Foreward - Purest Thread

Set in present day Lahore, Pakistan, "Purest Thread" illustrates the daily life of Yasmeen Bajwa and her family. This collection of one-dozen children's stories draws on Pakistani history, music, culture, and cuisine to illustrate daily life for the Muslim child. This story was written for parents to share with children, ages 7-10.

Since blogs are displayed in 'last comes first" order, readers are encouraged to use the numbered tabs in the right column to navigate through the story. Additionally, some of my other works are listed for your enjoyment.

If you like my work, support it with a simple click on the advertising tabs. Thanks.

The Pass

It was just after sunset when Yasmeen woke. The world around her had not changed much at all. The valley roads and the mountain ridges were still the same, but at least there were people to watch.

Up ahead, a man, a boy, and a collection of goats walked on the other side of the road. Just like their goats, the man and boy were layered in heavy wool. Just like the men of Lahore, the man and boy each wore a plain white shalwar kameez. Unlike the turban or kufi that men of Lahore wore on their heads, the goat herders wore sturdy wool caps called pawkul. Yasmeen hurriedly rolled down her window to get a better view of the herd. A gust of cold mountain air blew on her face.

It was no wonder why the men were dressed in heavy clothing. The thick wool cloth kept their bodies warm in the mountain valley. Yasmeen rolled up her window and turned off the air conditioning.

"How long was I asleep?"

"About four hours," replied her father, "do you know where we are now?”

Yasmeen shook her head.

“We're near the Khyber Pass. Do you see the Himalaya mountains ahead?"

At the foot of the mountains sat a camp. Mr. Bajwa pulled off the road and parked the car at one edge. .

"Is this it?" asked Yasmeen.

"Yes it is. I need you to wait here while I speak to one of the men."

Camels were herded into the same pens as the mountain goats. Large white tents defined the boundaries of the main camp. A group of men gathered around the campfire. They talked and laughed as food roasted in the fire pit. Yasmeen stayed in the car as her father got out and approached the camp. A man approached her father and they spoke briefly and then shook hands. Her father seemed to know everyone.

Yasmeen's father motioned for her. She got out and joined the men.

"Mr. Afridi, I would like you to meet my daughter Yasmeen."

"It is pleasant to finally meet you," he said, "your father talks about you often."

Mr. Afridi took Yasmeen's hand ankissed it. He then led Yasmeen and her father to one of the large white tents.

"This will be your house for the night," he said.

"You should change into somoething more suitable for the night," said her father. He then went to the campfire, leaving Yasmeen inside the tent by herself. After changing into layers of clothing, she carefully folded her Georgette Suit and packed it away. She also draped her hair in a dupatta, protecting her ears from the cold mountain winds.

Mr. Afridi and her father were talking about the goats when Yasmeen approached them.

"Yasmeen, we're going to the goat pens. Why don't you come along?" said her father.

Yasmeen tagged along with the two men. As Mr. Afridi combed the fine goat hair, Mr. Bajwa petted the goat across the back. He then invited his daughter to pet the goat as well. Yasmeen carefully approached the goat. She was a little afraid of touching the goat, afraid of the bony shoulder bones sticking out behind his neck. She ran her hand along the rear of the goat, which was fatter than the rest. The goat's warm body soothed her. She stroked the side of the goats belly.

"Their hair is soft," she said.

"It's not hair, it's fur," corrected her father.

"Acutally, it's some of the most valuable fur in the world. It's called Pashmina."

Yasmeen had seen soft pashmina scarves in Anarkali Bazaar, but never thought where they came from. In fact, they came from the backs of the Pashmina Goats. Yasmeen also made a second discovery. The luxurious wool called Cashmere came from the Kashmir valley. Although Kashmir was far away, the mountains were all around her. The Pashmina Goats lived only in these mountains.

After awhile, they returned to the warmth of the campfire.

"Would you like something to eat?" asked Mr. Afridi.

Yasmeen nodded.

Small clay pots sat atop the hot coals of the fire. Mr. Afridi removed the hot lid with a fire hook. He then dipped a spoon into the pot and ladled pieces of grilled goat meat on a platter for everyone to enjoy.

"We've grilled kunna for tonight's dinner. Fill a plate with as much food as you would like," offered Mr. Afridi.

Yasmeen glanced around at the tribesmen eating food. It wasn't that different from home, either. In addition to the goat meat, everyone ate rice and naan bread. They folded the naan and used it to scoop food into their mouths.

Yasmeen ate her kunna in the same way, too. The goat meat was tender and juicy. Yasmeen thought of the goats in the pen.

"Papa? Is this Pashmina?" she whispered.

"The tribesmen depend on every part of the goat for their livelihood. Goats have given their livelihood to sustain Paskitanis for generations. For that, Yasmeen was thankful.

After dinner, it was time for evening prayer. Instead of the usual call to prayer coming from minarets rising above the city, one of the tribesmen cupped his hands around his mouth and arched his head back. He sang out the call to prayer.

"Allahu Akbar!"

Evening prayer was nothing unusual, though. The only difference was the mountain wilderness around her.

"Papa, how do people live in these harsh conditions all year long?"

"They find ways to survive. This is where the other half of Pakistan's history book was written."

"Why do you say that?"

"All of the great conquerors of the world came through those mountains. Gengis Khan, Alexander the Great, Akbar the Great, and the Ottoman and British Empires."

Yasmeen looked up through the mountain passes. She thought about ancient warriors travelling over the rugged mountain terrain. How many lives had been lost over and through those mountains, nobody knows.

The mountain passes were to the Northwestern Frontier what the Partition was to eastern Pakistan. The mountains not only defined the wars, but they defined the people living there, too. The men sat arond the fire, weaving fanciful tales of their past.

"There was a man named Akbar the Great. He was the first of the Mughals, extending his empire from Mongolia to Afghanistan. His soldiers fought back invaders from the north, west, and east. His armies also defended the central empire from several opposing kingdoms."

Yasmeen listened with great intent. The storytellers imagery was vivid and pure. He painted pictures of great raids on the empire and swordfighting battles involving hundreds of foot soldiers.

"This was written in the book of Akbar. It was written by a man of his court. Akbar called his court 'The Nine Jewels,' These men included a poet, a singer, a writer, a finance minister, a general, and a mystic. These men helped form the centerpiece of his empire."

Sparks licked from the coats each time the storyteller struck his walkiing staff in the fire. His face lit up in a golden red glow.

"They expanded the empire east to China. They also crossed the Himalayas and into the valleys of Afghanistan. At it's greatest point, the Mughal Empire stretched across five modern-day countries."

What the story teller didn't reveal was that his greatest legacy wasn't the Empire. It was the people of Pakistan. The Pashtun tribesmen surrounding Yasmeen were proof of that. Although it was a very different world from Lahore, it was still part of Pakistan. The culture and food of the goat herders was just like the culture and food of Lahore.

At the end of the night, a bright blue moon hung in the sky overhead. The cold mountain air was crisp and clear. The view around her was unlimited. Yasmeen laid awake in the tent. Her father slept in his bunk, snoring quite loudly. Late at night, she snuck out to the goat pen.

Like Yasmeen, one of the goats was still awake. He knelt on the bare earth. As Yasmeen drew her hand across his back, her fingers traced each backbone. His wool was silky smooth. His eyes drooped as her loving pets put him to sleep, too. Yasmeen finally returned to her tent, curling up in her bed.

Through the night, Yasmeen kept warm beneath her heavy wool bedding. In the morning, dense fog joined the cold mountain air.

Yasmeen and her father prepared for their trip home. Mr.Afridi's men loaded bundles of wool into the back of Mr. Bajwa's car to take back to the carpet-maker's factory.

"I have something for you, too," said Mr. Afridi.

He placed a small coin in her hand. It had a hold in the center.

"It's a touch coin. It is said to bring luck to whomever holds it."

"Thank you very much."

Yasmeen grasped the coin in her pocket on most of the journey home. She imagined luck flowing from the coin into her body. The luck may have been that the journey home seemed short and sweet. Yasmeen looked up at the moon as they crossed the Chanab River again. Chenab literally meant “Moon River.” Mr. Bajwa and Yasmeen unloaded all the wool and were on the road again. When they arrived home, they found everyone waiting around the kitchen table.

"How was your journey?" Mrs. Bajwa asked Yasmeen.

"It was long and cold, but I felt like Shah Jahan."

"Shah Jahan?" asked Mrs. Bajwa.

"His armies rode camels through the mountain passes, protecting it from invaders," replied Yasmeen.

He was the third and favorite son of Emperor Jahangir,” said her father.

“Am I your favorite prince?” said little Khan.

“All sons are equal in my eyes. Mohammad is my scholar, Faisal is my athlete, and you are my dreamer,” replied Mr. Bajwa.

“What does that make me?” asked Yasmeen.

“You are my one and only daughter.”

A smile stretched across Yasmeen's face. It looked as if her jaws would hurt from such a happy smile, but they did not. Yasmeen could not wait to conquer another part of the world with her father. Until then, her love for Lahore grew even more. Like her mother often said, "I have purchase Lahore with my life."

Where Five Rivers Meet

Sharif Bajwa stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a shaving brush in one hand and a bowl of shaving cream in the other. He dipped the brush into the bowl and waved the brush back and forth, painting his neck with shaving cream. He placed the shaving brush in the bowl and placed them on the sink. He picked up a straight edge razor an shaved the hair from his neck. Each stroke of his razor was slow and deliberate.

As Yasmeen stood in the hallway, she spied her father shaving in the bahtroom. She admired the way his salt-and-pepper beard received careful attention every morning. To Yasmeen, he was like one of the groundskeepers in any one of Lahore's Gardens.

As he worked, he whistled a song was vaguely familiar.

A moment of happiness, you and I
Sitting on the verandah,
Apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here, you and I,
With the garden's beauty
And the birds
Singing.

“Papa?”

“Yes, dear?” One half of his neck was clean-shaven while the other half was still covered in shaving cream.

“What are you singing?”

“An old ghazal.”

Yasmeen gave her father a quizzical look.

"It’s a song formed with romantic poetry. Have you ever heard of Rumi?”

Yasmeen nodded.

“He was one of the other great Islamic poets. His poems are about love, not deep thought.”

“Why are you singing that?”

“I guess I’m happy that you’re going with me. I made that song to go with the beautiful poem Rumi wrote. This trip reminds me of when I was young and I'd travel with your mother.”

“But you know I always like to travel, papa.”

She watched as he finished his shaving and rinsed off his face. He grabbed the square of red and white silk and wrapped it about his head, forming a neatly folded turban. He creased the edges of the fabric, pressing them firmly into place. He smiled at his daughter.

“Papa, I like your turban. You look one of the Mullahs from Badshahi Mosque.”

“I’m certainly not as regal as one of the holy men,” chuckled her father.

“I think you are,” replied Yasmeen.

He tilted his head to one side as he gave his daughter a puzzled look. He thoughtfully scratched his chin for a moment.

“Is that what you’re wearing today?” he asked.

"Is something wrong with it?"

"Not at all. I was just wondering if you saw the dress in your closet?"

"I thought that belonged to mother."

"That dress is yours. Your mother and I purchased it for you."

"Really?" asked Yasmeen.

Her father nodded. Yasmeen hurried to her bedroom and opened her closet. Hanging separately from the other clothes, the Georgette Suit stood out from the rest of Yasmeen's clothing. She peeled it off the hanger and quickly changed into her new outfit.

The Georgette Suit had alternating brown and white swirls. The dress was cut in a gentle A-line shape, narrow at her waist and flowing loosely toward her ankles. Yasmeen thought it was lovely. She quickily returned to her parent's bedroom. Her father smiled as she twirled about, modelling her new outfit.

"You've grown into a beautiful young lady."

They went downstairs for breakfast. Mrs. Bajwa left rice pudding in the refrigerator. Yasmeen and her father sat alone at the kitchen table, enjoying their meal. Yasmeen took a thoughtful look around the kitchen after a bite of pudding.

"Who wil watch Khan?" she asked.

"Mohammad will take care of Khan while we're away."

"That's good. Who will take care of the store?"

"Your mother will be taking care of that."

"That's good, too," she said.

"We've gotten everything taken care of except the new carpets."

"Who is taking care of them?"

"The two of us are taking care of that," said her father.

"Of course," replied Yasmeen.

They packed up the car and off they went into the Pakistani desert. She slept in the passenger seat while her father drove. For Yasmeen, the car ride was short and sweet. The first stop was a large carpet-maker's factory.

"Where are we?"

"We're about 150 kilometers from home," replied her father.

Actually, they were in the city of Jhang, situated upon the Chenab River. Inside the factory, boys and men of all ages squatted in front of looms, weaving wool between parallel threads of yarn. After each pass, the men pulled down on a wooden arm and pushed it back up again.

“What are they doing?”

“The wooden block presses the fibers into place for a tighter weave.”

Still, other men were cleaning the carpets, using scissors to cut stray hairs. They also used picks and awls to adjust the carpet fibers. They took special care of each thread row. Once they finished a row of weaving, it was hard to go back and fix old mistakes.

The warehouse sat sideways along the Chenab River. On one side of the warehouse, workers loaded the trucks and boats to ship the carpets to far-off cities, like Lahore, Islamabad, and Karachi. On the other side of the warehouse, there was a tiny carpet shop. Carpets were rolled and stacked, just like the carpets at Bajwa’s Finest Pakistani Carpets.

“Yasmeen, do you know how to test a carpet?”

“Yes, father.”

“I need you to do some important work for me.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I need you to help pick out some carpets.”

Yasmeen and her father split off into two separate direct4ions. She started at the opposite end of the showroom, sorting through stacks of carpet. She vigorously scratched the carpet fibers, looking for loose threads. She ran her fingernail under the edge seam, checking the stitching. If the carpet passed those tests, she turned it over and checked the glue under the mat. She sorted the carpets into two stacks: good and not good enough. When she finished sorted through the carpets, she returned to her father's side.

“I'm finished.”

“Where are they?” asked her father.

“Over there,” pointed Yasmeen.

“Pick out the patterns you like and have a salesman roll and tie them.”

After she picked out her favorites, the salesman prepared the carpets for shipping, just like her father said. Afterwards, she rejoined him at the register. A giant stack of rolled carpets sat on a cart next to the counter. Between Yasmeen and her father, they must have picked forty carpets.
Mr. Bajwa signed some forms and returned to the car.

“Aren’t we taking the carpets?” asked Yasmeen.

