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CULTURE: LAHORE’S FORGOTTEN KITE ARENA
With the return of Basant to Lahore this year, many tales associated with a festival once lived across every street, park and rooftop of the city return with it.
Among these stories, I was particularly interested in the popular spots of the city where not only this festival but the larger practice of kite-flying in Lahore thrived. After speaking to a number of people associated with the sport of kite-flying in its heyday, a subject that everyone kept returning to was the now non-existent Guddi Ground.
Across the Lorry Adda [bus stand] in Lahore, the area that now constitutes the northwestern part of Greater Iqbal Park, was once popularly known as Guddi Ground among locals. Guddi Ground lay within the area once known as Minto Park, later renamed Iqbal Park. Once a stage of epic kite-flying contests in Lahore, the ground is nowhere to be found anymore — a casualty of the ban on kite-flying in 2007.
The name itself hints at an intimate relationship with the sport of kite-flying as guddi commonly translates to a ‘kite’ in local vernacular. The Guddi Ground, however, was no ordinary place for kite-flying. It had a prestige much like Lord’s for cricket aficionados or Wembley for football fans.
In a corner of Greater Iqbal Park lies the ghost of Guddi Ground, where kite-flying wasn’t a hobby — it was a battlefield. As Lahore prepares to celebrate Basant again, veteran fliers remember the ustaads, the duffs and the phatta challenges that made this ground sacred…
As a kite-flier, one had to pass a strict criterion to become eligible for playing in a kite-flying competition at the Guddi Ground. Amateurs were not welcome, and only the professionals were allowed to display their mastery in a sport that had its own unique rules of the game.
Kite-flying holds centuries’ old tradition in Punjab, promoted more widely during the four decade-rule (1799-1839) of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, who tied it with Basant Panchami celebrations. The union became so popular that now the name Basant is synonymous with kite-flying. The old origins allowed kite-flying ample time to mature as a tradition and, more importantly, as a sport. It developed its own lineage system, particular linguistic terms, governing laws and an economy that supported the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of people.
Shakil Sheikh, once a prominent kite-flier and the current president of the All Pakistan Kite Flying Association (APKFA), remembers the Guddi Ground as a place where young men came to hone their skills. “Guddi Ground was like a university,” he says, “where kite-flying enthusiasts would come to learn from the masters, choose allegiance to a particular master, and start the long journey of play and practice to one day become eligible to participate in a kite-flying contest here.”
Contrary to how it is generally perceived now, kite-flying in Punjab — and particularly in Lahore — was not just another recreation or a hobby to relieve boredom. It was a serious sport, having its own hierarchy, allegiance system and levels of play. If you’re an amateur, you fly from the roof; if you’re a pro, you fly from the ground; and if you’re a master, you fly from the Guddi Ground.
The Origins of Guddi Ground
Legend has it that Guddi Ground rose to fame in the 1920s, when two kite-fliers started a friendly competition among them. They would each come on their bicycles, to the erstwhile Minto Park and the land adjacent to it, and bring four kites each for the duel. Such was the showmanship of their skill that spectators gradually arose and this friendly contest became a sought-after event. It developed extensively over the years, as more and more kite-fliers declared allegiance to certain masters.
Although it is difficult to find names of those who started this tradition in Guddi Ground, but some of the pioneers from the pre-Partition era who popularised Guddi Ground were Ustaad Imam Deen, Ustaad Khalifa Faiz Muhammad, Ustaad Daddu, Ustaad Khalifa Sultan and Ustaad Jalal, all of whom were highly revered in the kite-flying community and had hundreds of students of their own.
Unlike other local sports, kite-flying had a much a deeper lineage and allegiance system in Lahore, indicated by a system of ustaads [masters] and shaagirds [apprentices]. This allegiance system was known as ‘duff’ in the local vernacular. Each duff traced lineage from a master and a network of students who bore allegiance to him. Many of those students gradually became masters in their own capacity, with another branch of students who bore allegiance to them, and the lineage continued.
The customary rules of the duff were sacred, sometimes holier than blood relations. Kite-fliers belonging to the same duff were not allowed to compete against each other. On the other hand, real brothers belonging to different duffs could compete against each other, with the same ruthlessness of the game.
A ruthless competition
The Guddi Ground competitions were both formal and informal, albeit neither was non-serious. An informal competition would begin by any kite-flier or a group of kite-fliers from one duff challenging member(s) of another duff. The peculiar term for declaring this challenge was known as ‘waada’, which translates to ‘promise’.
