By Rabiya Rehman
Rim and I decided that it was for the best that we pinned Thursday as the day we commemorated change. Rim said it carried value, that good deeds showed exponential impacts on Thursdays. I was always a sceptic, but I also loved to play along with her antics, believing that maybe her beliefs carried, if nothing, than at least unwavering faith. Like a wild moth that circumambulates light bulbs, I liked hovering around people with warmth in their convictions, even if I didn’t feel the heat myself.
That Thursday, with Lahore’s weather melting our bags and shoes, we took an Uber to the centre of the city. Sweating and stumbling under the weight of books, we had decided that the world needed our attention. Particularly the newer lot; simple, untouched, sensitive kids, who were victims of a declining reading culture. Our project was simple. Revive the ancient literatures of our land and encourage youngsters to read Urdu, Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashto, Siraiki writings. It was a social action project, tinted strongly with the pressing need to fulfil our community service hours, get our undergrad degrees, and leave the country for good.
Our Uber halted on a wayward road and the Google Maps app on my cell phone pinged. Wiping my brows, I looked tiredly at the man sitting in the driving seat with cheap, tinted shades. Rim was already getting out, pulling out cartons. I followed, paying the man his due, and straightening my sweat-drained kurti[1]. The uber hurried by, leaving us alone on a deserted road, paralleled by a graveyard. A man spraying roses with ether sat outside. The graveyard looked empty. The dead was left to their accord in the unflinching heat, even mosquitos seemed suspended mid-air.
We looked around and couldn’t see the library we were looking for. Aside from an occasional car passing by, hardly any signs of life were visible, let alone a signboard. The man with the roses followed our movement, his eyes trailing us with an intent too steady to be casual.
Rim jogged to him. Stooping low to match his gaze, she inquired, “Baba jee[2], is there a library close by?”
The man stared back and with a disfigured thumb pointed to her back. A tomb-like structure, which we ignored for some kind of local monument, stood stall and decaying in the centre of a park. It had caricatures of half-fairies, half-children painted on it. Beneath it were some quotes from popular Urdu poems that the harsh heat of Lahore had eroded.
“Umm, that’s the library?”
“I think so.” Rim said with a quizzed expression. “Let’s walk closer to see the main entrance. I can hardly see anything from this side of the road.”
The tomb indeed had a heavy polished brass door which contrasted sharply with the rotting situation of its grey structure. I pulled at the door and we stumbled inside an elaborate, red-carpeted, and red-walled hall. The woman behind the desk peeked as soon as Rim entered.
The room was beautiful, with landscape paintings of old Lahore and the river Ravi. Air conditioner blasted at full speed, and the old hum of different electronics created a soothing and numbing atmosphere. I could feel my shirt drying as the woman crossed the hall towards us, her red dupatta[3] following her trail.
“My bachas[4], what brings you hear in this heat? It’s an old library, are you looking for some antique books?”
She wore red chipping nail paint which emphasized the thinness of her dark hands. Old but strangely young, the woman fixed her silky drape, staring at us with glassy eyes.
“We got your address… our university’s administration gave it to us. Umm… they said you work with students who are particularly interested in the development of local literatures?” I responded, still-focusing on her hands.
“Yes. We have a separate office for that. Bacha, you’re at the wrong place. We relocated our main office a few months ago. It’s not far from here.”
While the woman spoke, Rim had walked to the furthest end of the library. Only her hunched back remained visible, focused on something out of my sight.
“Alright, that sounds good. Can you please give me the address of the main office?”
“Sure, and call your friend back. Visitors are not allowed today.”
I turned a bit and whisper-shouted, “Rim, let’s go!”
Rim didn’t look back and as I walked closer to her, I made out a rugged looking pit in the middle of the library floor. I crossed the distance, careful not to disturb the silence that clung to every surface like a curse. Inside the pit were a few books, some miniatures paintings, plastic cars, and three children with pale, almost colourless hair, sleeping peacefully in the sunken space. Such was the hush that not even an inch of their hair moved. We stared at their faces quietly. An eeriness had quietly descended the hall. The silence was broken by a soft hand on my shoulder.
“I said no visitors today, bacha.”
The woman’s voice came from behind. My conscious jolted as I felt her hand melting on my shoulder. I turned around and hurried out the door, with Rim on my heels. Before the door was completely closed, we saw the woman bent down, staring at the pit, her silk dupatta quietly trailing down her side. The image was like a water-painting, old, blistered, and grotesque.