“They will ship them to the store.”

“I don't see any boats to ship the carpets."

"They will ship the carpets in trucks over the highway, not in boats along the rivers."

"But there are so many rivers in Pakistan."

"You're right, there are many rivers in Pakistan. In fact, the word 'punjab' means five waters. The five great rivers, Beas, Jhelum, Ravi, Sutlej, and Chenab all flow through Punjab and meet with the Indus River. Some of the greatest civilizations like Mohenjo-daro were built along the river. As roads were built, cities like these disappeared forever."

"I think I heard about Mohenjo-daro in school," said Yasmeen.

"It was one of the oldest civilizations in the world."

"What was it like?" she asked.

"The buildings were built from sand and clay. There were castle with towers and walls, like the Lahore Fort. The only difference is that Mohenjo-daro was a much bigger city. The people used the rivers to grow crops and transport their goods to other cities along the rivers."

The citadel at Moheno-daro was the greatest civilization in southern Asia for a period of one-thousand years. It was thought to be home to five million people. The people of Mohenjo-daro built elaborate devices to measure exact weights, heat bath water, and even drill teeth.

Mr. Bawa drove the car along the highway that followed the Chenab River.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“To Peshawar, in the Northwest Frontier.”

“Isn’t that far away?”

“It’s very far away, but I’m running an errand for the owner of the warehouse. There are plainsmen who trade fine lamb’s wool and he wants us to pick it up for him.”

“How long will that take?”

“The rest of today and most of tomorrow.”

Yasmeen heaved a sigh. She watched the passing scenery, not quite patiently, as her father crossed the Chenab River. Sandy plains stretched in front of Yasmeen as far as she could see.

Heat and dust rose from the road and filled the car, so she rolled up her window. She turned on the air conditioning and relaxed in the cool air.

Occasionally, they passed shepherds and their goats or oxcart drivers traveling alongside the road. There were also motorcycles and cars, but as they headed deeper into the Northwest Frontier, there was very little traffic in their way.

“I’m getting hungry,” said Yasmeen.

“What would you like?”

“Anything.”

“Just be patient. Once we arrive in Shahpur, we will stop for dinner.”

Time passed slowly as Yasmeen rested her head on the window. Up ahead, Yasmeen could see another bridge. Unfortunately, she also saw a road sign sitting in front of the bridge. As they neared, she read the sign

---> BRIDGE OUT – DETOUR 40 KM --->

“What now?” she asked.

“I guess we’ll have to find another way to cross the river.”

Mr. Bajwa turned onto a narrow dirt road. Even more dust kicked up from the vehicle in front of them. The dust cloud became so thick they couldn’t see out the window. Mr. Bajwa gripped the steering wheel and squinted his eyes. Traffic moved slowly along the river bank. As the river narrowed, Mr. Bajwa pulled onto the side of the road. Long flat boats sat along the shore, with men loading cars, cows, and oxcarts onto the boats.

Mr. Bajwa got out of the car and talked to one of the men. He pulled out his wallet, handed some rupees to the man, and turned towards the car.

“Get out,” he said.

“What?”

“We’re going to take the ferry across the river.”

Yasmeen and her father watched as the men pushed the car toward the river bank. Another man pushed the boat toward the shore and placed two long wooden planks beneath the car tires. They slowly pushed the car onto the planks and steered it on to the boat. Yasmeen had never seen a full-sized car riding on something as small as a rowboat.

The old man motioned for Yasmeen and her father. They stepped onto the boat along with several bags of rice, a cow, and three other men. The old man got on last. He turned on the motor and carefully steered it across the river. At the other side, Yasmeen let out a sigh of relief. She was sure the boat would sink in the middle of the river.

Everyone and everything was unloaded. Mr. Bajwa thanked the old man and got into his car again. “Weren’t you scared?”

“Scared of what?” replied Mr. Bajwa, “There aren’t as many bridges in the Northwest Frontier. In fact, things are sometimes very different on this side of the river.”

Small houses lined the dusty road on the other side of the river. The traffic was different, too. Mr. Bajwa followed a bus into Shahpur. People not only rode inside the bus, but on the roof as well. Motorcycles and bicycles crowded the streets. Mr. Bajwa steered his car slowly through the lazy traffic.

As they left Shahpur, the lonely sensation crept back into Yasmeen’s heart. The land was bare, with little in their way. The car zig-zagged through the empty valley. Only the rocky faces of the HImalayas stretched out before them. Yasmeen fell into a deep sleep as the car drove toward the limitless horizon.

An Afternoon in Iqbal Park

The Bajwa family returned to the old city just before Summer’s end. It was part of a normal ritual every August: the celebration of Pakistan's Independence day. Aunt Seema had mixed pieces of chicken with celery, apple, curry powder, and mayonnaise before spreading the mixture on pieces of white bread and making Chicken Salad fold-over sandwiches.

The bus trip was a familiar trip for Yasmeen. Not only were Badshahi Mosque and the Sikh Temple located at Lahore Fort, but Iqbal Park sat there, too, just on the other side of the river. Yasmeen looked out the bus window toward the old city. Even from the distance, the Minar-e Pakistan slowly poked its heads over the treetops. The monument rose nearly 60 meters over the city. Minar-e Pakistan was the tallest thing in Lahore, including the tall spires that rose from each of the four corners of Badshahi Mosque.

The bus stopped in front of the Mosque. Little Khan led the way across the bridge, followed closely by Faisal. Meanwhile, the ladies lingered a way back. Yasmeen stopped halfway across the bridge. Blackbirds circled high overhead.

She picked a piece of chicken meat from her sandwich and tossed it into the air. One of the blackbirds swooped down and caught it mid-flight. It was well known that whomever fed the birds of the River Ravi would be admired kindly by Allah.

“Isn’t the lake pretty?” said Noor.

“That’s not a lake. That’s the old Ravi River,” corrected Mrs. Bajwa.

“How could they possibly move a river?” asked Cousin Noor.

“As Lahore grew, builders dammed up the river and dug a new trench so the waters wouldn’t cut through the city.”

A sidewalk led from the bridge to the entrance of Iqbal Park. Long, narrow sidewalks crisscrossed through the park. Fancy trees just like the ones next to Badshahi Mosque lined the walkways.

“Why are all the trees cut in strange shapes?” asked Noor.

“They’re called topiaries. It’s a special grooming for trees, that shows off the beautify of the tree and the gardener. Lahore is called the city of gardens because there are places just like this all over the city.”

“I’ve always heard of the Shalimar Gardens. Are they like this?” asked Noor.

“Only Shalimar Gardens is much prettier,” said Mrs. Bajwa.

Shalimar Gardens had also been built during the Mughal Empire. A wealthy man gave Shalimar Gardens to Shah Jahan. Shah Jahan continued to improve and build the site until there were over four-hundred fountains on three separate levels. The fountains cascaded like waterfalls. In addition to the fountains, nearly every kind of tree was planted in the garden: apple, almond, cherry, mango, peach, plum, and quince.

Although Iqbal Park had none of these fruit trees, Iqbal park did have open space. Boys played cricket in the open field while people watched. Some children were flying kites, even on a day with relatively no wind. People gathered on the podium at the Minar-e Pakistan, too.

“Can we climb to the top?” asked Noor.

“There is an elevator,” suggested Mrs. Bajwa.

“I’d rather race to the top.”

“It’s a very long way,” said Mrs. Bajwa.

“Let's race to the top!” exclaimed Faisal. After a head start, he sprinted the whole way to the tower. People crowded into the stairwell, passing each other like traffic during rush hour. Faisal pushed through people as best he could, but this gave the other Bajwa children time to catch up. Little Khan used his small size to cut through the crowds unnoticed.

The two brothers traded first and second on almost every landing. When the crowds cleared, Faisal's long, strong legs climbed stairs two and three at a time. When crowds gathered in the stairwell, little Khan weaved his way into the lead. Mrs. Bajwa and Aunt Seema took the elevator. They arrived long before any of the children. The rest of the children decided not to race at all, steadily climbing the stairs together.

"I won!" claimed Faisal.

"You didn't beat us," replied Aunt Seema.

"You weren't racing to the top."

"Who says so?" she argued. When Yasmeen arrived at the top, she went to the edge and looked across the horizon surrounding her. From above, the dark red stones of Badshahi Mosque stood out from its surroundings. The national emblem of Pakistan, the star and crescent, was cut into the grass.

The national emblem of Pakistan began at the very spot where Yasmeen and her family were now gathered. Mohammad Iqbal and Mohammad Ali Jinnah joined the other members of the All Muslim League in signing the Pakistan Resolution at that location. The Resolution announced India's independence from Britian. Up to that time, India was under British rule. It also created the Republic of Pakistan.

"Let's race back to the bottom," Faisal challenged the littlest brother.

"I don't want you two wandering around alone," said Mrs. Bajwa.

"I'll go down, too," said Mohammad, "I would like to play Cricket on the lawn."

"Alright then. we'll meet at the bottom of the Minar-e when we hear the evening prayer call."

Without another word, Faisal took off again, getting the head start to the stairs. Khan followed closely behind. Mohammad decided to take the elevator.

"You want to go down?" asked Noor.

"I'd rather look around for awhile. Everything is so green."

Not only were the trees in full bloom in the gardens of Iqbal Park, but there were also the flags and the face paint. People wore shirts and dresses with the green star and cresecnet, too. Flags waved int he breeze, some carried in children's tiny hands. Others hung from the top of tall flag poles. They lined the sidewalks in majectic glory.

"Do you see the boys?" said Mrs. Bajwa.

"They're over in the cricket field," Noor pointed out, "I think Faisal and Mohammad are on different teams. Mohammad is in the outfield."

"Then who is watching little Khan?"

"He's sitting with Faisal. Can't you see them in their long, white kameezes?"

Unfortunately, most of the Muslim boys wore the long white shirts that looked like prayer tunics. Still, her two youngest boys did stand out from the crowd.

"Let's go down and watch," said Mrs. Bajwa.

The women walked through the crowds. Pakistani Rangers stood guard around the tower. Their fine wool uniforms were neatly kept. Their faces wore grim looks. In contrast, blankets spread across the lawns as families and friends celebrated Pakistan Day in Iqbal Park.

Aunt Seema stretched out a row of blankets for the ladies. They joked and laughed as they watched the people around them. The evening prayer call sounded from Badshahi Mosque's Minarets. Directly after evening prayer, Yasmeen met her brothers at the base of the tower.

They found street vendors and ate kebabs for dinner. Everyone gathered on the blankets as they waited for nightfall. People sang patriotic songs and waved their dark green Pakistani flags with the bold white star and crescent in the center. The night ended with fireworks as the crowd sang the national anthem.

"Blessed be, Sacred Land
Happy is the bounteous realm
Symbol of resolve,
Land of Pakistan."

At night's end, the family crowded onto the bus and rode home. It had been a festive, but long day. All Bajwas, young and old, were very tired. Yasmeen went with Noor upstairs to their shared bedroom. They changed into nightclothes and tucked themselves into bed.

"This will be one our last nights together," realized Noor.

"Maybe I will see if I can visit you next summer."

"That would be great. We would have much fun," answered Noor.

"That seems so far away."

"It won't be long at all. What will you do during the year?"

"I am not sure," answered Yasmeen, "I will probably work with mother in her store."

The two girls laid in bed, talking about their summer gone and the upcoming school year. The next few days came and went just as fast. Yasmeen and her mother rode with Noor and Seema to the Wagah border and said their good-byes.

"I'll see you soon," said Noor.

"A whole year," replied Yasmeen.

"Like I said, it will be here before you know it." Tears welled in Yasmeen's eyes.

"Take care," she said.

The two girls hugged again, then let loose. Cousin Noor and Aunt Seema disappeared into the building that separated Pakistan from India. Yasmeen and her mother turned to face home. For Yasmeen, her next trip to the Wagah border would not come soon enough. As the car drove towards the setting sun, Yasmeen wiped the tears from her eyes and leaned her head agains the closed window.

"What are you thinking?" asked her mother.

"Is there a chance I could visit India next year?"

"I think that would be a pleasant idea. Do you suppose I couldl join you?" asked Mrs. Bajwa.

"Of course."

"That's good. Sometimes I do miss my homeland."

Yasmeen's heart lightened. For now, she would have to turn her ateentions to everything Bajwa. There would be one more business and one less Bajwa child in the house. She couldn't dream about far off things like a visit to India. Great chancges demanded she keep her heart close to home.

Within the Walled City

As soon as Basant ended, Yasmeen's world was bright and new. Like flowers in bloom, everything around her literally did “spring” to life. Within weeks, Khan forgot about his promise to leave his kite alone, staying up late at night to reel in meters of string. Mr. and Mrs. Bajwa decided to open a second store so Mrs. Bajwa could sell her hand-made dresses. Mohammad was even preparing for a new boy's school in the capital city of Islamabad.

Even with all this activity, the biggest change for Yasmeen was the relationship with her parents. She jumped from child to pre-teen. Her mother had her looking after little Khan on a daily basis. Her brothers looked to her for dinner. Her father even let her buy grown-up clothes.

Yasmeen and Noor spent time with their mothers when time allowed. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bajwa was busy with the new store. On these days, Yasmeen rode into city on the bus with her aunt and cousin. Even this was a welcome escape from the walled city she called home.

After morning prayers, Yasmeen joined her mother, who was sitting with her cousin and aunt at the kitchen table.

“Mother, isn’t it getting late?” noticed Yasmeen.

“I’m spending some free time from the dress store today. I’d rather be with my family.”

Yasmeen did not know whether she should be happy or not. Her mother did not enjoy shopping. Worse yet, Yasmeen knew her cousin would soon return to India.

“What will you be doing with this free time?” asked Yasmeen.

“I thought we’d take a field trip to Badshahi Mosque.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“You are the occasion,” replied her mother.

“Why me?”

“I think it would be good to show you why we say Niyyah.”

“Can I come, too?” asked Khan.

“You’re all coming.”

“I have practice,” said Faisal.

“Practice can wait. Allah is first,” she replied.

The family caught a bus into town. One Bajwa child squeezed against the next during the short ride. As they emerged, they saw the Minar-e Pakistan, the metallic tower in the middle of Iqbal Park. The park sat next to the old Lahore Fort and Badshahi Mosque.

