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he city moved, but not for her. Lahore, ever sprawling and ever so loud, beat with a pulse that no longer matched her own. To me, the city felt like a witness that refused to intervene.
She was my neighbour. She was always kind, and patiently listened to the stories of my adventures, offered me the yummiest gajar ka halwa whenever I visited her place. Her daughter and I were in the same school. Our houses were near the railway station. It was never quiet where we lived. Cars honked, fruit vendors shouted, trains passed... It was always too crowded for everyone to even notice anybody else’s predicament.
Sometimes at night I could hear her scream through the window of my room as she cried and pleaded for mercy. It was of no help.
It was the food that day, I learned later while my mother was tending to her wounds. Left a little too long on the dining table while her husband laughed with someone on the phone. It became her fault. Her mother-in-law never stopped ranting about her poor serving skills.
Each morning, the city stirred before her. Outside the metal gate of the house, life unfolded with relentless motion. But inside the house, time moved differently: quietly; cruelly. Sometimes I saw her staring at herself in the mirror. I’d ask what she was looking for. She’d smile and say she didn’t know either.
She advocates mental health rights and accessible support for all She was my neighbour. She was always kind and patiently listened to my stories, offered me yummiest gajar ka halwa whenever I visited her place. Our houses were near the railway station. It was never quiet. Cars honked, fruit vendors shouted, trains passed...
Sometimes I saw her standing near the corner of the window in her room on the second floor, watching life pass by. The city looked different from above, almost peaceful. Laundry fluttered on wires like flags of defeat from many other women living their own nightmares. In the distance, minarets rose from mosques and school bells rang like echoes of a life she used to dream about. Down below, women went about their chores, and schoolchildren ran to catch vans. Lahore moved forward. It always did. But to me, she seemed trapped in a loop that never broke.
Sometimes, I wondered if the city even had women like her, the ones who break inside. In her world, no one knocked on the door when she cried. No one came when glass shattered or voices rose. In her world, pain was hidden behind drawn curtains and careful lies. Yet, she’d rise every day, make tea, fold clothes, cook meals and greet me with a smile every time we met.
She looked both ways before crossing the street, even though she often felt like she wouldn’t mind being hit by something fast and final. She locked that thought somewhere deep inside her mind and focused on protecting the childhood of her daughter, curating her joy. She listened to the azaan, and for a few seconds, let the sound carry her someplace else, and she smiled more freely. But then the gate opened, and his keys jingled, and her feet froze again.
Lahore carried on, indifferent, impatient; she stood quietly behind its noise.
Ayesha Sarwar Nooral is aclinical psychologist withextensive training in multiple domains of psychology.