Lahore Quotes

Manto had earlier been prosecuted in Lahore for obscenity, and one of the words alleged to have been obscene was, “breasts

Glaring is something we men of Lahore take seriously...

He sat in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammeh, on her old platform, opposite the old Ajaib gher, the Wonder House, as the natives called the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that 'fire-breathing dragon', hold the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror's loot.

[Taken from a BBC documentary] Tariq was born in Lahore, now in Pakistan, then part of British-ruled India, in 1943. A Catholic school education did nothing to shake his life-long atheism, which he shared with his communist parents.

We should have realized it sooner, at least my father should have, that there was no coming back. Not in September when the riots died down, not in October when the subcontinent still lay in shock, not even in November as he had hoped and promised us. Lahore was now lost forever

After everything is said and done, a memory remains a treacherous thing…How long does one cling on to the people they’ve lost? How long could I have remembered my grandfather? How long had it been since I forgotten him and my mind began harbouring other things?

For we were not always burdened by debt, dependent on foreign aid and handouts; in the stories we tell of ourselves we were not the crazed and destitute radicals you see on your television channels but rather saints and poets and — yes — conquering kings. We built the Royal Mosque and the Shalimar Gardens in this city, and we built the Lahore Fort with its mighty walls and wide ramp for our battle-elephants. And we did these things when your country was still a collection of thirteen small colonies, gnawing away at the edge of a continent.

Imran Khan asked Pakistanis of four things at the Historic Lahore Jalsa. 1. We shall never lie and always speak the truth. 2. Leave our ego’s behind and only think of this Nation, there are 11 crore Pakistanis living beneath poverty line. 3. We shall be brave and break the shackles of fear. 4. We have to bring Justice to this society, even if our friends and relatives do injustice, we shall be fair and bring them to Justice.

I tried not to dwell on the comparison; it was one thing to accept that New York was more wealthy than Lahore, but quite another to swallow the fact that Manila was as well.

Lahore, the second largest city of Pakistan, ancient capital of the Punjab, home to nearly as many people as New York, layered like a sedimentary plain with the accreted history of invaders from the Aryans to the Mongols to the British.

a raped girl is bad for the family: it shows that they can’t protect their women; that they have little social standing; and that they’re not respectable. It’s worse for the victim because once a woman, or a girl—or a boy—is known as the target of a rape she becomes so despised, so shamed, so worthless that she turns into public property. No one is raped only once.

A country should be judged by how it treats its minorities. To the extent it protect them, it stands for the ennobling values of empathy and compassion, for justice rooted, not in might, but in human equality, and for civilization instead of savagery.

It's true, you always remember your Love, and, for me, that will always be Lahore.

If Pakistani cities were caricatures, most would be easy to draw. Lahore is corpulent and languid, stretched out in a shalwar kameez, twirling its moustache over a greasy breakfast. Islamabad cuts a more clipped figure, holding court in a gilded drawing room, proffering Scotch and political whispers. Peshawar wears a turban or a burka, scuttling among the stalls of an ancient bazaar. But Karachi is harder to sketch. It has too many faces: the shiny-shod businessman, rushing to the gym; the hardscrabble labourer who sends his wages to a distant village; the slinky young socialite, kicking off her heels as she bends over a line of cocaine.

Our civilizations do not cause us to clash. No, our clashing allows us to pretend we belong to civilizations.

Christ will never more come down to earth nor will there be any law-giver, nor will murder cease nor theft, nor rape, and yet... and yet one expects something, something terrifyingly marvellous and absurd, perhaps a cold lobster with mayonnaise served gratis, perhaps an invention, like the electric light, like television, only more devastating, more soul rending, an invention unthinkable that will bring a shattering calm and void, not the calm and void of death but of life such as the monks dreamed, such as is dreamed still in the Himalayas, in Tibet, in Lahore, in the Aleutian Islands, in Polynesia, in Easter Island, the dream of men before the flood, before the word was written, the dream of cave men and anthropophagists, of those with double sex and short tails, of those who are said to be crazy and have no way of defending themselves because they are outnumbered by those who are not crazy.

I dream of a day when, while retaining our respective national identities, one can have breakfast in Amritsar, lunch in Lahore and dinner in Kabul. That is how my forefathers lived. That is how I want our grandchildren to live.’ Manmohan Singh, FICCI annual general meeting 8 January 2007

In a world of intrusive technology, we must engage in a kind of struggle if we wish to sustain moments of solitude. E-reading opens the door to distraction. It invites connectivity and clicking and purchasing. The closed network of a printed book, on the other hand, seems to offer greater serenity. It harks back to a pre-jacked-in age. Cloth, paper, ink: For these read helmet, cuirass, shield. They afford a degree of protection and make possible a less intermediated, less fractured experience. They guard our aloneness. That is why I love them, and why I read printed books still.

What distinguishes the “war on terror” is that it is a war against a concept, not a nation. And the enemy concept, it seems to me, is pluralism.

There are all the hidden menaces of long journeys on the way. But we shall go. Treat it as exile or a new beginning.

Lahore was a different world in its own; the busy life, the rich history, the colourful culture, and the unfamiliar faces

Goodbye Lahore, you've been a kind friend.

His last years were beset with financial troubles; he drank heavily; he wrote to Chughtai on more than one occasion, pleading with her to find a way for him to come back to India. She was surprised to learn that far from large protests and signed declarations on his behalf, many in Pakistan felt he deserved to be punished. He died on January 18, 1955 in Lahore at the age of forty two.

