nder the federal government’s newly re-imposed austerity drive, commercial markets and shopping plazas are mandated to douse their lights by 9 pm to curb national energy consumption and cushion soaring fuel import costs.

Yet, as the shuttered doors of Liberty Market and Shah Alam Market lock out the city, a parallel economy awakens along the dimly lit peripheral roads.

Although Lahore has virtually never existed without this economy, holding the city together at the seams, now more than ever, Lahoris from all walks of life are realising just how integral it is to the smooth functioning of the city.

At the crossroads where Gulberg’s corporate towers spill into older roadside settlements, 24-hour dhabas stand as the city’s remaining oases in the late evenings. Under flickering fluorescent tubes, these roadside tea stalls have transformed from mere tea stops into crucial convergence points. They serve as the collision ground for two entirely different kinds of Lahoris: those who labour under open skies to keep the woks hot and those who emerge exhausted from glass towers, seeking refuge after all conventional options have closed.

Shaukat Ali, 38, stands over an enormous, dented aluminum pot at a dhaba near Kalma Chowk, stirring a thick, caramelising blend of milk, black tea and cardamoms. “When the government ordered markets to close at nine, people thought the city would go to sleep,” he says, giving a forced toothy smile. “Instead, everyone comes here. The restaurants close by eleven, but the stomach doesn’t follow a government circular.”

Ali earns Rs 35,000 a month, sending the bulk of it to his village near Okara. His survival depends on the constant turnover of plastic cups and parathas. For him, the city’s austerity measures have meant a relentless rush of customers squeezed into a narrower window of time, forcing him to work double-shift without any increase in his basic daily wage.

Across the grease-stained wooden bench sits Mahnoor Raza, 26, an associate at a financial consultancy firm located in a nearby commercial office block. Her laptop bag sits heavy beside her and her formal suit jacket is draped over her arm. Her shift officially ends at 5 pm, but client deliverables for overseas accounts consistently keep her deskbound until midnight.

“By the time I shut my laptop, every air-conditioned café or decent takeaway option in the area is locked down tight because of the 11 pm restaurant curfew,” Raza says, cradling a hot clay piyali of doodh patti.

“Two years ago, we’d order burgers or head to a restaurant on MM Alam Road. Now, with inflation pushing food prices up and austerity laws shutting down formal dining early, this dhaba is literally the only place left where I can get a warm meal before heading home.”

For Raza, the dhaba represents a strange democratising space — a place where her corporate credentials matter far less than getting a seat on a plastic stool.

As the night deepens towards 3 am, the contrast grows starker. The corporate analysts, tech founders, delivery riders and security guards sit shoulder to shoulder under the same metal roof.

At the edge of the roadside curb, Muhammad Usman, 22, rests his head against the handlebars of his Honda CD-70. A brightly coloured delivery bag sits strapped to the pillion seat. Delivery riders are among the few exempt from the night curfews, making Usman’s bike a vital lifeline for the housebound.

“When petrol prices spiked, every kilometre felt like money slipping through my fingers,” he says, checking his smartphone screen for orders. “The government announced fuel subsidies for bikes, but the cost of living keeps rising. After 11 pm, when order volumes drop, we gather at the dhaba. It’s the only place where we can rest without getting moved along by security guards.”

Usman buys a single Rs 50 cup of tea — a calculated expense that grants him two hours of access to a wooden bench, a phone charging outlet and a moment of rest before his next late-night delivery run.

Watching over the interaction is Jalal Khan, 52, a private security guard stationed outside a high-rise bank branch directly opposite the dhaba. Armed with a 12-gauge shotgun and dressed in a faded navy uniform, Khan has monitored Lahore’s night shifts for over fifteen years.

“Earlier, the night had a peaceful rhythm,” Khan says, leaning against a concrete pillar. “Now, because of energy conservation laws, streetlights are kept off or dimmed to save power. It gets pitch dark. The dhaba’s lights are the only thing keeping this entire block visible and safe.”

Earning just above the minimum wage, Khan cannot afford the prices charged by modern convenience stores. The dhaba operator gives him free tea in exchange for keeping an eye on the parked motorcycles — a quiet arrangement forged out of necessity.

Sitting a few paces away, engaged in a low-toned discussion over a shared plate of daal fry, is Bilal Sheikh, 31, the founder of an early-stage software startup. His team works out of a co-working space down the road, running their operations at night to sync with European and North American client time zones.

“We run on a tight runway,” Sheikh says, gesturing to his small team. “We cannot afford lavish dinners or high-end office spaces with 24/7 catering. When the government enforces early market closures, it forces smaller businesses to adapt fast. The dhaba has essentially become our secondary conference room. We discuss code, negotiate client contracts and eat dinner here at 2 am.”

As the night deepens towards 3 am, the contrast grows starker. The corporate analysts, tech founders, delivery riders and security guards sit shoulder to shoulder under the same metal roof.

When energy crises push Lahore into an early curfew, the dhabas become the city’s unscripted meeting grounds. Across chipped plastic tables, the cost of keeping the lights on is paid in different currencies — by those grinding out overseas billable hours and those stirring milk tea until dawn just to make rent.

Nadia Ahmed Uqaili is a content strategist with over five years of global agency experience. She also writes short fiction on Substack. She can be reached at [email protected]