Different Lahore, Same Heartbeat

Different Lahore, Same Heartbeat

(2007–2026: A Nineteen-Year Reflection)

Basant was the heartbeat of our childhood. Even before sunrise, Lahore’s sky would begin to change color, slowly turning soft gold. By afternoon, rooftops felt alive. On places like Bukhari Building, roofs were not just concrete slabs — they were gathering grounds of laughter, competition, and wonder. Our rooftop felt like the center of the festival. Kites filled the air: gudda, patang, tawa, sharala, pari, and the famous white kuddas. Strings vibrated with tension, fingers burned slightly, and every cut kite was celebrated like a small victory.

But the most beautiful moment always arrived near sunset.

As the sun dipped behind Lahore’s low skyline, the sky turned orange, pink, and purple. Kites floated silently against the glowing horizon. The city paused. For a few minutes, nobody cared about winning. Everyone simply looked up. The breeze felt gentle. Tea cups appeared. Someone played music. Someone laughed. Someone shouted “bo kataaa.” It felt like Lahore itself was breathing in happiness.

It was also the time of the Pervez Musharraf era. A different Pakistan. A different Lahore. Not perfect, not ideal, but familiar. Many major leaders of the Pakistan Muslim League (N) were not in Pakistan, including Nawaz Sharif. And Benazir Bhutto was still alive. Politics felt distant from daily life. People were less obsessed with talk shows and breaking news. We were busy living inside our small worlds.

That Lahore felt like a city living in a long, relaxed sentence. Things happened, but nothing felt rushed. There was no Metro, no Orange Train, no forest of flyovers slicing the sky into layers. People planned their day with patience, not with apps. Electricity disappeared regularly, and candlelight was not romance — it was routine. Solar panels were not a concept; rooftops were just rooftops. And most importantly, there was no smog. Winters were cold, foggy, and sometimes mysterious — but the air did not feel poisonous. You could see the horizon. You could breathe without thinking about breathing. Yet despite the darkness of load-shedding, there was a strange brightness in how people lived.

I was also at a stage of life where I was earning only a salary in thousands. It was not much, but it felt like everything. Dreams were bigger than bank balances. Hope was richer than income. Life was not about how much you had — it was about how alive you felt.

Social life in those days had weight. Friends actually met. If someone wanted to say something, they showed up or picked up a call. There was no Facebook, no Instagram, no TikTok. And even if YouTube technically existed somewhere in the world, it was not a daily part of our lives. Silence meant something was wrong. Today, silence usually means someone is scrolling. In 2026, Lahore is hyper-connected. Everyone is online, yet somehow everyone feels slightly unavailable. Messages are instant, but understanding takes longer. The city gained speed, but lost some pauses — and those pauses were where stories used to grow.

Technology around cameras and video tells another quiet story of change. In 2007, mobile phones with video capability did exist, but they were not common. Most people carried simple phones meant only for calls and messages. Cameras that could record good-quality video were very rare and very expensive. Extra features felt luxurious. It was not easy for everyone to own such equipment. Making a video required serious effort, money, and planning. Today, every phone is a studio. Everyone is a photographer. Everyone is a filmmaker. High resolution is normal. Stabilization is expected. Editing apps live in pockets. Content is endless. Yet strangely, the value of a single captured moment feels smaller than before.

Cricket feels like a perfect metaphor for this passage of time. In 2007, there was no Babar Azam, no Mohammad Rizwan, no Shaheen Shah Afridi. But we still had Misbah-ul-Haq — calm, patient, misunderstood, carrying pressure quietly. In a way, Misbah represented that era: slower, steadier, less flashy, more burdened. Today’s cricket is explosive, aggressive, data-driven. Yesterday’s cricket was about survival, resilience, and long waits.

Transport tells another story of transformation. In 2007, getting somewhere meant rickshaw negotiations, bus stops, and the famous phrase: “Bhai, yahin utaar do.” In 2026, you tap a card, enter an air-conditioned station, and cross the city underground or on elevated tracks. It feels futuristic and efficient. But sometimes you miss the chaos, the arguments, the unplanned detours that accidentally turned into memories.

