I now have a place in Lahore. A studio flat in the heart of old city at the top floor of a building overlooking the unplastered walls of the neighborhood houses.
A broken guitar rests deteriorating on the roof of the house in front of this building. It’s been a while since it was crushed, perhaps in disapproval, as the condition tells. A story waiting to be told.
Walking down the street, you can’t help but notice the beautifully-carved blue-colored windows on the first floor of a house. There are six of them—three on the front and three on the side. Only one remains open—half of it.
Milky Way is the name of the neighborhood milk shop. Like the galaxy, it’s also very popular among the people. So popular that the proprietor had to hang a sign outside: beware of the pickpockets.
I could share pictures if I had a camera or a camera-phone. But maybe it’s for the good. Maybe camera-phones have killed the stories.