Here is a place where the shadows of antiquated minarets fall onto streets that lead to a market where all that glitters is sold. A land divided by more than just its districts, where bridges, like opportunities, evade the city sleepers who live beneath their arch.

Diversity speaks in shades of extremes. In white-washed homes are mothers who pick through prayer beads, measuring time by the seconds it takes for a generator to cough into motion. Touching the outer walls are plastic bags; concealing the residue left by sons in bottles that whisper of a night well spent, sometime between the hours of soul searching and sunrise.

Its a place where the same finger that points to God is used to slander those who are different. Where sparkling hands dismiss the poor like wipers ejecting parasites off the windshields of Pajeros.

And in this bowl, society plunders. Coexisting in the subtle space left between Birkins and Burkas, false prophets and fatwas.

If you don’t believe me, just look towards the cocktail of contradiction that spills forth from Jail Road; where a graveyard borders a golf course and where the dead lay threatened by night crawlers who creep on their decay like crisp-collared caddies collecting lost balls.

Lahore; the city of sinners, saints, and the willfully blind.

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