“I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.”
— William Shakespeare, As You Like It
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Every week, I leave the noisy, clamorous and ever-vibrant city of Lahore for a serene, soothing town in another province. Yet my heart continues to yearn for Lahore’s familiar noise and bustle. I ask myself why. The answer, it seems, is simple: I am in love with this city and everything that defines it.
In a city like Lahore, one never knows what one might encounter at any moment. It remains a haven for history and architecture aficionados, where almost every locality—sometimes every street—holds an unwritten story. To live in this profoundly mysterious, layered and endlessly fascinating city is perhaps my heart’s deepest desire.
I return to Lahore to taste life, attend events and meet people who have sampled existence in all its complexities. On a recent visit, my cousin joined me. We stepped off the Orange Line train at Jain Mandir to browse the old bookshops nearby. But before we could reach them, the glow of lights around a domed building beside the station caught our attention.
Curious, we followed the shimmering lights into a street in Old Anarkali, where we stumbled upon the Urs of Syeda Bibi Fatima Sani, a female saint. With steam rising from cauldrons and bright lights strung across the area, we initially mistook the scene for a wedding.
Curious, we followed the shimmering lights into a street in Old Anarkali, where we stumbled upon the Urs of Syeda Bibi Fatima Sani, a female saint. With steam rising from cauldrons and bright lights strung across the area, we initially mistook the scene for a wedding. As we moved closer, a middle-aged devotee informed us that people had gathered to honour the saint and remember her good deeds.
A cool breeze drifted through the area, carrying the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine—known traditionally as the lady of the night. Smoke from barbecues mingled with the aroma of frying halwa puri. Devotees glanced expectantly at half-prepared chicken skewers. Others murmured prayers while facing a tent where women were seated around the main hall of the tomb.
The event drew mostly women and girls, dressed in embroidered, colourful clothes, their eyes lined with kohl and their cheeks bright with rouge. They moved freely between the different areas, while men were not permitted to go beyond the tent. Male devotees therefore offered their prayers from a respectful distance.
Most of the men stayed outside the main hall and turned their attention to the food. The tomb and surrounding streets were adorned with lights and decorations. A makeshift seating area had been set up near the path leading to Anarkali Bazaar, where people waited patiently for food to be served.
As we left the tomb and walked toward the bookshops, the sound of women chanting praises for the saint rose clearly through the night air. Punjabi households are accustomed to milads and gatherings commemorating saints, but rarely had I witnessed such a lively yet peaceful celebration in the heart of Lahore—organised primarily for, and by, women in honour of a revered woman.
The writer is a storyteller with an M.Phil in English.
Email: usama.malick183 gmail.com