It was a pleasant evening in the year 1960. The hall of the University of the Punjab (Old Campus), was packed to capacity. On the stage was my uncle, wearing traditional Punjabi apparel — a long kurta over a colourful dhoti and a heavy pagri over his head. He was performing the role of the saith (a filthy rich man) who had financed a film. Sitting at his feet were film producers, directors, musicians, actors, comedians and the extras.

The storyboard was being narrated to the saith. I couldn’t believe this was my uncle who had been so strict while tutoring me for my matriculation examinations.

Unable to control their laughter, the audience were jumping over their seats in a state of frenzy. It seemed like the dialogues nearly melted in their ears even before they had been uttered. As the director called for silence, for the shoot to begin, the already animated people were unable to control their voice boxes.

Soon a qawwali team took over. All the people joined in to clap rhythmically. A reveller on the stage went into a state of ecstasy and trance. In the style of the late maestro, Aziz Mian, one of the singers with long hair started banging his head. Just as he stood up on his knees, the one playing on the drum got up to calm him down. One of them started repeating the same poetic, albeit unrelated, verses of their own liking. He was caught from behind and the other one hit him repeatedly with his khussa (embroidered shoe). The one playing on the harmonium abandoned his instrument and came to the rescue of the ‘singer’. Just then came the thundering command: “Cut!”

Life itself is like theatre. In ’64, my real uncle had flown away. Off to London was another son of the soil who was an MSc in chemical technology, to pursue his higher studies. But like many others, he got lost in a geographical void. His friends from Qila Gujjar Singh kept inquiring about him for a long time, and thus became friends with me. My grandmother who had 10 sons was now looking for a match for this uncle of mine. Every now and then she would visit a prospective bride’s house and feast and shortlist the girls. Just when she was going to decide on one, my uncle sent a black and white photo from Sao Paolo. He had met a Brazilian girl in London who had taken him to her South American country.

Back home, on the death of my grandfather, my uncle was missed. Later, when my grandmother, too, departed the gathering at the funeral noted his absence. After some 37 years, we got the news that he was coming from Brazil where the winters and summers fall in diagonally opposite months. Here too, warmth and affection in family politics had undergone many changes. But he had come to see the Lahore of his childhood days.

On his first night here, he dreamt about the cookies, roasted rice and the channa chor garam which the seller would spice up with smoky fire. He longed to taste the reorrian, parmal, makhaanay, gazak, gol gappay and dahi bhallay. Seeing the painting of the Lahori Gate hung in the bedroom, he told me that he used to go there for nihari early in the morning.

The following morning, when I accompanied him on a tour of the city, he took out a 40 or so years old map, folded in his memory chambers. All the big trees were missing. Most green belts and footpaths had gone missing or been encroached upon. Most old buildings had been replaced by ugly concrete structures encased by glass. Abbott Road’s rose nurseries were not there any longer. The Mall, connecting the Donald Town with the Mian Mir Cantonment, as laid down by Charles Riwaz where no ancient tree was allowed to be cut down, was no more the city’s thandi sarrak. The birds singing hymns in praise of Allah, had migrated or died because their habitats had been cut.

He asked to see the double-decker bus. I intended to take him to the depots of Omnibus in Ichhra and Muslim Town where countless carcasses of vehicles were dumped. Realising that he won’t be able to bear the mental shock, I took him to the Tollinton Market where he would eat sandwiches washed down with the newly introduced soft drinks and shakes at the Tangiers’ milk bar.

Seeing the University of the Punjab, he must have remembered the stage play. We saw the Zamzama, or Kim’s gun, and the Sabre jet of MM Alam and turned towards the Data Darbar in pursuit of solace. But there, the people were freeing the birds by paying the ransom.

A better way would be to release the birds forcibly and break the cage. And if the man resisted, beat him black and blue. Greatly distressed, I took a detour towards the Badshahi Masjid where in the Minto Park, hundreds of trees that had witnessed the passing of the Pakistan Resolution had been felled to make a fake Disneyland. I saw the pavilions of Lahore Fort’s Sheesh Mahal, the marble columns of which were being covered with soot from the hundreds of buses plying there.

Rank commercialisation of the Lahore Fort had defaced the character of the monument on the World Heritage list of UNESCO, all the so called ‘restorations’ violated the Charter of Venice. Noise pollution was much higher than the bearable levels. Greatly depressed and ashamed, I contemplated covering the eyes and ears of my uncle with some cloth and take him straight to the airport and see him off. Later, I would write a letter apologising to him that we had failed to protect the city that he had left half a century ago.

To be concluded

(This dispatch is dedicated to Mademoiselle Andrea)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk