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.