Preparations are underway to depart for a period of about five months from the place that has been Home for almost 10 times that. Since the day I arrived here, on the 28th of August 2001, Lahore has been Home. More Home than Karachi at any rate, where the longest consecutive time I’ve spent is the three months in winter a couple of years back.

I’d been warned well in advance of what Lahore had to offer. What I found in the first year was nothing if not proof of the truth of Lahore’s reputation. I’d made a few Lahori friends all of whom seemed to simply plan eating trips on weekends. Spring was greener than I’d ever known and winter was colder than any wind-swept Karachi one. My own night-time adventures normally ended around 1.00 am when the eateries closed down. Also, the little Punjabi I’d picked up on would get me harshly chastised at home because of the way it sounded.

Somewhere during the first miserable year though, Usman Dawood, Fahad Tanveer and Ali Izhar Ahmed happened. Xainab Kapadia happened. Life became bearable.

Somehow, during that first miserable year, Lahore became Home. More Home than Karachi at any rate. In that Home I’d found for myself an unlikely, unusual, eclectic Family. Like all families, we had our issues. We’ve had our differences. Fought, argued, fought some more, stopped talking, created distance, just drifted away. Like all families, I know I can still rely on each and every one of those people to bail me out any time I’m in trouble. I’d do the same for them. Any day.

Sophomore year started an interesting new wave of experiences. This was when I truly explored Lahore. Xainab’s to thank for most of it because she was the shopaholic, super-active freak who had to explore every nook and cranny of every shopping area in Lahore. I was the guide and navigator obviously. Where Miss Kapadia went, I had to take her. I had to learn the way and learn it fast.

Qainchi, Ferozepur Road, Shah Alam Market, Anarkali, Fortress, Liberty, Raja Center and Auriga. I’d explored them all and then some. During the exploration, I’d figured how to find my way around practically half the city. I know The Mall one end to the other (Though it took me 4 years of going up and down it, and 3 trips to the Museum, before I ever noticed the Zam Zam cannon. Kim’s Gun; and I didn’t even notice!) The Senior Project took me to the Darbar and its surroundings. Food Street seemed like a monthly trip. Before you know it, I know more of Lahore than some Defense-bound Lahoris.

Now, as I prepare to fly home from Home, it strikes me that I’m in love.

I am in love with the French Prostitute. I’m in love with her flashy tackiness and her vulgar pulsating. I’m enamored of the colors that adorn her when she’s out to attract her suitors. I worship the adornments and decoration, the jewelry and the fancy dresses as much as I am captivated by the coarse skin beneath the ornaments. I can trace that rough, dark, scarred skin with as much pleasure as I get from appreciating the layers of decoration. The French Prostitute is my Mistress.

I watched the two One-Day matches played here against England. Went to Gaddafi.

Sitting there amid the din something crept into my head: a notion so flawlessly perfect that it demands to be presented here.

Pakistan’s two-down batsman, one of the troika of semi-reliable batsmen the team possesses, is a perfect allegory of his hometown. Whatever you choose to call him—or he chooses for himself for that matter—Mohammed Yousuf (Youhana) epitomizes and allegorizes Lahore. His easy-going personality, laid-back approach to even the most daunting of tasks and his confidence in his own superiority and perfection is, for some, a hurdle in the way of his potential greatness. If not for that attitude, the languid fluidity of his cover-drives and the sheer elegance in every move he makes on the field would propel him to the zenith of batsmanship.

Yet, these qualities—the languorous ease and the silky grace coupled with the sense of contemptuous superiority—are the Lahori in him. With every lazy step and every swashbuckling arch of the bat, he is Lahore—relaxed, graceful, languid and classy; and well aware of his own perfection.

I have seen Lahore. I have Lived.
I have seen much of Lahore. I have Lived well.