y first visit to Lahore’s famous flea market began with a wrong turn. Guided by locals, I walked along the southern boundary wall of Mayo Hospital, quickening my pace to escape the stench hovering over the alley. I bypassed the roadside stalls without a glance, eventually turning onto Aibak Road — a narrow vein connecting New Anarkali to Mayo Hospital before both it merges into Circular Road.

Here, the air shifted. The foul odour gave way to the sharp, mingled scents of fresh ink from nearby printing presses and slaked lime from neighbouring paan shops.

Though night had fallen, the main passageway of New Anarkali bazaar was brightly lit and teeming with life. Halfway through the market, a craftsman caught my eye: a man in his late fifties, bent over a wristwatch, inspecting its tiny gears through a monocle strapped to his left eye. Clad in a crumpled shalwar kamees and a beanie, he kept his gaze fixed on his work, speaking to customers without looking up.

Despite his quiet posture, he was a natural storyteller who kept the crowd around his stall thoroughly engaged. I had to clear my throat to draw his attention.

After I greeted him, he sized me up briefly and introduced himself as Muhammad Shahid.

Shahid’s connection to the place dates back to the 1990s. As he talked, his hands moved with practiced speed, finishing a repair before returning the watch to a satisfied young customer, who strapped it on, paid and walked away.

“I began by accompanying my father [to this shop] at a very early age,” Shahid said with a faint smile.

Decades ago, expensive watches were indispensable symbols of status for bureaucrats and affluent businessmen. Skilled horologists like Shahid and his late father, Bashir Ahmed, were highly sought after. They also drew foreign visitors looking for quick, quality repairs.

Then came the digital shift. As mobile phones proliferated between 2006 and 2015, wristwatches rapidly lost their daily relevance. Yet the father and son refused to abandon their post, sitting at their bench even on days when no customers arrived.

“It felt as though people had completely given up on watches — as if [the watches] didn’t exist at all,” Shahid recalled, his eyes moistening. Then, his face brightened. “But look at the positive side: watches are in vogue all over again!”

In historic cities like Lahore, people do not merely inhabit neighbourhoods; over time, the neighbourhoods begin to inhabit them.

Asked if he wore one himself, Shahid smiled and pulled up his sleeves to reveal three watches strapped across his wrists. “I have always loved them,” he said.

His routine has remained unchanged for decades: he arrives at 11 am and leaves at around 9 pm, working with undiminished focus.

“Hun har saveray dukaan te aan di aadat ban gai ae. Te ae aadat menu bohat pasand ae,” he said in Punjabi. (Now it has become my habit to come to the shop every morning—and I dearly love this habit.) He added proudly that his hard work fuels a clear purpose: funding his two daughters’ education.

As he packed up his tools for the night, I asked if he had ever considered leaving the market. The question brought a moment of heavy reflection, leading to a memory of his late father.

“During my father’s final days, when he was bedridden, we moved to a house near Data Darbar against his wishes,” Shahid said. “One day, frail and weak, he managed to slip out of the house. He made his way back to our old home near Old Anarkali, standing there just gazing at the building and the bazaar with deep longing.”

A nearby cloth merchant, listening intently, broke the silence: “Shahid sahib, ae gal sanu pehlan kadi nahi dassi tussi,” (Mr Shahid, you never shared this story with us.)

The moment elicited laughter, breaking the tension. Shahid promised to share more stories, offered a warm handshake and quietly disappeared into the bustling crowd.

Walking away, I couldn’t help but reflect on the invisible thread connecting people to the soil and their past. In historic cities like Lahore, people do not merely inhabit neighbourhoods; over time, the neighbourhoods begin to inhabit them.

Usama Malick is a storyteller and an occasional contributor