Lahore’s skyline also grew an ego. Once, the sky was visible. Now glass towers compete with clouds. Construction cranes feel permanent. The city looks richer, heavier, shinier. But under the concrete, the same old Lahore still eats too much, laughs too loudly, and stays awake too late.

There was also a time when housing societies were few. The city had edges. You knew where Lahore ended and fields began. In 2026, housing societies stretch endlessly in every direction. New phases, new blocks, new gates, new names. Lahore did not just grow — it sprawled. Green land turned into grey land. Trees were replaced by boundary walls. What was once a breathing city slowly started to feel like an urban jungle.

Food changed too. In 2007, you ate what was available. Daal chawal, roti, sabzi, anda paratha, nihari on weekends, and samosas that tasted like home. Fast food existed, but it was not a lifestyle. In 2026, pizza, burgers, shawarma, wraps, and endless café menus dominate the streets. You just wanted paratha. Now you need to choose a lifestyle.

Photography explains time beautifully. In 2007, one photo was taken. If someone blinked, destiny accepted it. In 2026, two hundred photos are taken. One is posted. Regret remains.

Perhaps the biggest change is inside us. In 2007, we thought the future was far away. In 2026, we realize the future arrived quietly while we were busy living. We are not the same people. The city is not the same city. But something stubborn remains: the urge to create, to remember, to gather, to play music, to talk about old times as if they happened yesterday.

Basant, once Lahore’s greatest joy, was not just a festival — it was a feeling. Sadly, because of rule-breaking, unsafe practices, and illegal strings that caused tragic accidents, the festival was banned. What was meant for happiness became a source of pain.

Yet hope still lives.

Hope that one day Basant will return — not as chaos, not as danger — but as a safe, peaceful, regulated celebration. A festival where joy does not cost a life. Where happiness does not carry blood. Where the sky once again becomes a place of color, not fear.

There was no solar.

There were no metros.

There were no Babars, Rizwans, or Shaheens.

There were very few video mobiles.

There were only a few housing societies.

And I was earning only in thousands.

Yet life was full.

Now everything exists.

Yet we still search for the same feeling.

Different Lahore.

Different era.

Same heartbeat

Extended Tribute to Surrinder Mohan Sarin

In Memory of Surrinder Mohan Sarin (1938–2025)

A Journey Through Heritage, Memory, and Human Connection
By Ali Usman Baig

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A Legacy Rooted in Shahdara

Surrinder Mohan Sarin (1938–2025) belonged to one of Shahdara’s prominent pre-Partition Hindu-Khatri families — custodians of the historic Pari Mahal, a mansion once known for its 103 rooms, sprawling orchards, and the vibrant community life surrounding it. His ancestors owned nearly two thousand acres of fertile land extending into Sheikhupura, forming a significant chapter in Lahore’s cultural and agricultural history.

Years later, when I documented the fading traces of Pari Mahal, I could not have imagined that my work would travel across borders and reach someone whose childhood memories were tied to those very bricks. Yet it did — and that became the beginning of a deeply meaningful connection.

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A Bond Formed Through Heritage

When my article reached him, Surrinder Mohan Sarin wrote to me with emotion and gratitude:

“Thank you for giving me nostalgic memories of Pari Mahal… Most portions are unrecognizable now, but the top-floor room stands exactly as we left it. Usman beta, thanks a million once again for the great efforts.”

His words carried the ache of a man revisiting the home he could not return to physically, yet rediscovered through images and storytelling.

In a message that touched me deeply, he reflected on our earlier exchanges about the neighbouring towns mentioned in my research:

“It is such an illuminating article… But the most nostalgic is about Babar hailing from Kot Radha Kishan. If you remember our earlier exchange — Shahdara, Kot Mool Chand and Kot Radha Kishan were founded by our ancestors Mooley Shah, Radhe Shah and Behari Shah. It is a matter of great joy that somebody from Kot Radha Kishan appears in your work. Your own career speaks of a wonderful journey. God bless.”

