yeh jo lahore se mohabbat hai

💌[a love letter to a city that has stood for centuries, outlived kings and borders yet still makes room for longing and me]

badshahi mosque, lahore

---

ye jo lahore se mohabbat hai

ye kisī aur se mohabbat hai

aur vo aur tum nahīn shāyad

mujh ko jis aur se mohabbat hai

---

lahore,

this love doesn’t ask for logic.

it was never planned.

it grew slowly like milk on the stove, watched by a half-tired nano saying, “bas abhi ublayga.”

it’s in the sound of scooters weaving through liberty market.

the shopkeeper calling out, “baji, asli kaam hai yeh.”

the feeling of mehndi still drying on my hands while i held a paper bag full of jhumkay too loud for daily life but perfect for channelling my inner desi girl.

the bright chaos of food street, where the smell of halwa puri and spicy cholay bhaturay rises like an invitation you can’t refuse.

the sharp sweetness of paan from jd’s, trailing after conversations and laughter.

the scent of fresh gajray ‘jasmine blossoms’ in the air, soft and delicate, worn like a promise on women’s wrists.

---

you were never just a city.

you were a rhythm.

a way of speaking, of pausing between words.

a culture that refused to be rushed.

---

part of you lives in my nano— ama as i lovingly call her (but more on her another day)

the way her hands move gently while pouring chai,

the quiet strength in her stories of a time that feels both near and far.

and when she says “Allah k hawalay,” it feels like lahore itself is being entrusted to a Higher care.

so even when i’m far away, i’m never truly without you.

---

the sounds of my baby cousin running toward me

his tiny feet tapping on cracked sidewalks,

the quick breath before a hug that filled the whole street.

those moments made lahore softer,

like the city held its breath just to watch us.

---

there is a romance in lahore’s air

a quiet pulse I often felt

when wandering through the mahals,

or sitting beneath the old baghs,

where history breathes in every leaf and stone.

It’s a romance that lingers,

like anarkali’s whispered secrets carried by the wind.

i would often visualize

princesses and kings walking through these corridors

their footsteps echoing softly against ancient stones,

whispers of silk and secrets trailing behind them.

it’s as if the past still lingers here,

waiting patiently to be remembered.

yeh hoon main aur ye meri tasvīr

dekh le ġhaur se mohabbat hai

i saw versions of myself in your streets.

you slowed me down.

made me notice how the sun hit old bricks at noon.

taught me that chai isn’t a drink; it’s a ritual. a refuge. a reason to stay.

every lane of androon lahore whispers differently.

“yahan doston ne dosti nibhai thi.”

“yahan kisi ne intezaar kiya tha.”

your silence is full of names.

and your walls, they do not forget.

not the kings. not the lovers. not the ghazals written between their footsteps.

bachpanā kam-sinī javānī aaj

tere har daur se mohabbat hai

i’ve walked your streets in glass slippers and leather khussas

laughed over paani puri so spicy it made me cry.

there is a version of me that only exists with you

the one that understood silence at dusk, the thud of mangoes on a summer rooftop, the rhythm of old women telling stories of the pre-partition era.

ek tahzīb hai mujhe maqsūd

mujh ko ik daur se mohabbat hai

it wasn’t the geography.

it was the tahzīb.

that instinct to serve a guest chai before asking why they came.

that inherited softness. that unapologetic formality.

that way of making ordinary things feel worth remembering.

you gave me a way to carry myself.

even now, in places where no one knows what a dupatta means — i still do.

us kī har tarz mujh ko bhāti hai

us ke har taur se mohabbat hai

---

and maybe i’m still loving you.

in the way i insist on sitting with my chai.

in the way i say Allah Hafiz even when no one else does.

in the way i remember how to wait, how to listen, how to let a place live inside me.

because you were never just where i visited

you were where my culture breathed.

and as they say:

those who meet must part,

and those who leave must return.

we will meet again, in sha Allah

with love and memory,

areeba