Walking is generally considered one of the most effective ways to learn the geography, layout and ambience of a city. It gives you the luxury to stand and stare at architectural marvels, monuments and even buildings that might be of little interest to the common eye.

It is the same luxury Welsh poet W.H. Davies mourned when he wrote “We have no time to stand and stare” in his poem Leisure.

This becomes especially evident when one recognises a peculiar characteristic of big cities: no matter how much one walks and explores them, there is always something left unseen and undiscovered. In my hometown Lahore, I have walked nearly 20 kilometres in a single afternoon — and still come home feeling I have missed something.

During a recent trip to Mall Road, I pulled up near the corrugated iron sheets placed a few paces south-east of the historic Pak Tea House cafe. The sheets were blocking the view of the government’s ongoing project in the area around the Neela Gumbad [Blue Dome] shrine.

A boys’ hostel in Lahore built more than 100 years ago and in continuous use until a few years ago now lies empty and forgotten…

I went into a nearby street, shouldering my way through the bustling crowd near the Kutchery Road entrance of New Anarkali, before finding the passage that could lead me to Ewing Hall.

Ewing Hall was constructed in 1916, before the partition of British India, to serve as a boys’ hostel. It was named after Dr James Caruthers Rhea Ewing, the long-serving and highly venerable principal of the Forman Christian College — now the FFC University (FFCU).

But finding this hostel is no easy task, which is between seven and eight kilometres from the university campus. Its primary access point now is a narrow walkway along the wall of King Edward Medical University. Being above six feet, I could see that an enormous stretch of land had been dug up beyond the iron sheet; the government’s ongoing infrastructure project had torn open the ground, leaving a crater-like void where a street once stood.

Despite the hindrances, I made a beeline for the hostel, where I was greeted by hostel staff, including Sharjil Sohail, who is the construction and maintenance manager at the FCCU.

While entering the main building, I noticed the plaque to my left side, bearing the following words: “This plaque was installed on 13 December 2016, to commemorate the centennial celebration of the construction of this building. Ewing Hall has served as a residential hall for FCCU students since its inauguration and is the oldest building in continuous use at the University.”

What was surprising was that there were no students in sight, even though the adjacent lawn was mowed, and the passageway and veranda were clean. The moment I stepped into the dormitory and was hit by silence, I asked Sharjil whether there were any students residing at the hostel.

“As far as I know, it was occupied by 70 to 75 students last time in 2018,” he informed me. We then entered the dining room, which had neatly arranged upturned chairs on tables. The settled dust on the furniture signalled that the last meal had been served years ago.

As Sohail raced through his descriptions of the hostel and its history, I pushed open the door of a room where two charpoys, facing each other, were placed against the walls. Ostensibly, two students could move in at any time and — armed with a table, chair and lamp — start residing there.

Curious and without noticing any technical fault, I asked Sharjil why students could not occupy this hall anymore. “The building is more than 100 years old now and it is not safe to allow students to occupy it without renovation,” he said, as we moved from one administrative room to the next and through the three-storey structure.

Comparatively, these administrative spaces were orderly — with personal computers, chairs and even some colonial relics properly arranged, as though staff would arrive for work at any moment. But who would they serve if the place is not brought back to life — with laughter, exam jitters, endless discussions and mealtimes?

Standing in that empty dining room, I found myself wondering what it had looked like full — the noise, the argument, the meals shared between strangers becoming friends. I later reached out to someone who had lived there.

Jahanzeb Jahan, a senior lecturer at Lahore’s University of Education, still remembers his room clearly. “I had a cubicle room on the second floor and, every night, the window gave me an enchanting view of Anarkali Bazaar,” he said. “It was an exquisite experience to feel the hustle and bustle from my quiet room.”

Life at the hostel wasn’t without its own peculiar charms, either. Jahanzeb says that some of the best discussions took place in the mess over meals, bringing together students from diverse backgrounds and cultures. “The lawn was serene, and greenery was luxuriously spread all over,” he added.

Before leaving Ewing Hall, I looked again at the two charpoys in that narrow room — still facing each other, still waiting. The lawn outside was mowed. The veranda was swept. Everything was maintained, and nothing was alive.

Ewing Hall is not a ruin. It is a building that works perfectly, minus the people it was built for. That distinction matters — because restoration here requires will, not miracles.

The Walled City Lahore Authority and FCCU have both the mandate and the means to act. As historian F.S. Aijazuddin has asked: you can buy new bricks from a kiln, but from where will you buy history? Ewing Hall has survived 109 years and a partition. The one thing it may not survive is indifference.

The writer is a storyteller with an MPhil in English. He can be contacted at usama.malick183@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, May 10th, 2026