At the time of waada, the rules of the game are established. For example, the number of total kites and their sizes, the standard of the string [dor] etc would be agreed. On the day of the competition, each challenger would come backed by those who were part of their duff. The ustaads of both challengers would also be there to support and advise. The matches — or paich, as they are known in local vernacular — would be played, scores would be counted and the winner would get a heroic reception.
A more formal competition was virtually a large-scale multi-team tournament, which could continue for months. Many such tournaments have been played at the Guddi Ground. Different teams would take part, each team comprising five to six kite-fliers on average. A single match would comprise of an agreed number of paich wins, as per the rules of the tournament, and whoever achieved that number first would win the match.
There would be a play-off stage, followed by quarter-finals, semi-finals and finals. The final would be viewed by hundreds of spectators and the winners and runners up would get worthy prizes, such as a motorcycle or small kites made of gold and silver.
A game between kite-fliers in the Guddi Ground would be played on the toughest format, known as the phatta [stool] challenge locally. The challengers would climb an elevated stool, with a platform measuring roughly three to four feet. They would conduct the paich from atop the stool and referees with whistles would ensure that no competitor exceeded the elevated space they were allowed.
Anyone who has an idea of kite-flying would know that the more space a kite-flier has, the more margin they get to pull the string and play their moves to engage the other kite. On the phatta, you have limited margin. The going gets tough and so the tough must get going.
From atop that phatta, with the barest of margins, the master kite-flier must play his moves and show everyone why he is the master. If he stumbles and falls down the stool, the game is over for him.
Death of a Sport
A close look at the history of kite-flying and its institutionalisation in the event of Basant sheds more details on how it all came to an unfortunate halt. There were longstanding arguments against Basant, such as the relatively popular one calling it an un-Islamic ritual.
The festival’s marriage with music, dance and occasional betting in post-Gen Zia Pakistan received vocal opposition from Islamist groups. One argument even claimed that Basant started after some members of the local Hindu community flew kites as an expression of their resentment against the death penalty to Haqeeqat Rai in the early 18th century. Haqeeqat Rai, according to the account, was a Hindu teenager who was found guilty of committing blasphemy against Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) during the rule of Zakariya Khan, the Mughal subahdar [governor] of Lahore from 1726-1745.
While such accounts — prominent yet unverifiable — and religious opposition could not stop Basant from growing every year, it was the tragic reality of innocent deaths it caused that eventually brought the festival down. The resistance to Basant, and kite-flying in general, because it led to the deaths of people and children is well and truly justified. After all, no festival should kill people. However, to understand the nuances of what led to this reality, one needs to look at the cultural and ethical changes that infiltrated the sport of kite-flying more prominently in the late 1990s.
The game, as it was played by the elders, had a code of ethics and sportsmanship, which was also a reason for its popularity. Winning and losing were part of the game and any result was heartily accepted by both competitors. On occasions such as tournaments, the losing sides would also participate in celebrations with the winners and both would dance on the same rhythms of the dhol [drum]. It was a sport in the true sense of the word.
What spoiled the game was a change in its ethical code and a spirit of unhealthy competitiveness, in which losing became a matter of shame.
Timmy Shah is a veteran kite-flier, who was a kite-seller in his heyday but now sells toys at the erstwhile kite market inside Mochi Gate of the Walled City of Lahore. He does not blame the government alone for the ban on kite-flying. “The ethical competitors, after realising that their kite had been defeated in the sky, would give up on the remaining string in the air by cutting it from their teeth, rather than pulling it back to use for another game,” he tells Eos. “This was considered a respectable gesture of sportsmanship.”
But, Shah continues, the newer lot make it a matter of their ego. They use every possible means to avoid defeat and to retrieve the dor, which endangers people. “This is from where the evil entered,” contends Shah.
The ugly competitiveness and clashes of ego in kite-flying should not be seen as disconnected from the political and cultural changes in the social fabric of Pakistan in the 1990s that dimmed tolerance levels among people.
In the domain of kite-flying, it brought two main changes. The first change was the size of the kite. What were initially a few standard sizes for kites across all formats of the game, measured in a unit called taawa in local language, now started to increase by the year. The bigger the kite, the bigger the pride.
The second and killer change, which was also to some extent connected with the first — as bigger kites needed stronger support — was the change in the thickness of the string. Initially, there were two variants of a locally produced string used for kite-flying, commonly known as a 10-number and 12-number strings. Both were differentiated by the direction of twists of the threads that made up the string that affected its firmness.