This message held the weight of lineage, history, and pride.
For him, heritage was not simply about structures — it was about identity, village origins, familial memory, and the stories carried forward by others.

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His Reflections, Memories, and Gentle Wisdom

Our conversations flowed beyond buildings and history. He often shared snippets of life, both tender and heartbreaking:

“My wife died on 19th September, and tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. What an irony of fate.”

Even in grief, he wrote with dignity — never bitter, always graceful.

He also shared the joy of his childhood Lahore:

“There was perfect harmony between Hindus and Muslims… My mother and Bhua would make huge balti of lassi and call all neighbours to share. Such was the bhaichara.”

He remembered the well near the gate, the long veranda now encroached, and the bustling household that Pari Mahal once was. His memories brought the mansion to life far beyond what any photograph could convey.

He often encouraged me with unexpected warmth:

“What a treasure house of information… The day is not far when you will be a top historian of Indo-Pak. God bless you.”

He spoke of heritage books, oral traditions, family histories, and even music:

“After Kishore Kumar, I like Sonu Nigam. Do you like Kishore Kumar?”

These simple exchanges made the connection more human than historical — a bridge of warmth crossing the distance of borders, generations, and time.

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A Photograph That Now Feels Like Memory

Once, he shared a photograph from his home — a small heater glowing softly in the foreground, and he sitting quietly at the dining table in the background. It was a humble winter evening captured unintentionally, a still moment of everyday life.

With it, he wrote:

“Same heater as yours. See how similar we people are.”

It was a simple line, yet profoundly symbolic — a reminder that humanity often finds its deepest connections in the most ordinary things. Today, that photograph feels like a gentle farewell, a frame filled with warmth before the quiet.

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A Noble Departure

On 8 December 2025, at the age of 86, Surrinder Mohan Sarin passed away.
In keeping with his wishes, his mortal remains were donated for medical education and research, a final act of generosity that reflects the dignity and compassion with which he lived his life.

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A Legacy That Lives Beyond Walls

Today, as his family remembers him, his legacy survives not only in the lost walls of Pari Mahal but also in the values he embodied — humility, gratitude, warmth, and the ability to cherish shared history even across borders.

For me, this connection was more than a historical discovery. It was a reminder that heritage is ultimately about people — their memories, their emotions, and the stories they entrust to us.

May his soul rest in eternal peace.
May his memories continue to illuminate the stories of Shahdara, Lahore, and the shared legacy of our subcontinent.

Memories of Bukhari Building — A Childhood Home That No Longer Exists (1989–1993)

A true story from my early years in Mughalpura, Lahore

By: Ali Usman Baig

Some homes exist only in memory. For me, that place is the Bukhari Building in Mughalpura, Lahore — a rented portion where we lived from 1989 to 1993, yet it shaped my entire childhood.

We moved there because my father was transferred to another city. My schooling had to continue, and my maternal grandparents were close enough to support us. I still remember walking with my grandmother as she searched for a place to rent. She eventually found a tiny first-floor portion in the Bukhari Building for 500 rupees a month. 

The portion had just two small rooms. One was used by my uncles. The other served as our bedroom, sitting room, and guest room all at once. A small courtyard connected everything — half-roofed, half-open to the sky. My grandfather kept a solid wooden bed in the shaded corner because his back pain didn’t allow him to sleep on a charpai. He worked seven days a week, even on Sundays and Eid. His quiet discipline taught us the meaning of effort without ever speaking about it.

There was no water supply inside the building. A tube-well across the road was our only source, and we filled containers from it several times a day. It was simply a normal part of life in Mughalpura during the early ’90s. At night, we spread a charpais in the open part of the courtyard and slept under a single fan and the open sky. Shelves above us held old belongings. The house was small, but full of life.

Bukhari Building had a certain mystery tied to it. It stood adjacent to the Shah Kamal Graveyard, and a quietness settled over the area, especially in the evenings. Inside the courtyard, there were also a few small, unidentified graves, old and nameless, that no one touched. They were simply part of the environment — strange, silent, accepted.