NO DIVINE BOVINE ! The clumsy creature currently inhabiting the White House is a distinctly dangerous animal. Part boneheaded raging bully, part dastardly coward showing signs of advanced stage mad cow disease. Neither of good pedigree nor useful breeding stock, there is essentially very little of substance between the T (bone) and the RUMP, except of course for an abundance of methane and bullshit. It's high time brave matadors for you to enter the bullring, with nimble step and fleet of foot. Take good aim and bring down this marauding beast once and for all. Slay public enemy number one and we will salute you forever. A louder cheer you will not hear from Madrid to Mexico City, from Beijing to Brussels, from London to Lahore, from Toronto to Tehran and ten thousand cities in between.

Lightning’s echo comes as thunder. And the city waits for thunder’s echo, for a wall of heat that burns Lahore with the energy of a thousand summers, a million partitions, a billion atomic souls split in half.

Her conclusion was that the Mughal state was unusually extractive and appropriated 56.7 per cent of the total produce. Her research focused on five north Indian provinces: Agra, Delhi, Lahore, Allahabad and Avadh. The total

Another of them died last night. His body was in the bazaar this morning. It lay, with a collecting bowl at its feet, on the charpoy that is reserved for those who die without money or family to bury them. He looked desiccated and his skin had the sheen and color of the dates we eat to break our fast. There are new bodies on that charpoy every week.

I’m playing catch with Nisha and Nena. They’re standing against the opposite wall shrieking with enjoyment. They’re teenagers, but they’ve never played catch before and lack any sense of coordination; when they throw the ball to me it flies in any direction. Sometimes it hits the wall behind them. We’ve been playing for half an hour and they have only caught it twice.

We need language. We need language to tell stories. We need stories to create a self. We need a self because the complexity of the chemical processes that make up our individual humanities exceeds the processing power of our brains. The self we create is a fiction.

...if we accept contemporary literature as sufficient evidence, the society of Paris today is fully as corrupt as that of the Punjab in 1830; and the bazaars of Lahore, while Ranjit Singh was celebrating the festival of the Holi, were not so shameless as Piccadilly at night in 1892.

all the silahbands and the attendants upon the platoons gathered together in large crowds of thousands outside the gates of the fort of Lahore and inside it and began to cause various kinds of trouble and molestation to the various men who went or came and teased especially the attendants of the state and the glorious chieftains. Whenever people rode from their mansions and came towards the fort, they began to strike with sticks the face of the horses and the backs of the servants accompanying them and turned them out in great disgrace, uttering many improper and rude words.

Civilizations are illusions, but these illusions are pervasive, dangerous, and powerful. They contribute to globalization’s brutality. They allow us, for example, to say that we believe in global free markets and, in the same breath, to discount as impossible the global free movement of labor; to claim that we believe in democracy and human equality, and yet to stymie the creation of global institutions based on one-person-one-vote and equality before the law.

That was the main thing wrong with Mrs. Kamal. She spent such an extraordinary amount of mental energy feeling irritated that it was impossible not to feel irritated in turn. It was oxygen to her, this low-grade dissatisfaction, shading into anger; this sense that things weren't being done correctly, that everything from the traffic noise at night to the temperature of the hot water in the morning to the progress of Mohammed's potty training to the fact that Fatima wasn't being taught to read Urdu, only English, to the fact that Rohinka served only two dishes at dinner the night of her arrival to the cost of the car insurance for the VW Sharan to the fact that Shahid didn't have a 'proper job' and seemed to have no intention of getting one, let alone a wife, to the unfriendliness of London, the fact that it was an 'impossible city,' to the ostentatious way she complained about missing Lahore, especially at dinner time, giving meaningful, sad, reproachful looks at the food Rohinka had cooked.

There is something magical about London. It can coax a water lily to tie its roots to land.

most powerful military in the world is sent to do a task best accomplished by schoolteachers, police forces, persuasion, and time.

The privileged liberal position: “There should be equal rights for all; I should not have to share my riches with the poor.

It was later disclosed that the Hindu majority Lahore was originally a part of India. But Jinnah objected to the ‘Radcliffe Line’ stating that all the four metropolitan towns of Delhi, Calcutta, Bombay and Lahore were given to India. Finally, the Indian Prime Minister Nehru was convinced by Gandhi to let go Lahore and thus, Lahore was acceded to Pakistan. The

People often ask me if I am the book’s Pakistani protagonist. I wonder why they never ask if I am his American listener. After all, a novel can often be a divided man’s conversation with himself.

I don’t seem to have said enough about the compensating or positive element of exposure to travel. Just as you discover that stupidity and cruelty are the same everywhere, you find that the essential elements of humanism are the same everywhere, too. Punjabis in Amritsar and Lahore are equally welcoming and open-minded, even though partition means the amputation of Punjab as well as of the subcontinent. There are a heartening number of atheists and agnostics in the six counties of Northern Ireland, even though Ulster as well as Ireland has been divided. Most important of all, the instinct for justice and for liberty is just as much “innate” in us as are the promptings of tribalism and sexual xenophobia and superstition. People know when they are being lied to, they know when their rulers are absurd, they know they do not love their chains; every time a Bastille falls one is always pleasantly surprised by how many sane and decent people were there all along. There’s an old argument about whether full bellies or empty bellies lead to contentment or revolt: it’s an argument not worth having. The crucial organ is the mind, not the gut. People assert themselves out of an unquenchable sense of dignity.