“That was strange.” I breathed the moment the sun blared at us again.
“I know, Biya, that woman is like a hundred years old. Who dresses up like that at a hundred years old?”
“I don’t know, she appeared… timeless.”
“Yeah, she made me uncomfortable.” Rim shuddered and rubbed her shoulders. “Anyways, it’s still mid-day. I think we better hurry to that office. I promised Ammi[5] that I’ll come home early today.”
“Let’s go. Let’s walk. I don’t see any rikshaw or Uber passing.”
We walked passed the graveyard. Soon, as our shadows began to lengthen, we embarked a highway. Recognising it immediately, we understood that now we were close to a boulevard.
I jogged and Rim followed pursuit. My sneakers were pinching at my toes, and the sun grew larger and larger. We walked with cartons pulling our shoulders down. In a few minutes we were at the entrance of a colony.
“Okay, so Google says five more minutes. You aren’t dehydrated, right?” I asked Rim, staring at her pale face with concern.
“Ah… I am fine, I think. Lets just keep moving.”
We moved further until my phone pinged again. The notification showed that we had arrived at our location. I looked around. The place seemed abandoned, except huge mansions lined each side of the street. It was staggering, coming from a less developed area of Lahore, it always took me by surprise that houses could be so extravagant. Lush, elaborate lawns, freshly-polished doors, razor wires that covered kilometres of walls, and shiny marble which covered every inch of the buildings. We walked around the silent place, looking for signs of life. Not a single person was in sight.
We walked slowly, looking at the mansions in awe. Most gates were open, with expensive cars lining porches. A particular mansion had a driveway as big as the distance we had walked from the library. The house only appeared like a glimmer in distance. It had a glass structure at the entrance, fifteen foot tall and thirty feet wide. From what we could see, it was filled to the mouth with paintings, statues, and old artifacts.
“I have never been here before, Biya, and I was born in this city!”
“Same, but why is it so abandoned?”
“That’s what I was wondering. People have their BMW’s and Bugatti’s parked with gates wide open. There isn’t a guard in sight.”
“But where’s the office?”
“Let me check.”
Google Maps pointed at a house on the right. It stood forlorn, the only one on the right of that particular block. The raven-coloured gate was only slightly ajar. I pointed towards it and Rim pushed the gate with a slight force. It swayed easily, uncovering a pathway lined with wild cactus and primroses.
We cautiously walked the path. The house loomed before us, exhaling and inhaling with our every step. Its windows were tainted, reminding me of someone who hadn’t slept in years. Like the rest of the colony, there was a sense of restlessness in the air that cut through our skin like knife. While the house appeared pristine at first glance, a deeper look revealed cracks that ran through like capillaries in sea-green coloured walls. Bougainvillea climbed the side pillars and bloomed furiously, as if trying to revive a place that had stopped expecting visitors. I felt uncomfortable and tugged at Rim’s sleeve anxiously.
Under my touch, Rim froze.
“Biya”, she whispered, clutching my arm.
I looked up.
There, on one of the walls, a barred window gleamed with peeling paint. A woman was standing there. She was waving; slowly, deliberately. Like a pendulum of an old grandfather clock. She swayed, one hand clutching the bars of the window. It was ominous. Her dark gown fluttered faintly with the breeze.
I slightly raised my arm, unsure how to respond. Was this a greeting?
Before we could understand, a loud metallic clatter filled the air suddenly. Dogs barked viciously in a fit of madness. We spun around, trying to look for the noise. The place was empty. From the main door, a man burst forth. His shirt stained, barefoot and eyes bloodshot, he ran towards us. As he came closer, time stood slow. The hollowness of his eyes appeared like sunken pits in a dried riverbed. His hair screamed past air the closer he moved.
“Who are you? Who sent you?” He exploded, spitting with rage.
“This is a private property! Don’t you dare come here! Go back! Go back!”
I let out a startled yelp and felt blood leaving my feet. Rim grabbed my arm and turned, sprinting down the gravel path as the man’s shouting mixed with the ear-splitting barking. The cactus needles brushed our clothes as we half-ran, half-stumbled. The gate we had nudged open without a second thought now felt like an exit from a spider’s web. Before we left, my eyes saw a trembling cage covered with a moth covered cotton sheet.