On the ground floor lived the landlady, Hala Shani, an elderly Pathan widow who lived alone. Her husband had died young, and both her daughters were married. She was religious, quiet, and strict about noise, especially when we played cricket near her portion. As children, we feared her scolding, not realizing that silence was her only companion.

There was a narrow, roofed passage on the ground floor, its floor made of natural mud. People said that before the building was constructed, graves existed in that corner as well. Whether true or just Mughalpura folklore, the place always felt untouched and still. We never played there.

Next to that space were two small shops — a carrom shop and a fruit stall. The carrom shop was a gathering spot for older boys and rough youngsters. We weren’t allowed to enter; we just watched from the doorway. I still remember one incident clearly: my uncle parked his bike in front of that carrom shop, locked it, went upstairs for only a few minutes, and it was stolen. That street taught us how fast things could disappear.

The other shop was run by a short-tempered fruit seller everyone called “Fogy.” If someone teased him with that name, he would shout, curse and sometimes throw stones. He rarely hurt anyone, but nobody dared say “Fogy” loudly.

Not far from the Bukhari Building, right in front of the Millat Girls School, was a large open area everyone called the Rori — a dumping spot where people threw garbage. I remember seeing dozens of vultures there almost every day, huge and silent, feeding or circling above. It was a strange, unforgettable sight of Lahore in those days. And then one day, without warning, they disappeared. Not gradually — suddenly. As if vultures had never existed in Lahore at all. The Rori remained, but the sky above it became empty forever.

Our neighbors were a large Pathan family with many daughters and two sons. We shared food almost daily. If something cooked at our place didn’t taste good, we simply sent it next door; it returned the next day with their dishes. No ego, no hesitation — just the way life was.

Basant was the heartbeat of our childhood. Lahore’s sky would turn golden even before sunrise, and Bukhari Building’s rooftop felt like the center of the festival. Our roof was perfect for flying the traditional kites of Lahore — Gudda, Tawa, Kup, Sharala, Pari, Patang, Machar — and the famous white Kuddas in Tawa, Der Tawa and Do Tawa sizes. Kite battles were fierce but beautiful, white against white, paper trembling in the wind.

My uncle’s room was legendary — almost 500 kites hung along the walls, preserved like a personal museum of Lahore’s Basant culture. Even after Basant was banned in Lahore, he kept every kite. He couldn’t fly them anymore, but he couldn’t let go of the memories either.

The real thrill came during the pecha, when two kites locked lines and the duel began. That’s when the technique of “hath pherna” became crucial — a rapid hand movement along one’s string to make it slice through the opponent’s line. It was especially effective against manjha, the sharp, glass-coated string many used. A master of hath pherna could defeat even stronger lines. And when a kite finally lost, rooftops erupted with “Bo kata!”

But Basant also had its unwritten rules — rules every child respected. One of the biggest was this: if a kite’s string broke without a pecha, without a fight, the kite had to be returned to the flyer. Catching a drifting kite wasn’t a victory; it was a responsibility. Only the kites cut in a real battle were trophies. This little moral code gave dignity even to the smallest rooftop.

Along with the thrill came the classic rooftop arguments. Someone would accuse another of using “zalim manjha,” or pulling unfairly, or cheating during a pecha. Shouts echoed across rooftops, threats followed, and within minutes everyone returned to flying again. Basant wasn’t just a festival — it was rivalry, joy, excitement, and Lahore at its purest.

Education was central to our home. Two of my aunts were brilliant students. One, doing her Master’s degree, created a shaded study corner on the roof using wooden planks. She studied there even in summer heat without a fan. Both aunts opened a tuition center at home to support their studies and the family. Students from school to bachelor levels came daily. Books and notes filled the house. I learned the value of education by watching them study tirelessly.

Outside the building stood Noora Cycle Works, where bicycles were repaired and rented. My first bicycle — a BMX Hercules. Next to it was a kabariya shop run by Teddy. His orphan nephew Bola once refused to return my cricket ball, so I hit him on the arm. The fight vanished by evening as if nothing had happened. That’s how childhood was — quick tempers, quicker forgiveness.

