He must have spent a night, restless. At daybreak we ventured out to see ‘his’ city. Each road and street was etched in his memory. He would make me stop at different spots, look up for the houses where his friends once resided. We stopped on Nicholson Road where the Nawab Muzaffar Khan Mansions once stood and where we had lived as tenants for 34 years.

The benevolent landlords had never raised the rent. It was a beautiful building with a tubewell and septic tanks of its own. Now an ugly concrete monster stood in its stead. The two peepal trees beside it were gone too.

“You should not have brought me here,” was all he said.

We took a turn leading to the Buddhan Shah Street that boasted the shrine of some lady. The tall ancient banyan tree holding the green umbrella cover was gone to make way for some shops.

The green grocer, Shireen, recognised my uncle. We offered condolences for his elder brother, Nazir. For quite some time, we exchanged news and views about what had changed during the interim period. We posed against the cucumbers, capsicums, ladyfingers, brinjals and bitter gourd displayed in his shop.

On the other side, there was the quadrangle of the Malik family, who had generously allowed other families to stay, even those who could not pay the rent.

Sultan was no longer alive. Haji Fazal alias Phajja, who after a failed attempt to go to Pehlavi’s Iran, had joined Lahore Metropolitan Corporation’s fire brigade, had also passed away. Nawabdin, the kite maker, had been succeeded by his son who was seen carving and scraping thin bamboo sticks for kups, tookals, teeras and other colourful paper kites for the Basant festival. My uncle sat beside him, while I focused my Minolta lens and scored a prized click with the fauve coloured kites behind them vibrating.

Music emanating from English-style bag pipes caught our attention. By the time I reached the source of the melodies, my uncle was already posing with a large, brown bear with a sturdy white chest. The friendly animal, upon the command of its handler, sat down to let my uncle ride him.

A small monetary reward was due. It’s good to learn that of late these animals have been shifted to sanctuaries and released into their natural habitats. We looked for Nannha’s tandoor. The octogenarian could not be traced. His place had now been renamed Nannha Naan Shop.

The ancient banyan tree outside the Qila Gujjar Singh’s 200 years old gate too had been felled. The water-trough for horses under it, built by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) had also been demolished. As regards the animals, they had to quench their thirst by drinking water from plastic bags. The leftover water was sprinkled on the vegetables by the vendor.

The removal of two ancient trees had made this locale pretty hot during the blistering summers, and raised the dust and noise pollution levels. Half of the unique jharoka outside the Thekedaroan Ki Haveli had been sliced. The mutton seller tried to recognise us, while we kept ogling at the old lady behind the stained glass windows. Upon spotting my uncle, she shied away.

A camel walked past us merrily, and we saw children enjoying the ride. We entered the (200-year-old) wooden gate of the fort. Though the main bazaar is full of all sorts of commercial activity, inside the fort there’s not a single shop — it’s all strictly residential. There used to be a very big community well there. On Eid days, a wooden merry-go-round would enthrall the children who would intermittently shout in unison: “Bhai, zoar di!” (Brother, apply real force!).

Sarwar, who lived in the narrow lane on the left, had long retired as auto electrician with Lahore Omnibus Service. Some goats, wearing old woolen pullovers, were following us. We took them in our laps while a boy in the locality clicked the image. All the people following us were very friendly. They were surprised to know that we had spent our childhood in these cool lanes.

Passing by the haveli of Abdul Karim Lumbardar (after whom the road is named), we saw another big tree that had somehow escaped the attention of the tree haters. My uncle hugged the huge tree trunk. The crows feasting in the foliage seemed to have recognised him and tried to prick our heads. We detoured. Descending the stepped lane, we stopped at the community water tap that used to supply water to private houses through beheshti (water carrier). The frequently used bronze taps shone like gold.

One of the pioneering actors of PTV, Ali Ejaz, lived there once. The owner of Panther motorcycle, Saeed Bajwa, had long since emigrated along with his Alsatian dog. His house had been demolished to make way for a market built by Munawwar (of Clifton General Store).

Once outside the fort, we looked around for any old-timer. A cigarette and paan vendor waved at us. His hair had all turned grey. As I got closer to him, he hugged me tight. I tried hard to get myself disentangled from his squeezing embrace. Though he had greeted us with a big welcoming smile, he had no good news for us. We inquired about many old friends who had mostly ‘migrated’ to the place where no postman can deliver.

We asked about the Maulvi, a sweetmeat seller. He had been succeeded by his sons who had closed the famous shop and turned it into a beauty parlour, of all the things! A large portion of his shop abutting Nicholson Road was later demolished to make way for the Orange Line Metro Train.

We had thus toured Qila Gujjar Singh. Without the two ancient trees it was not the same. Coming out of Chandni Chowk, we crossed McLeod Road where the legendary surgeon, Bharucha, had attended to the ailing superstar of the time, Zareef.

Fleming Road, named after the inventor of Penicillin, is the coolest in the locality because it runs north-south, casting deep shadows. Aziz Manzil still had its plaque indicating the year of its construction: 1929. Its large, wooden jharoka was on the verge of collapse. Its windows, now flung open, devoid of halebi jam or stained glass, were inhabited by dozens of pigeons fluttering around. The big entrance arch was once occupied by an old man who sold booklets of classic film songs.

The next turning took us to the road named after the famous mathematician Dil Muhammad. Alongside the periphery of Paathi Ground (already discussed in a previous column), lathe workers and cast-iron moulders were hard at work, both mentally and physically.

Up next was Brandreth Road, once known as Kailean Wali Sarak (street with banana plants). World-class electric and diesel tubewell engines are being manufactured here from pre-Partition days. Badar and Matchless brands are still much sought-after because they use pure copper-wire winding.

My uncle stopped to peek into Ram Gali Number 2, where my phupha (paternal uncle) had lived before moving to greener pastures in Karachi. The Crown Bus Depot wasn’t there now. The roundabout too had had been levelled and the man who used to serve water for free had departed. The tall tree that kept his sabeel cool had also been felled to widen the road.

Lahore can best be seen by foot. As we treaded towards the Shahalami Gate, we saw Masjid Shab Bhar, the beautiful mosque that is so named because it was built overnight. Its intricately carved brown sandstone columns had been painted over in gaudy enamel by some over enthusiastic ‘restorer.’ Its lower storey had been converted into shops for monetary gains from this house of God which was locked at that time. It reminded me of Iqbal’s famous verses.

To be concluded

(This dispatch is dedicated to Signor Pedro)

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