“From the historical grandeur of Lahore to the bustling modernity of Islamabad, from the narrow streets filled with history to the lively discussions at university canteens, Pakistan was a country of contrasts—a place where hope and despair coexisted, where resilience met resistance at every corner”
Iftikhar Gilani
As a journalist, understanding the depths of a touring a nation’s culture, politics, and society in just thirty days is a formidable task – akin to a doctor diagnosing a disease with only a brief examination.
For thirty days, I stayed in Pakistan—a time that can hardly do justice to comprehend the intricacies of a nation’s spirit fully, but enough to scratch the surface.
My journey began on an October night, with a prolonged encounter at Islamabad airport that set the tone for my experience.
After transiting through Doha, my journey began under the starless sky of late Islamabad. I was interrogated by a Pakistani immigration officer intrigued by my Indian passport. This half-hour ordeal was merely a prelude to the series of unforeseen events and insightful encounters that awaited me.
The dimly lit streets of Islamabad were shrouded in an eerie silence, the kind that grips a city on edge.
Leaving the airport, it became clear that the city was in a state of lockdown – containers lined the roads to block the opposition march organized by Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaaf (PTI). Social media networks were shut down, and there was only a patchy Wi-Fi connection to connect to the outside world. Taxis were scarce, the city barricaded, and the roads desolate.
That first taxi ride was unforgettable – a 20-minute journey stretched into three-and-a-half hours, as the taxi driver was trying to find obscure routes to avoid containers. The taxi meandered through dark fields, bumpy rural roads, and trenches dug to halt protests.
It became apparent that this was not an ordinary journey.
It was a window into Pakistan’s struggle for stability—an attempt to block out unrest that brought ordinary citizens’ lives to a grinding halt. This was not just a journey through physical spaces; it was an odyssey into the socio-political labyrinth that defines modern-day Pakistan.
Islamabad resembled a fortress, closed off to both its citizens and any outside influence.
My driver, a local from Jhelum city in northern Punjab, spoke of his home. I told him about my links with Jhelum, not the city but River Jhelum. In my town Sopore in north Kashmir, my ancestral house lies on the banks of this river. He got curious.
“Are you from the Indian part of Kashmir?” he asked. He straight away drifted to Bollywood films and celebrities, about which he was far more informed than I.
Since my temporary residence was on the banks of the historic Grand Trunk (GT) Road, built by Sher Shah Suri to link Peshawar and Kolkata, the next day I witnessed the PTI march led by Chief Minister Ali Amin Gandapur of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
The march was accompanied by bulldozers, who were clearing the containers, followed by a convoy of trucks carrying soil covering the trenches dug earlier.
Tear gas filled the streets, and gunfire echoed through the city as police forces from the distance were firing shells.
For those who lived there, and for visitors like me, it was surreal and frightening – a feeling as though the city had descended into anarchy.
But beyond the tear gas and barricades, the daily hum of life persisted.
Bustling City of Islamabad
Two days later, the blockade lifted, and I had the chance to explore Islamabad, finding the city to be a picturesque reflection of Ankara – the Turkish capital. Islamabad, however, has its distinct charm: clean metro bus stations and sprawling shopping malls, alive with customers.
Contrary to the gloomy economic narrative often painted by expatriates, the city was thriving in its way – restaurants were crowded, and branded stores were bustling. It was a glimpse of Pakistan’s resilience, a nation determined to carry on despite the uncertainties looming over its political and economic landscape.
One of the first places I visited in Islamabad was the Faisal Mosque, a majestic structure that stood as a symbol of Pakistan’s rich cultural and religious heritage. Set against the backdrop of the Margalla Hills, the mosque’s white marble and geometric architecture made it a sight to behold.
In conversations with locals, there was an undeniable frustration with the government – anger at inflation, dissatisfaction with political leaders, and a sense of helplessness. Many spoke of Imran Khan with a mix of admiration and nostalgia, believing that his ousting was a loss for the common people.
