hen I first stepped into Aurega bazaar in Lahore, the air seemed to hum with possibility — albeit a little loud. Each narrow lane was alive with colour and character. A stall heaved with block printed dupattas, each pushing for space so tightly you could almost taste the red dye.

The elderly shopkeeper with a silver moustache beckoned me in, proudly showing off a battered ledger which was essentially his memory bank of lifelong customers. A few stalls away, an old woman in bright bangles sold necklaces and earrings as rickshaws rolled by. It felt as if every ware seller was a storyteller, every item a plot twist.

Now imagine walking through a Western mall where identical glass storefronts stretch for mile upon mile. The lighting is the same in every corridor. The branding feels reassuringly uniform. You wait in line for your receipt to ping in your email inbox. The experience is efficient but somehow flat, devoid of the unpredictability and intimacy you find in a markeet.

This shift from vibrant bazaars to gleaming shopping complexes is not merely an architectural swap, but a social one. In traditional South Asian bazaars, like in Pakistan and India, we often equate value with the story behind an object and the warmth of human exchange. By contrast, Western brand culture teaches us that a logo on a plastic bag instantly confers status.

Eastern bazaars thrive on bargaining and banter. In Old Lahore’s Azam Cloth Market, back when Partition’s dust had barely settled, shopkeepers would lower prices with theatrical gusto, calling out “Le lo, le lo, sirf aap kay liye!” Neighbours gathered on wooden tharras outside each shop, sipping karrak chai and trading news of weddings (or non-weddings — haye bechari!), newborns and the occasional family feud. In Karachi’s Empress Market, women often played an astonishingly visible role, haggling over fish and fresh produce; their voices echoing through archways long before the term “women’s empowerment” existed. In Lahore’s Aurega of old, female traders handled calls, counted currency and extracted tales of weddings and celebrations from every customer. By contrast, a mall offers fixed-price tags and polite “thank you for shopping with us” lines delivered without the slightest glimmer of interest in your weekend plans.

The bazaar culture has historically included mobile tea stalls where casual gossip and deep philosophy carried the same sense of significance (though there was a consensus on one thing in every era: “Zamana bohat kharab hai!”)

Western malls? Everything is robotic; food courts are segregated from stores, discouraging you from loitering for more than 30 minutes. Socialising becomes a hurried coffee break rather than an afternoon ritual.

What about the genius in the idea of “gaahak banana” (cultivating a long-standing relationship with each customer). Bazaar owners treat their patrons as extended family. They remember birthdays, children’s names and last season’s tragic knee injury. The goal is not a one-off sale but customer loyalty that spans decades. Today, brands call it customer retention. They might send you discount codes… but that comes at the cost of them tracking your browsing history.

A consumerist culture has crept into our lanes like an uninvited guest. The in-your-face billboards now promise sales but demand more of your attention in return. Where once the market was a social hub to bump into old friends and discover handmade trinkets, today’s shopping centres peddle curated playlists and meticulously uniform aesthetics.

One can’t blame anyone for enjoying that polished convenience. I myself marvel at how malls’ central air-conditioning rescues us from the blistering sun. Yet, I find myself longing for the kaleidoscope of Aurega’s bazaar lanes. I want to feel that thrill when a bargain is sealed and somehow both parties think they got a good deal. I want to watch sari borders draped over the shopkeeper to give me a sense of what it will look like on me.

Modern malls offer comfort and efficiency, but will you trade the stories, the laughter-filled haggles and tharra chai for a cold barcode?

Kiva Malick is an academician and a writer who focuses on education, philosophy, music and culture