Lessons from Lahore, Pakistan
Where we ate:
Cooco’s Den - great for a view of the Badshaahi Mosque
Salt and Pepper Village - top gourmet buffet with good paye, haleem and Gol Gappa
Yum! Chinese and Thai - amazing decor, service and a nice little break from Pakistani cusine
Balochi Saji by Bundu Khan - near the cricket stadium. Possibly the best chicken and mutton karahi that I have ever had - and we had a lot in Lahore - also try the slow roasted meats speciality. Delicious!
Lal Quila - Mughal Themed Restaurant - great a la carte and buffet selection, with a nice rooftop and gardens
Cafe Zouk - order the Hot Shrimps and the Polo Chicken! Great late night hangout spot, and cool drinks. It’s an institution.
Park Lane Hotel Buffet - we stayed here one night and had the buffet dinner. It was delicious, filling and a great selection in the heart of the city.
What we saw:
Wagha Gate - super interesting experience and electric atmosphere, just book in advance, and advice for the guys - don’t wear shorts, wear trousers as they don’t like otherwise!
Lahore fort & Badshaai Mosque - must see, take a local tour guide who speaks English but agree a fixed price in advance
Walled city and Delhi Gate - worth checking out for photographs, the awesome Hamman and one of the narrowest streets in the world
Food Street - try the fresh pan and the piping hot, fragrant Karak Chai
Wazir Khan Mosque - stunning, ancient and hidden away in the heart of the old market
Liberty Market - shopping, ice cream and snacks
Journal:
They say that the real test of how much you have changed on your travels is when you find yourself back in your old routines. Writing this from my desk in London, a fortnight after leaving Lahore - I still feel fundamentally challenged, shaped and changed from my experiences during this trip. I had no plans to visit Lahore this year - it was nowhere on the radar, yet this last minute trip to the Capital of Punjab made me question some deep rooted beliefs about Pakistanis and Islam that I had inherited from a childhood upbringing in the mainly white, British West. But to get the full story, we must start at the beginning.
It was the Summer of 2022, and I had moved from my hometown of London to Barcelona. I sublet a small room that overlooked the Ramblas for a month from a Galician girl called Julia, in a feeble attempt to recapture some of the fun and freedom of a year that was stolen from me by an injured spine.
Two weeks into my bohemian escape, where I was attempting to manifest steamy summer flings, suncream-soaked beach days and mischievous nights overflowing with Cava, I received a call to urgently return home to see my Grandmother who was on her deathbed. She had been ill for the last 6 months, but she seemed to be taking an upwards turn as I left. The day I was meant to fly back was, of course, during one of the worst flash floods that London has seen in years, which saw my flight delayed three times in increasing numbers of hours, then cancelled. After 19 hours at the airport, and a last minute British Airways ticket bought with my sister's credit card, I arrived by my Grandmother’s side with only 5 hours left with her before she passed. She was waiting for me.
I spent a week at home on heightened autopilot - organising the funeral, obtaining death certificates, writing an obituary, and learning about Islamic burials in between. In short - they bury the same day as death if possible, after washing the body at the mosque, covering it simply with a white shroud. The burial happens at identical graves pointing towards Mecca, with no coffin, and the men help lay the earth over the grave with their bare hands. Despite notorious Asian timing, all these things got sorted quickly, and I, expectedly, found myself at a loss after diligently throwing myself into family duties. After it was all done, against popular opinion, I decided to come back to Barcelona.
My sublet room was only mine for eight more days, but I was in need of my own space, as well as a city that ebbs and flows with beautiful distractions and art. Of course, things weren’t the same as when I had first arrived - there was now a thick fog of creeping lethargy and grief clouding the constant sunshine that sears over the Catalan coast. But, I was slowly wading through the stages of grief, and was eating more and being more active day by day. It must have been only three days after I returned that I got the phone call from my mum.
“I’m going to Pakistan, I’ve booked a flight for next week.”
“Next week? Why so soon? That’s not enough time to plan!”
“I just want to go. I need to. And I want you to come…”
I paused to gather my thoughts. The logical me would say no. I had just got back to my cushy life in Barcelona, and my body and mind were still in dire need of rest. Yet, something else compelled me to think about this opportunity. When else would I get an all expenses paid trip to such a historic, and gravely under-visited country? And when else would I get to share the experience not only with my Mum, but my family members that I had never met before who lived in Lahore, along with a chance to piece together the childhood of my dear Nanny?
Nevertheless, I was still plagued with doubt. If Lahore was anything like Delhi, it would be undoubtedly uncomfortable, unhygienic and getting around would be utter mayhem. I would probably get sick. I would get a thousand questions a day about why am I still single at 30, and why was I not getting an arranged marriage. I would have sincere requests to find me a ‘good Pakistani girl’ - and I would have to sew my lips shut on discussion or god forbid any celebration of my own sexuality. These worries about the trip turned out to partially come true - yet I still felt moved to say yes.
