People, places, things and faces … that is what memories are made of. This famous Paul Sagan saying holds true … always. Living in or around the old walled city of Lahore has its own charms, not to forget shortcomings. Each person given his or her circumstances has a lifetime experience that is unforgettable. In this piece my intention is to go over my own experiences. We lived on Rattigan Road just behind the District Courts, and Central Model School and shared a common wall with the famous Bradlaugh Hall. Each of these places has its own long story, which over time this column has described. But Bradlaugh Hall was on Rattigan Road and is the place where the Indian sub-continent’s freedom resolution was passed. The idea of Pakistan had yet to be born. So, in a non-communal way it represented ‘freedom’ for everyone. In this hall studied the great freedom fighter Bhagat Singh, as well as other freedom fighters of every faith. To this hall came Jinnah and Iqbal and Nehru and Gandhi as well as all the other politicians connected with the freedom movement. The communal divide in our sub-continental politics had yet to be put in place by the British. To be honest we as a people fell for that scheme as priests run in all three countries. The collapse should not be too far away. But Sir Henry Adolphus Byden Rattigan, the chief justice of the Punjab, which later became the Lahore High Court, lived here in a unique Sussex thatched cottage, the only one of its type in Lahore. That gave the name Rattigan Road. It was where the posh families lived. In Mughal days this is where in winter ice blocks were stored underground for use in summer. On this road also existed the Parsi Temple, as also the massive house of Col. Ataullah, the famous mountaineer, where today exist 24 smaller houses and shops, as well as the house of Khawaja Saeed who owned Malik Theatre outside Bhati Gate, and where also lived the family of Syed Babar Ali and his brothers, as also the famous Government College professor Dr Ruchi Ram Shani. The list of the elite is almost endless. As Rattigan Road is near the shrine of Data Ganj Bakhsh, more correctly of Abu al-Hasan ibn Uthman al Jullabi al-Hajwari, we often set about exploring the areas around this shrine. Let me describe a few ‘mohallahs’ around the shrine. There is the ‘hijraan da mohallah’, or the lane of the transgenders. As a journalist I explored it for several articles written then. My neighbours warned that if one ate their tasty food, one would become like them. Naturally, it was nonsense that was best ignored. The local police were provided food by them. But then they provided the best clues about the working of those managing the shrine. Let me share one story that was an exclusive. I was informed that the area police had produced a ‘Pick Pocket Alphabet’ book. My younger brother Karim verified it and pointed out several of them who operate there. My friend Dr Ejaz Nabi was also a victim of these pick pockets. After considerable effort one of them provided me with that ‘famous’ book. I interviewed several of them and the next day the daily ‘The Pakistan Times’ carried photographs of the book as well as my story. It created a commotion and my Editor the late Mr. AT Chaudary praised me for the story. However, in the evening he again called me to his office and there sat the inspector general of police as well as the chief secretary. They all scolded me for trying to defame the government. After these high ‘officials’ left the editor’s office I was called in again. I thought he was going to dismiss me, but as soon as I entered, he said; “Darn good story. Now go back to work.” Another lane, better still a bye-lane, was occupied by ladies of rather ‘interesting’ pastimes. The pickpockets and the eunuchs and the law-enforcers provided them with ‘business’. Men, mostly high officials, were well looked after they emerged from these shady houses. The dozens of food persons were ordered to send their best to the concerned houses. Such was life then. Probably still is. Piety is timeless and has many shades. But there was a ‘pious’ side to this business of Data Darbar. Often people would report that a bearded man rushed to them and told them about wasting their time. A schoolteacher acquaintance informed me that after she was emerging from the shrine having said her prayers in silence, this old man rushed towards her and said: “Forget it, you will never marry”. He then got lost in the rush. Till today 40 years since this incident, she is single. A lot of other people have reported this old man and his predictions. Just how does he know what people pray for is a mystery. But then these tales are the things that keep this saint and his shrine functioning. Piety is not my strong point, but it is true that this shrine is attended by the largest number of believers in the entire sub-continent. Away from belief just behind the shrine on Rattigan Road are vast motorcars spare shops. Once while sitting with one mechanic, he was called to attend a telephone call. He returned saying that soon another car will be coming, and we must dismantle it in record time. The car came and within 15 minutes six men had taken it apart, with each part going to a separate shop. The car had disappeared, literally. This business still operates. There is no need for me to describe who gets what. Then on Rattigan Road we see all the old grand bungalows being pulled down and in their place shops and flats rise. Where once existed merely 14 large houses, today exist 109 small houses and flats and 87 small shops. The fact that it is legally a residential area is of no consequence. Even in the Bradlaugh Hall area exist five illegal houses owned by lawyers. Though work on the main hall is continuing trying to set up a ‘Partition Museum’ to depict the horrors of Partition, the organisation handling the rebuilding have yet to move in that direction. Who will set it up? That has yet to be resolved. Maybe the Amritsar Partition Museum in their old town hall has a lesson to follow. Life in Rattigan Road was one delightful one. In Basant my brothers went crazy trying to catch runaway kites. My father held his own gatherings of famous poets, writers and musicians, not to forget liquid refreshment. He passed away in that house. I married and left the area. But the memories continue … and always will.