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.