Incidentally, at a reception at Governor House, Atal recited his poem ‘Ab jung naa hone denge hum’. Atal was felicitated at Lahore Fort where, hinting at the common heritage of the two nations, he pointed out how Shah Jahan was born in the fort and Akbar had spent close to a decade there. The audience was so impressed by Atal’s speech that Nawaz Sharif quipped, ‘Vajpayee sahab ab toh Pakistan mein bhi election jeet sakte hain. [Mr Vajpayee can now win elections even in Pakistan.]

Welcome to Lahore, ma’am!” îmi spuse încă o dată în timp ce coborâsem în mulțime. Oprisem în fața restaurantului, iar o altă mare de oameni, gânduri și emoții mă aștepta să încep o nouă aventură. Am comandat biryani și paratha iar în așteptarea lor îmi ascultam gândurile cum îmi vorbeau, printre zumzetele unor muște prietenoase ce își traficau firimiturile căzute printre mese. Un tablou în care toate nuanțele purtau căldură și comfort. Probabil că lecții interesante de viață musteau printre crăpăturile secundelor, într-o lume cu totul nouă pentru mine, în care am înțeles pentru prima oară că universalitatea cuprinde mult mai multe nuanțe în paleta-i, decât cele pe care le priveam dintr-o rutină molcomă în spațiul meu mioritic. Și da, un aha moment m-a făcut să înțeleg că oricât de greu și întortocheat poate părea drumul în viață, se vor ivi întotdeauna portițe pe bucățile de drum despletite între curgeri de mișcare. Și că legea nativului din noi strălucește uneori deasupra oricăror reguli impuse de societate; are nevoie doar să-i dăm voie să se exprime… în trafic… Mișcare într-o structură perfect construită.

The blast wave that passed through my sister’s office doubtless passed through devout Muslims, atheist Muslims, gay Muslims, funny Muslims, and lovestruck Muslims—not to mention Pakistani Christians, Chinese engineers, American security contractors, and Indian Sikhs. What civilization, then, did the bomb target? And from what civilization did it originate?

Perhaps it is because novels are like affairs, and small novels - with fewer pages of plot to them - are affairs with less history, affairs that involved just a few glances across a dinner table or a single ride together, unspeaking, on a train, and therefore affairs are still electric with potential, still heart-quickening, even after the passage of all these years.

In 2017 India’s nationalist government hoisted one of the largest flags in the world at Attari on the Indo-Pakistan border, in a gesture calculated to inspire neither renunciation nor disinterestedness, but rather Pakistani envy. That particular Tiranga was 36 metres long and 24 metres wide, and was hoisted on a 110-metre-high flag post (what would Freud have said about that?). The flag could be seen as far as the Pakistani metropolis of Lahore. Unfortunately, strong winds kept tearing the flag, and national pride required that it be stitched together again and again, at great cost to Indian taxpayers.11 Why does the Indian government invest scarce resources in weaving enormous flags, instead of building sewage systems in Delhi’s slums? Because the flag makes India real in a way that sewage systems do not.

As in Lahore, a road in this town is named after Goethe. There is a Park Street here as in Calcutta, a Malabar Holl as in Bombay, and a Naag Tolla Hill as in Dhaka. Because it was difficult to pronounce the English names, the men who arrived in this town in the 1950s had rechristened everything they saw before them. They had come from across the Subcontinent, lived together ten to a room, and the name that one of them happened to give to a street or landmark was taken up by the others, regardless of where they themselves were from. But over the decades, as more and more people came, the various nationalities of the Subcontinent have changed the names according to the specific country they themselves are from – Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan. Only one name has been accepted by every group, remaining unchanged. It’s the name of the town itself. Dasht-e-Tanhaii. The Wilderness of Solitude. The Desert of Loneliness.

Život je oduvijek bio najčistiji i najdublji tamo gdje se objavljuje u tajanstvenom trenu ljepote: razastrto golubinje krilo tamnoocalne boje u modrikastom sedefnom preljevu pastelnog, toplog proljetnog neba, lepet čistog ptičjeg krila kad sviće, a mladi jablan treperi na jutarnjem nebu. Otputovati iz ove strašne, crnim zavjesama zamračene sobe, u pastelnoplava svitanja, negdje daleko na jugu. Škrinula su vrata tihe osamljene kućice na dnu drvoreda, bijelo jare provirilo je između dva kamena stupa, jutarnji lahor nad plohom ustalasane rosnate trave, cvrkut ptičji nad lovorikama i oleandrima. Frascati, Grotta-ferrata, Castel Gandolfo, kao crta svijetle plave simfonije, u prozirnom pianissimu obrisa albanskih brda, pinije, čempresi, klokot vodoskoka, svjetlomrak teške, smeđe, mračne zlatnouokvirene renesansne slike. Žubori vrelo u sjeni hrastika, bijeli oblaci plove iznad krajine, zvone klepke, čuje se frula: idila. U jednu riječ: idila.

