About Me
On our final evening, we sat in a tiny corner of the Grand Park, a place she called her “quiet revolution.” Ayesha talked about the city’s younger generation—artists hiding murals in alleys, girls who wore jeans to school and still quoted Ghalib in class. “They’re the real guardians now,” she said. “We all are.” She handed me a tiny brass coin from her purse. “When you’re far from here, use this to remember: Lahore isn’t just a place. It’s a feeling. And feelings need someone to carry them forward.”