Journey to Lahore
My journey to Lahore also came with its own set of challenges. Upon arriving late at night, the hotel I had booked online refused entry – their policy explicitly barred Indian citizens from staying there.
It was a humiliating experience that made me acutely aware of the mutual distrust and bureaucratic hurdles that still define Indo-Pak relations. Eventually, after hours of negotiation, I was reluctantly allowed to stay.
It was an ordeal that reminded me of a similar incident in Mumbai some years ago, where a Pakistani family was denied a hotel room, and forced to sleep on the streets with their young children.
The echoes of division seemed to travel across borders, affecting ordinary people in both nations.
Despite this cold reception, Lahore itself was warm and welcoming.
Lahore and Delhi resemble each other like twin sisters. If a person in Delhi were given a sleeping pill and woke up in Lahore, they would hardly notice they were in a different city.
After moving from Delhi to Ankara, the smog was forgotten, but the city was enveloped in dust and smoke. Signs of irritation and cold were visible in the eyes.
The next day, after visiting Badshahi Masjid, Mazar Iqbal, and Data Ganj Bakhsh’s shrine, writer and UK-based medical doctor Aamir Butt hosted a luncheon and gifted his book “Lahore, Places, People, Stories”, which proved to be very insightful.
After bidding him farewell, I took a taxi to Delhi Gate, where he had arranged for a guide to meet me. Guide Syed Zulfiqar Ali Kazmi introduced himself, mentioning that his nickname was Ladi Shah, a name everyone knew him by. I remarked that “Ladi Shah” in Kashmiri refers to a traditional comic folk singer, to which he explained that he had altered the Punjabi word “Ladla” to “Ladi Shah.”
After the British captured Lahore in 1849, they built the first court of the subcontinent on the upper floor of the Delhi Gate, where British judges made judicial decisions.
The walking tour began in the narrow yet relatively clean streets of Lahore, guided by Ladi Shah. These types of streets also exist in Delhi.
When I first came to Delhi, I lived in Gali Qasim Jan for several months. Later, I spent a few months living in Bhojla, a neighbourhood near Turkman Gate. However, the key difference between the streets of Delhi and Lahore lies in their maintenance and cleanliness.
Around Badshahi Masjid and Data Darbar, the area was noticeably cleaner, a contrast to the surroundings near Jama Masjid in Delhi and Basti Nizamuddin. The streets were so narrow that, as Mushtaq Ahmad Yousufi humorously put it, if a man and woman meet in opposite directions, marriage seems like the only option.
The mansions of Sir Ganga Ram, or Dina Nath, have been preserved in their original condition. Ladi Shah also showed me his home, where his ten-year-old son was taking care of a museum-like showroom. The boy’s voice was so captivating that it hinted at the promise of a future artist.
Wazir Khan Mosque
It is often said that anyone who has not seen Lahore has not seen the world, but anyone who has not seen the Wazir Khan Mosque in Lahore has seen nothing.
A prominent feature of the mosque is its use of vibrant mosaic tiles and frescoes, both inside and out. Aamir Butt explained that this is a common feature of mosques and tombs in Iran and Central Asia, though it is rarely seen in the subcontinent. Some architects consider it to be the epitome of Lahore’s architecture in the Indian subcontinent, with no better example found in the region than the Wazir Khan Mosque.
The frescoes on the walls in the mosque are so significant that John Lockwood Kipling, director of Mayo College of Art, recommended it to his students as an essential study. According to Kipling, it is one of the few remaining examples of authentic fresco art in the world.
The art of tiling here is an intricate process involving mixing sand, lime, and powdered glass with rice water to form a paste. This mixture is cut into tiles, dried, and baked until the glass fuses. The tiles are then affixed to plastered walls.