Animals were a big part of my early life. We kept two Russian dogs, Mickey and her pup Beater. They ate what we ate and were like family. When Beater slipped from the stairs and died, Mickey became silent and later died too. That was my first understanding of how deeply animals feel grief. I also kept parakeets, a ring-necked parrot and hens — small pieces of childhood that stayed with me.

My grandmother, my Achi Amma, loved me the most. I slept beside her every night and received duas every morning. I loved her even more than my own mother. She passed away in 2001, but her love remains one of the strongest parts of my life.

I studied at Cathedral School. Every morning, my mother walked with me through winter fog to the bus stop. Her warm hand around my cold fingers is still a memory I carry. During the monsoon, the streets flooded, yet we played cricket without worry. We read Akhbar-e-Jahan, collected toy soldiers, watched movies on VCR, celebrated Pakistan’s 1992 World Cup victory, and spent evenings with elders. Life was simple, without mobile phones or distractions.

At around 10 or 12, I made a childhood mistake — peeking at a girl bathing at a hand pump through a parapet hole. I didn’t understand shame or privacy. When she complained, my mother handled it gently and taught me through understanding, not punishment. Some lessons stay quietly forever.

The story of Bukhari Building can never be complete without Rani Aunty. We all called her Rani. She was my mother’s cousin, a few years older, and she lived with us in Bukhari Building. She was my Nani Amma’s most beloved niece. Rani Aunty had the saddest eyes I have ever seen — soft, silent, and carrying a kind of brokenness that even childhood innocence could feel without understanding.

She had married young in Kasur, but her husband was not a good man. She took a divorce to save herself, but her father taunted her endlessly for that decision. Hurt, humiliated and unwanted, she came to live with my Nani Amma, who opened her door—and her heart—to her.

Her little Chota Takht Posh was unforgettable — a small wooden bed in the corner of the kitchen where she slept without a mattress, without a blanket, as if she had chosen discomfort just to avoid burdening anyone. She ate very little, often just one roti, and sometimes she ate nothing but a few pears, quietly, with a kind of apologetic grace. Her whole existence felt like an attempt to take up less space in the world.

Even so, she wasn’t invisible. She ran the kitchen. She cooked for everyone — my uncles, my aunts, for us children — from morning until late at night. She worked under the dim kitchen bulb while the rest of the house slept. She never complained, never argued, never demanded anything. Her hands were always busy; her heart always silent.

I remember one day her youngest brother came to our house. He sat with her for a long time, speaking softly, insisting again and again that she come with him, stay at his home, live with her own family. But she kept refusing — quietly, firmly. I never understood why. Looking back now, I feel she no longer wanted to depend on anyone, not even on her siblings. Perhaps she felt she did not belong anywhere anymore. Perhaps she had accepted her sadness as her only companion.

Sometimes I think she was alone in a house full of people — surrounded by us, yet deeply isolated. And even now, whenever I remember her, a question rises inside me: Why are women like her — so gentle, so giving — treated with such cruelty by life, and sometimes by the very people they love?

I remember wanting a toy soldier from Nemat Market in Sukkano Bazaar. It cost 90 rupees — something we couldn’t afford. I kept asking my mother, but we were three siblings, and those were difficult times.

But Rani Aunty noticed. She stitched a soldier out of cloth, filled it with cotton, and gave it to me. I played with it like it was the real one. Even in her deepest sadness, she found ways to make someone else happy.

She never returned to her parents’ home. She carried her grief quietly until it became illness. Breast cancer. Railway Hospital. And then one day, she was gone — as silently as she had lived.

I remember her often — her Chota Takht Posh, her quiet footsteps, her tired eyes, her gentle smile. She was not just an aunt; she was more than an aunt.

She was a soft light in a very hard world.

Years later, I often dreamed of returning to Bukhari Building. In my dreams only my grandmother was there — sick, waiting. The building looked empty. In reality, after we moved, Hala Shani passed away, the building was sold and demolished, and a large house was built in its place. Nothing remains now — no walls, no courtyard, no graves, no rooftops. Only memories.