The days before the flight moved at a hesitant pace. We had to wait longer than expected for our Pakistani tourist visas, as we have Indian surnames, which they do not like, and had to change our flight to a couple of days later than planned. I read every blog post that I could get my hands on, watched every YouTube video and wikipediaed an abridged version of Pakistan’s political history in order to keep an open mind, but found I was plagued with stereotypes from the west. I was worried that the cousins and aunts and uncles that I would meet would be backwards, fundamentalist or pressure me into praying five times a day. More worryingly, I had the nagging thought - would they even like me?
Perhaps I should paint a vague picture of myself for those who don’t know me. Here I was - a brown, semi man-child at 30ish, with mixed Indian and Pakistani parents who lived in England. I had left a career in law because I didn’t like it, I had vague ambitions of being a travel vlogger and writer, and I could barely string a sentence together in Urdu or Punjabi, and dressed in skinny jeans and oversized tye-dye jumpers. Oh, and I’m also queer as hell. What on Earth would they think? Would they even class me as Pakistani by heritage? Or would I be too much of an oddball for them to accept?
Despite my chosen constructs of identity, I was also by birth, a complete misfit - being the son of a Sikh man and a Muslim woman. Although I was raised under my Grandmother’s influence who was born in the Punjab and maintained a lifelong devotion to Islam, attempts to teach us how to read the Quran and speak Urdu mainly failed as our British education took precedence, but we weren’t bad kids. My mother was Westernised and liberal, with her British University education and her fashionable outfits, and having chosen to marry a man outside of being a Muslim, it allowed me the freedom to make my own choices when it comes to religion.
I had always respected aspects of Islam, yet had historically found many facets of it problematic - mainly the treatment of women and the treatment of homosexuals. But on this short trip, having spent time in several beautiful mosques, as well as happily offering my namaaz in respect of my Nanny, next to my newly met cousins and uncles, I found myself deeply in awe of parts of the faith. Outside the Badshaahi Mosque, one of the oldest temples in Pakistan, the streets swirl with headache inducing chaos. The sensory overload of the old city market outside the mosque includes carts swinging past you, donkeys narrowly missing crashing into you, children tugging at your sleeves, lost toddlers howling around your ears, shawled teenagers fixing a scrutinising gaze onto you, tireless souvenir sellers hawking their even more tired-looking wares, gangs of boys climbing scaffolding and trees and scoffing at those below, and the homeless, limbless poor begging for change… I could go on. Less than ten paces away, inside the Badshaahi mosque, the energy transforms. It’s clean. Clear-headed. Almost tranquil. You can sense the reverence and mindfulness vibrating along the ancient floor stones and bricks. But it is when the azaan is called, that the magic happens. As a former singer - I’m entranced by the throaty singing of arabic-scale melismas, sliding up and down in intricate patterns: an expression of ecstatic faith as well as complete submission to what is. I offer my prayers for the first time in this country as a mark of respect to my Nanny, and stand shoulder to shoulder with my newly met family, as well as strangers, locals, guides, tourists and worshippers. We all lay our heads on the floor. We all sit in silence for a few minutes. We all hold our hands towards the sky. Suddenly it doesn’t matter what clothes I wear, where I went to school, what career I am thinking of pursuing or who I sleep with. We are all the same. And this is what I realise Islam instills. Unity.
Outside of the mosque, and other historical sights, such as the Shalimar Gardens, which were built under revered Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan who oversaw the Taj Mahal in Agra - the other wonder of Lahore is the food. Every activity revolves around eating - whether it is the crunchy, deep filled Gol Guppey procured from crimson red-painted stalls perched outside of the main sights, or the feasts of biriyani, karahi and saag that fill tables at visits to family houses, or the endless buffets of chaat, dhaal and kheer at restaurants. Lahore is a city of food. However, this is most evident in a Pakistani’s breakfast - a spread as large and as well thought out as an English dinner. Freshly fried pooris puff up then flake between your fingertips as you coat them with rich Channa Masala, or the delicate stew of lentils and slow-cooked mutton, called Haleem, which takes 20 hours to cook, or the nutritious broth reduced from boiled goat’s feet called Paye. It's sumptuous. Having skipped breakfast for the past five years in London, it felt counter-intuitive - but by the end of the trip, my stomach had grown both in size, and in fondness, for the Great Pakistani Breakfast.
