Dr Ayaz Qureshi

One summer evening in 2025, I sat down for tea outside the Quetta Hotel in Lahore ’s Firdous Market . The place was crowded as usual. Three young  Pashtun  boys joined my table as this was the only table with three empty chairs. I had the fourth. They spoke Pashto among themselves, but one of the boys was on the phone explaining to someone in Urdu about his difficulties in getting his National ID Card from the National Database Regulatory Authority ( NADRA ). Apparently, his father had mistakenly provided the same name for him and his brother at the time of registration. This boy was now trying to sort out the mistake in NADRA records to get his ID card made. “My name is Gul Khan and my brother is Agul Khan. There’s a difference of  alif madd aa  only... we live in Gulberg …,” he went on trying to explain on the phone. They were in their early 20s, perhaps daily wage laborers or house help in the posh loc...

I'm in a hired car on the GT road from Lahore.  Typical driver, driving rashly as if in great hurry. His phone rings. He lifts it, looks at the screen for a few seconds, answers reluctantly. His wife shouts, 'Have you paid the doodhwalla', milkman? 'Yes!', he says sheepishly. She goes on complaining about how milk was not delivered today and she has guests at home, no tea to offer them, doodhwalla is unreliable, evil, and life is shit, and so on and on... He manages to say 'Khalda brake tey mar!! Mien phone kardan unoo' .  Hangs up. Calls doodhwalla whose excuse is that there was a wedding today. 'Whose wedding, yours or the villagers' ... 'or the cow they milk', I add in my mind. He is upset with the milkman, shares how the family back home is frustrated and gets him to promise to do it this evening, bring milk, wedding or no wedding. Back on phone to Khalda, explains the situation, complains about her being so impatient, not circumspect at ...