he light on a late winter afternoon in Lahore could be ordinary one moment, and then you take a few steps forward and it is distinctly golden. This is where the magic is — suddenly, you are elsewhere; in another Lahore. And outside of all this, the world rages on — climate injustice, genocide, religious minorities killed, the price of a loaf of bread and taxes on milk — but here I can look away for a while.

As I headed to the Shahi Qila to look at Quetta-based Hazara artist Feroza Hakeem’s work, on show at Akbari Mahal, I was hoping to escape into a love story, at least for the weekend.

Two distinct Lahores existed in parallel during the opening weekend of the Lahore Biennale, or LB03. The Lahore as a city for Lahoris was different from the imagined city of Lahore as a curatorial site. Of course, they overlapped, perhaps more so on paper maps (eco-friendly and sustainable?) and in photos. The imagined city of Lahore had historic sites for art and installations, like curatorial sites should, and it was titled Of Mountains and Seas. There were mountains and seas everywhere near the sites of androon Lahore, and by that I mean just the words. Lahore is a landlocked city with plains. No sea or mountains were harmed or ‘saved’ in the process.

But with good intentions and beautiful aesthetics, it was symbolic and a dream, the curated imagined city with rose petals floating in the fountains of the historic Shalamar Gardens built by the Mughals (floral waste is biodegradable, yes?), duo-toned paper maps printed in hundreds, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s remixed music playing as one walked through installations and art.

There were lights everywhere — was I in love? My friends’ photos seemed to be showing the same vibe on their Instagram stories and posts. We were all in love and in nostalgia. “Every time I visit androon Lahore, I am reminded of how much I love Lahore,” someone posted.

And yet, most of the parallel city went on with their everyday matters — you had inflated electricity bills to pay, aged parents to be taken for their procedures, the intolerable heat and humidity on most days of the year… And then, how was one supposed to walk from one installation site to another in the mad traffic? You had pedestrians — men and women — on their way back from work, with brightly lit phones and bags in hand, slipping through between cars parked by the roadsides. There were people everywhere, rushing off past hawkers and neon lit storefronts. This parallel Lahore was noisy, unpredictable and alive. But this is the Lahore most people live all year around.

Like any number of antagonists and obstacles in a desi film, the government disrupted the internet services thanks to a political rally. Many roads were cordoned off, people were asked to take alternative routes and the narrative stayed true to the plot. A celebrity cleric was holding an event at the Shahi Qila on one of the days after the weekend, and the sites had become inaccessible. “What is a good alternative route to take to the Fort, what are the timings,” a friend messaged. I forwarded an updated Insta post with the details. The chaos of the large metropolis had reached the boundaries of the imagined city, and there were unanticipated disruptions and unpredictability.

As we passed the gates of the Shahi Qila, cars, on their way to the imagined city, drove past other Lahoris standing in queues at the gate without being stopped. Inside the Shahi Qila, the world was slow, quiet, in order. It was curated and planned; not entirely, but mostly.

Through traffic, online and offline; through roads, reels, messages and Google maps, when we reached the sites to view art installations, a few artworks had been delayed. All the work was in English language for a city where most people speak and understand Punjabi and Urdu only.

The imagined city was intoxicating and romantic. It avoided the Ravi, polluted with industrial waste and the construction of housing societies. A friend messaged me, asking why the river was being used as a site.

The Ravi Bachao Tehreek, an initiative to raise awareness about the pollution of the Ravi, was started by Abuzar Madho, a storyteller. Madho had been given the platform by the LB03, and he performed at their Alhamra Art Centre and Pak Tea House sites. “A phenomenal storyteller, I’m glad they have him,” exclaimed a friend. I nodded in agreement. Another posted a video of his performance. Several comments appeared with the clap emoji.

“Should I carry my CNIC?” a friend messaged.

“I always do, but we won’t need it,” I replied. Of course, I never do, I am a Punjabi and Sunni. I speak English. Sure, I am a woman, but I am protected and privileged. But I don’t say that out aloud. And certainly not when Feroza Hakeem sends me a voice note about how they questioned her at the gate of the Shahi Qila asking if she was a foreigner. “Aap Hazara ho, jin ke saath target killing hoti hai?” they had asked her, as she told me.

In the imagined, beautiful Lahore of that weekend, of course, politics had to reach from the peripheries. Was I being bitter and not enjoying the rare moments of joy — the laughter with friends, chai and namak paray near Yasmeen Lari’s installation? Why was I noticing this in this imagined city, my Lahore, only now? We had always successfully looked away before.

I walked towards the beautiful Akbari Mahal, one of the palaces inside the imagined city to view Feroza Hakeem’s work. I was excited to see her new work being brought to the public. It was on trees, shown in a sharp colourful palette, trees placed amongst them in cityscapes of mountains, inspired by her training in miniature at the National College of Arts, Lahore.

Her piece, Khorshid Fruit, is a painting in which there are colourful trees, and one tree made of newspaper collages has text cuttings of newspapers citing the target killings of the Shia Hazara community based in Quetta. It also has a small black-and-white photo of the artist.

The other five paintings by Hakeem in the same space also featured trees and mountains, and were titled My City. These ‘cities’ consisted of Quetta’s mountains and trees. “Like humans are divided into Shia, Sunni, Christian, Punjabi and Baloch, trees also have distinct identities,” Hakeem said. “I started working on the idea [of using trees] because Quetta is a dry city with rocks and mountains. We have no parks. The only place where we have an abundance of trees is at the Hazara Town cemetery. Most of the dead buried there are those who were killed in encounters.”

Hakeem revealed that her older brother had been targeted and killed. “I show hope through colours, and life through the depiction of trees… I feel safe in Lahore where the population is diverse and people generally mind their own business.”

I wish I had answers or resolutions for these issues.

I also wonder where we would be in such crises if it weren’t for the artists and their work. The world is all connected, isn’t it? I was determined to notice the differences, the logistical errors, the city and its façade, and at the same time I wanted to escape everything and believe that I was in a movie and in love.

When I walked back after seeing Hakeem’s work, the imagined city with its immaculately manicured gardens stood against a setting sun. This imagined city has its beloved ghosts. As it grew dark, smog became visible, above the fort where there was light a short while ago. Patches at first, in some areas, and then like a lingering ghost, always there, outside of time and space. The imagined city and the other Lahore, seemed to converge.

Disclaimer by the writer: At the time of writing this piece, a performance by the banks of the Ravi was not in any official programming of the LB

Nazuk Iftikhar Rao is a Development Economist and has worked with several UN agencies in Pakistan and New York on humanitarian reporting and programme implementation. She is currently working on her novel with South Asia Speaks Fellowship. Her Instagram handle is @portraitsoflonging