What does Lahore mean to me? It’s a question that often hangs in the air as I wander through the city, whether in the narrow streets around Wazir Khan Masjid or over a cup of tea at a Quetta tea stall, trying to relive memories I created with a person I have lost, and through whose eyes I first saw Lahore.

Some time ago, Taimoor Ghazi from Lahore ka Ravi said something beautiful: Data Sahib ki Nagri sab ko apnay andar samait leti hai, chahay koi bhi ho (Data Sahib’s city embraces everyone regardless of who they are).

This got me thinking about the stories Tahir, my late husband, once told me of this city and its ever-growing population; how its people find ways to coexist; to carve out spaces to live and survive in circumstances often beyond their control. It’s something I could relate to, having moved to the city about 25 years ago.

While Data Sahib’s shrine embraces the chaos of destiny and fate, Bulleh Shah, who rests southeast of Lahore, enchants the city with peace, colour and unity. The vibe of Lahore can be difficult to decipher if you haven’t witnessed the city at the height of its dhamal beats, or at its lowest, when the smog chokes it by the gut.

Those who have been here for generations often say: Lahore is a kaifiyat, a state of being, for which there is no antidote. You may travel to the other end of the world in search of better prospects, with a broken heart, a shattered soul, or a basket full of hope, but Lahore will never stop pulling at your heart.

For the first half of my life, I lived far from this land, where the air was clean, the facilities better, and human beings enjoyed slightly more rights. Yet my heart belonged to Lahore. It is the city that held my aunt together, carefully, in her favourite place: the Home Economics College. She was known as one of the best teachers and one of the most feared, due to her insistence on discipline and precision.

For me, she was my anchor, someone who not only loved my sister and me deeply, but also made sure our trips to Lahore were filled with joy, laughter and endless hugs. She would sew us dresses, always following the latest trends, for every birthday and Eid. Those dresses were often lovingly embellished by her colleagues, each of whom I fondly called khala.

People often question my fondness for fizzy drinks, unaware that it stems from one of my most cherished childhood memories: sipping from my favourite aunt’s bottle, who was the Head of the Clothing Department. Thanks to her, of all the vegetables in the world, beetroot bhujia remains my all-time favourite. She introduced me to it during the winter breaks I spent in Lahore at a very young age.

As the famous song says, Ishq karna hai to Lahore chalay aao, or as Dr Fakhar Abbas, the poet, beautifully puts it, “Yeh jo Lahore say muhabbat hai, yeh kisi aur say muhabbat hai”, both lines carry a profound truth. Whether this love is for an individual or a family, for a fragrance or the food, the architecture, the gardens or the shrines, Lahore speaks a language of love and memory that stays close to one’s heart.

Despite the rapid urbanisation, Lahore continues to revolve like a whirling darvesh, balancing peace and chaos and keeping us grounded.

R Umaima Ahmad is a freelance journalist