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Journalism of Courage
Lahore and Delhi look the same. Sputtering rickshaws, broad roads, throbbing bits of greenery. At one point, of course, no borders divided our cities. And although you can8217;t tell a Delhi-wallah apart from a Lahori, slowly things are changing.
I8217;m a Lahori. I arrived in Delhi to do a two-month stint at a newspaper. Ostensibly a trip to acquaint myself with the print media in India 8212; my parents are journalists, I8217;m a poor student, the reasoning worked like a charm 8212; I8217;ve come really to explore India and familiarise myself with Pakistan8217;s vilified old neighbour.
The concept of laissez-faire, socially and politically, does not exist in Pakistan. If you wear jeans on the street be prepared to be eyeballed by every man on the road, and don8217;t be surprised if Aunties 8212; sitting smug in their lacquered four-wheelers 8212; dab their faces with handkerchiefs at the sight of your shameless vulgarity.
And although inside some of Lahore8217;s liberal homes, the situation is different parties are thrown where fun is had, where dance floors are packed and where Lahore8217;s young and youthful shimmer away under disco lights there is a frantic edge to our cheer 8212; we know our merriment can8217;t be duplicated outside our homes: Clubs and pubs
do not exist.
It8217;s the little things that tell the story of a city.