Suppose I am told that a certain sample of wheat comes from Lahore, and that I do not know where Lahore is. I look it out in the gazetteer and ascertain that it is the capital of the Punjab.… If I know nothing of geography, I shall get up with the idea that Lahore is in India, and that will be about all. If I have been properly trained in geography, the word Punjab will … probably connote to me many things. I shall see Lahore in the northern angle of India. I shall picture it in a great plain, at the foot of a snowy range, in the midst of the rivers of the Indus system. I shall think of the monsoons and the desert, of the water brought from the mountains by the irrigation canals. I shall know the climate, the seed time, and the harvest. Kurrachee and the Suez Canal will shine out from my mental map. I shall be able to calculate at what time of the year the cargoes will be delivered in England. Moreover, the Punjab will be to me the equal in size and population of a great European country, a Spain or an Italy, and I shall appreciate the market it offers for English exports.7

Our coerced silence is the weapon that has been sharpened and brought to our throats. This is why Nawaz Sharif’s statement in defence of Ahmadis met with such an angry response. Because the heart of the issue isn’t whether Ahmadis are non-Muslims or not. The heart of the issue is whether Muslims can be silenced by fear. Because if we can be silenced when it comes to Ahmadis, then we can be silenced when it comes to Shias, we can be silenced when it comes to women, we can be silenced when it comes to dress, we can be silenced when it comes to entertainment, and we can even be silenced when it comes to sitting by ourselves, alone in a room, afraid to think what we think. That is the point.

In many places, the past fifteen years have been a time of economic turmoil and widening disparities. Anger and resentment are high. And yet economic policies that might address these concerns seem nearly impossible to enact. Instead of the seeds of reform, we are given the yoke of misdirection. We are told to forget the sources of our discontent because something more important is at stake: the fate of our civilization. Yet what are these civilizations, these notions of Muslim-ness, Western-ness, European-ness, American-ness, that attempt to describe where, and with whom, we belong? They are illusions: arbitrarily drawn constructs with porous, brittle, and overlapping borders. To what civilization does a Syrian atheist belong? A Muslim soldier in the US army? A Chinese professor in Germany? A lesbian fashion designer in Nigeria? After how many decades of US citizenship does a Spanish-speaking Honduran-born couple, with two generations of American children and grandchildren descended from them, cease to belong to a Latin American civilization and take their place in an American one? Civilizations are illusions, but these illusions are pervasive, dangerous, and powerful. They contribute to globalization’s brutality. They allow us, for example, to say that we believe in global free markets and, in the same breath, to discount as impossible the global free movement of labor; to claim that we believe in democracy and human equality, and yet to stymie the creation of global institutions based on one-person-one-vote and equality before the law. Civilizations encourage our hypocrisies to flourish. And by so doing, they undermine globalization’s only plausible promise: that we be free to invent ourselves. Why, exactly, can’t a Muslim be European? Why can’t an unreligious person be Pakistani? Why can’t a man be a woman? Why can’t someone who is gay be married? Mongrel. Miscegenator. Half-breed. Outcast. Deviant. Heretic. Our words for hybridity are so often epithets. They shouldn’t be. Hybridity need not be the problem. It could be the solution. Hybrids do more than embody mixtures between groups. Hybrids reveal the boundaries between groups to be false.

NOBEL PRIZE–WINNER, British poet laureate, essayist, novelist, journalist, and short story writer Rudyard Kipling wrote for both children and adults, with many of his stories and poems focusing on British imperialism in India. His works were popular during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, even though many deemed his political views too conservative. Born on December 30, 1865, in Bombay, India, Kipling had a happy early childhood, but in 1871 he and his sister were sent to a boarding house called Lorne Lodge in Southsea, where he spent many disappointing years. He was accepted in 1877 to United Services College in the west of England. In 1882, he returned to his family in India, working as a journalist, associate editor, and correspondent for many publications, including Civil and Military Gazette, a publication in Lahore, Pakistan. He also wrote poetry. He found great success in writing after his 1889 return to England, where he was eventually appointed poet laureate. Some of his most famous writings, including The Jungle Book, Kim, Puck of Pook’s Hill, and Rewards and Fairies, saw publication in the 1890s and 1900s. It was during this period that he married Caroline Balestier, the sister of an American friend and publishing colleague. The couple settled in Vermont, where their two daughters were born. After a quarrel with his brother-in-law and grumblings from his American neighbors about his controversial political views, Kipling and his family returned to England. There, Caroline gave birth to a son in 1896. Tragically, their eldest daughter died in 1899. Later, Kipling’s son perished in battle during World War I. In 1907 Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize. He died on January 18, 1936, and his ashes are buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.

When I wake, it seems a little less hot than usual, so I’m worried I have a fever until light flashes behind the curtains and the sound of a detonation rolls in with a force that makes the windows rattle. As I step outside with a plastic bag over my cast, a stiff breeze pulls my hair away from my face, and I see the pregnant clouds of the monsoon hanging low over the city. The rains have finally decided to come. I sit down on the lawn, resting my back against the wall of the house, and light an aitch I’ve waited a long time to smoke. Suddenly the air is still and the trees are silent, and I can hear laughter from my neighbor’s servant quarters. A bicycle bell sounds in the street, reminding me of the green Sohrab I had as a child. Then the wind returns, bringing the smell of wet soil and a pair of orange parrots that swoop down to take shelter in the lower branches of the banyan tree, where they glow in the shadows.

It happens.” He turned again to the garden. “To the brain, I mean. It’s the drink, naturally. And the hepatic function. But there is clearly something else occurring, too. Certainly in other men I’ve seen it. There is something in certain abilities that is never far from—far from—” He looked out at the lake. “I cannot really know.” “No, please go on.” “Far from terror, perhaps. It is not such a rare phenomenon, you see. I used to encounter it around the maths division when I was at university, and I have seen it here, even, in my little country practice. It seems to be quite primal. At its crudest, it is a bona fide paranoia. Plenty in the field are gone before the age of twenty. I’ve seen that, too. Perhaps it is a harbinger. I believe it to be physiological.” He looked down. “I sometimes imagine it as God’s revenge.” “Against mathematicians?” “One must bear in mind that they might be considered spies.” He was smiling now. “By the Deity, you mean?” “Indeed. Your dad’s cantankerous nature, by the way—you know that this is his liver, too, don’t you? And of course the drink plays a part in it—but it is also the man himself. The emotions are ablaze in him.” He set down the bucket. “For people like you and me—well, we are shielded by all our damping circuitry. We maintain a cushion against the world, if you will. A comfort against the ravage. But I believe it is not so for him.” He regarded me. “Think of what life must be like for a mind like your father’s. I mean, human existence is bounded by tragedy, is it not? And shot through with it, as well. I was born in Lahore, so I know this in a particular way. But your father, too—he knows it just as particularly, in his own way. I have learned to keep such thoughts somewhat at bay. And so have you. But for him, there is no ignoring it. There is no joy in God’s creation. No pleasure in sunlight or water. No pleasure in a good meal. There is no pleasure in the company of friends. There is nothing. Nothing that might assuage the maw. He

I’d met Madison, as I’ve already mentioned, two months earlier, in Budapest. I’d been at a conference. She’d been there with some girlfriends. We’d got talking in the hotel bar. An anthropologist, she’d said; that’s … exotic. Not at all, I’d replied; I work for an incorporated business, in a basement. Yes, she said, but … But what? I asked. Dances, and masks, and feathers, she eventually responded: that’s the essence of your work, isn’t it? I mean, even if you’re writing a report on workplace etiquette, or how to motivate employees or whatever, you’re seeing it all through a lens of rituals, and rites, and stuff. It must make the everyday all primitive and strange—no? I saw what she was getting at; but she was wrong. For anthropologists, even the exotic’s not exotic, let alone the everyday. In his key volume Tristes Tropiques, Claude Lévi-Strauss, the twentieth century’s most brilliant ethnographer, describes pacing the streets, all draped with new electric cable, of Lahore’s Old Town sometime in the nineteen-fifties, trying to piece together, long after the event, a vanished purity—of local colour, texture, custom, life in general—from nothing but leftovers and debris. He goes on to describe being struck by the same impression when he lived among the Amazonian Nambikwara tribe: the sense of having come “too late”—although he knows, from having read a previous account of life among the Nambikwara, that the anthropologist (that account’s author) who came here fifty years earlier, before the rubber-traders and the telegraph, was struck by that impression also; and knows as well that the anthropologist who, inspired by the account that Lévi-Strauss will himself write of this trip, shall come back in fifty more will be struck by it too, and wish—if only!—that he could have been here fifty years ago (that is, now, or, rather, then) to see what he, Lévi-Strauss, saw, or failed to see. This leads him to identify a “double-bind” to which all anthropologists, and anthropology itself, are, by their very nature, prey: the “purity” they crave is no more than a state in which all frames of comprehension, of interpretation and analysis, are lacking; once these are brought to bear, the mystery that drew the anthropologist towards his subject in the first place vanishes. I explained this to her; and she seemed, despite the fact that she was drunk, to understand what I was saying. Wow, she murmured; that’s kind of fucked. 2.8 When I arrived at Madison’s, we had sex. Afterwards,

an empty refugee special steaming into Ferozepur Station late one afternoon. The driver was incoherent with terror, the guard was lying dead in his van, and the stoker was missing. I walked down the platform – all but two bogeys were bespattered with blood inside and out; three dead bodies lay in pools of blood in a third-class carriage. An armed Muslim mob had stopped the train between Lahore and Ferozepur and done this neat job of butchery in broad daylight.