Construction of the Mosque began during the reign of Aurangzeb Alamgir, the last of the Mughal Emperors. Since then, 500 years passed. One wall of the Mosque sat next to the Ravi River. The front of the Mosque faced the walls of the Lahore Fort. Emperor Aurangzeb built a fortified gate across from the Mosque. It became known as the Alamgiri Gate.

Yasmeen walked hand-in-hand with little Khan. His free hand shielded his eyes from sunlight. A lush green garden with carefully pruned trees stretched to the far wall. The majestic Alamgiri Gate stood to Khan's left. Giant guard towers, made of yellow limestone, stood on each side of the gate. The Sikh Temple sat in the garden, separating Lahore Fort from Badshahi Mosque. As they proceeded through the garden, Khan turned his head to the right.

A dark red wall, made of sandstone bricks, stretched across the horizon. Three teardrop-shaped domes rose above the walls. Their white surfaces gleamed in the pale sunlight. As they climbed the stairs at the entrance of the Mosque, the Mosque seemed to grow taller.

At the entrance, they removed their shoes. No one was allowed to wear shoes inside the Mosque. Mohammad, Faisal, and Khan put on their knit white skullcaps called kufi. Yasmeen, Noor, Aunt Seema, and Mrs. Bajwa pulled on their Dupattas. Now they were ready to step inside.

The interior stretched nearly 500 meters from end-to end, big enough to hold an army of worshippers. In the center of the courtyard sat a water fountain for Wudu. Before they reached the fountain, an electric hum came over the loudspeakers.

“Allahu Akbar!” sang the voice.

Everyone proceeded to the water fountain. Little Khan stood next to Yasmeen. After he performed the wudu, he turned west toward the holy land. He closed his eyes, cupped his ears, and basked in the sunlight.

“Allah’s sunlight,” Yasmeen thought to herself.

The sounds of the prayer call reverberated deep in her chest. Yasmeen took a deep breath. She cupped her hands behind her ears, too.

After prayer, Mrs. Bajwa acted as historian while they explored the Mosque. She showed them the intricate stonework. Screen windows made of marble looked like fine lacework. Polished metal was set in the ceiling within the hall of mirrors. As with everything produced during Mughal times, there were delicate mosaics, too. Mrs. Bajwa placed her hand upon the wall.

“Be careful Mama!” exclaimed Khan.

“You’re right, my little one,” she quickly withdrew her hand from the delicate stonework.

The Bajwas continued through the courtyard until they reached the main gate of the Mosque. They stopped to put on their shoes and walked into the open garden near the Sikh Temple. Trees with thin trunks were delicated carved by garden shears. Their leafy tops were cut into a wide vareity of shapes, some round, some triangular, and some shaped like corkscrews, too. There were even a pair of lion-shaped shrubs near Alamgiri Gate.

Little Khan had a hold of Yasmeen's hand again. He pulled aginst her, wanting to spend more time in the garden. Yasmeen couldn't wait however, because her mother led the way. Instead of returning to the bus stop, Mrs. Bajwa passed through the Alamgiri Gate into the walled city of Lahore. She turned to the left and continued as everyone else followed.

"Where are we going now?" Yasmeen asked.

"I thought we'd stop for a bite to eat," her mother suggested.

"That's good," said Mohammad, "I'm hungry."

"Me, too."

They walked through the streets of old Lahore, passing by another gate installed along the old Fort wall. The fort wall was originally constructed with mud. Later, the Mughals used bricks to make the wall. The walls protected the palace and the original city.

The Ravi River once flowed alongside the Lahore Fort, acting as a partial moat. When the city grew, the river was redirected to flow around the city instead of through it. Now, highways passed by the old Fort. Traffic buzzed through the streets of the old city. Several restaurants lined the street.

"What are we eating?" asked Yasmeen.

"Let's let our guests decide," replied Mrs. Bajwa.

“Can we have Tandoori Chicken?” asked Noor.

“Sure we can. I haven't had Tandoori Chicken in a long time,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.

“I don’t think I've ever had it,” said Yasmeen.

“You have never eaten Tandoori Chicken?” asked Aunt Seema.

“If I did, I can’t remember what it was like.”

“Tandoori is my favorite," said Noor.

They stopped at one of the traditional Indian restaurants. A young man stood behind a large clay pot called a Tandoor while he rolled a ball of dough between his hands. He stretched it into a flat circle like pizza dough and tossed it inside the pot. The wet dough clung to the interior wall of the oven while hot charcoal in the bottom of the pot cooked the dough.

Aunt Seema ordered Tandoori chicken, naan, and rice. The man reached into the clay pot with two small skewers, pulling pieces of naan from the inside wall of the tall clay pot. He placed several skewers of Tandoori chicken inside the pot, leaning the handles against the inside lip.

As he worked, the Bajwa family sat at a nearby table. The old man served naan, rice, and tea before returning to his Tandoor. He used a poker to stoke the charcoal inside his Tandoor. The coals glowed bright orange as sparks flew from inside the pot. He brought the finished Tandoori skewers to the table. The char-grilled skin was rough and crispy.

As Yasmeen took her first bite, her Aunt Seema watched anxiously.

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

“Do you like it?”

The Tandoori chicken had been marinated in yogurt, chili powder, paprika, and curry powder overnight. It made the chicken tender and juicy. Yasmeen licked her lips as they tingled. She took a gulp of water.

“It’s hot, but it is good.”

“I’m glad you like it," replied Aunt Seema, "I can’t imagine someone living in Pakistan and not liking Tandoori Chicken. I absolutely love it.”

“Of course you like it. It's from India."

"That's why you should like it, too. Indians and Pakistanis are connected by their past, present, and future. We share the same culture. All rivers that flow through Pakistan come from India.”

Aunt Seema was right. Although Pakistanis and Indians had many differences, they had many similarities, too. They had to deal with many of the same enemies, whether by land or by sea. It was the reason the Mughal Emperors had to build castle walls around the old city. It was also the reason they built thirteen gates to keep guard of the palace and the Mosque.

After dinner, they returned to the bus stop. The evening busses were much less crowded than the one they rode earlier in the day. Mrs. Bajwa found a free seat and Yasmeen sat beside her.

"Did you have a good time today?"

"Yes," answered Yasmeen.

"I thought it was time to visit Badshahi Mosque. I want you to know about why you're Muslim and why you're Pakistani, too."

"It meant a lot to me."

Yasmeen glanced over to little Khan. For once, he wasn't attached to her side. Instead, he was asleep next to Mohammad. It was because of her littlest brother that she found another part of her faith. For Yasmeen, that was one of the best reasons to begin prayer.

A Kite in Spring

It was as if the great director began his latest movie. Clouds cleared from the sky and the sun approached center stage, just in time for Basant – Pakistan’s spring festival.
Yasmeen had risen long before the sun and put on her bright yellow dress for morning prayers. Although a good Muslim never let outside influences interrupt prayer, Mr. Bajwa smiled as Yasmeen stood in front of her prayer mat. He nodded his head and she blushed.
From the blue sky to the white clouds to the green trees, the colorful gifts of Allah were ever-present. Even the birds fluttered from tree-to-tree, helping to set the scene.
All the women wore their prettiest clothes, too. Mrs. Bajwa put on a bright blue dress. Aunt Seema wrapped herself in a red Sari. Noor found Yasmeen’s rainbow-colored Kurti and decided to wear it. She wrapped a yellow scarf around her hair like a headband. Yasmeen thought it was odd that Noor would wear something so old and dingy. When Yasmeen saw the old blouse on Noor, she realized it was more beautiful than she realized.
Yasmeen went downstairs to the kitchen, where her mother was preparing breakfast.
“Have you seen Khan?” asked Yasmeen.
“Did you try looking on the roof?”
Indeed, Khan was up on the roof, crouched next to his terrarium. He was also tying pieces of tape around the corners of his emerald fighting kite..
“What are you doing?” asked Yasmeen.
“Getting ready for the kite fights,” replied Khan.
“How could I forget? The kite festival begins today.”
“Yes, and I want to have the best fighting kite in the sky,” replied Khan. He stetched the kite string between his two hands and cut it into two pieces with his teeth. Afterwards, he retied the two pieces of string together, forming a knot in the rope.
Yasmeen crouched next to her brother and watched his pet snail as it slithered up the side of the cage.
“It’s time to come downstairs. Mom cooked egg rice for breakfast.”
“Wait just a few moments,” he said.
The snail craned his neck upward as he bit leaves off one of the plants in the terrarium.
“I’ve never seen him eat anything before” said Yasmeen.
“I guess he’s hungry” said Khan.
“Well, I’m hungry, too, so let’s get downstairs.”
“I’ll be there in a second. I need to get this finished.”
“Don’t be long or you’ll get in trouble.”
Yasmeen returned downstairs. Mrs. Bajwa cooked a full skillet of egg rice and ladled it onto a platter for everyone to eat. The rice was bright yellow, as dark as Yasmeen’s new dress.
“Is there food coloring in the rice?” asked Yasmeen.
“I added some ground mustard and saffron.” Mrs. Bajwa held out a spoon for Yasmeen to taste.
“Do I taste honey, too?”
“That’s the saffron,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“Oh.”
“Do you like it?’ she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” interrupted Faisal. He had already eaten his first bowl and was returning for a refill.
“Not until everyone gets their fair share,” said mother.
“Who still needs to eat?” he asked.
“Yasmeen, Khan, your cousin, aunt, and father.”
“That’s almost everyone.”
“Did you eat already?” asked Yasmeen.
“And me,” she added.
Faisal groaned, “but I’m hungry now.”
“There will be plenty to eat all day long.”
In fact there was plenty to eat. Faisal went up to the roof. People were already cooking kebabs on their grills. Khan was finishing up his kite.
“Breakfast is ready,” said Faisal.
“I know.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Faisal.
“Not really. I want to see how high I can make the kite fly.”
“I’ll let you borrow all of my spools of string if you do me a favor,” said Faisal.
“What?”
“Get me a large bowl of egg rice.”
“Okay,” said Khan eagerly. He jumped from the rooftop and scurried downstairs, skipping every other stair.
“Mother, may I have a big bowl of egg rice?” he commanded.
Mrs. Bajwa scooped out a serving and handed it to Khan. He pushed the bowl forward towards his mother.
“You don’t need any more than that,” she said.
“But I’m hungry.”
“Finish that first and then I’ll give you more.”
Khan poured a large glass of goat’s milk and carried his breakfast towards the stairwell.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I was going to eat up on the roof,” he replied.
“Just remember to bring your dishes downstairs when you’re finished.”
“I promise,” he replied.
It was only a short time later when dishes clattered behind Mrs. Bajwa. “My that was fast!” she exclaimed as she turned about to see Faisal putting the empty glass and bowl in the kitchen sink.
“He said he was hungry.”
“I guess that means you want your serving?”
“Not really.”
“You were starving just a few moments ago. In fact, it was just before you went to the roof and Khan came down to the kitchen.”
“I guess the mood passed.”
“I don’t want you getting hungry.” She filled a large bowl with egg rice and handed it to Faisal. His body drooped as he looked at the giant serving of food. He looked up at his mother, who stood there patiently watching him. He slumped towards the stairs.
“Why don’t you eat with us?” she asked.
“But I…”
“It’s a holiday. You should be with your family.”
Faisal sat at the kitchen table with everyone. He struggled to eat the egg rice. Mrs. Bajwa sat a full glass of goat’s milk next to his plate.
“Do you want something to wash it down?” she asked.
Fasial shook his head.
“I think you should drink some more milk. That might help your appetite,” she replied.
Faisal drank his milk reluctantly, filling an already full stomach.
"What about your egg rice?" asked mother.
"Can't you see his isn't hungry?" asked Aunt Seema.
Faisal's mother heaved a sigh. "Alright, Faisal, have you had enough?"
Faisal nodded.
She moved the half-finished bowl of egg rice from the kitchen table to the refrigerator.
"Go on," she said. He excused himself, followed by his brother and sisters. Noor and Yasmeen went to their bedroom. A moment later, Faisal entered the doorway.
"Will you bring your radio to the roof?" he asked.
"Of couse."
Noor flipped through the compact disc collection on Yasmeen's bookishelf
"Is this all the music you own?" said Noor.
Yasmeen nodded.
"This won't do," said Noor.
She retrieved a booklet from her suitcase.
"May I see it?" asked Faisal.
Faisal flipped through his cousin's collection. It contained all the popular music the Bajwa children loved, but could not own. He returned the booklet and went upstairs.
The girls collected their things and went upstairs, too. Mr. Bajwa was stacking charcoal in the grill while Faisal and Khan were tangling with the kite.
Yasmeen sat the radio on the picnic table. Noor loaded a CD and pressed play. Music poured out from the speakers, filling the air. Yasmeen looked over to her father. He continued working on the grill, not even noticing the music from the radio.
Faisal held the spool in one hand and grabbed the string with the other. He tugged on the string, steering it from side-to-side in the sky.
"Let more string out," Khan pleaded.
"A fighting kite has to stay low," said Faisal.
"But I want to fly it high."
Mrs. Bajwa and Aunt Seema joined everyone on the rooftop, sitting on chairs and sipping coffee on mid-morning coffee. Mrs. Bajwa watched the boys bickering over the kite.
"Khan!" said Mr. Bajwa, "I need you to come here for a moment," she said.
"Yes, mother."
She whispered into his ear and he disappeared down the steps. When he returned, he was holding two large ribbons of fabric. He stood beside his mother, holding four bolts of fabric in his arms. One was purple, one was blue, and the last two were gold.
"I want you to stand with your father," she said as she plucked the bolts from his arms.
"I want to fly my kite."
"You can fly your kite later. Right now, I want you to make a choice."
"Yes?"
"Egg rice or chicken kebab."
"Chicken kebab," he replied.
Mrs. Bajwa shooed little Khan towards the grill to help with his father. As soon as a kebab was ready, he would eat it for breakfast. She handed the yellow bolt to the girls and unfurled the blue bolt for her and her sister. She picked up Khan's kickball and walked to the middle of the porch. Noor and Yasmeen held the yellow bolt between them while Mrs. Bajwa and Aunt Seema stretched the blue bolt between them. Mrs. Bajwa tossed the kickball into the blue bolt. She and Aunt Seema pulled on the ends of the fabric, tossing the ball into the air and catching it afterwards.
"Who's ready?" called out Aunt Seema.
"We are!" replied Yasmeen.
Mrs. Bajwa and Aunt Seema launched the ball into the air. The girls ran to get undere the ball. It came down in the fold of the bolt. Everyone cheered.
"Who's ready?" called out Yasmeen.
"We are!" replied her Aunt.
Noor and Yasmeen launched the ball back into the air. Aunt Seema and Mrs. Bajwa moved under the ball and caught it.
Faisal reeled in the kite and set it down. He and Faisal formed a team, grabbing the purple fabric. After Mr. Bajwa finished cooking and Khan ate his kebab for breakfast, they joined in, too, grabbing the yellow bolt of fabric.
They laughed and cheered as the bright red ball flew through the air and people chased after it. More often than not, the ball would go one way and the chasers would go another, knocking over fellow family members in their way. After they played, Mr. Bajwa cooked more kebabs for the rest of the family while little Khan flew his emerald kite.
When he reached the end of the string, he bent down for another spool. He tied the two strings together and let it out to the end. He tied the third string to the second and let it out, too.
"Do we have any more string? he asked his brother.
Did you use it all?" asked Faisal.
"Yep."
"That's 900 meters of string!"
"I know. I want more. I can still see it in the sky."
"I have a few strings," said Mohammad.'
Khan tied the fourth and fifth string together as he let each spool out to its full length. The kite still had not disappeared, but it did look like a small green hummingbird, flying far far into the sky.
The rest of the family gathered around the picnic table for Seekh kebabs. Mr. Bajwa had marinated them in a Garam Masala viniagrette. Because of the spice mix, their taste was sharp. Like everything else, they were bright yellow, too.
"Why is everything colored yellow?" asked Cousin Noor.
"It is said that Basant was started by the Sufi Muslims," replied Yasmeen.
"Legend has it that a priest was sad about his young nephew’s death," replied Aunt Seema, "One day, he passed women carrying mustard seed flowers. The women were giving an offering in praise of spring. The priest so enjoyed the idea that he gave a mustard flower offering at his nephew’s grave.”
“That’s such a sad story,” said Yasmeen.
“On the contrary, it was a celebration of his life, just like Basant is today.”
"I guess that's not so sad, after all."
The family celebrated Basant for the remainder of the day, eating kebabs and taking turns flying the kite. When evening came, people lit firecrackers from their rooftops. As they danced and laughed, Khan began getting tired.
"You know you need to reel in everything you let out," said Mrs. Bajwa.
"I will," replied little Khan.
"I would start now, if I were you."
"I will."
Khan dutifully obeyed his mother, reeling in the kite string. Fireworks continued all around him as the family continued watching. Khan continued reeling in his string. Occasionally, one of Khan's brothers would pitch in and help the smallest brother. There was so much string, Mohammad thought it might take all night to gather it in. One by one, Khan's relatives went indoors at the end of the day, until Khan was alone on the rooftop.
Later that night, Mrs. Bajwa returned outside. By now, Khan was sitting at the picnic table, reeling in the kite string and rubbing his eyes. Mrs. Bajwa sat beside little Khan.
"I still don't see it," said Khan.
"It's very late. Why don't you go to bed?" said Mrs. Bajwa.
"I am being punished for lying about breakfast."
"If you're being punished for anything, it's for using all the kite string in the house," replied his mother. "Go get some sleep. I'll take care of this."
Khan shuffled off to bed as Mrs. Bajwa finished retrieving his kite. As she reached the end of each string, she broke it off in her teeth and started a new spool. Around 2 am, after all the party-makers were in bed, Mrs. Bajwa reached the end of the string. The kite floated down from the sky and landed on the rooftop. She finished winding it up and put it away.
Khan heard the upstairs door close as his mother came inside. He decided he woulud not fly the emerald kite again until next Basant.

