t any traffic signal nowadays, one can see how the city has changed. Where bare heads once bobbed in every direction, helmets now dominate, a sudden population of modern Roundheads: shiny shells in every colour, size and fit. Some are borrowed, some bought at the last moment and some held together with duct tape. Only a fraction are sturdy enough to make a real difference.

It brings to mind, not entirely seriously, a story from the distant past. When the Manchus conquered China, men were required to shave the front of their heads and wear long ponytails, a visible sign that the rules had changed and obedience was expected. Walking through Lahore today, one can almost imagine a gentler, local version of that transformation. No shaved foreheads, of course, but heads concealed, identities muted beneath helmets, a city quietly learning the language of compliance. The sight raises questions, and one cannot help but smile at the historical echoes hiding in the simplest of streets.

The weather, as always, adds another layer of drama. In December, helmets feel like friends, warm hugs against the morning chill. But the city weather will not remain that gentle for long. Soon, the sun will assert itself and the roads will radiate heat so intense that even a short signal stop might feel like a tandoor. One wonders what will happen then to our new Roundheads, sweating under their shiny shells, balancing obedience with survival, pondering whether the helmet that was a friend yesterday may become a portable greenhouse tomorrow.

Then there are the silent watchers. Safe City cameras, perched high above the intersections like metallic crows, blink seldom and observe more. Their gaze is constant. Perhaps it is reassuring to know that rules can be enforced without confrontation. One cannot help but ask, in a casual, Sunday-afternoon way, what it means for a city when every bare-headed biker and belt-less driver is quietly noted. The city has acquired eyes, and we, motorcyclists and drivers, have become more visible than ever.

The fines arriving with curious punctuality undoubtedly encourage discipline. But one notices a pattern: the wallet grows lighter, the receipts multiply and the city’s collection jars look healthier, even as the streets remain full of other, less visible mischiefs. Traffic rules, perfectly enforced, have yet to make a dent in the usual rhythms of chaos elsewhere. Does tightening one corner of the city make the rest any straighter? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is only a reminder that the engines of order and the engines of revenue are sometimes strangely aligned, and sometimes not aligned at all.

Lahore has always had a way of surprising its citizens. A city of contradictions, of heat and dust and sudden transformations; of people who once ignored signals now standing straighter than ever; of helmets, good, bad, patched and shiny, multiplying like stars in a new constellation. For a moment, one can only watch, wonder and, perhaps, smile at the strange theatre of obedience and collection playing itself out beneath the relentless sun.

The writer is a staff member