On a first exploration of the food of Lahore - my tastebuds were assaulted with flavour. It wasn’t just the sting of green chillies and the burning bite of capsicum that troubled both my tongue and my belly - but the complexity of the other spices and ingredients made much of the food feel impossible to enjoy. As walls of incomprehensible spices hit my palate - I thought - where was the nuance? However, about five days into my trip, I had started picking up on different layers of flavours in the seasoning - a chicken karahi would have notes of cardamom, then the fragrance of cumin would emerge, cut with the sharpness of ginger. Shaami kebabs would vary in sweet and sourness from place to place - making it a sort of treasure hunt to find your favourite. Haleem would be tempered with the earthiness of Garam Masala, before being pricked with the pleasurable heat of cloves and black pepper. I didn't realise how much my tastebuds had changed in only ten days until I returned to an autumnal London and tucked into my first pub meal of fish and chips. With my first mouthful of breaded lemon cod and baked beans, it tasted incredibly bland. Suddenly, I craved some of the flavours we found in Lahore - the highlight being Saaji - a local spit-roasted barbeque mutton and chicken dish served with biryani rice, usually reserved for weddings.
Outside of the senses of my stomach - one of the things I cherish most about travelling to areas far outside your comfort zone, is your reliance on a heightened sense of intuition. We all learn to ‘read’ people in certain ways - whether it’s sussing out someone on a date, trying to read the vibe of someone interviewing you - or simply figuring out whether you can trust someone. In Pakistan, I found myself leaning into this intuition, and in some ways - my broken Urdu was a blessing - as I had to find ways to communicate using the tone and sound of my voice, my body language - but most of all - my eyes. Unlike the jaded and self-deprecating British - Pakistanis are not afraid to make eye contact, which for a shy person like me who tends to bury my head in my phone - was jarring. However - eye contact from Lahoris is not threatening or intimidating, like the odd passerby on a London street who stares you down. The eyes of the family members, local guides, drivers, food sellers and workers I met were bright, piercing, and free from the cloudiness or short-attention spans from the people in London. I looked into my Nanny’s brother's eyes often. They, along with many others, were filled with peace. Of course - my ‘cold reading’ of the people of Pakistan could not only be attributed to a lack of late nights drinking alcohol, or simply their devoted following of Islam. But I couldn’t help but think that regular intervals of quiet contemplation and meditation - which essentially is what the Islamic prayers ask for - can only help its followers come into alignment with themselves. As I stepped foot into a cramped tube carriage in London a couple of days after landing at Heathrow - I noticed not only how everyone avoided eye-contact, but that the eyes I did see were either full of depression, or filled with a quiet, desperate rage.
On one of my last days in Lahore, my cousins asked me if I missed drinking alcohol. This was asked without a trace of judgement, as they seemed to be well storied in British drinking culture. I had to admit to them that the thought of drinking hadn’t crossed my mind once - perhaps because we were constantly rushing from one landmark to another - or dinner, or a social event. Yet I knew that alcohol was pretty much impossible to find on the streets of Lahore - which only in itself provided a small sense of amusement in perhaps trying to source some - but for the first time on a ‘holiday’, I genuinely had no care for drinking. There was some talk of finding the only expat bar in Lahore - a converted hotel room in the luxury hotel Pearl Continental - frequented by international diplomats and celebrities - but the one night we passed by after midnight, we found it was closed. On my return to London, two work events and a friends gathering were based in a pub - and though my willpower got me through two of these events without booze - I succumbed on the third one, and felt worse for wear afterwards. This reminded me of one of my main problems with London - the alcoholism embedded into every activity outside of work, and I long to live somewhere where the emphasis isn’t placed so much on the stuff.
Lastly, I felt ashamed by the rabid Islamophobia that is endemic in the Western media. My older cousin founded and runs an international FinTech company, based in a converted house that is owned by Imran Khan’s family. Through his work, he has seen and lived in Los Angeles, Dubai and San Francisco - and having worked with Americans - he is well versed in and accepting of Western culture - yet he can’t wait to come home to Lahore for good in the near future. On a tour of the offices and after meeting team members - old and young - it is evident how much vital knowledge and talent that the educated of Pakistan have. My cousin attributes his success to his faith in Islam - and even though he is also clearly intelligent and hard working, the humility he carries would not go amiss in an increasingly arrogant and entitled London. One also cannot help but compare the country to the booming economy of India - and though I am far from a political expert - the fact that Pakistan is not rivalling it’s competitors economically can only be due to an unstable government and corrupt leadership. With my own eyes, I found that Pakistan’s educated and thriving middle class is at least as good as India’s - if not more focussed and humble due to the entrenchment of Islam, which should see them thriving. My cousins talk proudly about their support of ex Prime Minister Imran Khan, how he was helping the country stand on a global stage with his international respect, and how they joined the protest when he was ousted in a vote of no confidence led, and funded, by the head of the military. I felt sadness that a country so rich in history, geography and human talent was, once again, being unsupported by its own leadership powers.
As I settle back into old routines in London - I ask myself what patterns I find myself in, what beliefs have changed - and how I can break patterns or beliefs that either limit my thinking, or don’t serve me well. I wonder if Pakistan will also one day break the patterns that hold it back from reaching its full potential.
