I grew up in Sindh in one of the oldest cities of the Talpurs, Tando Aallahyar, who ruled this part of India in the eighteenth century. My ancestors were court musicians. When the Talpur lost Sindh and the British came into power, everything changed.

I learnt how to draw and paint in Hyderabad. Later, I went to Lahore to pursue a degree in Art and lived there for twelve years. In all this time, I have looked at, studied, and worked in many “historical” buildings from the eighteenth century.

The Hyderabad Fort is part of how I remember Sindh. The red brick building of the National College of Arts is the memory of youthful rebellion, and the studio I worked had in Anarkali Bazaar offered an aerial view of the Punjab University, the NCA, the High Court, and The Mall . 

I have often looked at these concrete memories of British Empire in India and wondered about relationships of betrayal and of continuity. I thought of Sindh often and listened to the music of Kanwar Bhagat Ram and Mirza Qaleech Baig. Twelve years in Lahore had not cured me of the love of Sindh and I longed to go “home”.

Although this present body of work had begun in drawings of colonial buildings on Lahore’s Mall Road, when I returned to live in Karachi. Sindh’s metropolis had grown and decayed in equal measure, but I realized for the first time that “English Karachi” did not accept me. While I taught in a public sector university and looked for myself, I ploughed the Sindh archives in the search of the life stories and pictures of the city’s local and foreign rulers and also for the changing definition of these terms. Charles Napier and Naomal haunted me but I was looking for neither friend nor foe.

To understand this process, I started working backwards, using the small black slate used in schools that the British brought with them to teach us who we are. I remembered my own school where I was thrashed by the teacher for chalking images on the slate instead of learning the alphabet. This work is an exploration of a troubled relationship.

In addition, learnt how to draw and paint in Hyderabad. Later, I went to Lahore to pursue a degree in Art and lived there for twelve years until a year ago.

In all this time, I have looked at, studied, and worked in many “historical” buildings from the eighteenth century.

The Hyderabad Fort is part of how I remember Sindh. The red brick building of the National College of Arts is the memory of youthful rebellion, and the studio I worked had in Anarkali Bazaar offered an aerial view of the Punjab University, the NCA, the High Court, and The Mall .

I have often looked at these concrete memories of British Empire in India and wondered about relationships of betrayal and of continuity. I thought of Sindh often and listened to the music of Kanwar Bhagat Ram and Mirza Qaleech Baig. Twelve years in Lahore had not cured me of the love of Sindh and I longed to go “home”.

Although this present body of work had begun in drawings of colonial buildings on Lahore’s Mall Road, when I returned to live in Karachi. Sindh’s metropolis had grown and decayed in equal measure, but I realized for the first time that “English Karachi” did not accept me. While I taught in a public sector university and looked for myself, I ploughed the Sindh archives in the search of the life stories and pictures of the city’s local and foreign rulers and also for the changing definition of these terms. Charles Napier and Naomal haunted me but I was looking for neither friend nor foe.

To understand this process, I started working backwards, using the small black slate used in schools that the British brought with them to teach us who we are. I remembered my own school where I was thrashed by the teacher for chalking images on the slate instead of learning the alphabet. This work is an exploration of a troubled relationship.