Challenges make you discover things about yourself that you never really knew. They are what make you go beyond the norm. The same applies to what my team and I achieved on the December 15, 2010 when we successfully set a new Guinness World Record by fitting into a Standard two-seater Daimler Benz Production Smart Car. Doing something smart with my smart car I realized that I possess a Smart Car which is a rarity - at least in Pakistan. In fact whenever I took it out on a drive I was followed by inquisitive admirers. While browsing newspaper headlines in my living room, I came across a story on the world’s largest cake. This story aroused my curiosity and soon enough I started searching on the internet to see what records were set by my car. After a quick search on Google, I came across a video of 18 people from Australia crammed into a smart car. This was inspirational and I started working on it. Of course initially whoever heard of it, laughed it off, but I was resolute -I knew something could be done. I started contacting my friends and convinced my parents that something like this could be attempted. Seeing my determination, my parents, Saleem Yousuf and Shereen Saleem, who believed thoroughly in my conviction agreed to help me. Apart from my parents, my brother, Sharam Saleem and both my uncles Dr Mirza Ikhtiar Baig and Ishtiaq Baig supported me and encouraged me throughout my journey. Now there was no looking back. Preparing for our challenge After encountering certain teething problems, we were at it. I contacted the officials of the Guinness Book of World Records, and collected the necessary data. With their permission to carry out the record breaking attempt, my team and I started the drills night and day. From the beginning all their requirements were kept in mind including media coverage, height, video footage and a credible jury. Initially, collecting girls that met the standard requirement for the feat was a challenge itself. Furthermore the examination season posed problems to assembling all of them together. Yet with gaps and glitches, we continued. At one time it seemed that we could not go beyond 12 girls! Slowly we increased the number. We actually had to watch very closely - from hairdos to diets. My mom took the responsibility of not only being the chaperone but also taking care of the details like providing us with deodorants to control body odour and making sure that all the girls were properly showered and had clean hair! It was fun but the challenge was becoming more and more daunting. Here I would say that without the complete cooperation of my team this would have been impossible. We wanted to show the world that the Pakistani youth, especially the girls, can do what no one else in the world can - and so we did! Although it was a novel idea - it was challenging. And challenges are what Pakistani youth must think of taking up. My parents, family members, teachers and friends are proud of my team and I. But it’s not my victory; it’s the victory of our nation. I am happy that my team and I have set this new world record for Pakistan. We are proud Pakistanis today and with a world record attempt in my folio, I hope to conquer the world after I get a degree from a prestigious international university! Long Live Pakistan! The 19 participants-without whom this would have been impossible:

The sensitivity of young people today should ideally never be gauged by the first question that comes to their minds when a bomb goes off in Karachi: Will there be school tomorrow? Instead, Karachi’s generation-next should be assessed on how much hard work, effort and time its members put into relief camps and charity distribution, placard holding and general running around they did in an effort to contribute to alleviating the pain of the people hit by the flooding this summer. There was a definite perception that young privileged girls and boys just live in their bubble on that side of the bridge and don’t really care about the other humans they share a country with. But if the flood relief efforts are anything to go by, let alone the home schools and separate year-round efforts, a different picture emerges. Some of the good work included personal charity drives, pitching tents at much-visited spots such as Agha’s Supermarket’s parking lot or outside the Forum to urge people to donate, working through school networks to send out appeals for water, blankets, toys, books, food, medicines. Others spent school hours packing the material, or badgering their factory-owning fathers to arrange trucks to be dispatched to the villages. The older ones even jumped onto the trucks, braved looting and the unchartered territory and headed into the swimming fields of Sindh. For others, there was another ingenious way to try and solve other people’s problems. So what if you can’t make it up to Tori Bund and hand out Peditral and ORS to diarrhoea-cramped survivors? You could instead attend a masked charity ball! But first tickets needed to be sold, somehow, at this extraordinarily difficult time. “So, who’s coming?” I ask. The ticket-seller replies in an attempt to sound casual, “The usual schools.” A list is produced. “Wait a second,” I quickly scan it. “Why is this school included? Oi! Come back here. Why are these melas on the list?” Someone else joins the conversation. “Do we have to pay?” “Oh right, yes,” responds the ticket-seller. “Only RsX,000. But please do come, OK? Did you get the Facebook notification?” [It was a non-school, completely private masquerade ball] “Yeah, I did see that. But?” “Limited tickets till Friday only. Then, I’ll be super busy figuring out the masks and all. But I could make an exception for you.” A ticket is flapped in my face. “So, it’s a yes?” I hesitate for a second too long to answer. A sanctimonious well-worn phrase is trotted out for special effect: “But, it’s for charity!” That hurt, as did the arched eyebrows and innocent wide-eyed questioning by the ticket seller. What kind of person are you? You can’t buy a ticket for charity? My excuses don’t stand a chance. My parents already gave X amount of rupees to the prime minister’s relief fund. Or, did you know how expensive goats were this Eid? Anything to cover up the fact that I didn’t own a ‘gown’ or a ‘masque’ or simply, didn’t think it was appropriate given the scale of the devastation. “Honestly,” cajoles the ticket-seller, reading my mind. “You could come in a dhoti even. Forget gowns. Come in your school uniform if you have to! OK. No, wait. I take that back. That would be extremely embarrassing if you did.” Someone else pipes up helpfully to join the attempt to persuade me to fork over the rather strange amount of cash. “My mum, khala AND phuppee will be there. How much parental supervision do you need?” When I murmur that my close friends aren’t planning on attending a ball, the ticket-seller reacts with chagrin and indignation. “What am I to you?” The sidekick butts in. “We’ve hired a contingent of security forces, no need for your mum to go all emo.” Let me get this straight. They’re “hiring” a security contingent to guard a party while they simultaneously lament the lack of security everywhere else? But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going. Later, I was showed pictures of the party, suits and long, covered gowns milling about with little glasses of Coke. It was all rather tame. And yet, the organisers not only broke even, they managed to set aside a decent ‘profit’ that was sent through various NGOs to the flood survivors just in time for Eid. I’m still a little divided over the phenomenon of revelry for relief. Is it akin to fiddling while Rome burns or is it better to do something, anything rather than not play at all?