Anarkali Bazaar

As Yasmeen lay in her bed, someone watched her. She opened an eye and peered across the room. Cousin Noor stood at the edge of the bed, holding a piece of food in her hands. The food was carefully wrapped in a paper towel. Noor took a bite while Yasmeen awakened from her slumber. The smell of fried egg, cheese, and mushroom filled the air.
“What are you eating?”
“Samosas,” replied Noor.
Yasmeen crawled out of bed as Aunt Seema worked in the kitchen. She tended two separate cooking pans. In one pan, she prepared scrambled eggs. In the other, she deep-fried the Samosas. The smell alone was enough to drive Yasmeen out of bed. She was eager to eat Aunt Semma’s breakfast Samosas.
Aunt Seema fried the eggs while she rolled out the dough, cutting it into two half-circles. She formed each half-circle into a pastry cone. After she forned the cones, she stuffed them.
“What would you like in your Samosa?” asked Aunt Seema.
Yasmeen looked over the ingredients. “Potatoes and green peppers.”
“A traditionalist, I see,” replied Aunt Seema. She dumped potato and green pepper cubes into a mixing bowl with celery seed, cumin, chili powder, salt, and pepper. She blended the ingredients with a wooden spoon, adding goat’s milk to make the mixture thick and creamy. She then formed a pastry cone and filled it with the mixture.
Afterwards, she carefully pressed the edges together, forming a hot pocket of food.
“Would you like to place them in the oil?”
“May I?” asked Yasmeen.
“Here you go.”
Yasmeen plucked each doughy packet from her Aunt’s hand, dropping them into hot oil. They bubbled and cooked until they were golden brown. Aunt Seema fished the Samosas out of the oil and placed them on a paper towel to drain.
“They look delicious,” said Yasmeen.
“They are,” said Mrs. Bajwa as she came in from the living room to investigate. Yasmeen reached for a Samosa before her Aunt shooed her aweay.
“Wait for it to cool or you’ll burn your tongue.”
Yasmeen waited (quite patiently) and then picked up a Samosa. She juggled it from hand-to-hand since they were still hot. She blew on theSamosa for a little while longer. Finally, after the Samosa was cool enough to eat, The outer crust flaked off as she took a generous bite. The potato-green pepper mixed was rich and hearty. The spices gave it a smoky flavor.
“Ohhh,” groaned Yasmeen, “it’s delightful.”
Noor hurried through her breakfast Samosas. She pushed Yasmeen to eat hers quickly, too. She was ready to go shopping with her cousin and Aunt.
Yasmeen changed into a pair of jeans and her favorite blue Kurti. She wrapped her Dupatta scarf around her neck. Now, she was ready to go shopping. Noor changed her clothes, too. She pulled on a Georgette suit. It wasn’t a suit at all, but a fancy silk blouse just like a Kurti. The Georgette Suit was fancier, with long, frilly sleeves and cloth-covered buttons along the front.
Yasmeen rubbed her fingers over Noor’s suit sleeves. It felt like crepe paper, rough, but smooth. Yasmeen was jealous. Her mother or father would never let her have something that fancy.
“I love Georgette Suits.”
“Would you like to wear one of mine? We’re just about the same size.”
Yasmeen went through Noor’s wardrobe. “No, I don’t think so,” she said with a sadness in her voice.
The girls went outside, where their mothers waited by the car. Khan was waiting in the front seat. He leaned his head against the edge of the open window. Noor leaned towards the car and spoke.
“Are you going, too?”
Little Khan nodded.
“You’ll have fun shopping with us,” she said, “we’ll spoil you rotten.”
Khan imagined a barrel of rotten apples, with worms crawling in and out. He scrunched his nose.
“It’s just a saying,” smiled his mother, “now do me a favor and sit in the back seat with Noor and Yasmeen.”
Khan groaned.
“Go on.”
Everyone piled into the car. Mrs. Bajwa and Aunt Seema sat up front, while Khan sat in back with the girls. He picked a window seat, which was okay with Yasmeen. She preferred chatting with her cousin anyway.
“What kind of things are at the bazaar?” asked Noor.
“”All sorts of things,” replied Yasmeen, “There are copper pots, fresh fruit stands, and Pakistani rugs, of course.”
“I meant clothes.”
“There are saris, dresses, kameezes, and imported silk, too.”
“Now that’s what I call shopping,” laughed Noor.
To Yasmeen, Noor was so sophisticated. She lived in Delhi and always talked about giant buildings and busy shopping malls. She also wore fancy dresses and beautiful jewelry.
Yasmeen’s mother always disapproved of “grown-up things.” Yasmeen sure felt like a little girl whenever her mother was around. However, when Cousin Noor visited, she felt free. Her Aunt’s “wild ways” always rubbed off on Yasmeen’s mother. For that, Yasmeen was thankful.
Once Mrs. Bajwa parked the car, everyone hurried to Anarkali. The crowds had already gathered around the trader’s tables. Women sorted through the clothes while men sorted through the fine leather belts and shoes. Street vendors sold kebabs, too. Thick gray smoke rose from their carts.
“Stay near,” said Mrs. Bajwa. She tugged Khan by the hand as he tugged back. He wanted to hang out with his older sister instead.
Inside Anarkali Bazaar, it was just as busy. Noor pushed through the crowds, dragging Yasmeen along behind her. Khan pulled away from his mother’s grasp.
“Yasmeen! Get your brother!” she called.
Yasmeen grabbed Khan and tugged him along. Meanwhle, Mrs. Bajwa, and Aunt Seema lagged behind, patiently waiting for foot traffic.
Booths were set up alongside a narrow walkway. The fine silk clothing draped over hangers fluttered in the air. A traffic jam of shoppers stopped at every booth, looking through the merchandise. As the girls went from one clothing store to the next, Khan found places to sit or lean. It wasn’t until they went into the stall where large copper kettles were stacked that Khan wasn’t bored.
“What are these?” he asked.
“They’re cooking pots,” replied Yasmeen.
“Oh. I thought they were musical instruments,” he said.
Yasmeen squinted her face. “Musical instruments?”
Khan flicked one of the copper pots with his finger. A metallic chime rose through the air.
“Of course, like kettle drums. But where have you seen a kettle drum?” Yasmeen asked.
“I’ve seen the Sufi drummers,” said Khan.
“Sufi drummers don’t use kettle drums,” said Noor.
“Yeah, usually Sufi drummers use one long drum,” added Yasmeen, “made from a hollowed out log covered with sheepskin.”
“This sounds like that, right?” said Khan.
He plucked his fingers rapidly on the kettle. It did sound like the syncopated beat of a Sufi drummer, fast and rhythmic. As soon as his mother arrived, Khan quit drumming.
“Those aren’t drums,” scolded his mother.
“It’s okay, said the merchant, “I thought it was pleasant.”
“I thought it sounded like someone dropping dishes,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
Khan tucked his hands in his pocket and followed along silently as they went to the women’s clothing store next door.
Khan sat in the chair by the door as the girls looked at clothes. There were many pretty Georgette Suits, like the one Noor was wearing. Most were made from brightly colored silk. Obviously, it was springtime, because when spring came, so did the bright and fancy clothing.
The mannequin in the center of the store was dressed in a Georgette Suit, too. It was raindow-colored with tiny bits of glitter woven into the fabric. Yasmeen grabbed a sleeve and ran her fingers across the fabric. It was made of fine chiffon, which had a grainy texture.
“It’s beautiful,” said Yasmeen.
“You should try it on,” said Cousin Noor.
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
Mrs. Bajwa and Aunt Seema entered the store and Yasmeen turned her attention to a yellow kameez folded on the shelf.
“Do you like it?” asked Aunt Seema.
Yasmeen nodded.
“She really likes the one up there,” pointed Noor.
“That one would look great on her. It would show off her beautiful shape and pretty hair.”
“You should try it on,” said Noor.
Yasmeen glanced towards her mother.
“I see what’s going on,” said Aunt Seema.
“This is not your discussion, Seema. Yasmeen already has a Sari just like it at home.”
Aunt Seema turned towards Yasmeen. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow.”
“Perfect! Basant is coming up. What better time to try on a Bright Yellow Geoorgette Suit for the holiday.” Aunt Seema grabbed a yellow suit and placed it into her niece’s hands. Before Mrs. Bajwa could open her mouth, Aunt Seema shooed Yasmeen toward the fitting room.
Yasmeen stepped into the fitting room alone. Before she did anything, she pressed the pretty yellow Georgette Suit against her front side and looked in the mirror. “It did look lovely,” thought Yasmeen. Quickly, she changed out of her old blue Kurti, leaving it crumpled on the floor. As the new outfit slid over her body, it even felt new. Yasmeen looked into the mirror.
“How are you doing in there?” asked Aunt Seema.
Yasmeen remained quiet. She stared at the girl in the mirror and smiled. An outfit like that would be stunning. If she wore it to schoool, all the other girls would want one, too. Then, she thought about her mother…and her father. A bit of tears welled up in her eyes. She bit her lip until the feeling subsided.
“Come out and show us!” said her Aunt.
Yasmeen opened the door. Cousin Noor’s mouth dropped open as she saw her cousin in the bright yellow Georgette Suit.
“What did I tell you?” announced Aunt Seema.
Khan stood up and peered through the clothing aisles. Mrs. Bajwa turned around, too. It was as if the world around Yasmeen stopped spinning for just a few seconds.
“Well?” said Aunt Seema.
Yasmeen shook her head. “Well, what?”
“Do you like it?”
Yasmeen nodded meekly. Before the tears came up again, she headed for the fitting room door.
“Stop for a second,” said Mrs. Bajwa.
Yasmeen glanced back at her mother.
“I know I shouldn’t be doing this but…do you want it?”
Yasmeen stood frozen.
“Do you?”
“What about father?”
“Just answer me. Do you want it or not?”
“Yes, yes, oh yes, I want it!” exclaimed Yasmeen.
“Then I’ll buy it for you.”
“But what about father?” she asked again.
“You worry about changing out of the new outfit. I’ll worry about your father.”
Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, Yasmeen watched everyone else trying on new clothes. Mrs. Bajwa also bought a new kameez for herself. It was bright green. Just before Anarkali Bazaar closed, they returned to Mr. Bajwa’s rug store on the far side of the mall. He was sitting alone in his store.
“I’m so very glad you’re here. I’ve had a very boring day. I guess nobody is in the mood to buy carpets.”
“Maybe they’re all buying Georgette Suits like my mother,” said Khan.
“Shhh!” scolded his mother.
“A Georgette Suit? For Yasmeen?”
“I thought it was time she had a fancy outfit. She is growing up to be a young lady,” said Mrs. Bajwa.
Mr Bajwa itched the top of his scalp through his knitted skullcap.
“It’s not that she’s not growing up. It’s just that Georgette Suits are for older girls.”
Yasmeen frowned as she peered down towards her shopping bag.
“Well, let me see it,” said Mr. Bajwa.
Yasmeen fished the outfit from the bag and presented it to her father. He ran his fingers across the seams as he checked the stitches.
“You should have let me go shopping with you,” he said.
“Shopping is no place for a man,” said Aunt Seema.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Mr. Bajwa, He held the bright yellow outfit in front of his daughter.
“Isn’t yellow your favorite color?”
Yasmeen nodded.
“Yellow is my favorite color, too. I think it would look swell on you,” said Mr. Bajwa. Mrs. Bajwa let out a heavy sigh.
“What was that for?”
“I didn’t know what you were going to say,” said Mrs. Bajwa.
“What should I say? Your sister is right. Yasmeen is growing up and as she does, she can’t wear clothes like this blue kameez forever. Besides, it’s almost time for Basant.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Yasmeen.
“Just shows you got your good taste from your father.”
Mrs. Bajwa rolled her eyes.
Yasmeen stuffed her new Georgette Suit carefully into her shopping bag and set it near the door. She grabbed a broom and did what she always did at her father’s store at the end of the day: she swept, with help from her little brother.
Mr. Bajwa rolled up the carpets and Mrs. Bajwa counted the receipts as Cousin Noor and Aunt Seema watched. Afterwards, Mr. Bajwa turned off the lights and locked the doors.
“Good night, store. I will see you in the morning.”
The ride home was crowded. Aunt Seema joined the girls in the back while Khan moved from one person’s bony knee to another. Lickly, it was a short ride home. Everyone hopped out of the car and got ready for evening prayers and then dinner after that.
At the end of the night, Yasmeen removed one of her kurtis from its hangers. She placed her new Georgette Suit on the hanger and sat on the edge of the bed. After awhile, Noor came in from the living room and sat beside her.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” said Noor.
“You’re right.”
“About what?”
“About clothes.”
“What do you mean?” asked Noor.
“Now that’s shopping,” said Yasmeen.
Noor bumped shoulders with her cousin as the two giggled and gossiped. In the living room, Mrs. Bajwa sat with her sister, curious about her rowdy daughter and niece.
“What are you up to?” she asked from the doorway.
“Nothing,” replied Yasmeen.
“The two of you are sure are making lots of noise for nothing.”
“She was just telling me how she wanted to fill her closet with Georgette Suits.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time, shall we?” said Mrs. Bajwa.
The girls nodded.
“Now off to bed you go,” she said.Yasmeen opened the bedroom window as usual and tucked herself into bed. The girls changed into their pajamas and chatted quietly among themselves. Raindrops pattered on the window and a chilly wind blew across the top of Yasmeen’s quilt. She sighed as she tucked her nose under the edge of the blanket. She didn’t think she could wait for spring very much longer.