I also remember a little girl named Moni, around two or three years old, who called out to me when we moved. I never saw her again. Childhood doesn’t teach us how to say goodbye; it simply moves forward.

Bukhari Building no longer exists, but everything I learned there stayed with me — sharing food, respecting elders, loving animals, valuing education, sleeping under the open sky, and finding happiness in ordinary things. It wasn’t just a rented portion; it was the place where my childhood made sense.

Pre-Partition harmonium by Kartar Singh, Anarkali, Lahore

I came across a harmonium made before Partition, its fading label still carrying the proud words:

KARTAR SINGH
HARMONIUM MAKER
ANARKALLI, LAHORE

and in Punjabi (Gurmukhi):

ਕਰਤਾਰ ਸਿੰਘ ਹਾਰਮੋਨਿਯਮ ਮੇਕਰ ਅਨਾਰਕਲੀ ਲਾਹੌਰ

This simple label tells the story of Kartar Singh, a craftsman rooted in Anarkali, Lahore, whose hands once shaped instruments that became the heartbeat of gatherings. It carries me back to a time when Anarkali and nearby Langa Mandi in Taxali were alive with the rhythm of chisels, hammers, and the fine-tuning of reeds — true hubs of musical instrument making in the city. In those narrow, bustling lanes, craftsmen like Kartar Singh, along with others such as Partab Singh and Rakhi Ram, poured their artistry into harmoniums that would accompany singers, qawwals, and kirtanis across Punjab.

Each instrument bore the unique touch of its maker — the wood carved by hand, the bellows fitted with care, and the reeds tuned with patient precision. Unlike the mass-produced harmoniums of later years, these had a soul of their own, alive with both the perfections and imperfections of craftsmanship.

Partition in 1947 scattered this community of artisans, many migrating across the border to India. With them went the music of their workshops, leaving the lanes of Anarkali and Langa Mandi quieter, their echoes fading. Today, a harmonium bearing a label like that of Kartar Singh survives as more than just an instrument — it is a relic of Lahore’s once-thriving culture of music and craftsmanship, a reminder of a city where melodies were born not just from voices but from the patient hands of its makers.

Shaikh Muhammad Sultan Marg naini (RA): The Deer-Eyed Saint of Lahore

 

Located near the Gari Shahu Railway Flats in Lahore stands a centuries-old banyan tree, its massive roots tangled in time, shading the courtyard of a small but spiritually significant shrine. This is the final resting place of Shaikh Muhammad Sultan Marghbini (RA), a revered Sufi of the Qadri order, remembered not only for his deep spiritual insight but also for his beauty, especially his eyes, which earned him his title.

The epithet Mirg naini comes from the Persian "Mirgh" (deer) and "Naini" (to watch), meaning "deer to watch." It was a name lovingly given to him by his spiritual mentor, Hazrat Shaikh Sadi Shah, who was captivated by the saint's remarkable beauty, particularly his eyes that resembled those of a gazelle—soft, graceful, and filled with divine light.

Shaikh Muhammad Sultan’s spiritual lineage is rooted deeply in the Qadri Sufi order. His mentor, Shaikh Sadi Shah, was a disciple of Shaikh Aqil Shah, who in turn was guided by Mulla Shah. The spiritual chain continued through Khadim Ali Shah, Sulaiman Shah, Khulum Noor Jamal Dehlvi, Shaikh Muhammad Shafi Sudhori, and Shaikh Muhammad Hayat, the latter being a disciple of the great Pir Qamees Ali Shah Gilani.

The Qadri Silsila, founded by Hazrat Abdul Qadir Jilani of Baghdad, is one of the oldest and most widely followed Sufi orders in the Islamic world. It emphasizes love, humility, service to humanity, and complete submission to the will of God. The order is known for balancing the inner path (tariqat) with outer observance (shariat), stressing that spiritual progress must be accompanied by moral discipline. Followers of the Qadri path seek divine nearness through remembrance (zikr), self-purification, and devotion to the spiritual guide (murshid), believing that the saint’s light can help illuminate the seeker’s heart.

