Raj Kumar’s tiny studio-shop are intricate, detailed and skilled works similar to Mughal miniatures, with delicate gold embossing and depictions of the hunting trips, feasts and festivals that typified the Rajasthani nobility.
Ladakhi life barely features. Kumar says this is because his artwork is produced mainly off site.
“We actually import almost all of the paintings from Rajasthan,” he says. “We have artists there who can produce this high standard of work cheaply, and the tourists who come here buy the images because they are classic Indian works.”
It illustrates a major problem in maintaining traditional Ladakhi art: a tight market drowning in cheap imports from Nepal, China and elsewhere in India.
Ladakh’s artistic traditions borrow heavily from Tibetan Buddhism. Wooden choktse tablets, carvings of animals on the wooden lintels and pillars of homes and replicas of the painted Buddha statues that overlook monasteries are indicative of the local culture. Bright turquoise, silver and pearl jewellery adorns the ears and necks of Ladakh’s women, and tailors do a brisk trade in tapered silk Ladakhi hats.
Tibetan cloth thangka paintings that carry images of the Buddha, often surrounded by animals or forest, flutter from the doors of many of the small art collectives in Leh that promote local art. The tiny emporiums are often charity-based, and many of them look to the villages for traditional arts and handicrafts.
“We carry a lot of work from local villages – weaving and embroidery, shawls, Ladakhi clothing like hats and tunics,” says Muha, who works at a Tibetan and Ladakh arts studio. “It helps sustain local training and industry, which is important not just for our heritage and future, but because Ladakh has a small population.
“We need to focus on sustaining the clothing, artwork and way of life that defines Ladakh and the people who live here. We need to pass trades and skills onto young Ladakhis. This is a unique community that will lose its identity if its traditions are not a focus.”
Much of what the studio carries comes from the village of Zanskar, a remote tributary that feeds into the Indus.
Leh’s Ecology Centre in the town’s quiet Changspa district promotes cooperatives from other villages in the Ladakh Valley that produce artwork and handicrafts.
Art collectives and Buddhist monasteries in the surrounding villages of Choglamsar, Helis and Thiksey produce many of the thangka works found in Leh.
Choglamsar, a dusty village sandwiched between a vast Tibetan refugee camp and a sprawling Indian army base, forms the centre of much local artistic education and production. The Choglamsar Woodwork and Thangka Training Institute offers a five-year painting and handicraft course that covers centuries of artistic technique.
One student, Lozon, sits with two colleagues in his tiny studio, painting thangka artwork and designs on wooden chests. The small, low tables are a feature of every Ladakhi living area.
“It takes a long time, of course,” Lozon says, “but we study a lot of different arts and styles. It means that we don’t lose the skills that have been used for many years, and we can keep producing Ladakhi art.”
The work can be time consuming.
“It takes maybe five days to paint a panel on the side of a wooden chest or table if the design is simple,” Lozon says. “Thangkas can take up to three months, depending on the size, the type of picture and how much gold is used in the patterns.”
Several of the institute’s students also study at Leh’s District Handicrafts Centre on the road between the two towns. Since it opened in the 1970s, it has gradually added courses in carpet weaving, fresco painting, wood carving, traditional papu shoe making and silver filigree, which is used on the clothing worn at Ladakh’s festivals.
The Centre aims to sustain handicraft traditions among Ladakh’s younger generation by providing training that will aid self-employment.
The valley’s precarious ecological status can be tied directly to Ladakh’s handicrafts industry. Leh’s Women’s Alliance Centre, on the edge of the old city, campaigns for sustainable development in the region as well as for the preservation of Ladakhi culture. It helps local Tibetans produce and sell traditional works to counter the sale of imported goods, which provides little benefit to the local Ladakhis.
Wider projects include aid relief, the promotion of sustainable agriculture and regular inter-village meetings to discuss environmental and cultural concerns.
The village women who run the project stress the need to keep ancient traditions intact for future generations without harming the environment.
“We work to maintain respect for the ethical and spiritual values on which Ladakhi culture is based, including handicrafts, local knowledge and practical skills,” one volunteer says.
Courses run for and by village women produce local nambu, homespun and woven woollen cloth, and thikma, a form of tie dying. An on-site store sells baskets woven in the nearby Nubra Valley.