Dear Google, It pains me immensely to say this but you have let me down in my utmost time of need. I always thought there was not a question in this world that would return unanswered from your domain. I always relied on you for the smallest of queries, recommendations and confirmations, and I must admit that it had been so far, so good. Be it a school research assignment on Alaska, finding some economic or cricket statistics, or checking online for symptoms that my kid would be down with, or even looking up the answer to some radio contest question, you were my hero! My savior! My best-est, most reliable resource. Until last week! Yes, just last week, all I googled was these four words:

"Karachi Grammar Test Preparation".

Mrs A remembers it as 'the most horrible week of my life.' She cried frequently; she had trouble sleeping at night; she had to leave a party early because she felt like she 'couldn't breathe'. And too many of her hours were filled with 'whys'; why did this happen to her? Why? A child stricken with life-threatening illness? The collapse of the family business? The death of a beloved parent?  No, the darkest week of Mrs A’s life came two weeks ago when her daughter was rejected admission in the nursery at Karachi Grammar School (KGS). It’s hard to imagine writing such a sentence as anything other than a joke, but for well-heeled parents across Karachi, the elite like Mrs A; the ambitious, the academically inclined and the socially well connected, nursery is intensely serious business. Between growing populations and an increasingly competitive job market, getting your child into one of the city’s most prestigious private schools has become a gruelling, multi-year competition, with its own rules, code language, and intrigue. It’s a mean competition too - one that can turn sensible, mannerly, child-loving parents and educators into hard, calculating, and paranoid operators. (Almost everyone interviewed for this article insisted that she not be quoted by name and that all identifying characteristics be disguised.) That applying to nursery should become such cut-throat business is doubtless a joke to those not in it - “yet”, said one parent darkly - or with children already past that age. However, the pint-size contestants of this game are merely the most striking example of a profound change in sentiments about early childhood, achievement, status and what it means to be successful in Karachi. Karachi’s greatest school: Do you have ‘it’? The opinions you will hear about Karachi Grammar School are as varied as the students who attend it. Most people, some grudgingly, will admit that the teachers are by and large seasoned educators, the nursery program one of the best in the country and the A' Level graduates, the highest scoring, frequently of world-wide fame. And with very few exceptions, everyone will also concede that KGS has one more notable quality that holds it aloft year after year; age. The red brick building is as integral a part of Karachi architecture as anything else. It holds the mystique of privilege that is hard to manufacture anew and that continues to radiate the old-money glamour that makes even the nouveau-riche of Karachi aspire to some post-Colonial remnants of English polish. The colour of students’ uniforms, the prefectorial gowns, the historical connotations of the many, many success stories that are KGS alumni, has given the institution an affiliation to triumphant achievement hard to match and understandably, in a country full of suffering, one that parents are desperate for their children to at least be near to. Estimates for the number of nursery applications the school receives each year varies wildly, depending on how hysterical the parent being questioned is feeling at that point. Some put the figure at about 800, while others swear it’s closer to 2,000. The selected candidates amount to 100 usually and so the odds are similar to some of the top universities in the world. Add to this the number of children of alumni and siblings of current students, both of whom get preferential treatment in admissions, and what you have left is only a handful of openings for the general populace. However, though no one likes to talk about it, there is more at work here than increased demand and low supply. The almost Darwinian struggle for a KGS nursery spot is also evidence of the triumph of the cognitive elitism that has swamped the upper middle class of this country. The obsession with academics has been a prominent part of Pakistan for a while now (perhaps evidenced by the star status handed to established teachers and tutors). To get your child into KGS is to confirm that he is one of the cognitive elect. As a result, the school becomes part of a product orientation - measurable success: where you go to college, what kind of job you have, how you dress, how well you speak English. In short, who you are in Karachi's society. Making things more loaded for today’s parents is that other sources of identity and status have faded in significance. One mother confided:

I know plenty of women who would rather die than say their child got rejected from Grammar It’s effectively admitting you don’t have ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ might be.

Keep in mind, we’re relying on a bunch of four year olds to tell us what went on in there.

My son was asked to identify a polar bear and a penguin! That’s a bit much don’t you think? Lucky for us, we’ve just moved from Canada so he’s familiar with winter animals, thanks to all the Christmas advertisements he’s seen on television. But, how is this a fair question for Pakistani kids? My daughter was practically grilled on what kind of time her dad spends with her. How many hours per week, what do they do together? Okay, so he travels a lot for work but is her confusion over this question a fair assessment of how happy and stable our family is? And how exactly is this relevant for a child’s nursery education?

Why should a kid, a smart kid, but maybe with a bit of social anxiety, want to perform for total strangers all of a sudden? How is this a fair indication of their intelligence?

You don’t see me complaining when Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) employees' family members get discounts. It gives a sense of community which feels good and I suspect most people would like to be part of it which is why they lash out so badly when they don’t get in.

Does anyone know anything about the KGS entrance tests? Please help. Desperate!

It is a wonderful DVD set, but this is my find. I don’t want to share it, otherwise everyone will just copy me.

People are quite secretive about hiring me. Many parents go into full battle mode over the interview/test. Families hire tutors and that’s where I come in. It’s my job to prep the child with as similar a test as the school itself.

Any vocabulary the child needs, is in this book, whether it’s to complete picture analogies or understand questions that are asked of them.

To be fair, KGS does give three chances for the child to try and come inside but it’s still pretty daunting, wouldn't you agree? But then school itself is just so much harder now. It’s certainly not the nursery of our parents’ youth!

