A few days ago, a friend returned from Pakistan’s capital city, buzzing with the frantic energy it demands. As we spoke about his relentless work schedule, he began to lament the “lethargic attitude” of the people of Potohar. I laughed—not at the people of Potohar, but at the familiar refrain.
His complaint triggered a memory from just days earlier. I was at an electrician’s shop in Bahawalpur, getting my car fixed. The work took time, so I left and returned home. In the evening, the electrician sent my car back with a driver so they could use another vehicle to return. I offered the driver and electrician a cup of tea, which they accepted. As we chatted, he began complaining about his work routine. The center of his grievance? The “lethargic people of the farmer state of Bahawalpur,” the Riyasti or Saraiki people. Again, I found myself laughing.
The pattern was uncanny. A relative, a doctor preparing for the CSS exam in Lahore, once met me by chance at a library very early in the morning. He offered me breakfast, which I accepted. Over the meal, the conversation swiftly turned to the city’s inhabitants. He declared the people of Lahore lazy, “born only to eat paya and drink lassi.” Once more, I could only smile at this poor generalization.
This lens isn’t confined to domestic migration. Last September, during a visit to Sindh’s Thar region, my hosts—a family of successful businessmen who had migrated from India during Partition—expressed similar sentiments. They viewed the indigenous people as lacking drive and ambition. The narrative was identical; only the geography had changed.
Perhaps the most telling example came from my time in Cambridge, UK, during my PhD. I was an active member of the Pakistani community there and had a friend who drove a cab day and night through an online app. During a dinner, he was constantly on his phone, eager to catch the next ride. He shared his ambitious plan to soon move his entire family from Rawalpindi to the UK. And what was his assessment of the British people? “They are lethargic. They only work five days a week and spend the rest blowing all their money.” Again, I could only smile.
From the UK to Umerkot, from Rahim Yar Khan to Rawalpindi, from Lahore to Bahawalpur, a major pattern emerges. It is a global phenomenon, observable in both national and transnational migration. The diaspora, the migrants, the newcomers—they live a completely different life, one dedicated to a single, all-consuming goal: to settle.
Those who are already settled enjoy different privileges. They do not face the immense pressure of buying a home in an inflated market, navigating complex visa systems, or uprooting a family. Their pace of life is shaped not by survival, but by stability. They can afford a five-day work week; they have the luxury of spending their earnings on leisure.
To compare the relentless hustle of someone in the “sprinting” phase of settlement with the steady pace of an already-settled community is to miss the point entirely. If you observe the third generation of those same settlers, their thinking patterns, spending habits, and way of life often mirror the indigenous population they once criticized. Why? Because they are no longer settling—they are settled.
This mindset of “the settler versus the settled” is a critical dynamic that needs addressing. Labeling an entire community as “lethargic” based on the frantic, often unsustainable pace of a newcomer is a recipe for misunderstanding and ethnic tension. It creates an unnecessary divide where none needs to exist.
The problem is real, and it is everywhere—from global metropolises to domestic towns. The solution lies in recognizing that pace is not a measure of character but of circumstance. The sprint of settlement and the marathon of a settled life are two different races. Judging one by the rules of the other helps no one. We must approach this perception with care, fostering empathy over accusation, lest these casual generalizations harden into lasting and dangerous conflicts.
