I stepped out of my Lahore hotel determined to defy the searing furnace of a September morning and trek the length of the Mall Road to the bazaar. I had forgotten to pack a pair of navy socks for a wedding reception and this oversight, I reasoned, presented an opportunity to work the stiffness out of my jet-lagged legs.

My plan was aborted by a young, bearded Lahore resident, who roared up on a motorbike. “Where are you going?” he asked. To Anarkali Bazaar, I told him. “Too far, very hot. Come, I take you,” he said, tapping the pillion saddle. There were some powerful arguments for walking away, but I find it tiresome to live with that paranoia. So I slung my aching leg over the rear wheel and we were soon inching our way through traffic, wedged between a sea container behemoth and a psychedelically painted bus.