Lahore in the early summer

is like inside of a rusty tin can. parched, left for the ravages of nature, wild. the wildness of the winter, left undisturbed, now pushes up its fingers through the soils and off the bark and down the heads of no-longer-slumping flower bulbs. aprils in lahore bring a battalion of dandelion blowballs and fluffy seeds that cloud up the small pools that form beneath the feet of brown boys swimming in the canal. or twirl madly around the chowks when the cars fizz by. basking lazily under the trees rather then selling factory-rejected t-shirts in the broiling sun, or piles of colored raw strawberries behind a donkey-cart, or singing out evening newspapers. because lahoris prefer basking and watching and an empty stomach to hard work. perhaps it is the greasy lunches that cause this permanent siesta in our heads, but maybe it is the bumbling beauty of the nature that flows, marks it's territory through the infant city. the city is a bad attempt of a city. it is more a town that wants to desperately be called a city in it's childish hurry to grow up.


Lahore in the early summer

is of a different hue, a different scent, crammed full of stories.