Crossing the Wagah

The remainder of the week passed relatively quickly as Yasmeen prepared her room for the upcoming visit from Auntie Seema and Cousin Noor. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bajwa made preparations of her own, eager to welcome her older sister. She sorted through the contents of an old trunk, filled with memories of her past: a trip to the Taj Mahal, and a childhood in Delhi, India’s capital city.
As she stood by the kitchen stove preparing Nihari stew, she remembered those long forgotten times. The front door banged and Faisal burst into the living room, interrupting her thoughts..
“Good morning, Faisal. How is your day going?”
“Just perfect,” he replied.
“What makes it so perfect?”
“Didn’t you hear? We won, 3-0!” He dropped his gym bag from his shoulder and plopped on the couch beside his sister.
“Did you play today?”
“No. There was a Men’s Cricket game yesterday between Pakistan and India.”
“Oh, that,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“I’m so glad we beat them,” replied Faisal.
“I know you’re proud of your country, but your cousin and your Auntie are from India. Remember to treat them as guests this week, okay?”
“Okay, mama,” replied Faisal. He kissed his mother on the cheek before heading off for a shower.
The children gathered around as Mrs. Bajwa sat a bowl of Nihari on the kitchen table. She portioned equal servings for her children. Roasted lamb, vegetables, and spicy brown-yellow broth spilled into each bowl.
Yasmeen and Khan performed a delicate trade, moving tomatoes and green peppers between their two separate bowls. At the end, Yasmeen had all the tomatoes, while Khan had all the green peppers.
“Hurry up and eat, children. We have a long trip ahead of us.”
“Do we have to go?” asked Faisal.
“Don’t you want to go?” said Mrs. Bajwa with disappointment in her voice.
“Not really,” said Faisal.
“Me neither,” added Mohammad.
“You’re still going?” Mrs. Bajwa asked her youngest two children. They nodded enthusiastically.
“That’s good to hear,” I guess you boys can stay here, but I don’t want you getting into any trouble. We probably won’t return from Wagah until very late and your father will be home late, too.”
“Okay, mother,” replied Faisal. Mohammad nodded in agreement.
After lunch, Mrs. Bajwa cleaned up the kitchen and then the children said their mid-day prayer. Afterwards, they got into the car and sped down Grand Trunk Road, toward the border city of Wagah.
Mrs. Bajwa and Yasmeen rode in the front while Khan rode in the back. Khan leaned his head out the window and looked at the scenery. He watched goat herders as they traveled from Lahore to the Pakistan border.
Auntie Seema and Cousin Noor arrived early in the morning. Before they could cross over from India to Pakistan, they had to go through Customs, a part of every border crossing. Now, they waited for Khan and his family.
“Mama?”
“Yes, Khan?”
“Why does Auntie Seema live in India?”
“Maybe you should ask why we live in Pakistan,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“What do you mean?”
“You know I grew up in Agra, which is in India,” she said, “I chose Pakistan because your father was from Lahore. When I chose him, I chose Pakistan.”
“Isn’t India full of Hindus?”
“I guess you could say that, but there are Muslims in India, just like there are Hindus in Pakistan.”
“Why is Pakistan an Islamic Republic?”
“Because of the partitition,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“What’s the partition?” asked Khan.
“What’s the partition!?” exclaimed Yasmeen, “It’s only the reason we’re going on this trip today.”
“To answer your question, Khan,” replied their mother, “the partition happened in 1947 when India was divided into three parts. There was West Pakistan, East Pakistan, and then India.”
“West and East Pakistan?”
“Back then, there were two Pakistans. East Pakistan eventually became Bangladesh.”
“What happened to West Pakistan?”
“It just became Pakistan,” she replied.
The gates rose in the distance as they neared the border. Mrs. Bajwa pulled the car into the parking lot and everyone hopped out. Auntie Seema and Cousin Noor waited outside the border gates. Yasmeen ran across the parking lot and hugged her cousin.
“It’s so good to see you, Noor.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.”
Everyone gathered, trading greetings and hugs.
“Khan, grab your Auntie’s luggage and take it to the car.”
Khan did as he was told. Yasmeen carried her cousin’s bags. They stored the luggage in the car’s trunk before returning to the gate. People gathered along the gate tower where Pakistani Rangers kept guard of the border. A large stone tower stood over the gate. Yasmeen and her family entered the gate. Bleachers lined the road up to the border. A green metal gate with the Pakistani Crescent and Star stood closed at the other end.
“Let’s hurry up and find a seat,” encouraged Mrs. Bajwa.
Yasmeen and Noor sat side-by-side until Khan wedged his way between them.
“May I sit here?” he asked.
“Sure,” his older sister chuckled. Khan’s grin stretched across his face.
A group of Pakistani Rangers marched from the tower toward the gate. Crowds clapped and cheered as they watched from the bleachers. National pride was in full force as people chanted “Ya-ya! Pakistan! Ya-ya! Pakistan!” The Rangers took giant strides toward the gate, their feet kicking high in the air with each step. Even more grand than their steps were their uniforms. Their dark green uniforms reminded Khan of the Pakistani flag. Headdresses sprouted from their hats, only they looked like a big gtreen rooster’s comb.
Khan leaned toward his sister. “What are they doing?”
“They’re the color guard,” she replied as she pointed towards the green gate, “They’re going to lower the flag.”
Across the gate, there was another gate. It was painted in three stripes: orange, white, and green, just like the National Flag of India. Across the gates, Indians gathered in their own stands, cheering as the Indian color guard marched in a similar fashion from the other side. Khan stretched his neck forward, trying to see what was happening across the border.“You know, Khan,” said Aunt Seema, “it wasn’t so long ago that these bleachers were part of India, too.”
“I know, but then it became West Pakistan, because that’s where most of the Muslims lived,” replied Khan.
His Aunt nodded. “How did you know that?”
“Yasmeen just told me.”
“Did you know some lived in Agra, where your mother and I grew up?”
Khan shook his head.
“Well, let me tell you a little story,” replied Aunt Seema.
She adjusted the covering on her headscarf, pulling a stray hair into place. Her eyes scanned the horizon, where the sun was just about to set.
“The western provinces of India were mostly Muslim.”
“I know,” replied Khan.
“But Punjab was half Hindu and half Muslim. Even Lahore was split between the Muslims and the Hindus.”
“How did they decide where to split then?”
“Before the partition, India was ruled by the British. A British viceroyal named Mountbatten led the way. He decided on where to draw the line between the two countries. Lahore was a very important city to both the Indians and the Pakistanis. In fact,, all of Punjab was divided by this partition.”
“How did they make sure all Muslims were on one side of the line and Hindus on the other?”
“They couldn’t. In fact, many Hindus and Muslims spent years crossing over from one side to the other after the Partition.”
Khan watched as two of the Pakistani Rangers in the color guard reached out and pulled the green gate apart. A Pakistani Ranger marched forward, meeting one of the Indian Color Guardsmen halfway. Their strides were bold and brave. Still, it reminded Khan of two roosters in a farmyard, looking to prove who was the biggest and boldest. Each man stepped forward and reached out his right hand. With a quick jerk, they shook hands and then turned away, as if touching the other man might give them a terrible cold. The crowds cheered loudly.
“Why do they seem angry with each other?” asked Khan.
“You know it’s just an act,” said his Aunt.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like a little stage play or a Bollywood movie. They only do it to get everyone’s reaction. They’re not mad at one another. In fact, if they weren’t wearing uniforms, could you tell who was Pakistani and who was Indian?”
Khan shook his head.
“Of course not. Just like you are Pakistani and I am Indian. Still, we share a common heritage.”
In fact, each movement the color guards made, seemed like a Bollywood movie, sharp and dramatic. Khan studied each movement. One Pakistani Ranger stood next to the Pakistani flag pole. He quickly unfastened the rope and held it in his hands. As he did, the Indian color guard was doing the same thing. It was like a carefully rehearsed dance.
“The migration of Hindus and Muslims lasted for several years,” said Aunt Seema. “It was an important time for both India and Pakistan. We still feel the effects of it today.”
“What do you mean?” asked Khan.
“Just like your mother and I, every Punjab was greatly influenced by the partition. Some families were split apart by the partition. It was a time of great trouble for India. When you bring change, people are always affected.”
The color guards pulled their ropes away from their flagpoles. The separate ropes crossed, forming an X. With precision movements, the color guards lowered their flags. The color guard took special care with their ropes, each flag descending slowly. They also made sure the flags crossed at the same height and then came off the rope at the exact same time.
“That’s it!” said Mrs. Bajwa.
“That was fantastic!” agreed Aunt Seema.
The two sisters hugged and kissed as they stood up. They shooed the children toward the car. As they rode home, Khan squeezed between Yasmeen and Noor again. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and it was starting to get dark outside. Khan rested his head against Yasmeen’s shoulder, quickly falling asleep on the way home.
“I think he’s tuckered out,” said Mrs. Bajwa as she spied Khan from the rearview mirror. Yasmeen nodded. When they arrived home, Mr. Bajwa was watching television with the boys. He fetched Khan from the car and tucked him into bed.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bajwa reheated the Nihari for Seema and Noor.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” said Aunt Seema.
“I remembered it was your favorite.”
The two sisters and two cousins sat at the table, enjoying the roast lamb stew. Yasmeen’s favorite thing about Nihari was the way it became richer and richer with every reheating. The spices of the hearty broth gave off a pungent smell. That smell tickled Yasmeen’s nostrils.
Yasmeen grabbed a spoon and began to dig in.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Aunt Seema. There was a sound of shock to her voice.
Yasmeen glanced over to her Aunt.
“Why are you eating Nihari with a spoon? Don’t you have any chapatti?”
“My children always eat Nihari with a spoon.”
“That’s not the proper way,” said Aunt Seema. She got up and rummaged around in the kitchen. She found several pieces of Nihari and brought then out to the kitchen table. She demonstrated her Nihari technique by tearing off a piece of the flat bread and folding it in half. She then dipped the chapatti into the Nihari, scooping out a portion and popping it into her mouth.
“That’s how you eat Nihari,” said Aunt Seema.
Yasmeen began eating like her aunt and cousin. It was easy to understand why Aunt Seema preferred this way: you could eat the spoon. The women stayed up for a little while longer, before it was time for bed. Yasmeen showed Cousin Noor to the bedroom.
Cousin Noor had a long enough day already. Instead of unpacking all her clothes, she only took out what she needed for tomorrow. Instead, she prepared her bed and shared stories with Yasmeen.
“When are you coming to India?” she asked.
“I do not know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“You really should come. We could go shopping and meet Indian boys.”
“Oh, my father would not approve of that.”
“That is something we do not have to tell him, is it?”
Yasmeen smiled. Cousin Noor seemed to live a very different life than she did. At times, Yasmeen was jealous of her cousin, never getting to travel or see new and exciting things. As Cousin Noor spoke, she worked on her dress. It was very pretty, but it showed the belly button. Yasmeen’s father would never allow her to wear something like that. He’d say something like “it’s a disgrace for a lady to show her belly button to anyone but her family.”
Still, Yasmeen loved her home.
“I would never keep anything from my father,” replied Yasmeen.
“Yes, you always have been a straight arrow,” said Cousin Noor.
“Well, I just don’t see any need in it sometimes.”
“I guess so. But still, there are things we should do while I’m here,” said Noor as she continued looking through the wardrobe.
“Like what?”
“Like take you shopping,” she replied.
“Maybe,” said Yasmeen.After Noor finished fixing her clothes, Yasmeen turned off the bedroom lights and opened the window. A crescent moon hung in the sky, pale and blue. It made her think of the green gate and of the far away land where her cousin was from. Maybe one day she would travel. For now, she was happy being right here in Pakistan.