Ladakh’s range of women-run charities and organisations is partly explained by the greater societal status women have there compared to those in surrounding areas.
Sonam, a Women’s Alliance volunteer, says: “Women carry a lot of the agriculture and craft skills that our heritage and our economy is based on, so we try to encourage female participation so skills are learnt and shared.
“Family and community ties are the basis for Ladakh’s culture, so if we can encourage greater links we can ensure our culture and our crafts are not lost.”
Pakistan’s new journalism
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: December 12. 2009 3:01PM UAE / December 12. 2009 11:01AM GMT
Pakistan’s burgeoning free media is providing a platform for student activists and emerging journalists to express their views, through online publications, newspaper blogs and social networking sites.
The publisher Irfan Aamir has noticed the change: “In the last four to five years, blogging and online media, including popular media websites and portals, has been providing a wide array of options for writers.”
The internet is offering a widening comment and debate forum for the country’s students. Aamir says online contributors in Pakistan are influenced by the climate in the north of the country, something which has become an increasing focus in classrooms and lecture halls, and pushed Pakistan into the international limelight.
He has seen first-hand the power of student journalism; he publishes the print edition of Pakistan’s first online academic journal iWrite, the brainchild of disillusioned student journalists based in Lahore, tired of the glossy lifestyle and fashion magazines that dominated the market.
They harnessed the influence of the internet to launch a diverse and immediately successful publication online.
iWrite’s editor Anum Pasha says: “iWrite’s current editors felt there was a serious lack of media documenting education and academics in Pakistan.
“Pakistan’s progress is primarily dependent on improvements in the education sector because development (in a broad sense) is restrictive unless and until educational opportunities are made available to all income groups and backgrounds”.
The online version plugged a gap in the market. Intended for a Pakistani student audience, the journal attracted wide acclaim when it launched its first edition in the summer.
The second edition has just been published.
The assistant editor, Masuma Tahir Malhi, believes much of the journal’s appeal comes from the way it highlights talented students and brings Pakistan’s student community together online.
Pasha says iWrite’s editorial team received a phenomenal response from parents, teachers, academics and young professionals, not just from Pakistan but internationally.
He adds: “Most writers hail from different educational backgrounds and some of them are Pakistanis based in the UK, UAE and the US”.
Mohommad Osman Gul is a writer who attends Abu Dhabi University and contributes to iWrite.
He says: “The journal is a wonderful idea. As a writer, I found this magazine to be the best opportunity to reach out to other students as they move through different stages of education.”
Pakistan’s print media has been quick to begin using the internet itself, to encourage comment and debate from its readers.
National dailies are increasingly offering blogs and interactive comment and debate forums to encourage readers to voice their views. Websites such as Facebook and Twitter have proved invaluable in the bid to widen debate online, providing a way to inform, contact and update.
Pasha says: “Our Facebook groups and fan pages have over 1,000 members, though we are still at the infancy stage. These members have played a massive role in understanding our message and taking keen interest in the content.”
Aamir says: “Many of our writers are currently teaching at major universities in Pakistan or are professionals in their respective field. The last edition of iWrite includes a feature by Fasi Zaka (the Rhodes Scholar and broadcast journalist), Mian Nasir (an education activist based in Lahore, Pakistan) and Raza Rumi (a Lahore-based senior print journalist and international development professional).
The non-profit publication is certainly off to a good start, but it hopes to build on this and to continue to develop its status as an online hub for academic comment and debate.
Aamir says: “The iWrite team comprises young and motivated individuals who contribute their time and efforts with an aim to establish and sustain a publication which is a true representative platform for academia in the country.
“We are keenly aware of the significance of all online platforms and will continuously develop strategies to expand our horizons in terms of content diversity as well as establish a reach which is not just restricted to Pakistan.”
Timeless artistry
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: December 02. 2009 6:48PM UAE / December 2. 2009 2:48PM GMT
Artists in Kashmir are sustaining craft and artistic tradition despite the long-term conflict and increasing economic difficulties that threaten their trade.
Working in Srinigar’s cottage industries and workshops are craftsmen determined to preserve centuries-old production and artistic techniques found only in Kashmir.