"You should be interested but not overly eager. You must be well-dressed but no overkilling the designer wardrobe. Your English should be flawless but fake accents are a no-no. You should be well-prepared but not seem hyper and paranoid,"

She wore diamonds! He wore Armani! They bought a play structure identical to the one used in the test so their kid could practice! She and her husband memorized their answers using cue cards! They sent a thank you gift basket afterwards!

My child is bright and polished and she went to the best preschool in town. My husband and I are successful entrepreneurs and well connected. And now I am spending my nights wondering, 'Should I have gotten tutoring?'

Is something wrong with me? Is something wrong with my son?

My sister’s son got in. And everything between her application and ours was identical. Our boys are practically twins in habits and personality. Did I do something wrong? Did he freeze? Was there some sort of performance anxiety at play?

I can’t believe I am saying this about my four-year-old

It nags at me that we live in this mad, mad world. These are kids! Why are we rushing them in to some sort of power-life? My husband and I agonised over it; we wanted to protect them from the craziness. We eventually decided we’d go for the admissions but it wouldn’t matter to us either way if they got in or not.

Some people snidely suggest I am afraid my daughter wouldn’t get in, so that’s why I’m not trying. And for a minute, I did think ‘I'm a bad mother, I am not giving her all the advantages that a KGS student would get. But then I am like, that’s just insane. She’s going to be in nursery. She’s only three!

Look, the school is great, no doubt about it. But the gloriously shiny beacon of all that is excellent and true, this whole larger than life image it’s been given? That’s the parents doing. Not the school-walay. And certainly not the kids. I mean when was the last time you saw a four-year-old staring bereft at his little Transformers figure because he didn’t make the cut at an academic institution? On the other hand, when you see the star-studded alumnus and you hear of their achievements and you see how people sit up just a little bit straighter and pay you a little bit more respect when they hear your kid is a Grammarian, that’s a nod to something, isn't it? So can you blame the parents for wanting that for their child?

For those who do not know (and that number is growing) November 20 is the death anniversary of one of Urdu’s great intellectuals and poets, Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Sadly, the man and his body of work have become increasingly irrelevant for many Pakistanis, including myself. Conversation in the newsroom

Me (upon spotting the story on a local news site): “Guys, today is the death anniversary of Faiz – are we covering it?” (Clueless) subeditor: “Isn’t Faiz a hat?”

Rehtaeh Parsons was just 17. What could lead a 17-year-old to such a state that ending her life appeared to be the only way out of her misery? Cyber bullying, it appears. This case bears stark similarities to that of Amanda Todd’s – another teenager who took her own life early in October last year due to severe bullying over the internet. Both girls suffered from acute depression due to the fact that nasty rumours and compromising pictures of the two had been making rounds online. Teenagers can be cruel and intolerant. They can cripple your self-confidence to the point where you feel as though no matter what you do in life or how you do it, nobody will ever allow you to be you or love you for whom you are. I was, indeed, saddened when I heard of both these cases. When I was a teenager, cyber bullying wasn’t really a threat to our age group as the internet had only just started to gather momentum. Our interactions were limited to MSN conversations and, at most, exchanges via Orkut. However, the cyber space has changed and children in this digital age know how to use a keyboard better than a pen. I shouldn’t, thus, have been surprised when I stumbled across various Facebook Confession pages, but I just couldn’t contain my horror. To all those who believe that Pakistan's conservative society could prevent incidents of bullying - akin to those suffered by Amanda Todd and Rehtaeh Parsons – from occurring here, I hate to burst your bubble. It seems as though shows like Gossip Girl have left a notable imprint on youth here and they are not afraid to publish nasty rumours about their peers to socially annihilate them. These pages have sprouted all across Pakistan and are run by teenagers who attend various schools here. Just type the name of the school followed by the word “confessions” in your Facebook search box and we will see a plethora of pages pop up. Once you view the content here, you will find that Pakistani teenagers are no angels. They are no less cruel than their Canadian counterparts and have mastered the art of cyber bullying with various Facebook pages made for their respective schools.

Warning: Graphic content ahead

Saturday, March 16, 2013 was probably one of the few very anticipated days in the academic calendar. For many, it was undoubtedly a defining moment for their kids. Yes, it was the day when one of the most prestigious schools in Karachi held its admission test for entry into class three. Success would mean victory, triumph and a sense of academic achievement par excellence. Failure would spell doom, despair, depression and a social stigma - in other words - for some nothing short of a calamity. The so called pursuit of academic excellence, if that is what we are after, comes with a heavy price – mentally, physically and monetarily. Initial preparation starts with finding a tutor who has apparently broken the code - they know what exactly to teach, how to teach it and how to make your kids the super stars that they are not. So the hunt starts one year earlier and it’s not easy. You sometimes need to pull a few strings, have some references and only then are the experts willing to take your child. One actually pre-screens to assess if the child has the potential to be tutored. The monthly charges can vary from anything between Rs12, 000 up to Rs20, 000. A group may consist of five to ten kids and there may be three to four groups ranging from class three to ten. Not too difficult to do the calculations of how much tax free income this accounts for. The anxiety levels start to increase a few weeks before the test. That’s when the appointment slips are made available and you just cannot afford to relax on that window of opportunity that exists for only 90 minutes in the morning. In this day and age when technology has transformed the world, you are still required to queue as early as 6am, depending on how unsure you are of missing the bus. How different could boot camp have been, I wonder. Clearing the first hurdle is the precursor to the interview for your child and both parents. One must be on their best behaviour and not forget the well-rehearsed answers they have memorised like a script for a play. The three to four minute interview is surely good enough to assess the child’s potential or lack thereof. A peculiar question is asked - whether the child has had any extra tutoring. I wonder if that influences the outcome because surprisingly, those kids with expert help mostly do make the final cut. And then comes the test. Parents drop their kids off and wait anxiously for the three hours or so to pass. Notes are exchanged once the kids are out. There are frowns on the faces of some and smiles on others.