Hearing the Call

In the earliest hours of every morning, a man climbed a spiral staircase. The staircase narrowed as he went higher and higher. At the top, the stairway opened to four large windows, one on each side. The man looked out into the darkness over Lahore. It was five o’clock in the morning.
Just like others, the man stood inside one of the minarets high above the city. The minarets were tall towers, situated at each of the four corners of every Mosque.
He switched loudspeakers on and gently tapped his microphone. Each tap produced a quiet thump over the speakers. He took a deep breath and began to sing a prayer into the microphone.
Like the rest of the city, Yasmeen woke to that familiar sound. Once again, the speakers high above Lahore signalled the call to prayer. A male voice sang out and his voice filled the air.
"Allahu Akbar!"
- Allah is Greatest.
"Allahu Akbar!"
- - Allah is Greatest.
"Ash-hadu alla ilaha illaha!"
- I bear witness that there is no god but Allah!"
Yasmeen went to the bathroom to perform Wuduu. Wuduu prepared her body for first prayer. She turned on the faucet and held her right hand under the cold water. Her right hand cleansed her left hand as she interwove the fingers of her hands. Her father, mother, and brothers joined her, taking turns at the sink as they quietly washed.
She ran her right hand up and down her left forearm, from fingertips to elbows. She then held out her right hand and followed the same procedure, cleansing her left arm. Both hands came under the faucet, rinsing off. She wiped her hands over her hair, from her forehead to the top of her neck. She drank water from her cupped hands and spat it out. She took another drink and sniffed to clean her nostrils. She washed her feet, right foot first, left foot last. Now, she was ready for prayer.
Throughout the country, thousands of other Muslims followed the same ritual every morning. In fact, they prayed five times every day.
There was a time, not so very long ago, that Pakistan wasn't Pakistan at all. Prayer wasn't the same, either. In that time, Pakistan didn't exist, only a greater India. India stretched from the Indian Ocean to the Himalayan mountains. It was a great country of Hindus and Muslims. The leader wanted the Muslims and Hindus to live together in peace. Unfortunately, the Hindus and Muslims had very different views.
Two men, both named Muhammad, also had very different ideas. One was a politician and one was a poet.
The politician was named Muhammad Ali Jinnah. He wanted the Hindus and Muslims to work together to create provinces (states) with different laws. That way, Muslim provinces could have Muslim leaders and laws.
Muhammad Iqbal, the poet, wanted Muslims to set up their own country in Northwestern India. The Hindus could live happily in southern India while the Muslims would live in the Northwestern Province. Muhammad Iqbal wrote a letter to Muhammad Ali Jinnah, asking for help. The politician agreed to help the poet. Together, they created Pakistan, a country especially for Muslims.
And so it was. In 1947, the Muslims forned their own country. Little did Yasmeen know it, but when she prayed, she was celebrating that moment.
She walked into the prayer room, standing in front of a large window overlooking the city. In the distance stood the minarets. As she faced the minarets, she also faced a town named Mecca, the Muslim holy city.
Her father and brothers pulled their knitted white skullcaps over their heads and proceeded into the prayer room as well. She lifted her hands behind her ears as she began her prayer.
"Allahu Akbar!”
“Allahu Akbar!”
“Ash-hadu alla ilaha illaha.”
“Ash-hadu alla ilaha illaha.”
And continued…
“Ash-hadu anna Muhammadur rasulullah.”
- I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.
“Hay-yaa ‘alaa as-salaat. Hay-yaa ‘alaa-l-falaah.”
- Come to Salaat. Come to Success.
Throughout the prayers, she bowed and kneeled and put her forehead to the ground. Then, she kneeled and stood, then bowed again. It was all part of her normal prayer ritual. Like any child in Pakistan, it was not questioned, “Why do I pray?”, it was just done.
And so she prayed with her family, five times a day. She got up and you prayed. She went about her day, stopping to pray. She stopped in mid-afternoon and prayed. She stopped at sunset and she prayed. At the latest point of night, she prayed again. As she knelt on the prayer rug beside her family members, she thought about "Niyyah." Before every prayer, a good muslim was to perform Niyyah: "Now I am offering prayer to Allah."
After morning prayer, she went to her room, where she wrapped a sari around her dress and petticoat.
Downstairs, Mrs. Bajwa filled the breakfast table with food: fried eggs, semolina halva, and goat's milk. As each child passed their platter across the table, he ladled portions of halwa onto each plate then passed it across the table. Mrs. Bajwa served eggs from her end of the table, then passed the plate back to each of her children.
Each of the children ate their Semolina Halva first. A type of Bread Pudding, the Halva was soaked in milk and sweetened with milk and honey. It's soft and mushy texture made it taste like soggy French Toast.
"Papa?" asked Yasmeen.
"Yes, dear?"
"Why don't we speak the Niyyah out loud?"
"Niyyah comes from the heart, so we don't say it out loud."
"It's a conscious devotion to Allah," added Mohammad.
Yasmeen nodded and then continued eating her Halva. Little Khan cleared his throat.
"That doesn't make sense," said Khan.
"What doesn't make sense?” asked Mohammad.
"Doesn't the entire prayer come from the heart?"
"I suppose you're right," answered father, "but we speak the prayer out loud so we can feel it."
"I feel the prayers even if I don't speak them," said little Khan, "I feel them when I I bow and when I stand during prayers."
"The most important part of the prayer is the ritual," said Mohammad.
"I think it is also the devotion. Qu-ran says that each part of prayer makes it valid in the eyes of Allah," replied Mr. Bajwa.
"Sometimes I think everything we do is good in the eyes of Allah, even when we eat," replied Khan as he swallowed a spoonful of Halva.
"That sounds like a good idea," said his mother. She pinched Khan's nose and took a bite of Halva. Indeed, she could taste the greatness of Allah's works. The rest of the family joined in, silently eating and enjoying their breakfast. After breakfast, it was time for Mr. Bajwa to go to work. Mrs. Bajwa and the children stayed behind. "Yasmeen, your Cousin Noor is coming from Agra in a few days. She's going to sleep in your room, so you need to make space for her. She also needs a place to store her clothes." While Faisal practiced his field hockey in the backyard and Mohammad studied his books, Yasmeen and Khan went to her room. Khan jumped onto her bed and sat with his back against the wall.
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know."
"You want to help me clean the room?"
Khan shook his head.
"Okay, you can sit and watch," she replied. She arranged her closet, making space for her cousin Noor.
"Do you think cleaning the room could be prayer?" she asked.
"Of course it is," replied Khan.
"Where did you come up with that?"
"That's just how I feel," he said.
Yasmeen plopped on the bed and laid down beside her brother.
“Little Khan, aren’t you tired?”
Khan shook his head, “How can I be tired? Doesn’t my morning prayer say “Prayer is better than sleep?”
“It does, but that doesn’t mean I’m not tired,” she replied.
“I think the morning prayer is a way for Allah to tell us it time to begin the day.”
Yasmeen sighed. “I suppose you’re right, but I sure could use a little nap.”
“Come on, I’ll help you clean,” said Khan as he dragged his sister out of bed.
Khan organized the socks while Yasmeen worked in the closet. She folded her clothes deliberately, organizing them in her closet. Each petticoat, sari, and dress was now important as she thought about how thankful she was for each piece of clothing. With Khan's help, she moved the furniture, too.
It seemed like no time at all before lunchtime came. A hearty smell came from the kitchen as Mrs. Bajwa grilled skewers of Chicken Tikka. The Chicken Tikka kebabs included chicken, bell pepper, tomatoes, and onions, all marinated and slow-roasted over the grill.
The children came from all directions to enjoy Chicken Tikka. Yasmeen did not like the onions and Khan did not like the tomatoes, so they traded their vegetables as they ate.
“How is your room coming along?” asked Mrs. Bajwa.
“It’s almost ready,” said Yasmeen.
“But we still have a lot of work to do,” added Khan.
The children finished up their meals and made wuduu. Already, it was the time of Dhuhr, the mid-day prayer.
After washing, the children stood in front of their prayer mats. Yasmeen whispered her Niyaah to herself before she began to prayer. She smiled as she looked out the western window towards Mecca. The call came from the minarets yet again.
“Allahu Akbar!”
The children each smiled as the world came to a stop. Except for the call, their world was silent. Many of the trucks, busses, and motorcycles came to a stop as people began Dhuhr.Indeed, the gifts from Allah were great, thought Yasmeen as eh prayed with her brothers.

Bundukhan Kebab House

After a full day of watching Faisal play field hockey, the Bajwa family was ready for food (and lots of it!) They packed into the family car and travelled across the city. Even though the air was hot and humid, the streets of Lahore were filled with traffic.
Yasmeen rolled the window down and laid her arm on the window ledge. As she watched the passing traffic, she leaned her head upon her arm. The soft, golden glow of flourescent light illuminated the building along Grand Trunk Road. As light flickered across the sides of buildings, it reminded Yasmeen of the glow from a flame.
Mr. Bajwa pulled the car into the crowded parking lot and stopped at the front door. Mrs. Bajwa and the children got out and waited in line and Mr. Bajwa drove off, looking for a place to park.
Mrs. Bajwa dug into her coin purse and gave several rupees to Faisal so he could eat with his hockey friends. Faisal’s teammates gathered outside, hanging out and talking about the game. Meanwhile, the rest of the Bajwa family waited for father. They would eat together.
Inside the Kebab House, thick gray smoke clouds filled the air. At the counters, field hockey players and patrons lined one side of the counter, while grillls and chefs lined the other. The restaurant was noisy as people ordered food and a trio of musicians played music on the stage.
Each of the chefs had a separate duty. Two men stood directly behind each grill and supervised the cooking. They turned each of the skewers lined up on the grills and then busily fanned the grills with sturdy wooden boards, feeding oxygen to the fire.
Flames licked up and embers inside the grills glowed as the charcoal became hot. A boy walked up and down the aisle with a pair of metal tongs. His job was to stack the charcoal inside each of the grills, so the meat would cook evenly.
In the back of the kitchen, men prepared the meat. One man fed lamb and onions into a press and turned the handle on the grinder. Strings of ground lamb came out the other end. He sprinked the ground meat with spices and churned the mixture in his hands.
Another man took the bowls of ground meat and carried them to the other end of the counter. He carefully pressed handfuls of the mix onto the skewers and took them to the grills, where they waited to be cooked by the same chefs who were turning the skewers and fanning the flames.
Even with this commotion, the three musicians played their rababs, stringed lutes from Arabia, and sang traditional Pakistani songs. While they played, the chefs sang along. Some of the customers joined in, singing and dancing.
Even though they didn’t recognize the song, Yasmeen and her brothers clapped their hands and stomped their feet. Mrs. Bajwa looked over her shoulder at Yasmeen. Yasmeen stopped, aware that she was it wasn’t very ladylike at all to sing in public. Out of a simple respect, Yasmeen’s brothers stopped clapping, too.
When Yasmeen reached the counter, she looked over the many kebab choices. There were Seekh Kebabs and Doner Kebabs, and Shish Kebabs, and Kathi Kebabs.
A boy rubbed his carving knife against a sharpening stone. With each stroke, the knife and sharpening stone made a swishing sound. After the boy finished sharpening his knife, he shaved pieces of lamb off a roasting spit. He dumped the shavings into a serving bin labelled “Lamb Shawarma.”
The Shish Kebab chef threaded ingredients onto pencil-thin wooden skewers. Ingredients alternated between meat and vegetable: potatoes, lamb, peppers, lamb, tomatoes, lamb, and then onions on the end. Because of the great variety of ingredients, Shish Kebabs were Yasmeen’s favorite.
Yasmeen ordered a Seekh Kebab to share with Khan. They placed it on a tray and moved along the counter. Khan chose a large plate of fries and Yasmeen ordered two cups of tea. Their tray was full as they approached the register.
At the register, she counted through her money, handing the cashier several rupee dollars. The cashier handed the change to Yasmeen. Khan grabbed the bowl of fries and followed his sister to a picnice table on the patio.
She arranged napkins on the table and then sat the Kebab across the napkins. Khan placed the french fries next to the Kebab and sat down. They took turns tearing pieces off the skewer. The char-grilled lamb meat was tender and melted in her mouth.
The rest of the family joined Yasmeen and Khan on the bench. Yasmeen watched her family as they enjoyed their foods.
Her father and mother shared a Shawarma sandwich while Mohammad ate from his own Doner Kebab. Unlike Yasmeen and Khan’s Seekh Kebab, the Doner Kebab was wrapped in a soft, fluffy bread, just like the Shwarma.
“Papa?” asked Yasmeen.
“Yes, dear?”
“Is there any difference between Shwarma and Doner Kebab?”
“Shawarma is basically Doner Kebab without the skewer.”
“Where did they come from?” she asked.
“Shawarma and Doner are Turkish words. They both mean “to turn. Kebab means 'meat.'”
“So Doner Kebab means turnning meat?”
“Exactly,” said Father.

“Can I try some?” asked Yasmeen.

Her father held his half of the sandwich for Yasmeen as she took a bite. The taste of vegetables, including cucumber, tomato, and lettuce mixed with grilled lamb and spicy dressing.

“Mmmm,” she said, “but why do we use a Turkish word?”

“In ancient times, nomad-warriors wandered across the Himalayan and Karakoram mountain ranges from Turkey. These nomads brought their culture and traditions with them, including kebab.”

“Did they bring us anything else?” asked Khan.

“They brought us the gift of Islam,” replied father.

“But I thought Pakistan was a country for Islam.”

“It was, but the Turkish warriors were the ones who first brought Islam to Pakistan.”

“What happened to the people from Turkey?” asked Khan.

“Some Turkish peoples settled in the areas of Pakistan and India.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Yasmeen.

“Has anyone ever seen a Turkish flag?”

The children shook their heads.

“If you put the national flag from Turkey next to Pakistan’s flag, they would look almost identical. Both flags have a white crescent moon and star. The Pakistani flag has a green background and the Turkish flag’s background is red. And, of course, the Pakistani flag has the white bar down one side. Without knowing it, most Pakistanis have Turkish heritage”

“Do we have Turkish heritage?” asked Yasmeen.

“We could be Turks,” answered Mr. Bajwa, “We could also be Spaniards, Arabians, Chinese, Mongols, and, of course, Indians.”

“Which one are we?” asked Khan.

“Our relatives could be from any of those cultures. They rode in travelling caravans from all over the world. In ancient times, a kebab was the best way to cook.”

As she enjoyed each morsel of grilled lamb, Yasmeen thought about ancient times. In school, Yasmeen had learned about the Himalayas and the Karakoram mountain ranges. The world’s second highest peak, K2, was located in the Himalayas. Another mountain, Nanga Parbat, was the ninth highest. In fact, ten out of the world’s thirty highest mountains were located in or near Lahore.