“Much great art exists in Kashmir,” artist Shafi Siraj says, “and it is unique – a combination of Islamic influence and traditional Kashmiri artistry that you will only find here.”
But, Siraj continues: “It is harder now to keep artists employed, and pass on skills, because there is less demand.”
Instability in the region has dissuaded many tourists from visiting and spending their money on handicrafts, while conflict over the region between India and Pakistan has prevented exports and reduced supplies of the necessary materials.
Despite this, traditional Kashmiri craftwork is still being produced.
Cottage industries across Srinigar have continued to produce unique art and textiles including finely woven pashmina shawls, hand-embroidered fabrics, silverwork, carpets and wood carvings.
Firdoz Ahmed and Muhammad Rafik work on the top floor of a traditional wooden Kashmiri house, weaving pashmina fabrics on hand-operated looms.
It is a painstaking process.
Hand-spun wool is dyed and then loaded onto wooden looms, a complex threading process that takes up to a day and a half to finish. Weavers produce 10-13cm of fabric a day.
Despite mechanised looms increasingly being used by some manufacturers because of the greater volume of work they can produce, Rafik says in order to produce traditional products, traditional methods are key.
“You cannot produce the quality of fabric that we do by hand with a machine. We can check continually for flaws, weave tighter and stronger pashmina, and cut threads properly.”
“We have always produced fabric in this way – without Kashmiri materials or production, you cannot make true Kashmiri products.”
Even in the face of copycat art emporiums across the region, and throughout India, Kashmiri artists maintain that the best way to sustain traditional artwork is to maintain the practices that produce it.
Ahmed says: “Large manufacturers use wool instead of pashmina, or use machines to produce woodcarvings – it’s cheaper and it sells, but if we don’t use Kashmiri materials and traditional artwork, we’ll lose a large part of our heritage and identity”.
In a bid to achieve this artists are increasingly exporting their work, and establishing emporiums dedicated to selling only genuine products.
On the city’s Dal Lake, home of Srinigar’s famous houseboat community, floating markets stock artwork produced by rural communities in Kashmir in favour of mass-produced art.
Independent traders make their way over the lake with silver bracelets and hand-stitched bags balanced on tiny shikara rafts.
Moazzem Babloo says the money he makes from selling turquoise-encrusted jewellery goes directly to Kashmiri villages.
“This is true Kashmiri art, not copies from India. This is how people in the countryside support themselves, and keep their traditions. Families teach their children, they pass on the skills.”
Youth involvement in the arts is seen by many here as key to preserving and maintaining a strong artistic emphasis in Kashmir.
The best place to see artists at work is in the Old City, where family-run cottage industries and workshops are striving to support traditional art despite the circumstances.
Above a narrow street is Abdul Khan’s tiny embroidery shop.
Three men seated on the floor first draw, and then embroider intricate patterns on shirts, scarves and bedding, spinning wool from hand-held looms and continually adapting designs and colour schemes for their clients.
Khan explains demand from Srinigar’s residents is steady.
He says: “We take a lot of work, and it is all hand-stitched. Stitching a design on a shirt can take between one and four days; it depends on the patterns used.”
Despite the cost, Khan has established workshops in the surrounding countryside to handle demand and also to offer as well as develop a greater range of embroidery techniques.
“We’re supporting embroidery traditions, and also encouraging them by employing as many people from different areas as we can. It keeps our work fresh and also means we don’t lose certain designs or rural styles.”
Shafi Siraj also moved some of his workshops out to the countryside.
He sells coats and bags made of suede and leather embroidered with traditional Kashmiri patterns.
“I employed almost 40 people in one of my workshops, but over the last few years that number has fallen to five. We have faced a lot of export embargoes and we couldn’t get enough materials to work. I had to tell my European clients not to send orders because I knew I couldn’t fulfil them. It became too expensive to run the business in Srinigar.”
His fur-lined coats have made a particular impression on tourists, and Siraj exports made-to-measure garments around the world.
Siraj continues: “Now though, I’m using workers in the countryside to stitch my products and add embroidery, and also to supply the leather we use. I’ve established new clients in Asia and the United States, based on the quality and authenticity of the work I’m producing. You couldn’t use a machine, or a workshop abroad to produce this work.”
