pring lasted for about 44 minutes this year in Lahore. One moment I was happily swathed in shawls and intrigue in front of roaring fires, but by the next morning it felt like a heatwave. There was so little warning that I didn’t even have time to wear my transitional linen clothes. It’s only Day 3 of warmer weather and already I find myself arguing with my electrician about why ACs don’t go below 16 degrees Celsius. Summer, it feels, is here.
Its arrival put to rest the fledgling rumour that the government was going to bring back Basant this year - particularly off-putting since I had a yellow shalwar kameez made especially for that, and which, contrary to what my tailor says, doesn’t make me look like “the Sun.”
Basant in Lahore did not materialize, even though the Punjab government had raised hopes this year
I was thinking about Basant nostalgically the other day, not so much because I miss kiteflying (like most sports, it gave me anxiety issues) but because of something called the Industrial Fair that used to take place at the same time. The fair was held in the then open fields behind Lahore’s Fortress Stadium, where overnight a mini-city of tent booths would spring up. Inside them were a maze of small businesses, handicraft shops, artisanal food makers, corporate companies, tradesmen and artisans from all across Pakistan selling everything from noodles to gold sequined beanbags. There were jewels from the North and embroideries from the South, circus performers, puppet masters, perfumers, ceramicists, tailors, cobblers, weavers and more. Shops to buy seed, or leather, or jackets, or jeans, or cake. I suspect many of the businesses were export-based and used the fair to sell whatever merchandise they couldn’t send abroad, which meant you could often get Levi’s jeans for nothing. The whole thing had the familial, celebratory air of a holiday market - and I loved it.
At its height the fair would run for close to three weeks, but over the years it became smaller and smaller until eventually one year it didn’t come back at all. In its place eventually rose permanent supermarkets and large shopping arcades, and to be honest Lahore hasn’t missed it much since. But I was reminded of it this week when I was went to something called Daachi Festival, which promises to be a similar thing.
Essentially a scaled-down version of the industrial fairs of yore, Daachi brings together small businesses, farmers and artisans to sell things based on Pakistani resources and/or aesthetics
Billed as a handicraft fair, Daachi apparently means Camel in a Sindhi dialect (don’t come for me if I’m wrong, because the internet also told me it’s a racial slur in Japanese and a classist insult in Chicago). Essentially a scaled-down version of the industrial fairs of yore, Daachi brings together small businesses, farmers and artisans to sell things based on Pakistani resources and/or aesthetics. It was held in a wedding hall in the city, and each business had either a small table or a larger stall.
There were the usual ceramics from Multan, and embroideries from Sindh, but there were also some really remarkable finds. One was a honeymaker from Hunza, who was selling raw unfiltered honey that tasted like Spring in a jar. There was a jeweler from Peshawar who had turquoises so large you’d think they were cricket balls, and beside him a woman selling truck-art-inspired homeware items like trays. Another stall sold Rock Salt lamps and objets d’art, run by an exceedingly persistent man called Mr. Shahab who spent 30 minutes convincing me of the benefits of salt in a way that was both extensive and alarming.
I went on the last day of the event, and it was overrun with hawk-eyed shoppers keen to get a good deal before the sellers left town. When they weren’t catering to haggling aunties, some of the sellers told me it had been a good fair, but that they’re finding it hard to keep small businesses afloat because the economy contracted by a third in under a year - and everyone is feeling the pinch. Lots of people have been saying this recently, and so I nodded in earnest sympathy. It wasn’t until I was outside that I realized it may have been a ploy to make me buy things, but I still believe them. Except for you Mr. Shahab, because in case you’re reading, I still don’t believe a salt lamp improves my blood flow or will have any effect on my digestive tract (thank you for going down that deeply uncomfortable conversational rabbit hole btw). But thank you for selling me two at a discount and I’ll let you know about the third one via email.