Rim ran for a long time, dragging me along. Reaching the main road again, panting, books rustling inside the carton, she stopped. Her arms were shaking. She stopped and looked at me nervously. In what sounded like a hysterical laugh, she breathed, trying to regain her senses.
“Biya, that wasn’t the office.” Rim said, exhaling.
No brainer, I thought. The sun was now trying to spin westwards, bleeding into the smoggy, dry sky of Lahore. Rim and I dragged ourselves, noticing our shadows getting longer and longer. We walked back to the colony, stopping at a office which read “Samia Wellness and Fertility Centre”. We decided to flag down a rickshaw. Rim was now oddly quiet, and my throat felt like it was scratched with sandpaper.
“Some local rickshaw-wala might be familiar with the office. I don’t have the energy to walk and this place seems too cursed for random exploration.”
Rim silently nodded, too exhausted to share her thoughts. The rickshaw stopped in front of us.
“Where to, beti[6]?” the driver asked, as I again fumbled with my cell phone and gave him the address to the office. The Google Maps app kept acting up, rerouting like a compass held close to a magnet.
“Just take us to this stop,” I said, waving the screen in his face.
The rickshaw sputtered, coughing like a chain-smoker and off we went. We looked outside carefully, tracking the map with the roads that passed by. We passed the graveyard again. The man who ether-sprayed roses had gone. Five minutes later, the driver halted and pointed outside.
“Beti, this is it. Fertility Center. It will be 300 rupees.”
We blinked and looked outside. We were at the fertility centre again. Fresh paint covered the building and the sun was now casting orange hues. Rim and I exchanged a look.
“Bhai[7], are you playing tricks with us? You got us back to the same place!”
“This is the location you gave me,” the man shrugged with obvious irritation.
“That’s not where we want to go,” Rim cried in frusruration.
The man shrugged again, clearly uninterested in our predicament.
We decided to give it another try. Rebooted the app and entered the address. The same pin drop appeared.
“Let’s just do one more round,” Rim told the driver.
We took another round. Moving in circles, again passing the neighbourhood, the library, and the graveyard. We passed the same mansions. Same roads. The rickshaw stopped again.
It was the same fertility centre. The same man who sat outside the pharmacy holding a file looked at us with amused suspicion.
“This place is cursed”, Rim shouted.
We got off the rickshaw, paid and shooed the driver away, and decided to walk again.
“Google thinks our project is a lost cause.” I said quietly.
It was as if the old city of Ravi was itself draining us, trapping us in a loop of mythic punishment, reflecting its forgotten literatures, the very stories we aimed to revive.
This time we let instinct lead, trying to follow the directions our university’s management had told Rim verbally. Soon, the road of the fertility centre opened up into quitter rows of offices. One of them read in small plaque: “Pakistan’s Centre for Indigenous Literatures”.
Rim jumped and placed a hand over her mouth. “That’s it! This is the office!”
I knocked on the door carefully, half expecting another madman or a ghost to burst forth and envelope us.
However, this time, a middle-aged man with a plastic clipboard opened the gate and looked stratled at our sweaty and wild-eyed state.
“Umm, the volunteers, I presume?”
“Yes.” I replied with a pause and we both entered.
During our meeting, the lady in charge said something that stuck with me through many years. She shared the history of her organisation, which deeply intertwined with the history of Lahore. She remarked that Pakistan is a land of promise, but lands have a way of oozing decay. You can build highways, install fancy street lights, and create grand elaborate structures, but the degeneration, the last faltering breath of a city rampant with the destruction of ideology, of morality, and of faith, that cannot be swept under covers. It stares back from the layers of funds and aids thrown at it. So, you may close your eyes, put cotton in your ears, and even numb your hands, but the horrors of a city destroyed by its own people never really become silent.
(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.)
[1] A short shirt cut like a kurta, but often short sleeved
[2] A polite term to address an older man
[3] A scarf or veil
[4] Children
[5] Mother
[6] Daughter
[7] Brother
Rabiya Rehman is a Staff Editor for Chartium, and the Poetry Feedback Assistant at ECHO Review. She is an English Literature grad student based in Pakistan, a place known for its centuries-old tradition of Sufi poetry and searching questions about the self. Her research and interests lie in speculative fiction and the ways stories shape both culture and selfhood.
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