Lahoris welcome this spring season with mixed feelings after a smoggy winter. From the remodelling of the city’s iconic cricket stadium for three matches of the upcoming championship, to a handful of festivals and rumours of school holidays, there’s excitement in the hazy air. Rush-hours in Gulberg — driven sometimes by hasty road work and brand fixtures on the main boulevard — frequently display what sceptics see as a poster child for unplanned urbanisation and problematic consumption. But it is during school dismissals and work-day closing that you clearly see the thrust of human bodies and steel bodies on the city’s infrastructure. Not very exciting; who would believe this was once a city of gardens?

Many of us born and raised in Lahore get a little brash: “I know the city like the back of my hand.” Think again. Most parents also think they know their kids in and out, but do they really? Any backroads and shortcuts we discovered during college are now open to GPS’s alternative routes. And if you feel special connection with those alleys, talk to teens and they’ll come up with a list of inlands for clandestine operations. Cities are shaped by people who occupy them. Drivers and pedestrians on the roughly three-mile boulevard during traffic hours come together to haul the city’s economy and their ambitions. Students’ books and labourers’ muddy spades are as much a part of Lahore’s character as the promises of ‘modernity’ with high-rise structures and golden arches of the freedom to consume a few thousand calories for a meal.

Things must be done though. Children must be picked, pizzas must be delivered and bosses must be pleased. Lahoris’ frustration with construction work peaks during peak-traffic hours. When honking incessantly doesn’t help, and the young woman in abaya walking in front of the car in front of the other car wouldn’t pick up pace, wheels steer left and right instead of straight. The cars start moving inward, while pedestrians plant themselves on the road as drivers decide when they are permitted to move. Cars and bikes drive past these invisible bodies, both agitated and indifferent to them like the zombies who wouldn’t infect the sick humans in World War Z.

This is Lahore at its mellowest, before temperatures rise to beat records. Ahead of Ramazan and summer, this is the most calm you’ll see on Lahore’s roads. As heat soars, so do the tempers. Raging drivers come in many sizes and shapes: there’s the builder’s big son with his girl followed by security who simply doesn’t have time for your problems; the rider who must deliver within the next ten minutes for a decent gratuity; and the night owl banker who is three hours late for his meeting. Parents cuss and yell at each other for what they know brought them here: parenting. Two drivers at each other’s throats call their respective uncles for help while hurling what sound less like abuse and more like therapy for their current woes.

Rush hours are perfect for those with a knack for social piety. For no clear reason, these individuals supersede the traffic warden, by aggressively gesticulating towards drivers with a handful of key gestures that question, direct and force stop all at the same time. These de facto law enforcement personnel guide bikers on how to make their way through, and help drivers get through the day without a fender bender. They don’t give up unless the flow of traffic resumes temporarily.

Service lanes operate in a parallel universe with their own chaos, as restaurants and cafes on the boulevard fill up. But there’s less anger, because there’s no way out. Every few minutes, two vehicles come face to face in a game of nerves often won by the driver with less to lose. From bookstores to cafes, service lanes allow space for drivers to wait for, and miss, parking spots. Like pedestrian crossover bridges, most people don’t care about them until they need them.

Daylight dwindles and shopping malls glow up, but this is no place for self-reflection. The chaotic cadence of Lahore’s road picks up pace again because there’s no time. It’s spring already and Lahoris have a small window to indulge in festivity, between sickening winter air and nauseating summer heat.

The author is a freelance writer based in the US [?]. She can be reached at sikandar.sarah@gmail.com