“This was such an easy test” a kid says with overflowing confidence.

Is Bilawal Bhutto Zardari running for the National Assembly? Is he not running for the National Assembly? Do we have to wait till 2018, or a few months? The media really needs to make up its mind…like me! I am all set to vote for the boy in red, black and green – and here are five excellent reasons why. 1. Line up all our current Members of the National Assembly (MNAs) and then take a good look. No seriously, do it right now. I’ve got a handy dandy random selection for you to peruse below! I shouldn’t have to argue my point too far – Bilawal Bhutto is at least five times hotter than our average law maker and ten times more approachable. Sure, all the haters can argue this point, but it’s still a fact. Are good looks and some level of relatability frivolous reasons to vote for someone? If they are, then damn, half my khaandan and friends voted for Imran Khan frivolously. 2. Bilawal is educated. Like, seriously educated – he went to Karachi Grammar School/Froebel’s and Oxford University. Yeah I don’t care how hard he partied in this time, I’m pretty sure some of that education seeped into him (also, partying is normal, just look at Imran, he turned out...okay?). Yeah I also don’t care about your “once a feudal, always a feudal” argument against him. I think it’s a pretty safe assumption that he’s heard this criticism, oh, a few thousand times in his life, and has assessed what he needs to do here. I think Bilawal is educated, and thinks more like me than most of our illustrious MNAs. In fact, if he only thinks like me 10% of the time, he will still share more similar views with me than the average MNA. 3. He is super amusing, and more importantly, pretty real on Twitter. His haters will, well, obviously hate on his flamboyant, sometimes naïve (sometimes insightful), sometimes out there... and okay fine, sometimes this: But I doubt the haters would deny that Bilawal’s updates are human, something most of our politicians lack. 4. Bilawal has two sisters, no brothers – that is, in my opinion, the ideal combination for a Pakistani male’s upbringing. I am banking on the fact that he will be just a tad bit more sensitive to issues that women face thanks to his sisters (not to mention his mom), and both Bakhtawar and Aseefa will keep him in line, perhaps ground him when the filth that is politics starts to corrupt him. For those who don’t know, Bilawal’s sisters are pretty damn cool! Yeah. I’m convinced. Call me a burger bachi with a corrupt western mindset or whatever - this is something I can get behind. 5. Bilawal is a multi-millionaire (billionaire?). He has it all. He could very well opt to stay out of politics and the mess that is Pakistan, but hey, he is stepping up and putting himself out there to face threats and the kind of vile criticism and hate the poor ET comment mods will probably have to delete all day from this post. Call it the Bhutto way. Call it enormous pressure on a boy unable to say no. Call it what you will, what I see is a guy who is knowingly ready to sacrifice himself for this mad country we call home. So if I get the chance, I will vote for Bilawal, and maybe you should too. Or you could do the Pakistani thing and start bashing the guy (and me too, why not) cause hey, that’s what we do best.

It is that time of the year again when parents of three-year-olds queue up breathlessly outside the most coveted red building in Pakistan, to get their wards admitted into this 150-odd years old institution thus, ensuring a ‘secure and bright future’ for their beloved offspring. Some of these little ones have been going to preparatory classes along with their preschools, filling their lives with more alphabets and numbers than any three-year-old should be subjected to. Every parent who saunters into this school is confident that his or her child is ‘the best’ and if Karachi Grammar School (KGS) lets them fall through the admission net they will be beating their proverbial chests in anguish for the rest of their existence. The child is made to attend an interview, along with the parents, and is then escorted inside for a short assessment session, while the parents wait outside. Whatever happens inside is anybody’s guess and you have to rely on the words of the little ones and that too if they decide to share the experience. But I know from experience that neither the interview nor the assessment comprises of any rocket science, like people tend to believe. It consists of just the basic stuff that any average child of that age attending any preschool worth its salt, knows or should know. Nobody knows what exactly goes on in those fifteen-odd minutes the child is inside since the auditorium in which the appraisal is conducted is guarded like Fort Knox. As for the interview, the questions asked are also very basic and trust me, they don’t care whether you drove to the school in your latest Audi or a 10-year-old beat-up Suzuki Mehran; whether you are wearing the latest Sania Maskatiya or a generic lawn shalwar kameez; whether there are multiple diamonds flashing on your fingers or you are wearing an imitation ring. In my opinion, what is important to them is how well-disciplined and smart your child is, how involved you are as parents and what kind of values you hold. And trust me, no matter how much you attempt to lie through your teeth about the time you spend with your child and how disciplined he or she is, the truth shows in your body language. No amount of holding hands, gushing with love for your child and spouse, and buttering up the head mistress can help your case if it is just a farce. My suggestion to all those aspiring to be KGS parents is to be yourself and avoid rubbing off your tension on your children by asking them to be someone they are not. The more anxious you will be, the more agitated they will become. And that will not help the admission process at all. Being part of the coveted KGS parent body does not simply mean preparing for a test; it is a conscious move to adapt to a certain lifestyle. If I have to say one thing about the parent body, it would be that they are extremely involved in their children’s school life – not only at the day-to-day homework level but also in being a part of everything that happens at school from the reading sessions to the bake sales, from the field trips to the sing songs, from the plays to the after-school clubs, from the sports activities to the Parent Teacher Meetings (PTM). These parents turn up in droves to donate blood at the annual blood camp and are ready to come out of their homes to protest against the illegal construction of a building next to the school. So, before coaching your child for the KGS admission test, ask yourself first,

“Do we have the ‘G-factor’?”

