In this deeply personal essay, Maham Zehra shares how childhood memories, life’s unexpected turns, and a belief in handmade craft led her to build a brand with heart.
By Maham Zehra
People often ask me how Tinku came into existence. When I think about it myself, I realize there was never one defining moment. No dramatic ‘this is it’ moment. Rather, it was a collection of experiences and discoveries over many years that eventually led to its birth.
As a child, academics were never my strength. Mathematics, English, and Science always felt like puzzles I was bad at solving. Sports weren’t my thing either, so I wasn’t exactly collecting family praise in any direction. When my family moved to Karachi after my father’s various work postings, things became even more difficult because I only understood Urdu while English was the dominant language in classrooms. The only place I felt completely at ease was art.
Drawing became my way of expressing myself. It brought me joy, confidence, and, perhaps most importantly, the belief that I was good at something. Some of my drawings were even published in children’s magazines, and that appreciation meant a great deal because it was one of the few places where I felt truly seen without needing to explain myself.
Although I loved art, life gently pushed me in another direction. Like many students of my generation, I pursued a BBA and later an MBA at my parents’ request. Art school remained a dream, but my love for creativity never really left.
After completing my studies, I entered the corporate world, and things were going well until 2012, when my father casually asked me to help run Ali Model English School, the school he had founded.
The moment I started working there, I felt an unexpected sense of belonging. Surrounded by children, I rediscovered a part of myself I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. I was especially drawn to students who weren’t academic toppers but had remarkable talent in sports, music, or the arts, the ones whose potential couldn’t be measured by exam papers.
The school served children from underprivileged communities, and resources were limited, which meant creativity had to do most of the work. And it did. These children constantly amazed me. Using the simplest materials, they created wonderfully imaginative things – from handmade dolls to recycled art projects and embroidered bags that often felt more original than anything commercially produced.
After my father’s passing in 2013, I continued running the school. People appreciated the work, and I smiled politely, but deep down I often felt I was carrying forward his legacy rather than building something that truly belonged to me.
Then came 2020.
The pandemic brought everything to a standstill. The school closed, routines disappeared, and there was suddenly too much silence and not enough distraction. I found myself struggling emotionally. During that time, I started therapy, which led me to an important realization: most of my life had been spent searching for an identity and a sense of achievement that genuinely felt like my own.
That realization became the foundation of Tinku. What started as a small experiment during the pandemic slowly grew into something much bigger than I had imagined. The first toys were made almost by chance, and I never expected people to respond to them. But they did. As orders came in, I realized this couldn’t remain a side project, it needed its own identity.
From the beginning, my approach to design was simple. I only made things I personally liked or would use myself. If I wouldn’t enjoy something, I couldn’t expect anyone else to.
Most of Tinku comes from memories, travel, and the everyday objects I’ve always been drawn to. A landline telephone became a toy, my love for books turned into bookmarks, and my fondness for Christmas ornaments evolved into an entire product line. Traditional puppets I saw in India inspired our dolls, while roses, birds, and hens became recurring motifs because they were part of the world I grew up in.
Honestly, I don’t see Tinku as something complicated or ‘out of the box.’ At its heart, it is about nostalgia, childhood, and the little things that make you smile. Even our bag charms – which became a global trend in 2023, were inspired by something I remembered from the 1990s. Our scenery shawl translates a landscape from Skardu, where many of my team members are from, into fabric. Everything begins with something real and familiar before becoming something soft, playful, and handmade. I’ve never chased trends; I’ve simply returned to what I already know and love.
Building the products was one part of the journey. Building the team was something else entirely.
None of us actually knew how to make fabric toys when we started. It was trial and error and a lot of ‘let’s see if this works.’ Slowly, the women who joined Tinku became incredibly skilled, so much so that today it’s often impossible to tell our toys are handmade. Even now, though, it’s easier to find women who embroider than women willing to make toys because the work is painstaking and requires immense patience.
Most of these women are mothers or former students from my school. They already had full lives, children, households, endless responsibilities, and very little spare time. Working from home gave them a way to earn while continuing to care for their families. Watching them receive their work, earn their own income, and gradually recognize their own abilities has been one of the most meaningful parts of this journey.
Of course, it wasn’t easy. We had to figure everything out together, from unexpected production delays to messages saying, “the materials have finished,” arriving just before deadlines. There were disagreements too, especially around pay and workload, but we learned to work through it all.
One of the biggest challenges was helping people understand that handmade is a luxury. I often found myself reminding customers that handmade takes time and doesn’t mean perfect. Inspired by the Japanese philosophy of ‘wabi-sabi, I would explain that slight variations aren’t flaws, they’re exactly what make each piece unique, even when the first reaction was, ‘why is this slightly different from the photo?’
Another challenge was visibility. Many of the women preferred not to appear on social media, and I completely respected that. Instead, we focused on sharing the making process and the stories behind our products while protecting their privacy.
It was also heartening to see some of our products and our doodle-inspired design concepts replicated by other local brands. Rather than discouraging me, it quietly reminded me that our ideas had found their way into the wider creative landscape.
Perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve learned is that you don’t have to build something meaningful alone. In the beginning, I simply reached out to people, brands, and creators I admired. Some never replied. Others did. Those small acts of encouragement made a bigger difference than they probably realized.
Many of our best ideas have also come directly from conversations with customers. Baby mobiles, several of our earrings, and countless other products exist because someone simply asked, ‘what if…?’ and we decided to give it a chance.
Looking back, I don’t think Tinku was ever just about making toys. It became a way of reconnecting with the child I once was…the little girl who found comfort in drawing when words failed her. Along the way, it also became a way for other women to rediscover their own confidence, creativity, and financial independence.
The author is the founder of Tinku and Co., a Karachi-based social enterprise that creates handcrafted toys, accessories, and lifestyle products while providing meaningful livelihood opportunities for women artisans. An educator by profession, she also leads Ali Model English School, founded by her late father, where she continues his legacy of expanding access to quality education for underserved communities.