Kashmir Halcyon:

Daanish Bin Nabi Many people believe that playing their best game as a human being requires them to revolutionalize their lives. And for most of us, that’s a scary thought. No one wants to make massive changes to the way they think, feel and behave. Human beings love staying within the comfort zone, but not this person. He, with his casual confidence raised the bar of self belief, motivated his self to get beyond comfort zones, constantly striving to reach for something higher. Cricket to charity-he has conquered it all. Ready to surmount and scale unassailable heights in Pakistan politics-Imran khan’s legend is all set to win us again. He overwhelmed the world with his startling ability, he gave cricket a different theme, and he is and always will be thought of by cricket fans internationally. Imran Khan, an exceptionally talented all rounder is the game of cricket and has reached the pinnacle, resembling no one else. This cricketer was born no differently than any other ...

Did Pakistan commit genocide and kill 3 million natives of East Pakistan in 1971? Dr. M. Abdul Mu’min Chowdhury, a Bengali nationalist who enthusiastically participated in the nationalist cause, spoke out in 1996 to tell the factual story of what went on during that war. He says the allegations against Pakistan were entirely cooked up and the actual death toll was much lower than the incorrectly fabricated 3 million figures. He cited an extensive range of sources to show that what the Pakistani army was carrying out in East Pakistan was a limited counter-insurgency, not at all genocide. He questions the conventional narrative of an oppressed, downtrodden Bengali nation fighting a brave and noble war of “liberation” from a tyrannical regime in the face of impossible hardship only to emerge as a free nation to whom the future now belonged. He says that greed for personal power and Indian predatory ambitions against its only regional counterweight were the only things that motiva...

They killed my father in the early morning hours of April 4, 1979, inside Rawalpindi Central Jail. Imprisoned with my mother a few miles away in a deserted police training camp at Sihala, I felt the moment of my father’s death. Despite the Valiums my mother had given me to try and get through the agonising night, I suddenly sat bolt-upright in bed at 2.00 am. ‘No!’ the scream burst through the knots in my throat. ‘No!’ I couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. Papa! Papa! I felt cold, so cold, in spite of the heat, and couldn’t stop shaking. There was nothing my mother and I could say to console each other. Somehow the hours passed as we huddled together in the bare police quarters. We were ready at dawn to accompany my father’s body to our ancestral family graveyard. ‘I am in Iddat and can’t receive outsiders. You talk to him,’ my mother said dully when the jailer arrived. She was beginning a widow’s four months and ten days of seclusion from strangers. I walked into the ...