A couple of years ago, my friend had been through a breakup and impulsively deleted all photographs with her ex. She regretted it later because she had nothing to remember them by. When she saw a flower that resembled the ones that grew outside her ex’s house, she took a picture of it because it served as a way to hold on to the memory of someone who is no longer around. This is symbolic of an intrinsic human urge to hold on to the past, which is the crux of my practice. To preserve the memories I don’t want to forget, I stage photographs in my friends’ homes to resemble a past moment of intimacy. I notice how being allowed into their spaces, to curate them and spend time in them allowed new conversations and intimacies between friends, lovers and spaces to emerge and engage with one another. I tell these stories through writing and photography as a way of holding onto them and having something to remember them by.

Walking is a very subtle act. You may stroll in your garden or you may be walking on a footpath of a local bazaar. Various cues along the way—things and conversations that excite you, like a small plant growing out of a crack, light hitting on a beautiful mosaic tile. You admire the peeled-off paint on boundary walls, where layers of social, political, and personal texts intertwine, prompting reflections on time and memory. I work on a loose canvas cloth which I get from Joria Bazaar, a market in the heart of Saddar. The surface of the cloth takes at least three days of prepping with layering glue, gesso, and constant sanding. The frilled edges, unevenness, and rawness add to the irregularity and looseness of these transitional spaces. My practice involves playing with the scale of painting so that it becomes like a performance, seamlessly merging with the act of walking as I navigate Karachi’s intricate streetscapes.

In Karachi, the search for a house is more than just a pursuit of shelter — it is a confrontation with the city’s chaotic urban sprawl, where safety and stability often feel like a distant dream. Financial constraints dictate the quality of space, and the lack of thoughtful planning reveals itself at every turn. But amidst my struggle to find a house in Karachi, I found myself captivated by an unexpected presence: the green safety net that draped over all construction sites. This simple fabric, fluttering gently in the wind, became a momentary escape from the overwhelming noise of the city.

It conceals and yet, highlights the very fact that it is hiding something, revealing the vulnerability of the structure behind.  This dualism of the object  resonated with my journey of building and safeguarding my new home. For me, the safety net not only denotes protection but also signifies the ongoing process of establishing and claiming my own space in a city that poses its own challenges.

My investigation focuses on the study of damage, wrinkles, and marks on discarded surfaces, specifically rexine, used for making rickshaw body covers that have lost their functionality. I celebrate the experiences these surfaces have gone through, creating unique portraits from them. Through ongoing visits to workshops, and by understanding the functionality of rexine and the processes involved in rickshaw construction and repair, I have come to appreciate how objects in a typical household continue to be used even after their primary purpose has been fulfilled. The act of stitching the rexine and creating marks on the material, is also a connection to my roots, as I am a third-generation student from my mother’s side of the family, learning embroidery. I bring two perspectives together in my work: that of the artisans involved in the making of the rickshaws, and that of the female presence in my house, a constant guidance for threads, colors and embroidery styles.

My artworks are about my city, Karachi. A person from any other city in Pakistan sees a black hole when he thinks about Karachi. This black hole is filled with darkness, target killings, theft, bombings and is brimming with the blood of corruption… the list goes on. A place which used to be called “the city of lights” is now labeled as the city of darkness. I believe there can be a hope in the darkest of places and for me there is still hope for Karachi. While in Karachi there is much despair, I have shown that my city is still alive, and that it is not going to die that easily. These images show the city’s places and people that have seen hardship like no other city, continuing hope in the darkest of streets. After all ‘‘Karachi, Karachi hai…’’

I started tearing pieces of paper around me to rearrange, rebuild, and maybe even free them—hoping to feel some of that freedom myself. I am intrigued by the texture, size, and stories within the printed text, especially the restrictive portrayals of women and femininity. While exploring printed media, various Khawateen Digest magazines found in Karachi resurfaced in my work. 

As a child, tearing paper was a way to vent my frustration. It was cathartic, almost instinctive. Now, my relationship with the act has changed. Through collage, I see it as a conversation with paper, a back and forth exchange. Sometimes it’s harsh, other times gentle. There are moments when I let the paper’s shapes and textures dictate what it becomes. And other times, I take charge again, laying things out exactly how I want.

This push and pull within my process creates layered experiences which then guide the final form my works end up taking.