Lahore Museum Lets You Fill in the Blanks — All on Your Own!
April 15, 2025
When I visited the Lahore Museum, I wasn’t expecting to find Allama Iqbal’s leftover pakoras preserved and framed—but I was hoping to find ´something´ to chew on.
Something to spark a deeper connection to this city—beyond what I studied in Pak Studies class. Something to mentally stimulate me and emotionally tie me to Lahore’s cultural heritage. These are simple expectations from any museum visit. We’re not just ticking off a task for the day. Time is precious, and so is the need to satiate our curiosity.
As someone who has lived with a disability all my life, I’ve never really been able to roam the streets of Lahore freely, to see the city the way it’s romanticized in films, books, and poetry. I can’t explore Lahore from the ground up, so I experience it through car windows, corners, and buildings—places that allow me to enter with ease.
If I were a tourist here, I’d definitely mark Lahore Museum, Anarkali Bazaar, and Lawrence Garden on my map. I’d want to explore the city’s stories first—then hunt for the characters in its streets.
So one fine day, I went to the museum with a friend, hopeful that something would amaze me.
The management bringing out a ramp was a great start, and being able to navigate the entire ground floor was a huge plus. But I had no idea if there was an accessible second floor or a wheelchair-friendly restroom. So no, I couldn’t fully call it accessible just yet.
Lahore has history. Lahore has stories. But the museum doesn’t really tell them. Instead, it randomly places historical objects into vague categories, offering little more than a rough era guess and the most basic labels.
“A historical vase.” “Prehistoric jewelry.”
Like, kuch toh bata do yaar. At least tell me how it was found, where it came from, or who might have used it? Ok tell me who brought it here.
Sure, it got my mind working—but mostly in frustration. The museum left me emotionally scrambled (thank God I wasn’t PMSing). I struggled to connect the dots and started questioning the presence of certain items altogether. Some of them looked like they could be from someone’s grandma’s room—and she might still be alive and thriving! (And looking for it)
Maybe I’m unconsciously comparing it to the hundreds of museums I’ve visited abroad. But no matter where I go, I enter a museum hoping to learn something—to walk away with a deeper understanding of a place and its people. Why should this museum be any different? Why should I lower the standard for my own city?
But here, the objects are just… there. Each with a tiny slip of paper telling you no more than what your eyes can already see.
At this point, I can’t even blame the youth, faces caked in makeup, lost in selfie mode and oblivious to their surroundings. They don’t know what they’re looking at. And honestly—how could they? Why would they walk away with any sense of pride or love for their city?
If I were the curator—and let’s say I didn’t have complete information about a particular exhibit (which is common, because let’s face it, history rarely comes with an instruction manual)—I’d still try. I’d write about what we don’t know. I’d include the questions that historians are asking, or even prompt visitors to ask their own.
Let the exhibit spark an inquisitive conversation.
When I left the museum, I felt a sense of incompleteness. As I wheeled my way out into the street, I heard a vendor shout:
“Apka dehaan kahan hai? Aloo Chaat yahan hai!” (Where’s your attention wandering, when what you seek is right here—and it’s Aloo Chaat!)
I didn’t try the chaat, to be honest—mostly out of fear of street food-induced diarrhea. But I’ll give the guy credit for his marketing skills.
A few steps later, navigating cars, bikes, and Lahore’s famously inaccessible sidewalks, I gave in. My friend ordered a plate of chicken momos from a corner stall. As I munched on them, watched people go by, and even bumped into someone who recognized me from my digital content—I realized something.
No building can contain a city or its stories.
Because stories are living, breathing organisms. And if I want to be near them—if I want to become part of them—I’ll have to keep finding ways to hit the streets, the roads, and the public spaces.
I finished my momos and smiled to myself, thinking:
“Aapka dehaan kidhar hai? Asli Lahore idhar hai.” (Where is your focus? The real Lahore is right here.)