At Qadir Najar’s carpentry workshop, artists are employed to carve and sculpt traditional Kashmiri patterns into the furniture the workshop produces.
He insists on handcrafted products, and the carpenters in his workshops carve heavy walnut panels with hand tools.
Najar says: “Employment here has fallen, but at least we have some workers still here. I can’t use machines; we adapt traditional patterns here, and use the tools and techniques that are traditional to Kashmiri work.”
In a bid to sustain the workshop, Najar focuses on the traditional, and has won international clients by producing what he terms “true” Kashmiri design.
“It is hard, against big manufacturers who copy Kashmiri design, and because not many tourists come now. But our work is so important because Kashmiri art is only found in Kashmir. So if we use our traditional techniques, we preserve our traditional arts.”
The passion for the arts extends beyond handicrafts. Last week, Srinigar’s third International Film Festival, run by the Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture and Languages, showcased three days of short films produced by emerging filmmakers in the region.
Hira Narjaf teaches classical dance and singing and says young people are keen to learn.
“We have so many traditional dances: Geetruu is a rural folk dance for parties and weddings; Bakhan folk songs depict our daily life in Kashmir; Ladishah you can say is our humour, our satirical singing and comment – and these are all important.”
“They are passed on through schools and families and lessons before festivals – people here are very proud to be Kashmiri. We are utterly different in our culture, and people take time to preserve it.”
All the rage
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: November 17. 2009 5:54PM UAE / November 17. 2009 1:54PM
A career in rock ’n’ roll might not be a conventional – or easy – choice for young Pakistanis, but despite the militant insurgency and social difficulties, aspiring musicians are finding ways to keep an alternative music scene alive.
Even with accelerating Taliban violence, Pakistan’s underground music-makers are rocking on.
“Our students have started forming bands; the youngest group consists of three seven-year-old boys. All play astonishingly well, and are fast improving every day”, says Abid Khan, one of the founders and teachers of Lahore’s Guitar School, which opened recently on the back of growing interest in contemporary music, stimulated by satellite television and the increasingly free and diverse broadcast media.
This has given Pakistani rock a contemporary foothold from which many bands have moved on to establish their own methods of promotion through social networking sites, putting their work on MySpace and Facebook.
Radio stations across the country are increasingly playing tracks by rising Pakistani bands and now musicians and teachers are encouraging youth participation.
At Lahore’s Guitar School, for example, almost 50 students attend classes given by established rock ’n’ rollers, most often in guitar. Khan says the school, in the city’s Defence district, was established in the face of declining demand for musicians in Pakistan, but on the back of popular interest in Pakistani rock.
“All we were focusing on in the beginning was to make money to get by, as work for musicians and opportunities in general were depleting. Teaching and sharing our skills with others was the most logical thing that came to mind,” he explains.
The school, which also teaches music theory and keeps a library of independent records, quickly became not just a financial venture, but a social and artistic one.
Khan adds: “Now that the school is up and running, we are realising the huge potential that music has for creating a healthy change in society.”
Eman Faisal Khan, 15, a student, says: “Here you have freedom to do what you want because their motto is ‘play it like you feel it’. The atmosphere is modern, very comfortable.”
A number of students have formed bands and the practice space attracts established artists.
Developing a successful music career in Pakistan can be a long and difficult process, particularly in a country where cultural events have to contend with a growing threat of violence – a major annual arts festival in Lahore faces financial ruin after the event was bombed last year.
Despite some bands using terror as inspiration for tracks carrying political comment, Pakistan’s instability is not a positive influence.
Arieb Azhar, an internationally recognised Pakistani musician, explains: “There are less and less opportunities for musicians to perform, because of security issues and lack of venues. Even the most popular of our mainstream artists are lucky to perform twice or three times a month, and make much better money playing abroad.”
A new, independent outdoor rock arena in the capital, Islamabad, should help, but venues like that are scarce. Many people also find it hard to reconcile western-influenced trends in music with Pakistan’s traditionally conservative society, though such resistance is being eroded by television shows such as Coke Studio and imported talent contests, which bring rock music into homes and soften the genre’s wild reputation.