This uninterrupted succession of spiritual masters not only reinforced the sanctity of Shaikh Muhammad Sultan’s teachings but also connected him to the broader spiritual and mystical traditions of the Indian subcontinent.

Having received the spiritual blessings and guidance of his mentor, Shaikh Muhammad Sultan rose to immense spiritual heights. He was a rare figure who seamlessly bridged the worlds of the majzoob (those absorbed in divine love and ecstasy) and the salik (those consciously journeying toward God). Among majzoobs, he carried the clarity and composure of a salik, and among saliks, he radiated the divine intoxication of a majzoob. Often lost in sukr (spiritual intoxication), he was known to be constantly immersed in love, ecstasy, and divine absorption.

Shaikh Muhammad Sultan lived during a time of great political upheaval in Lahore. His life overlapped with the reign of Nawab Zakariya Khan, the powerful Mughal governor of Lahore and Multan, followed by his son Shah Nawaz Khan and later Yahya Khan. In 1739, the Persian conqueror Nadir Shah invaded the region, defeating Zakariya Khan and capturing Lahore—a turning point that shook the political and cultural foundations of the Mughal Empire. Despite this unrest, Shaikh Muhammad Sultan remained a tranquil force, drawing seekers toward divine peace.

Shaikh Muhammad Sultan passed away on 1st Shawwal 1158 AH, which corresponds to 24th October 1745 CE. His shrine was constructed by Shah Nawaz Khan, then the Subedar (governor) of Lahore, as a gesture of respect and reverence for the saint. Within the same courtyard, adjacent to his grave, lies a separate and older shrine believed to be that of his mother.

Gurdwara Sat Sang Sabha, RA Bazaar, Lahore

Gurdwara Sat Sang Sabha was a small local Sikh gurdwara located in the heart of RA Bazaar, Lahore. It functioned as a neighborhood place of worship before the Partition of 1947 and is believed to be associated with the Sat Sang Sabha movement, which began in Lahore in 1873 as part of a broader wave of Sikh religious and social reform.

The Sat Sang Sabha aimed to revive Sikh identity, encourage moral discipline, and eliminate superstitious practices by returning to the teachings of the Guru Granth Sahib. It played a significant role in laying the groundwork for the later Singh Sabha movement, which had a transformative effect on Sikh society during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Lahore, as the intellectual and cultural hub of Punjab, was central to this revivalist spirit, and local gurdwaras like this one likely served as nodes for spiritual discourse and reformist activity.

After Partition, with the migration of the Sikh population to India, the gurdwara was abandoned. Today, the structure still survives, though it has been repurposed into residential use. Its architectural elements—such as arched doorways or remnants of the prayer hall—may still offer quiet hints of its original identity, but they are increasingly at risk of being lost to time and urban expansion.

Though modest in scale, Gurdwara Sat Sang Sabha stands as a silent testament to the once-thriving Sikh presence in Lahore and the reformist currents that shaped modern Sikh thought.

Gurudwara Guru Singh Sabha Dharampura, Lahore

This former Gurudwara Guru Singh Sabha archway stands discreetly in the rushy bazaar of Dharampura (now Mustafaabad), Lahore. Once marking the entrance to a small local Sikh place of worship, this arched gateway is the only surviving element of the Gurudwara. Over time, shops have taken over the lower portion, and only the upper part of the arch remains visible above the market crowd. A faded Khanda symbol can still be seen at the top center, silently bearing witness to its Sikh heritage.

The Gurudwara Guru Singh Sabha was historically linked to the Singh Sabha Movement. This major Sikh reform initiative began in the late 19th century to promote education, religious clarity, and community revival. The Sri Guru Singh Sabha Lahore was officially established on 2 November 1879, with key figures like Diwan Buta Singh and Gurmukh Singh playing foundational roles (Discover Sikhism, Wikipedia).

Today, nothing else remains of the original Gurudwara structure—only this lone arch survives, surrounded by commercial activity, stripped of its religious function but retaining deep historical and cultural value.

Dharampura is one of Lahore’s most historic and culturally layered localities. Established in 1583 by Emperor Akbar as a designated settlement for Hindus, it continues to echo its old identity despite being officially renamed Mustafaabad after the 1947 Partition. To this day, locals affectionately refer to it by its original name, Dharampura.

