It was inevitable, I guess. That 'Siberian Front'‚ brought us unseasonal rain and cold; and if the 'front' came, the 'back of the front' was bound to follow. And it did. And this time the unexpected rain washed away half a dozen fancy society weddings in Lahore.

Next day, the other half dozen brides were sent off from the unlikeliest venues. A friendly banker, who has lived in Dubai for years, gave away his lovely daughter in the Grand Lobby of the finest concert hall in town.

They are fine people, and have many friends so we all went, but that hasn't stopped a spate of twitting speculations about which cinema lobby, or Town Hall or Parliament House, will be used for which purpose next. Not that our spirits needed dowsing.

The simmering resentment over the cricket team's ouster from the World Cup refuses to die down. There have been calls for the President to institute a high-powered Judicial inquiry, and the spirit of the Father of the Nation has been invoked to heap fire and brimstone upon the players.

The latest snivelling argument is, "We are good sportsmen, and don't mind losing, but they gave up the ghost and lost too badly!" What did the boys do? Did they bring paper bats to play with, with holes in them? Did they hide behind the wicket instead of defending it like men?

It is true that Inzamam got run-out, but then he had had all the practice. He'd got run-out 34 times before! In the critical match against India, we made a respectable 273, including a lovely century. True they came on to make 100 in about ten overs, but that was not us playing badly, it was Tendulkar playing wonderfully!

So on to nicer things. In our classical music, the 'Gharana' or 'school' of Patiala is renowned for its virtuosity, as also for the infinite sweetness and melodiousness of their singing. In days of yore, two brothers sang so sublimely that people called them 'Jarnail Khan‚ and Karnail Khan' the 'General' and the 'Colonel'; and later the scion of the house was Padma Bhushan Ghulam Ali Khan.

In the Lahore of the sixties, Amanat Ali and Fateh Ali Khan sang their way into legend. Amanat Ali especially had a voice of such sweetness; a style of the delicacy of the tread of fairies; and to boot, he had a countenance of such beauty that when steeped in his music, he shone like an other-worldly being and you couldn't look him in the eyes.

Or there is something in the essence of music which does this. There is a picture of the great Kishori Amonkar on the cover of one of her albums. It was obviously shot while she was performing; eyes closed in the throes of her song, she is a luminous presence, and the light shines even in the picture.

Amanat Khan left us most inopportunely, and then his son, Asad took up the mantle. Then, while rehearsing a play, I heard this young man sitting behind me humming to himself, and I had to ask, "You son-of-a-gun, where did you learn to sing like that?" He turned out to be the younger son, Shafqat. Now he has formed his own group, named 'Fuzon', and they have released an album called 'Saagar'.

My friendly advice is that you get it because some of the numbers have little traces of the ethereal melodies which have haunted me for half a century. One in particular, 'Khammaaj', is a composition of such transcendental enchantment that it will keep you charmed for much longer than anything you read in this bitty letter from Lahore!