They seem strengthened to have each other - an arm creeps round another's manly shoulders - and it is not long till namaz.
For this city was never meant to be just about concrete. So where the wealthy once carved lattice work into the upper portions of homes to mingle sky and stone or built airy pavilions atop palaces to imagine they sailed on the atmosphere, now ugly collections of storeys trail out into fanciful aviaries. Men still seem to want to possess some sky and so they have caged a portion in chicken wire and filled them with love birds and doves, the creatures that embody Lata's voice, refusing to be bound to earth, to be found. And so Lahore appears to have a floating extra storey, somewhere between architecture and air that will keep us all dreaming. Beyond that, the last wispy outposts of the city, forays into space, are paper kites.
At ground level, there were some birds on Thursday being taken for a ride. They were jungle green, caged in a hot-pink mesh and held aloft by a motorbike rider, steering with the other hand. The little pets thought they were flying, such was the thrill of speed and air, flying through crowded streets, the world a trap. And he, in turn, felt free as a bird.
On my street birds of a feather flock together. There are some bunnies in a tank, too, and some fish in bags, but mostly this bazaar is for the birds: pigeons, quails, sparrows (are not they sold two for a penny?) budgies, parrots, parakeets and fighting cocks. My little friend Harry, 4, is a true bon viveur. He lavishes equal love on these (not the cock, little man, fingers out) and the chickens at the poultry man's that his father might have killed for tea. There was Elephant Gate, Cavalry Gate and Camel Gate in the city's imperial fortress, but here is the Fine Feathered Friends Gate from where they are bought to make it a little easier for a struggling city to reach for the sky.
The animals here share their space with us.
To use public transport is to be farmed. Sheepdog conductors round us up, calling out to stray pedestrians, preying particularly on those of us who lack direction. They can spot us a mile off. We hear their cries and follow. One calls out, 'Yadgaar, yadgaar, yadgaar': 'Memorial, memorial, memorial' and reminds me where I want to be. We are herded and penned in and profits mean more than welfare in this industry. The conductor shuts the gate, as it were, and barks at the driver to leave. He slaps the side of the bus as if it's hide, whistles cajoling noises then enters traffic jams to negotiate paths through the jungle of vehicles. The driver jolts forward and stops. 'We're not leaving until you've filled this wagon,' he says, 'it's not worth it otherwise'. And so we wait.
Meanwhile a shepherd herds his sheep past the bus stop. It's a long way to meadow land from here but the little team of man and beasts look more purposeful than us lot, their curly hennaed heads bobbing forward methodically. They cannot be persuaded to go to Memorial - they have nothing to remember - nor to Regal Cinema, nor Race Course Park. Eyes down sheep, focus on pasture.
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There is much mirth in the city. One kebab man chops frying onions in a red-hot rhythm using two knives like drum sticks. A welder is making sparks fly in time to his disco radio station. A bagpiper in tartan embraces a man with tears, it's been so long. Drivers get given a free balloon with every petrol purchase. They end up looking like inflated emergency bags except everyone is laughing. It serves my bus driver well when he barters it for two cigarettes and a matchstick - maybe it had been quite a stressful drive with that between him and the wheel after all.
On the basis of all this, I could call it 'Lahore: City of Smiles' but I fear the insipid tourist board would hijack the phrase and I don't want to help them who have sold off the Grande Dame of hotels, Falettis, to someone who has boarded it up so selfishly. Or worse, some Batchelor of Arts, Punjab (fail) will add to the plethora of two storey Humpty Dumpty Academies of Science, Kids Gardens for Grooming, English Grammatical Schools and Scholars' Hutches (I kid you not). Spare us, O spare us the Happy Smiling College of Lahore, A-levels a speciality.
In the few hours between the Punjabi pop being switched off for the night and dawn's azan an absurd noise tears the quiet and with it, the sense of all being well. A donkey brays, trying with its rude and amusing voice to be eloquent. It is hoarse, squeeky and unsteady. But I do not laugh at it; it is gut wrenching. I am not yet so away with the fairies that I can understand the speech of animals but I hear in my mind that it is raging about its hunger and bone-tiredness, its wounds from traffic and cruelty, its fear of the city. They share the space - and some stories - with people. And I rejoice greatly about how our king came to us; righteous and having salvation, humble and mounted on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey. We can be sure he has heard our stories, he has shared our space. He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.