These were sturdy yet safe strings to use, as their side effects were limited to small cuts on the flier’s fingers in the case of strong winds and sudden pulls. This level of injury to a player is acceptable in many sports around the world. However, the desire to get better results in the game saw the demand for and use of thicker strings imported from India, England and Germany, accommodated by a lack of government oversight and regulation.
Investors saw an incredible opportunity for business by importing these strings and many grew rich overnight. These strings came in multiple variants and, while more sophisticated, blurred the line between safe and dangerous strings. The results were tragic and unfortunate, with many people and children losing their lives because of undetected sharp strings. Eventually, kite-flying was officially banned by the Punjab Government in 2007.
Revival of Basant?
The Regulation of Kite Flying Ordinance 2025, passed in December 2025, has marked the return of the Basant Festival in Lahore after a ban of 18 years. While the government of Punjab is promoting its decision as a revival of this cherished festival of Lahore, old school kite-fliers and kite-makers are divided in their opinions.
While many have welcomed the government’s decision, there are also those who feel that an overly regulated festival would strip away its charm. In any case, considering the controversial nature of Basant, caution and celebration have to go in tandem. The legacy of this decision can only be measured once the event has passed.
The writer is a culture and history enthusiast, currently working as the director of National History Museum Lahore. He can be reached at alifahmedmeem@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
A recent video showing a Quran that survived the devastating fire at Karachi’s Gul Plaza has reignited a centuries-old conversation. Throughout history, accounts of Bibles, Qurans or Buddhist sutras emerging unscathed from catastrophic floods and fires have been celebrated as Divine interventions. While these events offer profound spiritual solace, a closer look reveals a fascinating intersection of material physics and psychological bias.
From a physical standpoint, Dougal Drysdale, Professor Emeritus at the University of Edinburgh, suggests that a hardbound book’s survival is often due to the ‘Closed Book Effect.’ When shut, a book functions as a dense, oxygen-starved block of cellulose. Because fire requires a steady flow of oxygen to consume fuel, the tightly packed pages resist ignition by preventing airflow from reaching the interior.
In the event of a flood, the surface tension of water against tightly pressed pages creates a natural barrier. This prevents deep seepage for a significant period, often leaving the heart of the book perfectly dry.
American psychologist Thomas Gilovich explains that when a sacred text survives a disaster, it often becomes more than just a book. It is elevated to a sacred relic. This transformation, according to Gilovich, can significantly redefine a community’s cultural path. In the aftermath of the 2011 Joplin tornado in Missouri, US, survivors and news outlets frequently highlighted the ‘miraculous’ discovery of intact Bibles among the rubble of flattened homes.
The survival of holy texts in the aftermath of natural catastrophes is often termed ‘Divine protection’, revealing the cultural and spiritual narratives people love to attach to such instances
While hardbound dictionaries and cookbooks likely survived in the same ruins due to their similar physical construction, these secular items were ignored by the media as mere debris. The surviving Bibles were immediately elevated from functional reading material to sacred relics, often being framed and displayed as symbols of Divine protection.
By focusing on these specific books, the media triggered a cognitive bias that led people to view the event through a supernatural lens rather than recognising the simple physical durability of bound paper.
British scholar Susan Whitfield, in her 2004 work The Silk Road: Trade, Travel, War and Faith, details the discovery of the Mogao Caves in China. In that instance, the sealing of the Buddhist text the Diamond Sutra (868 CE) within a dry, walled-up chamber created a “natural vault” that protected the world’s oldest-dated printed book from the degrading effects of humidity and oxygen for nearly a millennium. The perception of such objects often shifts from the literary to the ‘miraculous’.
During World War I, pocket Bibles carried by soldiers occasionally stopped shrapnel due to the high density of their compressed paper. This led many soldiers to treat the Bibles as protective talismans.
The Codex Amiatinus, frequently referred to as the ‘Grandfather’ of Latin Bibles, has survived for over 1,300 years due to its immense physical durability. According to Drysdale, this enormous volume, created around 700 CE in Northumbria, England, weighs over 34 kilogrammes and was crafted from the skins of more than 500 calves.
The use of high-quality parchment makes the Bible significantly more resistant to fire and decay, as organic animal skins lack the highly flammable, oxygen-trapping fibres found in wood-pulp paper. This Bible remained virtually untouched for a millennium, preserved by the stable environment of an Italian abbey that served as a ‘natural vault.’