OSJEĆAJ PROLJEĆA Riječ znaocima voda. To bi moglo biti jedno sjedalo na parobrodu, na sunašcu (ovo je umjestandeminutiv). Mogao bi biti prozor u kakvoj staroj kamenoj kući, četverouglastoj kao kutije ilisanduci, s pogledom dalje, ili kakva zdušna terasa, ili pak ljuljka među stablima. Nisu sezone samokalendar; ima jedan osjećaj proljeća, pored osjećaja drugih zbivanja u prirodi, osjećaj upisan u duši,dan za obećanje svim živonosnim klicama.Proljeće. Manimo emfazu ukrasa, rast trave i žubor vrela, javljanje ptičica, kolanje krvi i otapanjesnijega. Manimo proljeće organizma. Nego ovaj mlaz u srcu. Ima duševnih proljeća, unutrašnjihosvita, kresova nade. Proljeće. Okupat ćemo se u zelenkastom kristalu rijeke, protrljat ćemomišice, i naše rite svući; zrak ćemo dublje udisati. Razvigor, razvigorac. Jedan ćuh ili lahor koji setako zove. Nosilac peluda. Pravda moćima bića.Radit ćemo. Jest ćemo jedan pošten kruh mrko ispečen, piti zdravu vodu s česme krepkih umovadrevnoga svijeta. Zrak i nebo će biti puni simpatije, i nešto će mahati, visoko. Pahalice, pahuljice.Ne englesko ladanje, ni alpinski krajolik, pa ni uobičajeni motiv Arkadije. Ali ona treperenja iblaženstva atmosfere koja su na dohvatu ruke (isto kao sjena, kao sunčev trak, kao zvijezde u jezeru), elektricitet u našim živcima i duhu. Struja od prirode čovjeku. Manastir, zvona? Ovdjesamo naša samoća, naša mala sobica, kovčeg manje ambiciozan nego štivo pred maturu, kakav vrt koji diše duboko kao momak na spavanju. Praštanja u dubini perspektive. Misli kao vedro nebo,nadahnuća s crvenim i plavim munje. Skice u eksploziji. Koliko nam je godina? Obmane registra.Mladi smo, proljeće je, krv kola, pluća slobodno dišu, nadanje pupi. Prostor liječi oči, šarena sjenase igra s dušom, puna izazovnih ljubičica. Proljeće. Vječiti ne stare, živi ne umiru, mladi se bude ukasnim godinama i traju kao stabla, kao iskreni sokovi zemlje. Sokovi teku, limfa škaklje, žar palucai žeže.Neka me ne mine dobri osjećaj proljeća ni u kojoj eposi ni godini života, ni u kojoj sezoni godine.On je cvjetanje organizma, rezonancija zaspalih žica, palingenezije mogućnosti dara i umnih sila.Evo povratnika, mohuna, klasova, šišarica, bobica. Proljeće će "ponijeti", biti plodno. Nije proljećesamo fikcija ili istina kalendara. Proljeće je data žive duše, vječito i moćno, u nama, s nama. Domoje smrti neka ne mine spasonosni osjećaj proljeća, jer je od snaga koje periodički jačaju, aposlije moje smrti neka živi kao moj vlastiti i lični nadgrobni spomenik, moj marcijalni znak, zadobročinstvo drugima, čovječanstvu, svima.Pozdrav njemu. I koji me ne budete umjeli izreći ni opisati, naslikajte me kao mladu živu proljetnugranu s dvije hiljade cvjetića koje prva ptica osjeti kao neodoljivo i gizdavo pijanstvo, da bih takolistao i granao u junačka i teška vremena, u teške plodove, u grane blagoslova, u bremesmrtonosnog uživanja, u eksplozije zelenila - i bujio, brektao, pucao u prostor

He then offered to meet me the next day, at a friend’s apartment in Lahore, to give me the iPhone and have tea. No, I said. I was going to Faridkot. Sharif finally came to the point. “Kim. I am sorry I was not able to find you a friend. I tried, but I failed.” He shook his head, looked genuinely sad about the failure of the project. “That’s OK,” I said. “Really. I don’t really want a friend right now. I am perfectly happy without a friend. I want to be friendless.” He paused. And then, finally, the tiger of Punjab pounced. “I would like to be your friend.” I didn’t even let him get the words out. “No. Absolutely not. Not going to happen.

Many of today’s youngsters are unaware that in their grandparents’ time Kolkata, Dhaka and Chittagong were part of a single entity, and Lahore, Rawalpindi, Amritsar and Jalandhar likewise. And they are unaware of what it means for a nation to find freedom.

During his second term, Sharif built my favorite road in Pakistan, a hundred and seventy miles of paved, multilaned bliss connecting Lahore to Islamabad; named Musharraf as chief of the army; and successfully tested the country’s first nuclear weapon.

Groups that had focused most of their energies dreaming up bloody attacks against India had begun aligning themselves closer to al Qaeda and other organizations with a thirst for global jihad. Some of these groups had deep roots in Lahore, which was the very reason why Raymond Davis and a CIA team had set up operations from a safe house in the city.

ambitious cleric position: “Religion makes us all equal; only I decide what religion says.

Writing a long novel is like survival training. Physical strength is as necessary as artistic sensitivity.

it’s possible to open our eyes, to see, to recognize our solitude—and at the same time to not be entirely alone.

How odd it would be to call Homer’s Iliad or Rumi’s Masnavi “the Great Eastern Mediterranean Poem.

to read a novel is to engage in probably the second-largest single act of pleasure-based data transfer that can take place between two human beings,

exceeded only by sex.

Sufis tell of two paths to transcendence:

one is to look out at the universe and see yourself, the other is to look within yourself and see the universe.

America is our enemy; America should give us more aid.

The world will not fail if Pakistan fails, but the world will be healthier if Pakistan is healthy.

She had bumped me out of the center of my world. I’d become a baby person, and it felt good, better than what had come before.

Rimsha Masih fiasco—in which they had championed the execution of a fourteen-year-old mentally disabled Christian girl for the crime of blasphemy, only to be roundly rebuffed by a rare confluence of sane elements within Pakistan’s legal system, media, civil society, and clergy, who collectively revealed that she had been framed by a property-coveting local mullah—they

Islam is not a race, yet Islamophobia partakes of racist characteristics.

Islamophobia, in all its guises, seeks to minimize the importance of the individual and maximize the importance of the group.

Life of Most Girls in Lahore! To all their life they're told that they can do whatever they want. However when it comes to the matrimonial topic, parents are intent to clip their wings. It hurts that first someone shows you how to fly and then suddenly encage you.

To all their life they're told that they can do whatever they want. However when it comes to the matrimonial topic, parents are intent to clip their wings. It hurts that first someone shows you how to fly and then suddenly encage you. Life of Most Girls in Lahore!

