Ye Old Fort

I’m sure the Old Fort has a name, but don’t ask me what it is. If you go to Lahore, you’ll have no trouble finding it. It’s old. It’s a fort. The day was far too hot to stuff my brain with facts and figures I’d no doubt forget. Besides, it’s difficult to appreciate “gorgeous” and “majestic” when sweat is trickling into your eyes. Gasping, I staggered after J. across patchy bits of grass, up uneven stone steps, and through blessedly shady rooms, hoping the cultural enlightenment would end.

J. paused atop a brick wall, gazing with a wistful expression at cricket players on a field below.

I came to a wobbly halt behind him and watched a kid touting sodas beneath a shade tree, too stunned with heat to gesture I'd like to buy one. Idly I wondered about the symptoms of heat stroke.

Then a cunning plan sprang to mind. “Would you like to go and watch the cricket?” I asked J.

“No, that’s okay. You’d be bored.” But was that a hopeful note in his voice?

If there was any chance I could spend the remainder of the afternoon sprawled upon a lawn, I was taking it. “Not at ALL!!! You can explain the game to me.”

“You don’t want to look about the fort some more? Though it’s true, one fort looks much like any other.” He said the last bit quickly, as if afraid I’d change my mind.

“Cricket sounds fascinating!”

And we were off.

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