Located between the Walled City of Lahore and the Lahore Cantonment, this working-class area still preserves subtle yet telling signs of its rich, pre-Partition religious and cultural diversity.

A special thanks to Dr. Zishan Ahmed for guiding me to this hidden spot. Without his help, I could not have reached it in a million years—it lies deep within a narrow, overcrowded market bustling with female customers. If you plan to visit, try doing so early in the morning, when the market is still waking up; otherwise, there’s hardly space to place a foot.

Kasur Junction Railway Station: A Forgotten Crossroads of Colonial Punjab

 

Kasur Junction Railway Station is located in Kasur city, Punjab, Pakistan. It was once an important railway junction during the British colonial period, connecting major cities like Amritsar, Firozpur, and Lahore.

Kasur’s significance as a railway station began in the early 20th century. The Amritsar–Patti Railway Company Limited was incorporated on 12 April 1905 as a private venture. By 1906, a broad gauge line—5 ft 6 in (1,676 mm) wide—was constructed between Amritsar and Patti.

In 1910, the line was extended to Kasur, increasing its total length to 54 miles (86 km) and officially making Kasur a junction station under the North Western Railway (NWR). This positioned Kasur as a key point in the regional railway network.

Broad gauge (BG) became the standard in British India for main railway lines, especially in agriculturally and militarily significant regions like Punjab. The wider gauge allowed for heavier loads and faster speeds, making it ideal for both passenger and freight traffic.

In Punjab, most of the major railway lines—including those connecting Lahore, Multan, Rawalpindi, and Faisalabad—were laid as broad gauge. Kasur’s integration into this network allowed it to be a major link between eastern and western Punjab before Partition.

The Punjab Mail and Kasur’s Role

The Punjab Mail, one of the oldest and most prestigious trains in the subcontinent, originally ran from Bombay (now Mumbai) to Peshawar, stopping at Bhopal, Jhansi, Agra, Delhi, Bhatinda, Firozpur, Kasur, Lahore, and beyond.

Kasur was a scheduled stop, making it part of a continuous line that carried passengers, mail, and cargo across vast distances. The train symbolized the unity of British India’s rail infrastructure. Today, the Punjab Mail still runs in India, terminating at Firozpur, but its extension to Kasur and Lahore ended with the 1947 Partition.

Impact of Partition and Decline

With the Partition of British India in August 1947, the railway line from Kasur to Patti and Amritsar was abruptly severed by the newly formed border between India and Pakistan. Kasur, once a dynamic junction, became a terminus.

Post-Partition:

• Cross-border services ceased permanently.
• Railway infrastructure east of Kasur became defunct or was dismantled.
• Kasur was left with only a branch line to Raiwind and Lahore, and the frequency of train services drastically declined.

Current Services

Today, the station serves limited passenger traffic. The main train currently operating is:

Kasur Express

• Route: Lahore – Raiwind – Kasur
• Type: Local passenger
• Track: Broad gauge
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No long-distance or freight services currently run from Kasur.

Kasur Junction once played a key role in connecting Punjab’s eastern and western regions. It facilitated the movement of people, goods, and ideas, linking Amritsar to Lahore and beyond. The station's history reflects both the infrastructure ambitions of the British Empire and the fragmentation caused by Partition.

Its present-day quietness contrasts with the energy of its past, but the station continues to stand as a symbol of what once was—a reminder of an era when borders didn’t interrupt rail lines, and Kasur was part of a continuous, living network of rail travel.

References

1. Indian Railway Commercial Manual, Government of India Press, 1906.
2. Report on the Administration of the North-Western Railway, 1905–06.
3. Ian J. Kerr, Engines of Change: The Railroads That Made India, Oxford University Press, 2007.
4. Government of Pakistan, Pakistan Railways Heritage Report, 2015.
5. Amritsar–Patti Railway Company Ltd., Company Registration Documents (1905).
6. South Asia Railway Atlas, Quail Map Company, 2020 Edition.