Before we go on to tackle the issue of kinship and its importance in maintaining a certain decorum, atmosphere and legacy of an institute, let’s go back and take a quick lesson about an institution steeped in rich history, namely the Aitchison College. Aitchison College was founded on January 2, 1886, as the Punjab Chief’s college, and was renamed the Aitchison College on November 3, of the same year. The foundation stone of the new building (now known as the old building) was laid down by the Earl of Dufferin and Ava. The college is named after the (then) Lt Governor of Punjab; Sir Charles Umpherston Aitchison. The iconic building of the Aitchison has been a part of the Lahore landscape for more than a century now and represents generations of old boys who take pride in their Alma mater. They reminisce nostalgically about the buggy rides, the hockey and polo fields, the swimming pool, the houses and the turbans. Admission at Aitchison College sends all of Lahore, if not all of Punjab, in an educational frenzy (similar to what Karachi Grammar School does in Karachi). This year was no different (at least initially), the tests were conducted over a period of three days (how a five to six-year-old can take on this kind of task, that takes a lot of endurance, concentration and dedication, is another debate altogether ). Just before the results were about to be announced, the school issued a notification abolishing all ties of kinship. And this sent many an old boy up in arms. As if that wasn’t enough, when the result came out instead of the usual 120 boys only 70 odd boys were admitted in K2 (it is equivalent to grade two elsewhere in Pakistan and is also the year day boys are admitted in the school) the preceding year in K1 (equivalent to grade one) the boarders are admitted. It did not stop there, for the first time in the history of Aitchison College, the admission list was posted not in the alphabetical order but in the order of the marks scored. What was more was that the names of the 300+ unsuccessful candidates along with their marks were also posted online. This practice I feel is, if nothing else, inhumane. If all candidates were sent letters of acceptance and rejection, the scores could have been communicated privately. Now to tackle the issue that is creating uproar in the educational circles these days; whether kinship should have an impact to swing the admissions? Well, all over the world kinship has played an integral part in elitist institutions: be it Eton or Harrow in the UK, Phillips Andover Academy, the Hotchkiss School in the USA or the Doon International School in India, or for that matter Karachi Grammar School and Aitchison College in Pakistan; all have a history steeped deep in tradition. The old boys (in some cases old girls) play a big part in carrying that legacy and passing it down to the subsequent generations. The alumni from these old institutions are generally close knit and well connected with each other and the Alma Mater (especially when there was no Facebook, LinkedIn or for that matter good old email). So saying that ties of kinship can be abolished completely is like saying that you will break the spine of an institution or sever the jugular vein. But, by saying that it by no way means that no new blood should come in or that every old boy (or girl) is entitled to walk into their Alma Mater and claim a seat for their ward, or in some cases their siblings, nieces  or nephews. I do not believe in pulling strings, calling favours and throwing ones weight to get a non-deserving candidate admitted. Aitchison College, as compared to Karachi Grammar School, gives more importance to the ties of kinship (or at least used to). Schools have seen many successful candidates who go on to excel in their respective fields, so what is it that makes them different and yet similar in some regards? I feel both do a great job of screening students and their parents, to admit those who they feel will, over everything else, preserve the legacy of the school; be it through their fierce loyalty to their houses, their participation in sporting events, debates, founders and speech days, their academics and most importantly preserving the sanctity of their uniforms. Not only the students, but I know for a fact, the parent body takes pride in their ward’s school and preserving its traditions. To sum it all up, I would say that merit above all should play an integral part in the admissions in any educational institute; if an old boy’s (or old girl’s) ward score the same as someone not previously associated with the school, the former should get preference. Trust me, by this you will not get just the Noon’s, the Khosa’s, the Bugio’s, the Bhutto’s but also the Siddiqui’s, the Ahmed’s and an occasional Mirza as well.

I am sure that anyone who has seen the Game of Thrones would love to know what house they would belong to had they been part of the series. But what if we lived in a world where houses were based on the A’ level colleges that people attended – or were aspiring to attend? How would that work? After a lot of research and analytical conversations with alumni from the top ten A’ level institutes in Karachi, I was able to grasp a sound, albeit limited, understanding of the kind of students who studied at these particular schools. And in GOT language, this is how the schools can be best understood: 1) Karachi Grammar School (KGS) – House Lannister Mostly rich, these kids have an air of superiority that surrounds them. The similarities between KGS folks and the Lannisters are uncanny! [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="245"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 2) The Lyceum – House Stark Everyone’s favourite, and ruled the A’ level realm once upon a time. But they have fallen now and are too scattered to find their bearing. Also, they believe in diversity. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="245"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 3) Nixor College – House Targaryen The school, like Daenerys Stormborn aka Khaleesi, came to the surface a few years ago and is now making its way to take over the kingdoms. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="500"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 4) Beaconhouse Schooling System – House Baratheon While they are part of the elite schools (houses), there is lack of unity within them as there are many branches (brothers) and they often end up competing with each other. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="389"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 5) Bay View High School – House Tyrell Their presence or absence doesn’t make a difference. They tend to aim high and become rulers of the realm, even if that means leaving your school (name) and getting admission (marrying) into another. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="245"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 6) City School PAF Chapter – House Tully While their individuals end up making a name for themselves (hint: Catelyn), they are not a very prominent school (house) collectively. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="245"] Photo: Wifflegif[/caption] 7) St Patrick’s High School – House Bolton They are aggressive and would not hesitate in cutting others down if it leads to their victory. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="500"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 8) South Shore School for A-level Studies – House Greyjoy They are close to the sea. Their members have a habit of partying and having a good time, even if it means they’ll get into trouble for that. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="500"] Photo: Tumblr[/caption] 9) Foundation Public School – House Frey While they don’t have any major role in the realm, they are often visited when there is nowhere else to go. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="245"] Photo: Giphy[/caption] 10) The Avicenna School – House Tarth The members are helpful and loyal to their school (name) but nobody really cares about them and often other houses make fun of them. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="245"] Photo: Tumblr[/caption] Bonus: Private candidates – The commoners Those who see these great houses fight and brawl against each other while they go on their merry (or morose) way. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="500"] Source: Uproxx.com[/caption] Yours truly belongs to this category.

