The image of an old man sitting outside the decades-old dry-cleaning shop Gurcson and Co. on Canning Road in Saddar Bazaar of Rawalpindi Cantt is stuck in my mind. This man would skillfully turn his needle in many directions to repair the odd bits of colorful cloth around him. A frequent gesture of his was to adjust the old glasses on his eyes. This "Rafugar" sat on the footpath in front of Gurcson.
As you entered Gurcson, the smell of petro-chemicals hit your nostrils. A man on the counter would quickly take the receipt and locate your clothes from those hanging in the long line of glass cupboards. The dry-cleaned clothes hung in big plastic wraps as if they were artworks headed for a gallery.
There was a feel of the old world about Gurcson and how it functioned, something that's missing from modern dry-cleaning shops. There was often an offer from the shopkeeper to drink tea after my father had picked up our clothes.
I was a child and the importance of this shop or the Canning Road did not occur to me. It was just a place to get clothes washed a few times a year. It was a single utility shop. Not until I was in my-20s did I learn the story of the road from my father.
As you entered Gurcson, the smell of petro-chemicals hit your nostrils. A man on the counter would quickly take the receipt and locate your clothes from those hanging in the long line of glass cupboards. The dry-cleaned clothes hung in big plastic wraps as if they were artworks headed for a gallery.
There was a feel of the old world about Gurcson and how it functioned, something that's missing from modern dry-cleaning shops. There was often an offer from the shopkeeper to drink tea after my father had picked up our clothes.
I was a child and the importance of this shop or the Canning Road did not occur to me. It was just a place to get clothes washed a few times a year. It was a single utility shop. Not until I was in my-20s did I learn the story of the road from my father.
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Shopkeepers in Gurcson's Canning Road used to trade in leather and products made from it during British times. Leather-product shops still exist on Canning to this day. Later I learned that since Hindus do not deal with leather and hides and skins due to their religious beliefs, it gave a chance to Muslims to enter this trade during the pre-Partition period.
Trading castes such as Chiniotis and Memons, who now dominate Pakistan's textile industry, honed their business and trading skills in hides and skins. Canning Road located close to the former Rawalpindi Club must have been crucial for the growth of entrepreneurship among Muslims since the 19th century. It is a pity there are is no archives that would explain the history of the Road and its role in the development of Muslim businesses in this area.
Another place of similar interest is a congested area called "Laalkurti", which literally translates as "Red Shirts". It is a place where the lower-middle classes of Rawalpindi buy everything from yogurt to clothes and shoes. Its narrow alleys have old Hindu architecture. From the "rupee haar" (long garlands made of rupee notes) worn on weddings by the groom in villages to jalebis being fried and daegs being cooked to the modern K&N frozen processed food shop, it has everything. Just a little distance away is the dilapidated Police Chowki. Laalkurti's working class provided services to the colonial administration. They wore red shirts and hence the name. Laalkurti is now called Tariq Abad.
Trading castes such as Chiniotis and Memons, who now dominate Pakistan's textile industry, honed their business and trading skills in hides and skins. Canning Road located close to the former Rawalpindi Club must have been crucial for the growth of entrepreneurship among Muslims since the 19th century. It is a pity there are is no archives that would explain the history of the Road and its role in the development of Muslim businesses in this area.
Another place of similar interest is a congested area called "Laalkurti", which literally translates as "Red Shirts". It is a place where the lower-middle classes of Rawalpindi buy everything from yogurt to clothes and shoes. Its narrow alleys have old Hindu architecture. From the "rupee haar" (long garlands made of rupee notes) worn on weddings by the groom in villages to jalebis being fried and daegs being cooked to the modern K&N frozen processed food shop, it has everything. Just a little distance away is the dilapidated Police Chowki. Laalkurti's working class provided services to the colonial administration. They wore red shirts and hence the name. Laalkurti is now called Tariq Abad.
I was recently struck by the poverty of knowledge about art provided to school and college students when I visited the celebrated Pakistan National Art Gallery (PNCA) in Islamabad. I was surprised to find that the PNCA is a huge, relatively new structure of limited aesthetic merit and poor maintenance.
A mother-and-child made out of twigs was one of the highlights of the special show that was currently on display. It was cleverly done, a large glass sculpture that offered an original geometric experience; it was innovative at the very least. And then there were several galleries of the permanent collection. The artistic depth here was in the work of Jamil Naqsh, Zahoor-ul-Akhlaq, Sadequain, Shakir Ali and Ustad Allah Bux. That depth seemed to be missing in the more recent artworks on display in the gallery. The special gallery devoted to Ustad Allah Bux's works had a display panel full of atrocious English and typos trying to give a history of his work.
The PNCA was almost empty. We only saw a foreigner couple, surrounded by many more staff members who were switching on gallery lights for the sprinkling of visitors.
We asked the entrance clerk about the number of daily visitors to the gallery. He did not seem to have a record. He said that between 200 and 400 people were at the opening of the current exhibition, following which only 6-7 visitors came to the galleries every day, some of them inevitably foreigners. Why, then, have such a huge building if there are no takers for what it has to offer, and with evidently no effort made to increase the visitors?
Former TV actor Tauqeer Nasir has photos with visiting VIPs on a big notice board in the entrance foyer. Nasir, who used to play the "angry young man" in PTV dramas in the 1980s, now seems rather pleased with having become the top man of PNCA.
Walking around the PNCA, I was reminded of a recent essay by an Indian artist which said that during the British period, art classes in India were offered to poor and low-income group students, whereas Indian elites considered a formal art education not worthy of their kids' time. Now the tables have turned. Art has become an exclusive interest of the Pakistani elite and the rest of society is bereft of it.
Former TV actor Tauqeer Nasir has photos with visiting VIPs on a big notice board in the entrance foyer. Nasir, who used to play the "angry young man" in PTV dramas in the 1980s, now seems rather pleased with having become the top man of PNCA.
Walking around the PNCA, I was reminded of a recent essay by an Indian artist which said that during the British period, art classes in India were offered to poor and low-income group students, whereas Indian elites considered a formal art education not worthy of their kids' time. Now the tables have turned. Art has become an exclusive interest of the Pakistani elite and the rest of society is bereft of it.
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