Hamza Jafri, the frontman for the popular Pakistani band Co-Ven and a founder of the guitar school, where he also teaches, says: “We’re on all the music TV channels, we’re on the radio, everyone concerned in the industry knows about us.”
But he hints at problems: “Because so far we’ve only sung in English, that is the main factor that separates us from mass audiences in Pakistan.”
Azhar, too, suggests that a more inclusive approach to making music in schools and colleges might further uncover and foster talent. “At long last, some educational institutes have opened departments for teaching music, but it’s only when this happens on the lowest level of society that it can have a meaningful outcome.”
Azhar highlights further difficulties within the Pakistani music industry itself, saying that although music might be popular among fans, the country’s corporate music structure can be unhelpful to artists.
“There is hardly a thriving music scene or venues where new musicians can come and prove their worth, so it is usually the media bosses who promote new talent. Their judgement is not based on objective reality but personal contacts and short-term business plans.”
He worries that promoters focus more on easily digestible pop instead of emerging rock. “This is the time where musicians and artists can actually act as the voice of the people, the word on the street – but instead, nearly all the music being promoted through entertainment bosses is ‘opium for the masses’.”
Jafri argues that the system also operates to the disadvantage of musicians trying to make a living. “There isn’t really a music industry here,” he says.
“No copyright laws are exercised – it can’t become a functioning business system until artists are paid royalties.
“Co-Ven hasn’t really ever fallen in to the category of commercial bands, so the industry hasn’t so much affected us. We’ve just kept going on supporting ourselves and kept doing what we wanted to.”
Other bands, however, have to rely on corporate sponsorship to get anywhere, he says.
“Even if you have a hit song on the radio or the television, you won’t see a penny until a corporation signs you up, and they have nothing to do with music and the arts; they just want to sell their products.”
To compound the problem, a flourishing pirate music industry also means the latest single is often available at a fraction of the cost of the original in Lahore’s many CD stores.
On the bright side, radio stations offer a more encouraging outlet for musical talent.
Fizza Aslam, an on-air producer, has worked with Lahore’s CityFM89 station and says new music has found a place on the airwaves.
“With cable and internet widely available, our audiences are familiar with international music, so new music is always welcomed,” he says.
Aslam also says the problems that plague artists trying to land record deals and gigs have helped bolster the station’s ability to play tracks not being held anywhere else.
“It’s incredible to see the determination most of these artists have. The financial crunch has brought everything to a halt, record labels aren’t signing, concerts aren’t taking place with the frequency they used to because of security issues, but music is still being made – great music.
“So for CityFM89 it was, and is, not only easy but a pleasure, to feature artists who haven’t had a chance to showcase their music on any other medium.”
The station also promotes events designed to encourage new talent. For example, says Aslam, “CityFM89 celebrates World Music Day simultaneously in Karachi, Lahore, Islamabad and Faisalabad every year, in an attempt to encourage young talent to perform. Musicians submit their work and the best are asked to perform, with the station handling cost and promotion.”
The station also acts as a platform for good local music, with bands asked to perform live on air.
Student enthusiasm for the school points to the emergence in time of more musical talent, fostered by its social and academic environment.
Twenty-four-year-old Salma says: “It’s a collaborative experience, because it’s not really a teacher-student relationship. Instead, it’s all about making music and learning from reach other. Of course, we do most of the learning.”
The Guitar School’s ability to inspire is evident.
Shaayan Ahmad Khawaja, a seven-year-old student, sums it up: “I’d love to be a rock star.”
Festival under fire
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: November 02. 2009 4:42PM UAE / November 2. 2009 12:42PM GMT
A lack of funds and the increasing instability in Pakistan is threatening one of Lahore’s most prestigious arts festivals.
Organisers of the annual World Performing Arts Festival have asked Pakistan’s government for Rs40 million (Dh1.7m) to make up a funding shortfall and ensure the festival, planned for the end of this month, can take place.
The Rafi Peer Theatre Workshop group that puts together the WPAF says bomb attacks at last year’s event and deteriorating security in Lahore mean it hasn’t been able to find the level of funding it normally secures.
During a press conference appeal for funds, Rafi Peer’s creative director, Faizan Pirzada, said political and security issues have damaged participation and funding, denting the numbers of international performers usually expected to attend and discouraging financial backing and sponsorship.
