I am using my bodily response as an indicator of how bad the Lahore smog is right now. Prior to Covid-19, the relentless itch in my throat and the resulting cough had alerted me to wearing the N95 mask. During the Covid pandemic, the intensity of smog seemed to ease up a bit. Today, as I’m writing this, there’s no cough or itch, just a constant feeling that there’s something stuck in my throat, the kind you sometimes get while deep-cleaning the house. So, I presume, it’s accumulated dust particles in my throat.

It makes sense too —wait a few hours and a fine layer of dark dust gathers at the top of your desk, even though you would have done a clean sweep earlier in the morning. It’s not only felt but also seen.

Sitting amongst your closest friends, you try to avoid dismal topics but somewhere, the dust starts settling on you too. Quietly, it weaves its way into the conversation. Someone walks in with a mask, another with red eyes, a third person with a blocked nose.

The initial complaints are brief and the symptoms are shrugged off as a mere annoyance. But then it makes its way back into the conversation. First, you begin discussing the political landscape of Pakistan; then you talk about the economy; then other problems you face on a daily basis; and finally, the ‘unbreathable’ air becomes an addition to the ever growing list of reasons to move away.

Where do you turn when, alongside the world on fire, you can’t even breathe properly, sitting in the comfort of your home anymore? The situation has deteriorated so much that something as mundane and basic as your ongoing breath is ridden with anxiety.

Come winter and the psychological claustrophobia has a physical basis. A heavy weight sits on your chest and you have to exert a little extra to pull in some oxygen. Where do you turn when, alongside the world on fire, you can’t even breathe properly, sitting in the comfort of your home? The situation has deteriorated so much that something as mundane and basic as your ongoing breath is ridden with anxiety.

I’m not even 30 yet and I wonder if the air I breathe currently will lead to some form of cancer in a few years. That’s not what someone my age should be worrying about.

And then the only solution in sight is an air purifier in each room of the house. Or, what else? Who’s working on this? Is anyone even paying attention to it? How do you work on an individual level to clean something you can even hold in the palm of your hand?

Leaving Lahore is also not a viable option. Why would I leave the very place that’s made me? That I carry pieces of, everywhere I go? That is the epitome of home for me? Why does home have to be at the heart of a dying, polluted city?

Smog no longer feels like a literal, singular problem. It’s dreaded each year, it’s worse each year. It’s an annual metaphorical reminder of the crumbling hope living in Lahore.

The author is a freelance content writer