Memories can be rather vivid sometimes. The moment you step into your little box of memoirs you enter another world. Such a paradox it is: that place seems familiar yet foreign, just as if you belong there, but you don’t. I often find myself immersing into moments I cherish. They give me a sense of stability in the absolute chaos of the changing world. My memories are my constant.
When I recall my childhood, I realise that my mornings were not ideal. They did not begin with the pleasant chirping of the birds or the warmth from the peeping sun, pleasantly basking my face. They started off with the horns from the bustling traffic of Hall Road and the amusing chatter of my huge family. Funny how being a seven-year-old I found all these intrusions heavenly. I would wake up to the sickeningly sweet aroma of halwa and freshly made puri and kulchas from Bedan Road filling the entire house with a heavenly delight. I would then hop out of my bed and run into the huge veranda of our old Indian house. It was where I first learned to cycle, believing then that it was the coolest thing anyone could ever do.
Later, we all would gather around my uncle for the routine examinations of the many chickens, rabbits and pigeons we had as pets. I remember once putting an egg under the chicken and pranking my Chachu in believing that the chicken miraculously gave an egg. I wonder where those simple things are now gone?
Important occasions and celebrations were the most fun in that old part of Lahore. Even now with the beginning of every spring I am reminded of the Basant festivities we had at our house. We used to climb those scary moving staircases to get to the roof where everyone would fly kites. Sometimes when I was too scared to go up myself, Baba would carry me all the way and then give me a kite to hold. Bakra Eid was also a busy occasion then, as we used to plan ahead as to where we should hide our beloved bakras. It was usually in the innermost rooms; the intricate architecture of the old Indian house always came to our benefit then. My chachu would spend hours finding us while all the aunties and dada’s friends would tell tales of people shifting from Hall road to a more peaceful area in Lahore. I hated those stories because it always made dada think about leaving as well, which I never wanted to.
Now even as a grown-up, whenever I pass by the old Haji Kareem Baksh and look over to my right on the other side of the road. I see a new Hall Road, filled with little TV screens and huge billboards. Though, this sight aches my heart, I soothe it with pleasant memories of those Sundays when we used to visit the old books’ stalls on the famous steps in front of Bata and Service. It was then that I developed a thing for old books. I loved their yellow pages, softened with the touch of many and filled with scribbling in writings of previous owners I will never know. Each of them had their own story. They were like those thousands of tales one might hear if they listen carefully beneath the noise of traffic and loud music in Hall road. They might even hear of a little girl, running around her veranda, with one hand clutching a bag of candies and the other waving a fairy wand.