After spending nine years and counting at Centre of Advance Studies (CAS), I have come to cherish and value the teachings and experiences it has given me. The corn stand’s lala and the cafeteria staff has become the outlet of our daily ramblings. In every Centarian’s life, there are very few experiences that can compete with singing our school song, fighting for the last paratha roll and sitting by the steps waiting to high-five every junior that walks by.

“Imagination is more important than knowledge” – Albert Einstein

In the Oscar winning 1976 film Network, an ageing anchor-man tells his viewers to go to their windows and scream: “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it any more”. The tragic, completely unnecessary death of Benazir Bhutto makes me want to do something of the sort. I remember her as a charming, attractive young woman when she came to Karachi Grammar School to do her A’ levels. I was two years behind her with her brother, Murtaza Bhutto, who was more commonly known among his friends as “Mir”. Their younger sister, Sanam Bhutto was with my sister, Samira, at the Convent. Sanam was very close to Samira and a frequent visitor to our house in Bath Island. I cannot say I was one of Mir’s closest friends, but I liked him very much, and remember on occasion being invited to 70 Clifton for his birthdays. There was something about the Bhutto children that made them truly exceptional. It was not their intelligence, or their good looks, or their wealth, all of which they had in abundance. Their father, during this period, was a man to be reckoned with. He was a former foreign minister busy in building the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP). Yet his children had no airs at all. They were down to earth, humble, kind, well mannered, sympathetic and generous. To me, even then, young as I was, this was an immediately appealing quality. During our studies, Mr Bhutto was elected prime minister. Mir and Sanam were moved to Islamabad and Benazir went off to Harvard. It was the last time I was to see Mir. Even though our paths did cross a few years later when he was at Harvard and I was at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). Both universities are in Cambridge, Massachusetts. All that separates them is a short bus ride. Many times I thought I should call Mir and try to get together. Several years had passed since I knew him in Grammar School. And I was restrained by the feeling that he might think I wanted to see him now that he was the son of the prime minister. I should have known better. Mir was no ordinary son of any prime minister. He was a gem. The first time that I met Benazir after the Grammar School days was by coincidence when we were seated together on a flight from Karachi to Islamabad. These were the days after her first return from exile. She was busy trying to rally her party. We were given ‘bulkhead’ seats in economy class. She did not remember me but seemed to recall my name. When she realised I had been with Mir at school, she was delighted. We talked about mutual friends. I asked her about Mir – he was in exile in Damascus at the time. She said he was well and she was hoping that he would be back soon. She was interested to know what I was doing. It was a short flight. I did not see her again. And never will. I have felt a deep and personal loss at her passing. This was a wonderful, intelligent, vibrant woman whose life was thoughtlessly and frivolously wasted. And it is not just the man who pulled the trigger or the fuse who killed her. It is all of us; you and me – for continuing to put up with the state of affairs as they are. This madness must end. And it can end. But achieving this will take a fundamental change in the thinking that has dominated our government’s policy since the events of September 11, 2001. That is where our problems begin. And that is where one must return to understand where we are, and hence, to chart a course to where we must go. The immediate question that came into everyone’s mind after the events of that day was: Why? Why would 19 educated, young Arab men, with ostensibly bright futures, want to sacrifice their lives? This was a natural question. And many American commentators and analysts initially sought to know the answer. But then, suddenly, the question was disallowed, on the spurious ground that posing it was tantamount to justifying terrorism. This warped logic was then wrapped in the fervour of patriotism. So it was suddenly un-American to even ask! This was a tragedy of its own. Had the question been allowed, the American people would have learned that the 9/11 attacks were in fact a direct consequence of their government’s policy in the Middle East. It was the consequence of (the still) simmering Arab anger over America’s seemingly blind support for Israeli repression of the Palestinians. Had the question been allowed, the American people would have realised that the appropriate response would have been to have a balanced foreign policy in the Middle East. Humanity would have been spared the continuing tragedy it faces today in Iraq, Afghanistan and across the Muslim and Arab world. Tens of thousands of Muslims and several thousand young American men and women would still be alive. And, yes, had the question been asked, Benazir may still be alive. Why the American establishment chose to disallow the question is not our concern. It is best left to historians and anthropologists. What is our concern is the impact this fateful decision had on Pakistan. America was at war with terror. This was a disembodied phantom whose habitat was thought to be the Near and Middle East. Its acolytes were bearded, hirsute and turbaned Muslims. They exuded hate for the western way of life. They would get America if America didn’t get them. And so the strategy was to get them first. When Pakistan signed up to be an ally, this mind-set was transposed unaltered to the Pakistani establishment. This was to have tragic consequences for all Pakistanis. The ‘enemy’ had been defined so broadly that perhaps more than half of the male population of Pakistan could, by this definition, be deemed ‘terrorists’. This did not matter to America. These ‘terrorists’ did not live in Texas. They lived in the Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa (K-P). The Pakistani army was sent in to kill and capture them. These hapless troops had the almost impossible task of distinguishing friend from foe. Who was a terrorist? And who was just a simple, bearded, gun toting Pakhtun going about his everyday business? What seemed to have escaped the Pakistani establishment was that the overwhelming majority of Pakistanis are deeply conservative people. This is especially true of the provinces that are contiguous with Afghanistan. These are fiercely conservative tribal people who have lived their lives in this way for centuries. They were already angry about the forced ‘modernisation’ and the battle against ‘obscurantism’ that seemed to have become government policy since 2001. Who was the government to tell them how to live their lives? Who was the government to beam dozens of satellite channels into their ultra conservative homes with (to them) scandalously unacceptable content under the guise of modernity and enlightenment? Who was the government to tell their women to remove their veils and uncover their heads? So when the army moved in they – and perhaps the majority of Pakistanis – had already had enough. If you are a stranger in the K-P and say ‘Salaam’ to a Pakhtun, he welcomes you as an honoured guest and will lay down his life to protect yours. Cross him, though, and you have made a mortal enemy. So what do you expect when the army moves in with helicopter gunships, and unmanned, unseen aircraft rain death and destruction on these people and their loved ones? The government is at war with its own people. And this particular group of people is willing to fight to the end, and will strike with whatever means it has at its disposal. This is a clearly disproportionate battle. The army has to find legitimate targets. The ‘enemy’ can sink into any part of the country, attack an infinitude of ‘targets’ and disappear into thin air. It is a battle the army cannot win. This is where we stand today: Suicide bombs, sabotage of critical infrastructure, attacks on military convoys and targets, assassinations.  Am I justifying terrorism? I don’t know. All I know is that this is the truth. So what is to be done? To start with we have to realise that these are our people. They are Pakistanis and they have a right to live on this land in the manner in which they have always lived. We cannot say to them: You hate us, you are terrorists, we will not talk to you, we will just kill you. This is the government’s strategy. It is not working. No one hates without reason. We have to understand their position. This can only happen by talking to them. Is it not time for all of us to start talking and stop fighting? Has not enough blood been shed? Has Pakistan not been brought to its knees by this needless internecine conflict? Let’s be clear: this is the last chance we have to save our country. And, finally, if we are successful, what a wonderful tribute that would be to that charming, intelligent young woman who sat next to me on a flight to Islamabad on a clear winter morning two decades ago. Let us make sure – all of us – that her death was not in vain.

