The question lingers: What do I tell students and first-time visitors about The Mall as it was a few years ago? The answer clicked the other day as I rummaged through my phone’s photo gallery. There was this image I had taken recently: the brass plaque of Artisans’ Park, lying on the roadside like the shattered visage of Ozymandias. Blurred by dirt, it perfectly mirrored the way the memory of that park has faded.

Located in Old Anarkali, the park was once a thriving urban sanctuary. It was always populated by young students from various institutions — some quietly smoking away their exam stress, others indulging in lively banter over freshly squeezed juices from the now Hafiz Juice Corner, a distinctive hexagon-shaped shop nestled at the park’s edge.

The juice spot’s story is as rich as its menu. Hafiz Zahid, the current proprietor, says that his father, Haji Khushi Muhammad, started the business in 1960. Initially named Hafiz G, it offered dahi bhallay and fresh fruit juices. In the 1970s, as its popularity soared, the outlet was rechristened Hafiz Juice Corner.

Haji Khushi Muhammad was famous for a unique tradition: he would squeeze the absolute last drop of fruit and make an extra half-glass out of it for the customer — all for the price of one. This generosity of spirit became part of the shop’s enduring appeal.

Even today, the quality remains a delight for flavour lovers. Their pyali (small bowl) of fruit chaat is a blend of all seasonal fruits — often 10 at a time — generously topped with apricot and plum chutney. Zahid tells me they add a secret masala to the chutney that makes all the difference.

Their chana chaat is equally delicious, especially when topped with crunchy papri (crispy fried dough wafers). But the dish that truly captures the heart is the pani puri (also known as gol gappay). The moment I think of its piquant, tangy water, my mouth waters. The sharp, refreshing liquid is infused with tamarind, mint, and, again, some secret potpourri of condiments.

Fortunately, for Lahore, the unforgettable tang of the pani puri and the legacy of Haji Khushi Muhammad’s generosity remains intact, a sweet and sour reminder of a cherished Old Anarkali.

I have tasted pani puri across Lahore, but the quality and taste here are unmatched. Be it summer or winter, I make sure to have a pyali every time I pass by.

The legacy has expanded. On one side of the main passageway in Old Anarkali, there are now four shops of Hafiz Dahi Bhallay. Following their father’s demise, the brothers divided the business: Zahid manages the dahi bhallay and chaat side, while his other brothers handle the juice section.

Zahid has shrewdly put up banners of Hafiz Gol Gappay on three of his shops. He understands that women typically gravitate towards tangy foods. What could be more flavourful than their signature pani puri?

The Hafiz family is now planning to open more outlets across the city.

Yet, as I see the forgotten plaque of Artisans’ Park, a deeper thought sets in. While development and expansion are inevitable, some things and some places are better left untouched. Otherwise, they lose their essence.

The physical park may be gone, but its spirit endures in the buzzing crowd outside Hafiz Juice Corner. When the essence of a place is lost, what is truly left? Fortunately, for Lahore, the unforgettable tang of the pani puri and the legacy of Haji Khushi Muhammad’s generosity remains intact, a sweet and sour reminder of a cherished Old Anarkali.

Usama Malick, an occsional contributor, has an MPhil in English