Nomadic caravans travelled over mountains by camelback, hunting for mountain goats and ibises. At the end of the day, the nomads stopped to set up camp. Afterwards, they sat around the fire, roasting their meals on a cooking stick. While they ate, they shared great stories by firelight.

Even though the city streets were nothing like the Himalayas, Yasmeen imagined herself in the pale golden glow of firelight. He hunting companions shared their meal while they gathered around the campfire for warmth. Yasmeen watched the traffic as it went wherever it was going. “It is not that different from now to then,” she thought to herself, “maybe except for the speed of the vehicles.”

After dinner, the Bajwa family waited for Faisal to finish celebrating with his friends. Mr. Bajwa ordered five cups of Falooda. Yasmeen drank from her tall glass using a straw. The drink looked like a strawberry milkshake. It included rose syrup, vermicelli, tapioca seeds, and milk, and ice cream. Khan slurped his Falooda too quickly. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“Falooda headache?” asked Yasmeen.

Khan nodded.

“You shouldn’t have drank it so fast,” reminded Mrs. Bajwa.

Still, little Khan continued drinking his Falooda too fast, periodically stopping to recover. When Faisal noticed his family enjoying the icy summer drink, he said goodbye to his friends and joined his family for dessert.

As the last red thread disappeared from the sky, a familiar sound came from the tall towers situated at the mosque, known as minarets. It was sunset, time for Maghrib, the evening prayer.

People gathered at water fountains and carefully washed themselves, preparing for Maghrib. After they washed, they kneeled on the ground and faced Mecca, a special place for all Muslims. They recited their prayers, bowing to the ground and thanking Allah. They also thanked the prophet Mohammed. \

After evening prayer, it was time to go home. They piled into the Bajwa car and took their caravan home. Even at night, the fire-like glow of streetlamps illuminated the sides of the buildings and Mosques. Even now, Yasmeen still felt like a nomad, journeying from the desert prairie to her home.

Once they reached their house, Yasmeen was glad to be home. She recorded an entry in her journal and said her last prayer before going to bed. It was an eventful day, and she could use the rest.

We Three Kings

Late into Saturday morning, Yasmeen laid in her bed, listening to the sounds beyond her bedroom walls. Her mother and father talked in the kitchen before her father went to the carpet store for the rest of the day.
Bollywood music played on the television as Mohammad laid on the couch. In the kitchen, the igniter clicked as Mrs. Bajwa turned the knob on the stove. She retrieved a saucepan from the cupboard and placed it over the heat.
Yasmeen’s hand searched around under her bed until it landed on the leather cover of her journal. She pulled it out and unfastened the metal snap. She leaned her back against the headboard and rested the book on her lap.
As she wrote in her journal, Mrs. Bajwa cooked breakfast in the kitchen. She poured condensed milk into the saucepan and stirred it while it simmered. When it came to a boil, she added sugar and cardimom powder. In a separate pan, she fried a handful of raisins and almonds. The fruity raisin smell drifted through the air.
“Yasmeen?” a voice called softly through the door. It was her mother.
“Yes?”
“Can you round everybody up for breakfast?”
“What are we having?”
“Rice pudding and cinnamon toast.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Yasmeen. She tucked her journal back into place before changing into her day clothes. She picked out a pair of comfortable trousers and a blouse called a kameez. The tail of her kameez fell over hips. For Yasmeen, she found the kameez as comfortable as her pajamas.
Yasmeen walked throughout the house. Mohammad was still in the living room, watching television. His school books were spread across the living room floor as he worked on a report for class. Even on Saturday, Mohammad was diligent in his studies.
Meanwhile, Faisal sat on the front porch wrapping his hockey stick with stick tape. Yasmeen stood at the screen door, quietly observing her brother. The tape shuddered noisily as he peeled it from the roll. Faisal pressed each piece carefully into place.
“Faisal, it’s breakfast time,” she said.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” he said.
“Have you seen little Khan?”
“I think he’s in the bedroom,” he replied.
“I’ve already looked there,” she said.
Yasmeen searched each room again before returning to the kitchen.
“Has anyone seen Khan?” she asked.
“I think he’s behind the couch.”
Often, Khan crawled behind the couch and drew in his sketchbook. Yasmeen went to the living room and crouched down. Sure enough, there was Khan, stretched out behind the couch, playing with his crayons.
He had drawn a spiderweb of black lines and was filling them in with various bright colors.
“What are you drawing?” asked Yasmeen.
“I’m making a mosaic,” said Khan.
“Like the toomb?”
“Like I think the tomb must’ve looked when it was firt built.”
“I bet it will be very pretty,” said his sister.
“I hope so.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I guess so.”
“Breakfast’s ready. Mom made rice pudding and cinnamon toast. Let’s wash up so we can eat before we go to Faisal’s game.”
Khan put away his crayons and folded up his sketchbook. He followed Yasmeen to the wash basin and washed his hands before they joined everyone at the kitchen table
In a rush to get ready for the game, Faisal quickly finished his breakfast. He went to his bedroom and packed his gym bag with his hockey gear. The rest of the Bajwa children took their time with breakfast, eating multiple bowls of warm rice pudding and several pieces crunchy cinnamon toast.
“Come on, it’s time to go,” said Mrs. Bajwa.
“We still have time. The game doesn’t start until the afternoon,” said Mohammad.
“Your father needed to use the car today, so we have to take a bus. I also want to get there early so we can get a good seat,” said Mrs. Bajwa.
They caught the bus and rode to the field hockey stadium. The two older boys sat in one seat while Yasmeen sat with Khan, across the row. Although she preferred the window seat, she gave it to Khan. He laid his head on his arm and placed his arm out the window. He waved his arm in the wind, surfing the air current.
Yasmeen looked over his shoulder, watching as the bus past Badshahi Mosque and the Min-a-re Tower. Unlike Buddhu’s Tomb, the stonework of the Mosque gleamed in the sunlight. Four walls stretched nearly two-hundred meters on each side. A tower, called a minaret, guarded each corner. Three domes, like giant white teardrops, stood across the the southwestern wall.
Badshahi Mosque was built at the end of the Mughal Empire. At special times, famous religious leaders cited writings from the Muslim holy book, the Quran. At one time, the mosque was the largest of its kind, able to house 5,000 people at a time.
A crowd had already gathered inside the coliseum. Faisal walked to the locker room while the rest of the family went to the bleachers.
Yasmeen sat between her two brothers while they cheered for their brother Faisal. Everyone in the Bajwa family always supported each other. While the game played on, Yasmeen thought about the many ancient buildings throughout the city. Most of the tombs, mosques, and palaces had been around over four centuries.
In the time of Mughal emperors, the city of Lahore was a grand place. The empire had grown to its largest, covering what is now Pakistan, India, and Afghanistan.
The center of all cultural activity, Lahore’s palaces glimmered with beauty. Chief among the Mughal emperors were Akbar, his son Jahangir and Jahangir’s son, Shah Jahan. Like his father and grandfather before him, Shah Jahan established a cultural mecca.
Shah Jahan built great palaces, like the Taj Mahal in Agra, India, which he built as a monument to his lovely queen, Mumtaz. He also built the Red Fort in Delhi, as well as the Wazir Khan Mosque, the Lahore Fort, and the Jahangir Mausoleum for his father. Although his father, Jahangir, also loved the arts, Shah Jahan fully established the arts, even as a painter and poet himself.
Jahangir, on the other hand, was better known as a diplomatic leader. Although his name, Jahangir, meant “Seizer of the world”, Jahangir was known for his love of the arts and the development of beautiful places, like Shalimar Gardens. His wife, Nur Jahan, was called the “Light of the World”, for her love of the arts.
At this time, the empire was its most stable and productive. Jahangir established a chain of justice, where even the common man could hold court with the one and only king.
On the other hand, Shah Jahan’s grandfather, Akbar the Great, was a noble warlord. His court included the “Navartnas” (the nine gems), a group of men who led his Mughal armies. Under Akbar, the empire became its greatest in size. The fierce warrior-king Akbar was only stopped by natural boundaries. In the southwest, Akbar’s warriors found the Indian Ocean. To the north, it was the mountains of Kashmir and to the south, not even the Narmada River in India could stop their progress.
Yasmeen thought about how different each of the three kings had been. Then, she thought about her brothers, Mohammad, Faisul, and Khan. Each Bagwa boy had an independent spirit, although they shared the same father.
Unlike the thoughtful Mohammad and the sentimental Khan, Faisal was like Akbar the Great, a great competitor and a warrior on the hockey field.
The team from Islamabad scored first and led 1-0. Faisal and his teammates had several chances, but failed to score a goal during the first half. It wasn’t until late into the game, when one of Islamabad’s defenders tripped a striker, that Lahore had a real chance to tie the game. The umpire awarded a penalty stroke.
By far, Faisal Bajwa was not the biggest or fastest of the players on Lahore’s field hockey team. What he lacked in size, he made up for in sheer determination. At home, he spent most of his time out behind the house, practicing his shots and passes.
Each day after school, he fetched the laundry basket from the basement along with a piece of wire. He tied the laundry basket to the clothesline and set a half-dozen plastic hockey balls on the sidewalk behind the house. He practiced shots, flicking the balls up and into the basket. The basket clunked as the balls hit the bottom.
Because of his accuracy, Faisal took most long corners and penalty strokes. Just as Faisal got ready for the flick, one of his teammates whispered in his ear. Faisal nodded, then placed the ball on the mark.
The goalkeeper waited at in the crease and the umpire raised his hand. After the whistle, Faisal took one quick stroke at the ball. It flew upward and snapped against the goal post at the upper right hand corner of the net. Faisal score the tying goal!
The Bajwas jumped and cheered. Khan shoued his older brother’s name, “Go Faisal!”
Late in the game, Mr. Bajwa arrived at the game, just in time to see one of Faisal’s teammates score the winning goal. The Bajwas jumped and cheered again. At the end of the game, it was Lahore 2, Islamabad 1.
Faisal joined his family outside the coliseum after the game. Khan held Faisal’s hockey stick as the rest of the family congratulated the goal scorer. Meanwhile, Khan pretended to play field hockey in the gravel beside the family.
“I heard you scored a goal,” said Mr. Bajwa.
“It was no big deal, just a P.S.”
“A goal from a penalty stroke is just as good as any other,” said his father, “If the coach didn’t have faith in you, he wouldn’t let you take the P.S.”
“We were talking about going out for dinner. Can you go with us?” asked Mrs. Bajwa.
“The coach wanted us to meet up at Bundukhan,” replied Faisal.
“We can all go there, too. Is anyone else interested in kebabs?”
All the children raised their hands and so did Mr. Bajwa.
“Kebabs it is,” said Mrs. Bajwa.They loaded into the car and Mr. Bajwa drove down Grand Trunk road until they reached Bundukhan Kebab House. Many of Faisal’s teammaters were already there. Mr. Bajwa handed some ruppes to Faisal and sent him on his way. The rest of the Bajwa family sat together, ready for a fire-grilled feast.