Like many Karachiites who get very good results in their ‘O’ levels, I decided that my grades were my ticket to the prestigious Karachi Grammar School (KGS). KGS, you see, practises a vague semblance of meritocracy (and maintains its college admission rate records) by allowing a handful of high-achievers into their hallowed gates at the A-level stage. People nod impressively if you tell them you went to KGS, and in a city obsessed with class and nepotism, the doors of KGS mean opportunity and exclusivity. In short, the school represented to me an elusive and exclusive glamour that I wanted to experience, first hand. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years in a middle-class school in Karachi; my friends were children of businessmen and dentists, but also drivers and office clerks. My best friend worked in a shop on weekends and the vast majority of us had not been outside Pakistan. It wasn’t a great school – some of the teachers were lax and the discipline severe – but I had a firm group of friends with whom I grew up, sharing the usual secrets and fantasies, angst and concerns. I read constantly, and liked to write stories. I had a special bond with my English teacher and a safe, supportive home environment. Maybe that all contributed to why everyone was proud but nobody particularly surprised that I did well at school. Somewhat surprisingly, my parents didn’t love the idea of my going to KGS. Or at least my mother didn’t. She thought I would become spoiled and start speaking in that distinctive American-twanged Grammarian accent and that my academic talents would perish. She felt, very strongly, that I should follow my older siblings into a good A-level institution that didn’t reek of elitism and ostentation. But I fought back tooth and nail until she gave in. She flipped, as many good parents do when they realise that their children’s minds are made up, from fervent opposition to unconditional support and accompanied me when I went to hand in the application form. Any ‘New G’ (someone who starts at KGS at A-level stage) knows that the OG (old Grammarian)/New G divide is a vast abyss. ‘You’re not the same,’ the OG’s inform you pretty much from day one, in those overt words and also in deed. The New G’s, mired in shame at this rejection, try desperately to fit in. The girls’ uniforms get tighter and shorter until they look like their OG peers’. Accents change subtly and anyone going on a trip abroad is desperately propositioned to bring schoolbags, sweaters and shoes from London or New York. I was not immune, not even a little bit. I quickly abandoned my old friends, the middle-class, unfashionable girls that I had grown up with. I cautioned my parents to speak in English whenever my new ‘friends’ were around. I scrutinised my whole life differently – why did my mother not wear glamorous clothes and jewellery like my class-mates’ mums? Why did we not have expensive paintings in our house? And why didn’t we ‘holiday’ in Spain or Italy like other people did? I grew shameful of things I had no need to be shameful of, and prided in other things that were pure form over substance. I suppose you could say I lost myself, a little bit. I remember a school fellow saying to us jokingly on day one,

‘You must be so excited to be here. People bow down, you know, when you tell them you go to KGS.’

