Our next stop was outside the Shahalami, which had been gutted in the unfortunate 1947 riots. The gate had, however, survived. As seen in the old, black and white photographs, it was like the Lohari Gate, only a tad smaller. It was pulled down while clearing the ruins inside Shahalami.

A two-lane passage had been created with new shops that had flats on the top. It was a very crude and cruel intervention inside Lahore’s Walled City. The gate itself could have been saved by turning it into a roundabout as was done at Chauburji and at Turkoman Gate outside Old Delhi.

We did not wish to venture inside. As we stood outside, we saw Motilal’s Mandir, a filial of which was destroyed in the 1992 riots following Babri Masjid’s dismantling. The temple and some shops around it were now occupied by stone carvers who were busy making sil battas and koondis out of the Fatehpur-Sikri red sandstones stolen from various historical monuments and debris from buildings that should have been on the protected list.

Nobody was there to check this sacrilege of history. The red sandstone with white specks is very hard and, therefore, ideal for sharpening knives; hence, much sought after by butchers.

Passing through the Circular Garden and the Maulana Muhammad Bukhsh Muslim Masjid, we stopped under the Lohari Gate. It’s the only gate of the Walled City still in its original shape. History tells us that it was treacherously opened by Muhkam Din to let in Ranjeet Singh, in 1799, while he was expected to storm the Delhi Gate.

This gate has some machicolations and slits for small arms. Some interventions made during the British period could be seen, as pointed out by my uncle. The previous government, in an attempt to repair it, had distorted its architectural features. The locale was the most animated. Sellers of flowers and garlands could be seen under the mosque while the other side boasted the city’s earliest opticians.

Next, there were the watch makers and makers of old style locks and keys. Once one is inside the gate, there’s a whole new world to see and marvel at. It is not just a gate to the city; it is, in fact, an entry into a dreamland. Shops selling mats and hand fans, fashioned out of date-palm fronds, water-containers in terracotta, and self-styled physiotherapists fixing dislocated joints amidst loud screams of their patients, were quite inviting.

Quack surgeons with piles of discarded bandages soiled with pus on display — could be seen side by side. Other therapists would treat the sciatica patients with low-voltage electric irons. On the other side were sweet meat sellers and milk bars, with the milk being continuously heated in large containers. Mouthwatering hot soup could be savoured from a deg, with the same organic chicken on display for weeks.

Many eateries here specialised in siri paye, with the bones openly scattered for publicity. Some stray cats were seen competing with a lone brown dog for any leftovers.

We came across the oldest house in the city which too was in its original shape. It had half domes, flattened to form a very impressive façade with multiple windows. It housed a baithak kaatibaan (calligraphers’ guild) in its upper storey while the lower part formed some shops.

The uncouth merchants, in an attempt to frustrate the calligraph-artists, had demolished the stairs so that the old and frail wielders of quills struggled to ascend using a bamboo ladder. We, too, ventured upstairs through the dangerously shaky contraption. In the fairly large halls, we met many famed masters of the dying art of the pen, including Zerrin Raqam. Some of them had worked for the long defunct daily Imroze. This Urdu daily had the largest print order or circulation. It was nationalised along with other dailies of the Progressive Papers Ltd by Ayub Khan. It had boasted the best-calligraphed headlines.

It may be mentioned here that back in the day newspapers were printed through lithographic plates. Ownership of this building, like so many houses in the city, was disputed since Partition. With the advent of mono type and later composing through computers, the calligraphers gradually became redundant and only some title pages of books were ordered to be specifically calligraphed. Faced with economic difficulties, they could not effectively defend their court cases and were finally evicted. Even though the then director general of Pakistan National Council of Arts, Naeem Tahir, rushed to their help, it was an unequal fight — that is, the pen was found far less mighty than money.

The strategy was wrong right from the beginning. The building had all the qualities to be put on the Protected List under the Special Premises Act, 1985, as approved by the Lahore Conservation Society (LCS), under Khwaja Zaheeruddin. But no government agency was willing to update the list. The civil society members, too, were more interested in photo sessions.

Once vacated through a court bailiff it was pulled down overnight post-haste. As is usual, an ugly concrete structure, most incongruous with the historic district, sprang up over the land thus cleared. That was a later development, though. Luckily, my uncle got a good look at the beautiful façade and visited its inside. I never wrote to inform him that the oldest house in the city, which he had so admired that day, had been pulled down.

By now we were feeling quite hungry. We looked around for some eatery. The street that forked westwards was called Chowk Chakla, or the red-light area, which was once located there before it was moved in the vicinity of the largest mosque in the world. The most famous Haji’s Nihari, a dhaba (restaurant), was already crowded. On its walls was scribbled a reminder that customers should keep count of the loaves they ate and that the premises should be kept clean. We had a hearty laugh looking at the leftovers of meat scattered around, greasing the tables as well as the floor.

It was the most expensive restaurant in the city back then. Yet, every visitor to Lahore had it on their itinerary. More expensive than even the organic rooster, the beef served had loads of grease and spices beyond tolerable levels. We had forgotten to keep count of the loaves we had downed. Sweating heavily because of the high calorie intake, we ran towards the nearby sweetmeat seller for carrot pudding with pistachios and almonds covered with silver leaves which incidentally was overheated. Soon we raced towards the milk seller for a glass of lassi (sweetened yogurt drink) to calm down our taste buds and salivary glands.

On our journey back home, my uncle commented, “Naeen reesaan shehr Lahore diyan!” He meant to say that you may have seen Naples and died but coming to Lahore was an experience in reincarnation.

(This dispatch is dedicated to Prof Irshad Ali)

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