Visiting Karachi for me as a Lahori is a sure thing. I love the city, its vibe, the food, itssea. Sadly, I do not experience the cosmopolitan side of it much but I know it exists simply by the variations in names. The plain-ness of endless browns in its structure, starkly different from my city of green, seems attractive to me. Even the beggars are different. The transgender ones so pervasively present at most major crossroads, unabashedly soliciting cash in return for not slaying those in cars with curses. I rarely see them in Lahore begging anywhere although I hear that they are exploited routinely in the darkness of the night in elite neighbourhoods. I enjoy the feel of Karachi as an outsider despite its hectic traffic and seven second green lights. Maybe it is just the getting away from where one livesthat lets one be free of whatever it is that is binding. I arrived in the city on a Saturday to see the finale of Fashion Week Pakistan, which was to be on the 30th. Fashion shows are a dime a dozen these days but this one was different. Nilofar Shahid, who also happens to be Cuckoo Mami to one of my closest friends and by association me, was closing the event with a collection inspired in total by the Dutch painter Rembrandt, the master who only painted in eight palates. She was using 22 models as opposed to every other designer who used no more than 16. She had not showed in the country since 2010 so there was a lot of buzz around the show being the one to watch. Unlike her other entourage of family and friends, I wanted to see the rehearsal so I went to the Pearl Continental the day of the show at 2pm. Cuckoo Mami was sitting on the sofa of her room looking fresh as a daisy despite chaotic days, her hair curled in rollers, making calls and getting ready to go downstairs. The first thing I noticed was the exact tidiness of her room. Her bed was made so well I wondered if she had even slept in it. When she saw me she handed me her two phones and told me to answer them anytime they rang. I was happy to oblige. I passed a few messages back and forth till there was a call from her showstopper. She was trying on the dress that would close the show, which was a tribute to The Jewish Bride and needed Cuckoo Mami to come down to her floor to see it on her. The dress was ox-blood maroon, complex in its layering and had a 20-foot train that looked heavy as hell. We went to the floor where the top model was standing in the hallway surrounded on either side by assistants. Despite having no make-up on, she was exuding an exuberance that seemed directly correlated to her outfit. She seemed over the moon that she was the onewearing this particular dress for this particular designer,someonewho was accepted as first among equals in an envy-stricken industry. Adjustments were made and Cuckoo Mami and I made our way towards the place where the show was being rehearsed. Our turn was pushed back as one delay led to another. Bored, I went to sit down at the end of the ramp to see a rehearsal. Frieha Altaf was the choreographer for the entire show and she was unbelievable to watch. Mike in one hand, a piece of paper listing the order of the models on the other,seated next to each designer turn by turn, she was robotic and tireless as she ordered models, telling them when to enter, leave, spin and stop, while simultaneously deciding on music sequence and sound bites. Cuckoo Mami left to go backstage to talk to her team and I left for home to get ready to return. The lineup itself was not brilliant per se. Bridal wear was the choice of most of the designers on that day and I find it terribly boring to watch. For one, the clothes are of no interest to me and the fact that the music isdesi is the opposite of what one expects at a fashion show where the musicshould be as cutting edge as the outfits. Delphi had some cool crochet dresses, which I could see women wearing beautifully. The menswear was different and looked quite stunning although I was not sure how many Pakistani males could confidently pull off a lime green jacket with gold embroidery. Finally came the moment we had arrived in the city for. Cuckoo Mami took the mike and from a hidden spot spoke softly about her creations’ muse, Rembrandt. She described how she stood at the Rijks Museum in Amsterdam for hours,days and weeks staring at his work, how she saw the colours hidden in shadows and layers of the shadows hidden in themselves. The paintings spoke to her soul, she said. They connected the painter’s emotions to hers, intertwining them inseparably. The show started with a symphony. One of the most memorable segments was a tribute to Rembrandt’s The Night Watch where the models appeared in stunning, deep red marching jackets and velvet embroidered pants. Those are the ones I plan to order for myself. Her depiction of his period of melancholy blew everyone away as each model entered the ramp wearing black with hints of gold. The outfits were spectacular but it was their expressions that were unforgettable. It was like they were transformed from models to actresses, soaked by the sadness of separation and death. The sorrow in their eyes as they sauntered to the end of the ramp to pause and exude what seemed like sighs was palpable. Each one looked striking with jagged hair and headgear, and the clothes with all their detail was oozing craft at its best. Finally came Mehreen Syed in the dress that was inspired by Rembrandt’s masterpiece, The Jewish Bride. I knew the dress was heavy, I had seen her struggle with it in the hotel. However, when she appeared on the catwalk, she glided as if she was going towards the altar to get married to her beloved. Her smile was soft, her motion smooth and she looked beyond fabulous. The crowd, at least our side of it, went nuts. I looked around to see how other members of the audience were reacting to the clothes. There were definitely the most phones out taking shots and videos but, more than that, the look in the eyes of some was as if they were hypnotised, mesmerised. They could not blink. When all 22 models came on the ramp at the end it looked like a sea of beauty of flesh and fabric. Cuckoo Mami came on stage looking flawlessly elegant and many rose to give her a standing ovation. Everybody did not; graciousnesshas always been a rare find in the homeland. I did not see any designers come up to her after to say anything while we sat around her,only the press. I think that was because the moneymakers had left once their show was done and the remainders were wondering if they were really designers after all. I am in a phase of life where I see older people with different eyes. As my family ages, I stare at them to take in all that I missed in my life and theirs through their faces. All I feel is beauty when around them, beauty that is the essence of ehsaan,the deepestexpression that the soul has with God. Cuckoo Mami, no for this I have to revert to her real name, NilofarShahid, is an existence of pure grace. She does not believe in labour of love; she personifies it in her existence. Karachi witnessed a momentpar excellence in fashion that probably Paris will next and Amsterdam deserves to since Rembrandt is theirs. Lahore is proud thatNilofar Shahid is hers. An ode to a master from a master. What could be more incredible than witnessing that? The writer is a freelance columnist