The Brick-Maker's Tomb

As usual, Yasmeen had the task of gathering little Khan from school and escorting him home. Khan greeted her outside the school doors. She walked with him, hand-in-hand, away from the schoolyard and down one of Lahore’s many back streets.
“This isn’t the way to the bazaar,” noticed Khan.
“I know,” answered Yasmeen.
“And this isn’t the way home, either,” he added.
“I know that, too,” she answered.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but we will know when we get there,” she replied. Yasmeen had a way of taking side-trips. She wandered this way and that until she found something, whether it was planned or not.
Khan followed her along side streets and shortcuts. She avoided every familiar path. Khan struggled to keep up with his sister’s long strides.
Yasmeen stopped at the edge of a clearing. Behind them lay the bustling streets of Lahore. A grassy field stretched in front of them. Abandoned in the field sat a weather-beaten mausoleum.
Next to the mausoleum, a group of boys played cricket in the empty field. The pitcher tossed the ball towards the wicket. The batter struck the ball with his Cricket bat and ran around the bases as the fielders chased the ball. Boys shouted as the runner circled the bases.
As Yasmeen strode toward the empty stone building, Khan stopped to watch the boys playing Cricket.
“Come on, little Khan,” Yasmeen insisted.
“Can’t I stay here for a little bit?” Khan begged.
“Why don’t we compromise?”
“Compromise how?” asked Khan.
“If you come with me to the tomb, we will watch the Cricket game afterward.”
“Okay,” he replied.
Yasmeen grabbed her little brother by the hand and led him toward the old mausoleum.
“Why do you want to go there, anyway?”
“I’m just curious, that’s all.”
The mausoleum consisted of a small square building with a rounded dome on top. The dome was dark red, while the bricks of the square building below it were faded yellow. Marble on the outer walls of the mausoleum was faded and worn. Several blocks were cracked, while many were missing altogether. The decorations on the walls could barely be seen. Even the rounded tower over the main building needed major repairs.
As they entered the mausoleum, Khan tilted his head backward. The faded designs that hung high overhead were still intricate and beautiful.
“Hello!” Khan called out. His voice boomed as it echoed against the stone interior.
“Khan!” scolded his sister, “Be respectful. You’re in a sacred place.”
Khan obeyed his sister as he silenced his voice. He spun around, his head arched toward the ceiling. He circled the interior of the dome, tracing his fingers on the mortar lines between the stones.
As Khan wandered around inside the dome, Yasmeen ventured outside. From where she stood, Yasmeen could not only see the boys playing Cricket, but she also had a rooftop view of the surrounding city. Along the valleys of Lahore, men walked with their donkey carts, going to and from the market. Motorcycles filled the highways, sharing the road with cars and busses.
“Khan!” she called, “Come outside and take a look!”
Khan joined his sister on the walkway, but was too short to peer over the wall. He climbed onto a bench sitting next to the wall and looked over the side.
He smiled as he peered down. He wished he could play Cricket, too.
As winds kicked up, the green Dupatta draped around Yasmeen’s neck fluttered. She unwound it from her neck and held it aloft.
“I’m a Pakistani Ranger!” she said. Her scarf waved in the wind, like a bright green flag. She ran up and down the walkway, waving the Dupatta behind her. A sudden gust of wind snapped the scarf from her grasp. The Dupatta sailed effortlessly through the air, landing in the field below.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed. One of the boys picked up the scarf and waved it over his head, signaling to Yasmeen. She scurried downstairs, followed by Khan. The boy gave Yasmeen her Dupatta.
“Thank you very much,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” said the boy.
Yasmeen and Khan sat at the edge of the field and watched the boys playing Cricket. Across the field stood a building. Although it also looked very old, the mosaic on its face was not worn like the tomb.
“You stay right here,” said Yasmeen.
“Where are you going?”
“I want to look at that building over there.”
“We can watch over him,” interrupted the boy who rescued her Dupatta. Yasmeen nodded, then moved Khan next to the older boys. She walked to the building and stood next to it.
The building stood almost twenty kilometers high, which was higher than she originally thought. Ornate mosaic designs covered the face of the building. The faded red tiles gave the two-story building a pink hue. Yasmeen thought it was odd, since the word Gulabi Bagh meant “Pink Rose” in her native language.
She circled the building, losing herself in thought. A long time ago, the Gulabi Bagh was a gateway to a beautiful rose garden. Today, it was just a field where boys played Cricket.
As the sky grew dark, Yasmeen knew she had lingered in the gardens too long. She returned to the Cricket game to fetch her brother. They said goodbye to the boys and hurried home.
Even from outside the house, the sweet and spicy smell of Nihari greeted Yasmeen and Khan. As they entered the kitchen, their mother was there to greet them.
Mrs. Bajwa gave the children a look of disapproval.
“Yasmeen, why are you coming home so late?”
“I took Khan to the Buddhu’s Tomb and then lost track of time visiting the Gateway next to it,” replied Yasmeen.
“You know you are to come straight home after school unless you get permission from your father or me.”
“I know,” she replied, “We were talking about the Guruis in school today and I was curious.”
Mrs. Bajwa sighed and shook her head. She then combed a hand through her only daughter’s hair.
“Next time, you get permission first.”
“I promise.”
Mrs. Bajwa nodded. “I understand your curiosity, but you know the rules, too. Now wash up while I get dinner on the table.”
Yasmeen and Khan washed their hands and faces before returned to the dinner table. By that time, the rest of the family had already fathered at the table, ready for dinner.
As the two younger children sat down, Mrs. Bajwa carried a soup pot full of Nihari to the table. The steam from the Nihari filled the air with its rich and spicy fragrance. Mohammad led the blessing before Mrs. Bajwa filled everyone’s bowls with Nihari.
Yasmeen used her soup spoon to stir the Nihari. Large chunks of onion and lamb mingled in the spice-filled broth. Yasmeen scooped up a chunk of lamb and ate it. She dipped her spoon in the broth and slurped the spicy broth. Tastes of ginger, cloves, and cardamom mixed with the spicy chili oil. Yasmeen smiled as the chili oil burnt the edges of her lips. Just then, Faisal interrupted.
“I heard you two didn’t come straight home after school.”
“We stopped by an Buddhu’s tomb,” interrupted Khan.
“Why on earth would anyone go to that broken-down building?” asked Faisal.
“Do you even know the story of Buddhu?” asked Mohammad.
“He’s just an old brick maker,” replied Faisal.
“Oh, Faisal,” sighed Mrs. Bajwa, “he’s much more than that.”
“I heard Buddhu wasn’t even buried there,” said Faisal.
“That may be true, but the story of Buddhu is still an important one.”
“Who was he?” asked Khan.
“You know the name Shah Jahan, don’t you?”
Khan nodded.
“It begins with Shah Jahan…”
Mrs. Bajwa settled into her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Then, she cleared her throat to tell the legend of Buddhu’s tomb.
“During the time of Shah Jahan, the great Mughal emperors built lavish tombs, palaces, and mosques.”
“Like the Badshahi Mosque?” asked Khan.
“Exactly like the Badshahi Mosque. All of these buildings needed bricks. Guess who made these bricks?”
“Buddhu?” asked Khan.
“In a way,” she said, “It actually began with Buddhu’s father, Suddhu. Suddhu’s father worked as the royal brick-maker for Jahangir, who was Shah Jahan’s father.”
“Sort of a family affair,” said Mohammad.
“Just like you and your father and your grandfather before him. Many men follow in the footsteps of their fathers. For Buddhu, he followed in the footsteps of his father, too. He supplied the bricks just as his father had. At least until one fateful day.”
“What happened then?” asked Khan.
“A holy man came to visit the kiln on a wintry night. He hoped to warm himself by the warmth of the kiln’s fire, but was turned away. Because of that, Shah Jahan’s men extinguished the kiln’s fires forever.”
“He’s still just a common laborer,” said Faisal, “and anyway, the tomb belongs to someone else.”
“Faisal, the legend is about treating everyone like a member of the royal family, because we are all members of the royal family, whether we’re related to the emperor or not.”
“I could not have said it better,” said Mrs. Bajwa.
“But if Buddhu isn’t in Buddhu’s tomb, why do we continue to talk about him?” asked Faisal.
“For the story,” replied Mrs. Bajwa.
“In Allah’s eyes, we are all kings. Even if we’re the son of a carpet-maker,” said Mohammad.
The children grew silent as they thought about what the oldest brother said. Although they were the children of a common laborer, they knew they had an important place in the world.

The Purest Thread

A girl named Yasmeen, tall and slender, walked along the streets of Lahore with her little brother Khan. Her rainbow-colored sari shimmered in the late afternoon sun. As Khan hopped off the curb, he grabbed his sister’s hand. She grasped it firmly and held him back as motorbikes, minibuses, and cars whizzed along just in front of them.
A police officer noticed the girl in the rainbow dress with her brother. He raised his gloved hand in the air. All traffic came to a stop.
“Tashrif lyee!” he said as he motioned for them to cross the street.
Yasmeen tugged Khan by the arm as they scurried to the other side.
“Shukrya,” she said, thanking the officer.
Around the corner, people gathered at the Anarkali Bazaar. Donkey carts and motorbikes moved slowly as pedestrians crowded the streets. Tables piled with clothes lined each side of the street.
Women gathered around the tables, sorting through the clothing. Next to the tables sat a row of donkey carts, where a man sold bags of rice. Another man sold fresh fruit from the back of his cart, and still another sold building bricks.
As she made her way to the sidewalk, Yasmeen cut between two of the donkey carts. A piece of metal caught the tail of her sari. Before it ripped, Khan tugged on his sister’s arm.
“Wait!” he called out.
“We don’t have time, papa is expecting us,” she answered. Khan pointed to the tangled cloth.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed. She gently grabbed the edge of the cloth and pulled it loose. She held onto the frayed edge as she continued through the crowd. Her father’s shop sat at the end of the street. The plain green lettering across the door announced her father’s store for all who entered, “Bajwa’s Finest Pakistani Carpets.” Mr. Bajwa, was in the process of selling one of his hand-made carpets.
He knelt on the floor beside one of his fine carpets while a customer stood next to him. Mr. Bajwa ran his cupped hand over the carpet furiously, scooping against the wool. If flecks of wool gathered on the carpet, the wool was no good. If no hair gathered on the carpet, then the carpet was made of high quality wool. As always, Mr. Bajwa’s carpets did not shed their fibers.
“I’ll take it,” said the man.
Mr. Bajwa carefully rolled the carpet and bundled it with silk ribbons. The man paid for his brand new carpet and Mr. Bajwa returned several rupees to the customer as he counted out the change. They finished their sale with a firm handshake before Mr. Bajwa tucked the carpet roll under the man’s arm.
“Hello fine daughter. Hello fine son,” said Mr. Bajwa as he greeted his children, “How was school today?”
“It was fine, Papa,” answered Yasmeen.
“That is good to hear.”
Without another word, Mr. Bajwa returned to his carpets. Yasmeen’s mother sat in the back of the shop, mending a jacket for one of Mr. Bajwa’s customers. Yasmeen held out the wad of torn sari. Mrs. Bajwa guided her daughter by the arm, fixing the torn dress while Yasmeen stood still.
“How did you do this?” she asked.
“I tore it on one of the donkey carts in the street.”
“Such fine fabric. You know this dress is just for special occasions.”
“Yes, mama,” she answered.
“Take care not to tear it again.”
“Yes, mother,” she replied. Yasmeen’s parents worked very hard, providing only the best for their children. Yasmeen felt ashamed about tearing the dress.
“Don’t worry yourself. You cannot be perfect. You can only do what you can do. You look at this moment and remember it tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” she answered.
Mrs. Bajwa smiled as she patted Yasmeen gently on the face. Yasmeen let out a tiny smile.
“Go help your father prepare the store for closing,” said mother. Yasmeen nodded, then hurried to the front of the store.
Mr. Bajwa had worked in this tiny store for most of his life. Yasmeen’s grandfather, the original Mr. Bajwa, opened the store when her father was just a little boy. Before that, her grandfather worked in a textile factory. In fact, many of Yasmeen’s distant relatives were laborers, working in the factories of large cities like Islamabad, Karachi, and Lahore.
Yasmeen’s father spent most of his childhood in tis way, helping his own father close the shop after a long day. Mr. Bajwa organized his carpets into neat piles. Afterwards, he ran a bristle broom over the edges of the carpets, untangling their fringe.
“Is there anything we can do?” Yasmeen asked her father.
Mr. Bajwa handed his broom to Yasmeen and fetched a dustpan for Khan to hold.
“You can dust the floor,” he said.
Yasmeen carefully ran the broom under tables and chairs, pulling dust and cobwebs from every spare corner. Meanwhile, little Khan crouched with the dustpan as he followed his sister around the store.
After they swept dust from all corners, Khan emptied the dustpan into the wastebasket. A dustcloud rose into the air. Khan coughed heavily.
“Are you okay, little Khan?” asked Yasmeen. Khan nodded, then dutifully returned to his crouching position, ready to gather more dirt.
Mrs. Bajwa looked up from the cash register. The tail of Khan’s white shirt-dress was covered in dirt. In fact, dirt had caked on Khan’s hands, forearms, and face, too.
“Khan, please come here for a moment.”
He shuffled across the floor and stood in front of her. She grabbed a wet towel from the sink and used it to scrub the dirt off Khan’s face and arms.
“Yasmeen, you can come here, too. You will never keep up with this dusty store. Dusty old men enter through that front door in all day long, bringing dirt from the dusty old street. It is work enough just trying to keep up with the dust, let along trying to take the lead.”
Yasmeen joined her family at the back of the store. Mrs. Bajwa rinsed off the towel and handed it to Yasmeen. The young girl wiped the dirt from her face. The cold water felt fresh upon her face.
“If this is such a dusty old store, why do you and father stay here?” asked Yasmeen.
“This old store is my life. Every day, your father and I get up early in the morning and come to this dusty old store in the middle of Lahore. We work until after the sun goes down. Do you know why?”
Yasmeen shook her head.
“I have purchased Lahore with my life,” uttered her mother, “by giving my life for Lahore, I have actually purchased another Paradise.”
“That is beautiful, mama.”
“Those aren’t my words. Those are the words of Empress Noor. And although she said it, I feel it, too. Pakistan may be the “Land of the Pure”, but Lahore is my paradise."
Mrs. Bajwa smiled at her children and told them to sit on a pile of carpets while she and their father finished closing up the store. They counted the cash drawer and put the money into the night safe. Then, they turned off the lights and locked the door, leaving the carpets until tomorrow morning.
They caught a bus and rode it through the busy streets of Lahore. Dust clouds flew from the back tires of the bus as they went home. Their two-story house sat at the edge of the city. Everyone got off the bus and went inside.
“Hurry along and change into something more suitable,” Mrs. Bajwa said to Yasmeen.
“What should I wear?”
“A kameez and pants will be fine,” suggested her mother.
Yasmeen went to her room and took off her rainbow-colored dress. The piece of cloth was 9 meters long when fully unwrapped. Yasmeen carefully folded it and replaced it in her dresser.
She changed into a pair of blue jeans and put on one of her shalwar kameez. The faded blue blouse came down over her hips, fitting like a loose over shirt.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bajwa was in the kitchen, preparing a quick meal. She had sautéed a bunch of onions and was browning almonds in the same skillet.
As Yasmeen emerged from her room, Mrs. Bajwa nodded approvingly of her casual clothes. Yasmeen was also greeted by the smell of fried onions and ginger root. A thin gray smoke drifted through the kitchen.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked her mother.
“If you could grab the lamb from the refrigerator, that would be helpful.”
Yasmeen opened the refrigerator door. A bowl of clumpy yogurt sat on the top shelf. Yasmeen grabbed the bowl and placed it on the counter beside the stove.
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Bajwa plucked the clumps from the batter and put them in the pan. They popped and sizzled as an even heavier cloud of cooking smoke rose from the pan. After she browned the yogurt-covered meat, she added the remaining yogurt and let the curry simmer while she rested.
Yasmeen watched the curry for her mother, occasionally stirring the batter. About halfway through cooking, Her older brothers, Mohammad and Faisal, arrived home from school. Mohammad stayed after school to study while Faisal went to field hockey practice.
They went to the bedroom and changed out of their school uniforms. Afterwards, Faisal and Mohammad came into the kitchen to investigate. Faisal tried to sneak a few early bites of fried onion. Yasmeen scolded her older brother. Mrs. Bajwa followed up on Yasmeen’s threat, warning the boys to stay out of the kitchen until dinnertime.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” said Mohammad, “It was Faisal.”
“It doesn’t matter who was snacking on food, I want you both in here while she finishes up dinner.”
Just after the two older boys left, Khan entered the kitchen. He had changed into a new kameez. It was white, like the one he wore earlier that day. Yasmeen bent down and gave her favorite brother a kiss on the cheek. He gave her a smile with teeth as pearly white as his crisp shirt.
While nobody was looking, Yasmeen snuck a fried onion for herself, putting a finger to her lips, motioning Khan to be silent. She held the pan low enough for Khan. He fished out a long worm of an onion and fed it into his mouth, beginning at one end.
Just then, Mrs. Bajwa entered the kitchen. The children remained silent, but the guilty looks ont heir faces said it all.
“He was just making sure it was ready,” said Yasmeen sheepishly. Without saying a word, Mrs Bajwa walked towards the pan and grabbed an onion. She fished it into her mouth and gave a wink.“Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Bajwa called out. She turned off the stove and hurried her two youngest children along to wash up for dinner. Everyone gathered around the table for one of their regular feasts. Mrs. Bajwa served up lamb curry, which everyone enjoyed with glasses of iced tea as they shared stories from their separate lives.