In West Africa, the Desert Manuscripts of Timbuktu offer a compelling example of texts surviving environmental factors, a story often framed as miraculous. When Islamist militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute in 2013, there was widespread global concern over the potential loss of thousands of ancient Islamic manuscripts. However, according to the researcher Mauro Nobili, the extreme aridity of the Sahara desert was critical in aiding their preservation for centuries.
The persistently low humidity prevented mould growth and kept the delicate ink stable, allowing for their long-term survival, which many viewed as a modern miracle. However, the more vulnerable manuscripts were secretly shifted to safer locations before the militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute.
During the Viking raid on Lindisfarne — a tidal island off the northeast coast of England — in 793 CE, a legend emerged concerning a sacred book, Lindisfarne Gospels, which was said to have been dropped into the sea by fleeing priests. Three days later, it washed up perfectly dry. While this specific account is often considered apocryphal, the physical survival of such ancient texts is frequently due to their durable leather and metal bindings, which act as a protective shell for the internal vellum.
Gilovich would point to stories such as this ‘dry’ recovery of a Bible as prime examples of how the media and oral tradition prioritise miraculous narratives over the mundane reality of material science, thereby reinforcing spiritual beliefs.
According to the prominent professor of psychological sciences J. Park, communities frequently transform these survival stories into powerful symbols of “Divine protection” as a means of processing the profound trauma of disasters. This phenomenon ultimately highlights a dynamic intersection, where material science meets deep human sentiment.
While the inherent fire-resistant properties of vellum offer logical, scientific explanations for the physical survival of many books, the human psychological element remains paramount. The inherent human need to find order, meaning and hope within chaos is what elevates these surviving sacred objects from mere material items to vital spiritual anchors for a community’s recovery and continuity.
The endurance of these texts represents a profound intersection between material science and human psychology. It is not merely the density of vellum, the chemical stability of ancient inks or the aridity of a desert that ensures survival. Rather, it is the way these physical realities interact with our inherent drive to find order in the wake of destruction.
Gilovich’s research posits that when a community witnesses the survival of a sacred text, they are not simply observing a quirk of physics. They are engaging in what Park describes as “meaning-making”, using the survived sacred object to process trauma and reclaim a sense of ‘Divine protection.’ Whether through the preservation of the Diamond Sutra in caves, or a Bible or a Quran found amidst the ruins of a modern disaster, these serve as a bridge between the tangible and the transcendent. Their survival is a testament to the fact that, while fire and time may consume the material, the cultural and spiritual narratives we attach to them remain indestructible.
Yet, it is equally important that we recognise the physical realities of their endurance, acknowledging that the science of material durability does not diminish the ‘miracle’, but rather provides a rational foundation for understanding how the written word survives the very elements meant to destroy it.
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Different varieties of leafy green vegetables (locally known as saag) are commonly grown in the Subcontinent due to the favourable growing conditions here. These green vegetables are prepared in traditional meals that contain the signature South Asian touch. However, Swiss chard remains relatively unknown to many.
Swiss chard is one of the easiest-to-grow leafy green vegetables. Unlike other leafy green vegetables, Swiss chard has beautiful bright green-coloured leaves with white, yellow or maroon midribs and stem. No wonder that a few sub-varieties of the Swiss chard are referred to as rainbow chard!
It is also known as spinach beet and leaf beet, while other names reflect the colour of its stems. For instance, the ones with white midribs are referred to as silver beet and those with red or maroon stems are known as rhubarb chard. Its striking colour combinations make it attractive enough as an ornamental plant.
Scientifically known as Beta vulgaris L. var. cicla, Swiss chard belongs to the Amaranthaceae family, which was formerly known as the Chenopodiaceae family. While it is also considered a beet, its root is inedible. Due to its close resemblance to spinach and beet root, it is not recommended to grow Swiss chard near either of them. Pests and diseases affecting beet root and spinach will likely attack Swiss chard as well.
While many other types of saag dominate South Asian kitchens, Swiss chard — of Mediterranean origin — remains largely unknown here…
Contrary to its name, Swiss chard does not originate from Switzerland. The origin of the ‘Swiss’ prefix remains contentious. One theory is that it is widely grown in Switzerland. In fact, Swiss chard primarily originates from the Mediterranean region. However, it is extensively used in Swiss cuisine.