“Our sponsors vanished after last year’s event,” says Pirzada. “We had used some of the same sponsors for years, and even turned down better offers from others. The security in Pakistan means we are losing our backers. Last year’s event was put together using a lot of our own money.”
Three bomb blasts rocked the penultimate night of last year’s festival, resulting in casualties and prompting a huge response from Lahore’s emergency services.
Pirzada recalls: “We wanted to create an event to celebrate our art and culture. We suffered attacks last year from those who see the event as un-Islamic, but it is not. Militants and attacks cannot stop this festival. The event will go on.”Time, though, is running out – the 2009 festival was due to start around November 22.
In the WPAF’s 25-year history more than 16,000 performers and artists from over 80 countries have taken part in the event, which showcases folk, classical and emerging musicians, theatre productions, musicals, dance troupes and puppetry over 10 days. Musicians and dancers from Europe, India and Sri Lanka have featured prominently.
The event has been praised for providing a platform for fading indigenous art forms and for bringing international art and performance to Lahore. Exposure through the WPAF has often served as a launch pad for emerging Pakistani artists, some of whom have gone on to find international acclaim.
Pirzada says that between 30 and 40 directors from international arts festivals attend the event in Lahore every year, often inviting the Pakistani artists they have seen performing at the WPAF to attend festivals overseas.
Performers involved in previous WPAF festivals have spoken of their experiences and commented on the success of the 2008 event, which took place at Lahore’s extensive Alhamra arts complex.
Speaking at last year’s festival, the Norwegian electro-pop artist Ingrid Kindmen, whose set mixed electro beats with guitar and drum music from Pakistani artists, reflected on the WPAF’s international outlook.
“It’s very colourful, very exciting, and it is the best chance to come to meet everyone from the Pakistani music scene and the other European visitors. You play a lot and mix different instruments and styles.”
The internationally recognised Pakistani musician Arieb Azhar reflects on the WPAF’s ability to amass diverse Pakistani talent: “Last year’s festival for me was very educational on an individual level because I had a chance to meet and interact with musicians from all over. Any venue that brings together a bunch of different types of talented musicians is representative of Pakistani music.
“The bomb blasts at the end of the festival also made us realise that art is always political, whether it means to be so or not.”
The singer Saeen Zahoor, the winner of the 2006 BBC Voice of the Year, has said in the past that the WPAF is vital to the success of Pakistani music on the global stage because of the international attention the event attracts – far more than many other arts programmes in Pakistan.
The event has propelled artists who are famous in Lahore, such as the dhol drummer Pappu Saeen, on to the world stage. Saeen plays a host of events and regular dates on the Lahori calendar and also teaches the dhol at western universities and schools.
He has said the WPAF is instrumental in encouraging international tourists and artists to attend music events in Pakistan and in bringing classical Pakistani arts such as tabla playing and qawwali singing to an international market.
The event is vital to Lahore also on a financial level because of the number of visitors attracted by the city’s reputation as an architectural and performing arts hub.
Alongside a burgeoning cafe culture and a rise in the number of designer shopping malls in Lahore, the city’s festival atmosphere and cosmopolitan outlook attracts business investment and tourists. Tour guides are a common sight at Sufi music nights and classical concerts.
The lack of financial backers for this year’s event is as worrying for the artists as it is for the Peer Group organisers.
“The WPAF is very important because it gives a chance for musicians from all over Pakistan to interact with each other and with foreign artists as well.
“The festival can never go on to the next level until the musicians themselves are made to feel that the festival is for them – until they are given their due respect and remuneration.”
Azhar, who performed a number of shows at least year’s event, highlights the significance of the festival for the future of the country’s musicians and their artistic development.
He says: “I personally am very sorry to hear that the festival might not go ahead this year. I would like to see government institutions and powerful corporations actively supporting the festival.
“It takes several years for a festival to build up a respectable reputation in the eyes of the audience and the performers. If the festival is cancelled it will be another blow to the motivation of artists in this country.”
Lahoris are also concerned about the effect losing the festival will have on the city.
Sabir Shah, a senior news journalist with the Lahore-based paper The News International, says government and popular focus has been drawn away from cultural events in the wake of the recent upsurge in violence across Pakistan.
