Two hours north west of Lahore, and half way to Gujranwala, is the town of Aminabad. Once prosperous, for the last 150 years it has been slipping into quiet obscurity.
The decline began in the 19th century with the realignment of the GT Road. The newly constructed railway followed, and what was once a provincial trading centre moved slowly off the maps.
The money that was there remained, and the Hindu and Sikh families with their great multistory mansion or havelis continued, if more quietly then before.
It was not until Partition that all changed.
The logic of the day, if that can be the word for the chaos that ensued, demanded that minorities of either side change places. And so Hindus traded prosperity for rags and journeys on overcrowded trains east, and penniless mohajirs [refugees] from Haryana and Uttar Pradesh took their place.
The houses, predictably, were looted. Locals destroyed their fine furniture and fittings. Frescoes were defaced on suspicion of being haram.
These days a new town has grown up between the highway and rail line, noisy and brash. But the old town continues, and the children of those first immigrants still occupy houses impossibly grand.
Traces of paint and plaster decoration remain high up where the mobs could not reach. Sculptured peacocks still guard the massive porticoes and carved vines cover the doors. Floors have collapsed here and there and the town slowly shuffles downward.
The families watch the decline and repair as best they can but the mansions are old and expensive to conserve, let alone restore.
From the rooftop where I sit and draw, once the grandest of the havelis, you can see rooms now open to the light and solitary walls with empty recesses that once held household effects.
Just down the road, and before the fields of this fertile land begin again, stand two temples, plaster greyed by the years, ficus growing from cracks in their walls.
