or someone who’s always prided herself on dressing to the nines and who was labelled “hyper-feminine” her entire life, it’s curious how I never really felt comfortable going to bazaars. I was often the odd one out, standing outside shops with my brothers and father, waiting for the women of the family to finish shopping.

Life dealt me a great hand in the form of my sister, who has taken full responsibility for curating my wardrobe. How blessed I am to have someone ensure my clothes are perfectly selected and neatly hung on a hanger just before an important event — without me having to endure the tedious process of getting them made.

There were many occasions in my childhood when I had to be bribed into going to the bazaars. I am, admittedly, a choosy shopper. These forced expeditions usually revolved around finding shoes for Eid and getting my mehndi done. Of course, both required my physical presence. In exchange for agreeing to these trips, I’d be promised rewards: a meal at a restaurant of my choice or roadside masala chips and samosas after I’d completed my shopping without complaining too much.

In recent years, Eid has been different. My siblings have moved abroad, and my parents are aging. The once obligatory trips to the Eid and Chaand Raat markets now feel like a distant memory I find myself yearning for. I miss getting my mehndi done while whining all the way to Shehzadi Market in Saddar, complaining to Ali bhai about his work and blaming my sister for taking me to his shop, tucked away in the maze-like streets of Saddar Bazaar — while secretly admiring the intricate design.

These days, my siblings and I only reunite through video calls. We reminisce about how we used to bully our brother into driving us to Liberty Market for last-minute picks and dopatta peco. He, too, enjoyed the bribes, especially when they came with a side of desi shawarma from Paradise.

The rise in upward mobility and changing financial circumstances for many middle-class families have transformed the way we celebrate Eid. The trips to local bazaars for Eid cards, mehndi and the greasy samosas and pakoras are no longer the norm. Many now opt for Ramazan bazaars, where an entrance fee of a thousand rupees gives you access to aesthetic minimal mehndi, gourmet sliders and pizzas, not to mention plenty of Instagrammable moments.

Online shopping has also made buying clothes far more convenient.

Despite the shifting trends, I still make an effort to partake in activities that remind me of my childhood.

The bustling hub was quiet, with no tourists or traffic. Most shops were closed, marking the end of the day’s business. I finally glimpsed what Ramazan looked like for the locals of Dilli Darwaza in the early hours.

This year, I was fortunate to enjoy wholesome iftars with friends, reminiscent of simpler days when we didn’t need to spend extravagant amounts on meals and still felt content.

The iftars at friends’ homes reminded me of my childhood growing up on Air Force bases, where the community came together regularly to share iftar trays and evenings were spent bonding over walks after sehri.

For each iftar this time, we picked a theme, dressed up accordingly, and spent hours indulging in delicious home-cooked meals, while sharing meaningful conversations and a fair amount of banter.

One such evening, we decided to experience sehri in androon Lahore, and made our way to Delhi Gate. Though Delhi Gate may not be the most conventional spot for food in the Walled City, it holds deep nostalgia for me. Every winter, our family would buy dry fruits from Akbari Mandi near the gate and my father would take us to Masjid Wazir Khan and the Shahi Hamam.

The Patli Gali (the narrowest street in Lahore) was always a source of excitement for me and my siblings, as we raced through it, trying not to touch one another. As teenagers, we pretended to be too cool for such races, but I vividly recall my father quoting Mushtaq Ahmad Yousafi’s famous words about that very street: “Androon Lahore ki chand galiyan itni tang hain keh agar aik taraf say mard aur doosri taraf say aurat guzar rahi ho tou darmiyan mein sirf nikah ki gunjaish reh jati hai.” We’d cringe at this as teenagers, pretending we hadn’t heard a thing.

Walking these streets again with my friends, I felt a mix of nostalgia and empowerment. This time, I was the one leading the group through these winding, wet and sometimes confusing lanes, proudly guiding them to the places I had once explored with my family. I couldn’t help but ask myself: would I have felt as confident walking these streets alone or even with a group of girls, or was this luxury only afforded because the male friends accompanied us?

After receiving praise for knowing my way around the gallis, I led the group to Haji Nihari, my family’s go-to spot for sehri, located just outside Delhi Gate. The restaurant, a tall haveli-like structure that’s been “under construction” for over a decade, was predictably packed—exclusively with men. We were asked to move upstairs, where a “special arrangement” was made for us. It turned out that we were the only group of women there, so they set up a metallic screen around our table to ensure the family’s privacy was maintained. We couldn’t help but laugh at how this ‘protection’ was imposed on us, with no say in the matter.

After discovering that biryani was unavailable, we opted for nalli nihari, the specialty of the house. It was just as delicious as ever, with the perfect blend of spices and melt-in-your-mouth meat.

As we sank into a food coma, we decided to take a stroll near Delhi Gate. For the first time, I saw the area after midnight, and it felt strangely calm. The bustling hub was quiet, with no tourists or traffic. Most shops were closed, marking the end of the day’s business. I finally glimpsed what Ramazan looked like for the locals of Dilli Darwaza in the early hours. Children were playing cricket, a few stalls were selling bangles and carts were offering BBQ, parathas and lassi. It felt like a tight-knit community. I couldn’t help but reminisce about my childhood on an Air Force base — despite the stark differences between these two worlds.

As the night winds picked up, we ended up at a Quetta Chai Paratha place, sharing crispy parathas with chai and green tea. The evening drizzle made the experience even more delightful. I found myself feeling deeply grateful for this enriching, full-circle experience on the last sehri of Ramazan.

Faaria Khan is a lecturer at LUMS and a human rights researcher. Her research interests lie at the intersection of education, gender and South Asian minorities