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Sirhind (or Lahore), Rajputana, Gujrat, Malwa, Audh (including Rohilkand, strictly Rohelkhand, the country of the Rohelas, or "Rohillas" of the Histories), Agra, Allahabad, and Dehli: and the political division was into subahs, or divisions, sarkars or districts; dasturs, or sub-divisions; and parganahs, or fiscal unions. The Deccan, Panjab (Punjab), and Kabul, which also formed parts of the Empire in its widest extension at the end of the seventeenth century, are omitted, as far as possible, from notice, because they did not at the time of our narration form part of the territories of the Empire of Hindustan, though included in the territory ruled by the earlier and greater Emperors. Bengal, Bihar, and Orissa also formed, at one time, an integral portion of the Empire, but fell away without playing an important part in the history we are considering, excepting for a very brief period. The division into Provinces will be understood by reference to the map. Most of these had assumed a practical independence during the first quarter of the eighteenth century, though acknowledging a weak feudatory subordination to the Crown of Dehli. The highest point in the plains of Hindustan is probably the plateau on which stands the town of Ajmir, about 230 miles south of Dehli. It is situated on the eastern slope of the Aravalli Mountains, a range of primitive granite, of which Abu, the chief peak, is estimated to be near 5,000 feet above the level of the sea; the plateau of Ajmir itself is some 3,000 feet lower. The country at large is, probably, the upheaved basin of an exhausted sea which once rendered the highlands of the Deccan an island like a larger Ceylon. The general quality of the soil is accordingly sandy and light, though not unproductive; yielding, perhaps, on an average about one thousand lbs. av. of wheat to the acre. The cereals are grown in the winter, which is at least as cold as in the corresponding parts of Africa. Snow never falls, but thin ice is often formed during the night. During the spring heavy dews fall, and strong winds set in from the west. These gradually become heated by the increasing radiation of the earth, as the sun becomes more vertical and the days longer. Towards the end of May the monsoon

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Deprived of their direct ties with Central Asia -- and with it their access to Turkish slaves, mercenaries and war horses -- the later Ghaznavids lost their wider, imperial vision an acquired the character of a regional, North Indian state. They were certainly not seen as menacing aliens who might have posed a civilzational threat to Indian culture. Contemporary Sanskrit inscriptions refer to the Ghaznavids not as Muslims but as 'turushkas' (Turks), an ethnic term, or as 'hammiras', a Sanskritized rendering of 'amir' (Arabic for commander), an official title. For their part, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries Ghaznavid rulers in India issued coins from Lahore bearing the same legends that had appeared on those of their Indian predecessors, the Hindu Shahi dynasty (c.850-1002). These included Śiva's bull Nandi and the Sanskrit phrase 'śri samanta deva' (Honourable Chief Commander) inscribed in Devanagari script. Such measures point to the later Ghaznavids' investment in establishing cultural and monetary continuity with North Indian kingsdoms. Moreover, despite the dynasty's rhetoric about defending Sunni Islam, religion posed no bar to military recruitment, as Indians had always been prominent in Ghaznavid armies. In 1033 Mahmud of Ghazni gave the command of his army stationed in Lahore to a Hindu general, and in Ghazni itself Indian military contingents had their own commanders, inhabited their own quarter of the city, and were generally considered more reliable soldiers than the Turks. Crucially, the Ghaznavids brought to the Punjab the entire gamut of Persianate institutions and practices that would define the political economy of much of India for centuries to come. Inherited from the creative ferment of tenth-century Khurasan and Central Asia under the Samanid rulers of Bukhara, these included: the elaboration of a ranked and salaried bureaucracy tied to the state's land revenue and military systems; the institution of elite, or military, slavery; an elaboration of the office of 'sultan'; the courtly patronage of Persian arts, crafts and literature; and a tradition of spiritually powerful holy men, or Sufis, whose relations with royal power were ambivalent, to say the least.

The self we create is a fiction. On this point, religion and cognitive neuroscience converge. When the machine of a human being is turned on, it seems to produce a protagonist, just as the television produces an image. I think this protagonist, this self, often recognizes that it is a fictional construct, but it also recognizes that thinking of itself as such might cause it to disintegrate.

Kesteven confided to us that he had heard whispers that Nazir Ahmed, a Pakistani who was the head of the WFP for this region, wanted the aid to go to Pakistan. Nazir Ahmed had copied our entire proposal and sent it to the Ambassador of Pakistan in Rome, advising him to simply substitute the names of cities – change Bombay to Lahore, Calcutta to Karachi and so on – and submit it as Pakistan’s proposal to the WFP. I was aware that Nazir Ahmed was deeply prejudiced against the Indian government. I remember that he had once asked me how a Christian like me could be designated Chairman of NDDB. I had replied: ‘Mr Ahmed, that is because India is not Pakistan. When your country attacked India, the Collector of Kutch district was a Christian, the IGP in Gujarat was a devout Muslim, the Home Secretary of Gujarat was a Christian and the Governor of Gujarat was a Muslim. That is India for you.