Before 1947, many Kashmiri leaders mentioned this mosque and its madrasa in their memoirs. Late Syed Ali Geelani, in his book, has written about attending the madrasa there, where he studied under Qari Muhammad Latif and memorized many verses of the Quran.
The residents used to feed the students studying at the mosque. Next to the mosque is the mansion of Dina Nath, Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s finance minister, and a well with four doors, each dedicated to drinking water for followers of four different religions.
Similar to Delhi, Lahore has gates with similar names like Mochi Gate, Kashmiri Gate, Sherawali Gate, and Mori Gate which are particularly notable.
Urdu Bazar, located near Mori Gate, stands as a bustling market. By contrast, the Urdu Bazar near Jama Masjid in Delhi has changed significantly, with bookshops replaced by kebab vendors.
Lahore’s Urdu Bazar still boasts over 500 bookshops and houses an old printing press that was once owned by erstwhile Maharaja Gulab Singh, now run by the Printing Corporation of Pakistan.
At the end of the street stands the Hari Gyan Temple, once one of the most magnificent temples in Lahore, built by Shri Prasad Kasath during the Sikh period.
In Islamabad also, there are notable bookstores like Saeed Book Bank and Mr. Books, where people show similar respect for books.
Meeting people was perhaps the most enriching part of my journey. Conversations with columnists, students, taxi drivers, and shopkeepers revealed a nation at odds with itself – struggling to reconcile its past with its present, and unsure of its future.
There was an overwhelming consensus that Pakistan’s potential remained untapped due to political instability and poor governance. The common refrain was that the nation could thrive if only internal conflicts were resolved and the political leadership showed some restraint and wisdom.
Yet, even in this climate of despair, there was hope.
At Quaid-e-Azam University, I met students from Balochistan, discussing their dreams and issues. Their optimism was contagious—they believed in the power of education to transform their province despite the systemic neglect it had suffered.
Their discussions reminded me of Jawaharlal Nehru University back in Delhi—young minds driven by hope, even when the odds were stacked against them.
Social Media Control
In Pakistan, I also witnessed firsthand how the government’s control over social media impacted the people. During the Shanghai Cooperation Organization (SCO) summit, the city was again brought to a standstill.
Announcements were made via Twitter, ironically inaccessible to most Pakistanis without a VPN due to government-imposed restrictions. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on the citizens—a government communicating with its people through a medium it had effectively banned. It was a reflection of the inconsistencies that plagued governance—a disconnect between policy and practicality.
The journey also had its lighter moments. My daughter’s wedding, initially thrown into uncertainty by the sudden city lockdown, eventually proceeded without a hitch, thanks to last-minute changes in government orders.
The wedding, attended by family and friends, was a reminder of the warmth that underpins Pakistani society. Amidst the political upheaval, life – in all its joy and chaos – continued unabated.
Food played an essential role in my exploration of Pakistan. From the rich, spicy curries to the succulent kebabs, every meal was a celebration of flavours.
The old Lahore like old Delhi is a bustling hub of culinary delights. The aroma of freshly grilled meat, the sizzle of frying pans, and the laughter of people enjoying their meals created an atmosphere of festivity.
By the end of my thirty days, I had seen both the beauty and the chaos of Pakistan.
I had witnessed political marches, experienced bureaucratic hurdles, and felt the warmth of everyday people.
From the historical grandeur of Lahore to the bustling modernity of Islamabad, from the narrow streets filled with history to the lively discussions at university canteens, Pakistan was a country of contrasts—a place where hope and despair coexisted, where resilience met resistance at every corner.
Pakistan’s journey, like mine, is far from over. It is a country of immense potential, held back by its internal strife. But there is a spirit here—a resilience that refuses to be dampened.
Whether it’s the bustling markets, the hopeful students, or the taxi drivers navigating roadblocks to ensure passengers reach safely, there is a sense that Pakistan, despite its challenges, will continue to navigate.
And perhaps, one day, it will find its way out of the labyrinth and into a future defined by unity, peace, and progress.
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