“Rafi Peer is asking for funds from the government, along with security. The government is in no mood to listen to any such thing at this juncture. Things are just easing out after immense tension over the last two weeks. I don’t think we will have any cultural activity until the end of December at least.”
Estimates suggest that almost 200 people have been killed in Pakistan so far this month in a string of bomb and gun attacks across the country that are viewed by many as a militant response to the Pakistan army’s military offensive against the Taliban in the South Waziristan tribal agency.
The resultant suicide blasts and attacks on government and security institutions have become so widespread that Pakistan closed its educational institutions last week.
Says Shah: “If the World Performing Arts Festival is not cancelled yet, it will be, courtesy of the situation in Pakistan. The attacks last year injured three at the event. Pakistanis are living in a state of despondency and fear.”
He also fears the economic damage that will result if Lahore loses the large-scale events for which the city is renowned.
“Businesses have suffered and jobs have become insecure. The already ailing economy is unable to absorb the shock. GDP, investment and exports are falling. With the loss of the WPAF and other significant cultural events, the cultural life in Lahore will shrink and investment within the city may decline further still.”
Following the Rafi Peer group’s appeal for funding, members of the Punjab government have said that they do recognise the positive effect the WPAF generates.
Ministers have pledged that attempts to support the organisers will be made, but those at Rafi Peer say the funding needed to stage the event has not been forthcoming.
Pirzada says: “We have spoken to the governor of Punjab, Salmaan Taseer, who has pledged to help us and to help deliver a letter to the government to ask for financial aid”, but he adds nothing has been received by the Rafi Peer organisation.
The organisers have also warned that even if it becomes possible to hold a 2009 festival, the numbers of those performing will be much smaller that in previous years.
“We have less than a month to finish organising the event and even if we can put just a small homage to the WPAF together, we will not have any international performers,” Pirzada says. “We had 163 overseas performers due to arrive but they have all backed out.”
He says that the Rafi Peer group has even considered moving the festival overseas to preserve the WPAF as a platform for indigenous arts.
Organisers at Rafi Peer have been travelling to Dubai to try to generate financial backing for an arts festival on the same scale in the UAE. “We wanted Dubai to be the event’s next home, but again we couldn’t raise the money and we couldn’t find an arts sponsor. It is very sad – we wanted an event that also incorporated arts from across the emirate.”
Pirzada said though that in the short term, the lack of interest in the arts in Pakistan means the deficit caused by poor security and fading sponsorship will almost certainly prevent a 2009 WPAF from opening.
“The government has no infrastructure to support the arts. I think we will not even be able to hold a small event now. We have warehouses full of equipment and technological support that is just going to be sitting there,” he says.
“I think we will only be able to go to the site where the event is usually held and just light a candle on the night the festival was supposed to open.”
Preserving Lahore’s artistic traditions
Rebecca Conway : The National
Last Updated: October 25. 2009 3:21PM UAE / October 25. 2009 11:21AM GMT
Musical institutions in Lahore are trying to ensure classical performance and instruction develop in a city renowned for its musical heritage. “Our teachers believe they are the vanguard, keeping music alive despite financial and social hardships,” says Shahid Mirza, the head of the Lahore Chitrkar arts centre. Chitrkar is a classical hub, revolving around a working studio and gallery that offer a place to share, develop and exhibit artistic skills. Classical vocal, flute, tabla, sitar and guitar classes include practical instruction and discussion on music making. The emphasis is as much on theory as practical instruction.
“The Chitrkar institution is so important to Lahore,” Mirza says. “It is the only privately-run institute of its kind in Pakistan. Here, our youth are becoming familiar with our musical tradition. Only then can it grow.” A non-profit organisation, Chitrkar was founded by painters, architects, writers, dancers and musicians. It offers tuition with internationally renowned classical artists. Monthly classical music concerts provide an ongoing vehicle for exhibition, with those at Chitrkar keen to provide a public forum for classical music in Lahore.
Mirza says: “Classical musicians take it as a great honour to perform and be appreciated in Lahore. Classical giants like Omkarnath Thakur and Vinayak Rao Patwardhan opened music schools in Lahore even before partition.” The internationally recognised Pakistani musician Arieb Azhar agrees education is key. “The brutal market economy of Pakistan is not conducive to the classical arts. The exponents of these arts feel threatened and this has caused them to become very insular in their approach.