During the eighteenth century the Punjab was the scene of ceaseless turmoil between Sikhs and Moslems, and on January 7, 1761, at the battle of Panipat, the Sikhs were defeated. On their homeward march the victorious Moslems destroyed the holy city of Amritsar, blew up the Golden Temple with gunpowder, filled the sacred pool with mud, and purposely defiled the holy place by slaughtering a lot of holy cows within the temple enclosure. Although this happened in 1761, the Sikhs have neither forgotten nor forgiven it. When the Partition of India took place and Pakistan came into being, the dividing line passed between Amritsar and Lahore, leaving many thousands of Sikhs and Moslems on the wrong side of the line. In the scramble to get out of India and into Pakistan, great numbers of Moslems were killed by Sikhs. On the other hand, the Moslems who were already in Pakistan avenged themselves by slaughtering thousands of Sikhs who were trying to escape into India. How

The city waits for thunder's echo, for a wall of heat that burns Lahore with the energy of a thousand summers, a million partitions, a billion atomic souls split in half.

The whole country was aghast with the ‘Lahore Resolution’ as it was known then. But, Gandhi whole heartedly supported it by saying “If the vast majority of Muslims regard themselves as a separate nation having nothing in common with the Hindus, no power on earth can compel them to think otherwise. And if they want to partition India on that basis, they must have it, unless Hindus want to fight against such a division”.1

Once a Lahori, always a Lahori

ओ लगदी लाहौर दी आ जिस हिसाब ना हँसदी आ ओ लगदी पंजाब दी आ जिस हिसाब ना’ तकदी आ ओ लगदी लाहौर दी आ जिस हिसाब ना’ हँसदी आ कुड़ी डा पता करो केहड़े पिंड दी आ केहड़े शहर दी आ

It was a summer of great rumblings in the belly of the earth, of atomic flatulence and geopolitical indigestion, consequences of the consumption of sectarian chickpeas by our famished and increasingly incontinent subcontinent. Clenched beneath the tightened sphincters of test sites and silos, the pressure of superheated gases was registering in spasms on the Richter scale. Lahore was uneasy, and Immodium in short supply.

If one had asked Manucci during his days as a street urchin, as he sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah, Manucci would probably have said that ACs were hot. The first time he saw one jutting out into the street from the wall of a shop in the old city, he walked up to the noisy box and was amazed at the blast of hot air it sent straight into his face. Why do people turn on hot air in the middle of summer? he often wondered.

A raindrop strikes the lawn, sending up a tiny plume of dust. Others follow, a barrage of dusty explosions bursting all around me. The leaves of the banyan tree rebound from their impact. The parrots disappear from sight. In the distance, the clouds seem to reach down to touch the earth. And then a curtain of water falls quietly and shatters across the city with a terrifying roar, drenching me instantly. I hear the hot concrete of the driveway hissing, turning rain back into steam, and I smell the dead grass that lies under the dirt of the lawn. I fill my mouth with water, gritty at first, then pure and clean, and roll into a ball with my face pressed against my knees, sucking on a hailstone, shivering as wet cloth sticks to my body. Heavy drops beat their beat on my back and I rock slowly, my thoughts silenced by the violence of the storm, gasping in the sudden, unexpected cold.

According to the latest report of PAMA (Pakistan Automotive Manufacturers Association), we witnessed a greatest achievement of Suzuki Alto in Dec 2021. Interesting fact is Suzuki suspended booking of Suzuki Alto VXL for a while, because the AGS/VXL variant cut out of production because of the shortage of semiconductor chip. How They Achieve This Landmark? There are few simple reasons behind it, they didn’t compromise on the quality of their procurement. There are few factors which enhances car performance, including installation of Quality tires, because Pakistan’s road qualities are below the average, so the maintenance of the car tires are so important. Various tires brands claims that they are best in the business, but according to the performance, no brand ever achieve the landmark what Maxxis achieved. If you are car owner and want to change or update your car tires and didn’t knew how to identify your car suitable tires, you can purchase it from Maxxis.pk, or visit our nearest affiliated outlet. Maxxis.pk is only Tire Dealer of Maxxis brand in Pakistan, and can only found at Maxxis affiliated outlets. Faisalabad, Lahore, Islamabad, Gujranwala, Sialkot, Sheikhupura are some of the leading cities, however you can find these Quality tires all over Pakistan. If not Maxxis then you can visit Tyre Dealers official website and grab your tires.

Aren't Hindu, Sikh, Mussalman, Isai, Parsee like the spices in Panjab's masala box? Assorted?

The Mahabharata is our story, but in this modern version - our Shakuni has an English avatar.

Beli, my friend, the ting with Panjab men is that they can wrestle camels to the ground, but in matters of the heart, they are destined to be losers. So, take my advice Quit before you bwgin.

Beli, my friend, the ting with Panjab men is that they can wrestle camels to the ground, but in matters of the heart, they are destined to be losers. So, take my advice Quit before you begin.

Beli, my friend, the ting with Panjab men is that they can wrestle camels to the ground, but in matters of the heart, they are destined to be losers. So, take my advice: Quit before you begin.

Muslims and Hindus and Sikhs were not separate nations - they were Panjabis who had lived for years on the land, enjoying each other's festivities or ignoring them, but co-existing nonetheless.

Bapu could not bear the thought of India being partitioned, but the bitter truth was that in the hearts of Indians, lines were already drawn.

Gandhi. Jinnah. Patel. Three men from Gujarat who had worked together as one team at one time for one goal, Now the British were leaving, goal achieved, but the team had fractured.

Kashmir and Hyderabad were the two apples of princely India that were the rosiest, and on the thorniest branch too.

The world hat day appeared perfect. Like a great wrong had been righted. India had shrugged off her shackles and had stood upright, ready to claim her rightful position o the world stage.