’d never been as excited to come back to Lahore as I did last winter, my first visit home from college.

After my first semester at college in Texas, I was seeing my home city in a whole new light. I was dreaming about the hot cups of chai on chilly, smog-filled mornings and the madness and delirium of family weddings. I’d also realised how complexly beautiful Urdu was as a language: I couldn’t wait to explore old Urdu bookstores and expand my Urdu poetry repertoire, or just converse in Urdu. I was beyond excited to have an adventure discovering the myriad of historical gems in Old Lahore, an area that I had visited countless times before, but had never fully enjoyed.

What I had missed the most in college was undoubtedly the ronaq I felt in Pakistan. Ronaq, an Urdu word, is difficult to explain literally, but I’d describe it as the serene and delightful feeling of being in the company of others; it’s one of those moments when the world feels full and happy and content. Nothing compares to the ronaq of Lahore. Gazing into colourful stalls, and avoiding bumping into other eager shoppers amid the evening chaos in Liberty Market; eating seviyyan on Eid mornings while little siblings and cousins run around screaming and cackling. Even a Lahori traffic jam oozes with ronaq, with its incessant honking and occasional shouting.

Gazing into colourful stalls, and avoiding bumping into other eager shoppers amid the evening chaos in Liberty Market; eating seviyyan on Eid mornings while little siblings and cousins run around screaming and cackling. ­

Yet, even though I was romanticising my city for the first time, it was hard to ignore all the monsters slowly creeping up on it. The very walls of the Lahore Fort, which once witnessed the reign of great Mughal emperors and survived intense wars, were now littered with black and red graffiti of names and phone numbers. The Lahore Museum, a showcase of Pakistan’s rich history and culture, was so abandoned that most people forgot it existed. More and more people were perfecting their English in schools, leaving Urdu in the dust. I also noticed how so many young people were desperate to define themselves as minimally-Pakistani; numerous social media posts gave explanations of why Pakistanis were actually descendants of Arabs and gushed about how their English was so much better than their Urdu.

Pakistan has a growing ‘burger’ generation, one that idolises anything ‘Western,’ is typically not in tune with their heritage and considers it ‘un-cool’ to emphasise their Pakistani-ness, be it through refusing to eat desi food or dreading family trips to historical sites.

This is likely the result of Pakistan’s colonial past or the anti-Pakistan discourse on a social media that is heavily impacted by the West and its Eurocentrism. It is crucial for Pakistanis to push past the desire to conform to Western norms, and instead, believe in the allure and uniqueness of their own country. Life in Lahore — exploring the narrow, charming streets of Old Lahore, and rainy mornings with halwa puri in the car — can too be magical.

The writer is a student based in the US. She is interested in gender, environment and culture