To some, Karachi Grammar School (KGS) is a name as synonymous with snobby elitism as it is with academic prestige to others. On the one hand, those enrolled in the school make us proud with an impressive list of notable alumni and achievements, in both national and international competitions. The same students also warrant spite for their reputation of being overly westernised, entitled and completely out of touch with the society in which they live. But the question is, how did it get to this? To understand that, we have to go back to colonial India in 1847, when the school was first established as the Anglo-Indian School by a Reverend Henry Brereton. Naturally, at the time the school would have catered to the children of British officials rather than those of the local populace, as was the case with many colonial institutions at the time. The way I see it, this could very easily be the start of the stereotype that still holds today. Coming back to present day Karachi, the city has evolved significantly and is now home to over 10 million people. Karachi Grammar School still has not managed to shake off the identity of a colonial institution, except instead of catering to the foreign elite it caters to the (much worse) local elite. KGS is a school for those vain, wealthy few with a superiority complex matched by none, it’s a place where they’re among others like themselves, meaning others who too are too good for the rabble that surrounds them and are never really seen outside of a particular social circle, a particular part of town or a particular setting that just reeks of decadence. At least, that’s what it is to the outside observer. I myself have been studying at KGS for about 12 years now, so I daresay I know what I’m talking about. I’ll be the first to admit, the school is not perfect. However it isn’t quite as bad as most people seem to think it is. It is also true that we, unfortunately, have people who fit the above description. But that doesn’t mean that they’re the only ones, or that they constitute a large enough portion of the 2400 students to define us as a whole. And granted that some among us are, through no fault of their own, not quite in touch with their culture and language; considering it is not focused on as much as English is. And yes, the houses are named after British officers (something I personally, among others, have protested for some time now). Yes, you’re also correct to acknowledge that it isn’t easy to gain admission. But, despite all that, the school and the student body have definitely been taking steps in the right direction. Using my own experience as an example, I’ve taken to speaking to my friends in Urdu, and have heard a fair amount of others doing the same. I’ve also noticed that, within a month or so, newly admitted students fit in just fine, irrespective of what background they came from. This year, some of the new additions to my group of friends had previously attended public schools but still get the same treatment that the rest of us do. I’ve also seen new students fitting in with the grade and into the school better than I ever have, primarily because I’m not a very social person. On multiple occasions, whenever I meet people from other schools (in my case it’s usually at an MUN) they automatically assume I’m obsessed with winning or that I’m generally unpleasant and unapproachable. On one occasion, someone told me they couldn’t believe I was from KGS because I was “too nice”. And this isn’t a one-time thing either; even my team members have had similar experiences. It is interesting to see that a stereotype that is almost two centuries old continues to exist. But, what’s even more interesting is that the snob stigma specifically applies to our school, even though there are many schools similar to ours. Maybe because it hits so close to home, it feels that way. Overall, I’ll be the first to admit, we have a long way to go, but despite that, I’d like to be the first to defend the school for the progress it has made. After all, there is no such thing as a perfect system but still, we at the school are trying nonetheless. [poll id="529"]

If you think you can relax right after taking your O’ level examinations, you’re wrong. Right after you’re done with your exams, people begin bombarding you with all sorts of questions, asking you what your plans are for college and what subjects you’re going to opt for. There is literally no chill, and apparently for all the right reasons. The decisions you make now will affect the course of your life. I know this sounds scary, but it’s true. After O’ level exams finish, the main concern is the arduous process of choosing a school for A’ levels. But before getting to that part, you have to decide whether you are going to do A’ levels or intermediate. Many of your relatives will advise you to go for intermediate as it means that you are more likely to get admission into an engineering programme or a medical college They will probably tell you how much easier it will be for you to get a job in your country. However, it is entirely up to you. If you do not want to become an engineer or doctor, then perhaps opting for A’ levels will be a more practical choice. Nonetheless, while choosing a school for your further studies, you must remember that the school you opt for will play a big part in your life ahead; not only in picking a university, but in your career and more importantly, in shaping your personality. After deciding whether you will be going for intermediate or A’ levels, you have the task of deciding which school you are going to study in. There are various factors to consider. For starters, you must be able to afford the school. However, you shouldn’t be obsessed with the cost, as many schools offer scholarships and if you study hard enough, you can earn the scholarships. Other than that, this is the era of independence, where you can start earning your own money and partially pay for your tuition fee. It is preferable for the school to be close to your residence so you don’t have to worry about traffic or getting late every morning. When it comes to Karachi, a school in Defence wouldn’t be desirable if you’re living in North Nazimabad. However, sometimes even the nearest school may end up very far, and in that case, you should have plans in place, such as waking up early or studying during the ride to school. You should also take into account the faculty, and particularly, the teachers of the subjects you will be opting for. Good teachers will make sure that you get the best out of school and that you do not feel the need to take tuitions for any given subject. Visit the school before deciding, and have a look around to make sure that whatever you’ve heard or read about it is true. Various colleges offer personal tours of the campus so you can use that to erase any doubts from your mind. You must be careful about a few aspects such as not choosing a certain school simply because your friend is not planning on applying there, or because someone told you that it’s highly reputable. It is imperative that one finds out about the school themselves, reviews all of their options and after carefully considering each one, decides which one they’re going to apply to instead of making a haste decision. You must not choose a school because your parents advise you to do so, learn to make your own choices. In some cases, people turn down offers from great schools simply because an ‘enemy’ of theirs is enrolled in that school which is very foolish of them to do. While choosing, you will find that there are some colleges that are famous for just partying and having fun, and not studying, while others have good reputations for their studies and faculty. You have to keep in mind that you’re attending school to study, and have a little fun alongside, and not just to have fun. It is good to be focused on a single goal and to work hard to achieve it. But sometimes you are unable to achieve that particular goal, and under these conditions, it is helpful to have a ‘Plan B’. Similarly, while applying for colleges, it is better if you keep your options open and apply to as many colleges as you can, rather than just applying to the one you want to get into. This way, if you don’t get admission into college A, you can always consider colleges B, C or D. In Karachi, three of the most prestigious colleges are Nixor College, Lyceum School and Karachi Grammar School (KGS). KGS is said to be the best school in Karachi and it has the highest standards of entry so you’ll be in the company of the best people. It is the oldest school offering A’ levels, so with this school comes years of experienced staff. However, it has old-aged faculty which may cause communication gaps between the teachers and their students. Lyceum is said to be the ideal college for students with commerce subjects, and it has some of the best faculty in town along with some amazing extracurricular activities. Nixor also has some of the best teachers in town and is now making a name for itself. It has notable extracurricular activities as well. Another option could be the newly opened Cedar College, Southshore School for A’Levels or even Bay View High School. There are so many options out there; you just have to find the one that suits you best. However, I myself am planning to go to Foundation Public School’s (FPS) A’ level campus because I have been with FPS since nursery and now after 11 years, it feels like my second home and I have a strong connection with it. Other than that, the faculty is pretty good too and I won’t have to pay the admission fee since I am an FPSonian. Good luck to those applying!