“On a governmental level, classical music (together with its mythology) needs to enter into the educational curriculum.” He warns, though, that to sustain a viable classical music scene, Lahore’s musicians must have the right vehicle for expression. “Even though quite a few arts festivals still happen in Lahore, they are not as professionally organised as in Karachi and the musicians find it harder to make a living.”
Events such as the Rafi Peer organisation’s annual World Performing Arts Festival and the Peer Group’s nightly music events at a Lahore restaurant attract a stunning array of musicians not seen elsewhere in the city. Institutions such as the University of Punjab are also establishing programmes and festivals to promote and showcase local classical talent. Nadia Khan, a student in the department of arts, says: “Classical music is part of Lahore so it is good that we have places for these traditions. It is harder these days to hold events. People are getting scared of going to concerts. We need places to keep publicising music.”
Although festivals and concerts highlight the importance of music and increase public performance, Azhar says: “Often music is not seen as a serious profession like law or medicine. Musicians are often expected to perform for free, or for a minimum wage, at festivals that claim to operate on an international level.” And while schools like Chitrkar can offer some practice and performance space, Azhar says more is needed. “A lack of urban music venues and funding means the most talented musicians remain outside the mainstream or are reduced to performing as session artists for pop bands.”
Lahore still serves as a prominent home for the devotional qawwali music that is played every Thursday afternoon at the shrine of Data Ganj Bakhsh Hajveri; qawwali groups travel from Punjab and beyond to perform there, building rhythmic chants of Sufi poetry to harmonium and tabla (twin drums) beats. Performances last hours, attracting steady streams of devotees. Adorned with flowers, they sing, dance and clap. Audiences crowd beneath a glittering canopy of decorations and are sprayed with rose water.
The qawwali musician Ali Said says performances keep younger generations in Pakistan connected to a unique musical genre that is only found in certain areas. “A lot of this music, like qawwali singing, comes from the south, so playing qawwali in Punjab is good. It brings this tradition to people in Lahore.” The Moti bazaar in the heart of Lahore’s Walled City is packed with tiny workshops producing handcrafted dhol and tabla. The instruments adorn walls and hang in the small doorways. Traders report business is steady.
Qasim Shah, who runs a shop that makes tabla and small hand drums, says Lahoris’ desire to embrace classical music at formal events keeps the demand for dhol drummers high. “People want to hear modern pop music but they also want Pakistani music like dhol at their weddings and parties.” His comments echo Lahore’s enduring love affair with Sufi music tradition and dhol drumming. Midnight dhol performances by the brothers Gonga and Mithu Saeen at the shrine of Baba Shah Jamal draw vast crowds. The crush of people gathered to watch dervishes spin to increasingly hypnotic beats is testament to the pair’s popularity and artistry. Their performances on the world stage have kept dhol tradition in focus.
New and ongoing projects designed to develop music are also bolstering classical arts. The new forum Lahore Sudhar, run by the Chitrkar school, encourages Lahoris to become involved in planning and developing projects and to provide a public arena for debate. Pages for schools such as Chitrkar on the social networking web sites Facebook and Twitter also give the younger generation a way to follow classical music development online.
Teachers at Chitrkar say artistic tradition should be encouraged through local bodies and not seen as something cemented that needs no further development. Azhar agrees: “I think the place for preserving tradition and folklore is in the museums and libraries. But everyone should aspire to build a culturally conducive and unbiased environment where music, which is evolving on the streets, can find its way into the media and mainstream festivals.
“Lahore has still got a vibrant culture because it was the cultural hub during the Moghul and the Sikh period and because its multicultural tradition has attracted artists, writers, poets, dervishes from across Pakistan.” The future of classical music development may rest partly on outlook as well as practical effort. Azhar says that success may lie in a change of focus and acceptance of the diverse cultural influences that have shaped Pakistani music.
“After 60 years of Pakistan, we are unable to accept all the history, mythology or folklore that is or was within our borders. As Pakistanis we need to have a sense of pride in not only our Islamic tradition, but also our Sikh, Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Parsee and Pagan traditions.”
