It’s 10:30am in Lahore’s Model Town market. There are about 20 small- and medium-sized shops in a single alley. A bookstore that also sells cheap plastic toys; a juice bar that becomes a dahi barra stand after 5pm; a man lying on a charpoy in front of a shuttered store, probably an ATM or a photocopy store; and a small boy, aged 13 or so, sweeping the dust in an uninhibited way, all around.

Again, it’s 10:30 in the morning. One of my first memories of my birth city remains the Main Market roundabout in the late 1980s scattered with tired bodies — half-awake, half-drunk, half-alive. On late-night drives — yes, 8pm was late — there were fewer cars, making the bodies on the roundabout lawn appear to be in a state of casual abandon. Waiting for a better morning; a better tomorrow. The child saw these men and women, as dangerous, uncouth, and free, too free. They must be inside. Indoor with their families.

Here I am, galloping to my 40s like a highbred stallion, looking at Lahore again — sleepy, bored, and half awake.

Most young kids around me — toddlers to teenagers — haven’t been working, studying, actively socialising, or eating healthy. Let’s not blame Covid-19 for every inescapable human calamity. Our habits have certainly changed dramatically since round-the-clock cable news and the first tech-boom. The internet came storming into our lives and we embraced all of it with — ‘socialising,’ ‘talking,’ ‘thinking’ and ‘engaging’ with invisible people. And we’re doing it all at night. For the child, night was the epitome of evil and morning for another day in the park, no matter how grumpy.

Not any longer. The nights those days were boring, I’m often told; they involved a lot of touching, talking to real people, eating real food, feeding real pets, crushing real candy and fighting actual fights. The veracity of relationships had a price tag. To feel for others, to understand their pain, to confront and to engage; the physical urgency of an unexpected bum on the head, or the stamina to wait for everyone to gather before the first bite. Nights were long and slow, their movements defined by the excitement of a board game or a painfully tedious film.

Now, night means possibilities — another chance to score a girl, another chance to try new foods, another chance to see another Indian sexomance, another chance to fight to break off. The literary idea of night’s unpredictability and excitement signifies uncontrolled passions and masculine spirit, since only men and whores are supposed to be out so late (think Manto and Ahmed Ali). Today, many parents are struggling to inculcate the same idea — day must be productive, and night, idle and slow.

The blackness of night is probably the most redundant clichés of popular cultures. But we seem to have embraced the black witch, make it work for us in one way or another. Only an expert can shed light on the comparative labour and productivity stats in countries where working hours span over most evening and night. One thing seems inevitable, as Yuval Hariri in his book, 21 Lessons for the 21st Century, admits the progress in biotech and infotech will change human lives drastically, for better or for worse.

Change has already seeped into our daily lives, disregarding the urgency to reinstate sun’s sovereignty. The government has pushed working hours a little farther in the morning. Mornings on the streets of Lahore are slow as lethargy blends into the heat and afternoon sun. Evenings come alive with late dinners, late business hours and midnight congregations at the paan shops. Maghrib, or sunset, was the default curfew. Now, sunset is the start of an active, social ‘day’ which will last well into night.

Social media trolls creep out at night, but so do school-going children whose idea of entertainment is defined by the latest mobile app. Police officers think the night street belongs to thugs, not decent women, except those chilling in the city’s hotspots preferably with male companions. Step outside and you are free to indulge in window shopping after 10pm. Cultural events after 9pm question our morality which is neatly preserved in restaurants with halal food.

Our waistlines are expanding. We even know the difference between penne and bowtie pasta. Our leaders offer us the utopian state that doesn’t offer any answer. We complain during the day and we hanker during the night. We have finally accepted the dark, dreadful night as the solution to our communal problems by remaining quiet and staying up-to-date. Streaming alien content and borrowed history are always there to help us get through the night to sleep in the next morning.

The writer is an MS from Columbia School of Journalism. She is based in the US and works as a freelance writer