Another theory is that the botanist who first classified this vegetable was Swiss and used the prefix to create a distinction from other leafy vegetables. The most common theory is that the European seed merchants added Swiss to distinguish it from the closely related French chard. If that were not enough to confuse you all, the word ‘chard’ is of Latin origin, meaning thistle — a common gardening term referring to a flowering plant which has prickly bracts.
Swiss chard seeds are easily confused with those of spinach, due to their stark resemblance. The seeds of Swiss chard are faded brown to dark brown in colour. They have a dry, rough texture and are irregular in shape. The seeds are hard and are surprisingly light for their size. Like spinach, one seed of Swiss chard can result in three to four seedlings. For this reason, it is known as a seed ball, containing potentially three to four seeds.
Being hardy, Swiss chard has minimal requirements. One of the best aspects about sowing Swiss chard seeds is that they can be grown in almost any available space. You can grow it on a strip of land, small pots and even around other plants in the same pot. However, when sowing Swiss chard seeds for a full crop, certain aspects should be taken into account.
In climates similar to Karachi, the seeds can be sown from mid-October onwards or when the temperature falls to 20 degrees Celsius. The potting mix should be pre-moistened and clear of pebbles and stones. Seeds should be placed half an inch below the surface and covered with a layer of compost. The soil should remain moist, not wet.
Depending on the desired yield, any pot size can be used, since the roots are small. Pots should then be placed in a cool shade with indirect sunlight. If the Swiss chard plant is being grown in an open field or in raised beds, it should be shielded from direct sunlight exposure, to minimise evaporation.
Some gardeners prefer to soak the seeds in water for four to six hours to ensure better and quick germination. In favourable conditions, Swiss chard seeds are likely to sprout within one week to 10 days.
Please send your queries and emails to doctree101@hotmail.com. The writer is a physician and a host for the YouTube channel ‘DocTree Gardening’ promoting organic kitchen gardening
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Dear Auntie,
Hope you are well. I am seeking your advice regarding a situation that has been bothering me for a long time. I’m a university student and I met this girl. She seemed very interested in me at that time and so was I in her. We had great chemistry, something I’ve never felt in my life. But I never confessed my feelings to her because of certain things I heard about her. Later, I found out she was dating someone. I internalised my love for her for quite a long time, almost a year, until I couldn’t hold it in, and confessed everything to her, even though I knew she was in a relationship.
The nature of my work requires me to face her and, whenever we work together, that chemistry-like muscle memory hits like a truck and I fall head over heels for her all over again. Even though getting her is nothing but a distant dream, I still can’t get over her and long for her all the time. It’s like a stalemate. I would really appreciate your advice on this.
Longing and Yearning
‘I Am Obsessed With a Woman I Can’t Have’
Dear Longing and Yearning,
This is a classic case of excellent chemistry but bad timing. Auntie has seen this film before and the hero always thinks that this one love is ‘different’. Maybe it is different for you. But the situation is very, very old.
Let’s start with the fact that you don’t want to face… that this is not love. This is emotional attachment, mixed with a heavy dose of imagination. And it is a powerful mix, made more powerful because the person in question is unavailable.
Every time you see her, your brain tells you “Ah yes, the unfinished business.” But notice something important… the girl chose someone else. This was not because you are not good enough, but because her life moved in a different direction. That is her choice, and chasing emotionally after someone who has chosen another path slowly kills your self-respect.
The chemistry you talk about is a result of you training your mind for a year to revolve around her. Of course, your brain runs back there. Our minds do what seems familiar and comfortable. Right now, you are feeding the feeling every time you replay moments and analyse your interactions with her. You are emotionally investing in a door that is firmly shut and you are wondering why you feel stuck outside. Of course, you are stuck!
It is time to start acting professionally with her. And it is time to stop any emotional conversations with her and avoid needless eye-contact. When your mind starts romanticising anything about her, interrupt it with reality, by reminding yourself that she is in a relationship and that you deserve someone who is available.
The person who is meant for you will not require this much suffering just to exist in your life. Mutual love is supposed to feel stable.
You are not losing her. You are grieving a life that you imagined. The grief will pass when you stop feeding it. You are simply holding on to an illusion because it once felt beautiful. Just let it be beautiful. And let it go.
Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis and/or feeling suicidal, please go to your nearest emergency room and seek medical help immediately.
Auntie will not reply privately to any query. Please send concise queries to: auntieagni@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
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