A true story from my early years in Mughalpura, Lahore
By: Ali Usman Baig
Some homes exist only in memory. For me, that place is the Bukhari Building in Mughalpura, Lahore — a rented portion where we lived from 1989 to 1993, yet it shaped my entire childhood.
We moved there because my father was transferred to another city. My schooling had to continue, and my maternal grandparents were close enough to support us. I still remember walking with my grandmother as she searched for a place to rent. She eventually found a tiny first-floor portion in the Bukhari Building for 500 rupees a month.
The portion had just two small rooms. One was used by my uncles. The other served as our bedroom, sitting room, and guest room all at once. A small courtyard connected everything — half-roofed, half-open to the sky. My grandfather kept a solid wooden bed in the shaded corner because his back pain didn’t allow him to sleep on a charpai. He worked seven days a week, even on Sundays and Eid. His quiet discipline taught us the meaning of effort without ever speaking about it.
There was no water supply inside the building. A tube-well across the road was our only source, and we filled containers from it several times a day. It was simply a normal part of life in Mughalpura during the early ’90s. At night, we spread a charpais in the open part of the courtyard and slept under a single fan and the open sky. Shelves above us held old belongings. The house was small, but full of life.
Bukhari Building had a certain mystery tied to it. It stood adjacent to the Shah Kamal Graveyard, and a quietness settled over the area, especially in the evenings. Inside the courtyard, there were also a few small, unidentified graves, old and nameless, that no one touched. They were simply part of the environment — strange, silent, accepted.
On the ground floor lived the landlady, Hala Shani, an elderly Pathan widow who lived alone. Her husband had died young, and both her daughters were married. She was religious, quiet, and strict about noise, especially when we played cricket near her portion. As children, we feared her scolding, not realizing that silence was her only companion.
There was a narrow, roofed passage on the ground floor, its floor made of natural mud. People said that before the building was constructed, graves existed in that corner as well. Whether true or just Mughalpura folklore, the place always felt untouched and still. We never played there.
Next to that space were two small shops — a carrom shop and a fruit stall. The carrom shop was a gathering spot for older boys and rough youngsters. We weren’t allowed to enter; we just watched from the doorway. I still remember one incident clearly: my uncle parked his bike in front of that carrom shop, locked it, went upstairs for only a few minutes, and it was stolen. That street taught us how fast things could disappear.
The other shop was run by a short-tempered fruit seller everyone called “Fogy.” If someone teased him with that name, he would shout, curse and sometimes throw stones. He rarely hurt anyone, but nobody dared say “Fogy” loudly.
Not far from the Bukhari Building, right in front of the Millat Girls School, was a large open area everyone called the Rori — a dumping spot where people threw garbage. I remember seeing dozens of vultures there almost every day, huge and silent, feeding or circling above. It was a strange, unforgettable sight of Lahore in those days. And then one day, without warning, they disappeared. Not gradually — suddenly. As if vultures had never existed in Lahore at all. The Rori remained, but the sky above it became empty forever.
Our neighbors were a large Pathan family with many daughters and two sons. We shared food almost daily. If something cooked at our place didn’t taste good, we simply sent it next door; it returned the next day with their dishes. No ego, no hesitation — just the way life was.
Basant was the heartbeat of our childhood. Lahore’s sky would turn golden even before sunrise, and Bukhari Building’s rooftop felt like the center of the festival. Our roof was perfect for flying the traditional kites of Lahore — Gudda, Tawa, Kup, Sharala, Pari, Patang, Machar — and the famous white Kuddas in Tawa, Der Tawa and Do Tawa sizes. Kite battles were fierce but beautiful, white against white, paper trembling in the wind.
My uncle’s room was legendary — almost 500 kites hung along the walls, preserved like a personal museum of Lahore’s Basant culture. Even after Basant was banned in Lahore, he kept every kite. He couldn’t fly them anymore, but he couldn’t let go of the memories either.
The real thrill came during the pecha, when two kites locked lines and the duel began. That’s when the technique of “hath pherna” became crucial — a rapid hand movement along one’s string to make it slice through the opponent’s line. It was especially effective against manjha, the sharp, glass-coated string many used. A master of hath pherna could defeat even stronger lines. And when a kite finally lost, rooftops erupted with “Bo kata!”
But Basant also had its unwritten rules — rules every child respected. One of the biggest was this: if a kite’s string broke without a pecha, without a fight, the kite had to be returned to the flyer. Catching a drifting kite wasn’t a victory; it was a responsibility. Only the kites cut in a real battle were trophies. This little moral code gave dignity even to the smallest rooftop.
Along with the thrill came the classic rooftop arguments. Someone would accuse another of using “zalim manjha,” or pulling unfairly, or cheating during a pecha. Shouts echoed across rooftops, threats followed, and within minutes everyone returned to flying again. Basant wasn’t just a festival — it was rivalry, joy, excitement, and Lahore at its purest.
Education was central to our home. Two of my aunts were brilliant students. One, doing her Master’s degree, created a shaded study corner on the roof using wooden planks. She studied there even in summer heat without a fan. Both aunts opened a tuition center at home to support their studies and the family. Students from school to bachelor levels came daily. Books and notes filled the house. I learned the value of education by watching them study tirelessly.
Outside the building stood Noora Cycle Works, where bicycles were repaired and rented. My first bicycle — a BMX Hercules. Next to it was a kabariya shop run by Teddy. His orphan nephew Bola once refused to return my cricket ball, so I hit him on the arm. The fight vanished by evening as if nothing had happened. That’s how childhood was — quick tempers, quicker forgiveness.
Animals were a big part of my early life. We kept two Russian dogs, Mickey and her pup Beater. They ate what we ate and were like family. When Beater slipped from the stairs and died, Mickey became silent and later died too. That was my first understanding of how deeply animals feel grief. I also kept parakeets, a ring-necked parrot and hens — small pieces of childhood that stayed with me.
My grandmother, my Achi Amma, loved me the most. I slept beside her every night and received duas every morning. I loved her even more than my own mother. She passed away in 2001, but her love remains one of the strongest parts of my life.
I studied at Cathedral School. Every morning, my mother walked with me through winter fog to the bus stop. Her warm hand around my cold fingers is still a memory I carry. During the monsoon, the streets flooded, yet we played cricket without worry. We read Akhbar-e-Jahan, collected toy soldiers, watched movies on VCR, celebrated Pakistan’s 1992 World Cup victory, and spent evenings with elders. Life was simple, without mobile phones or distractions.
At around 10 or 12, I made a childhood mistake — peeking at a girl bathing at a hand pump through a parapet hole. I didn’t understand shame or privacy. When she complained, my mother handled it gently and taught me through understanding, not punishment. Some lessons stay quietly forever.
The story of Bukhari Building can never be complete without Rani Aunty. We all called her Rani. She was my mother’s cousin, a few years older, and she lived with us in Bukhari Building. She was my Nani Amma’s most beloved niece. Rani Aunty had the saddest eyes I have ever seen — soft, silent, and carrying a kind of brokenness that even childhood innocence could feel without understanding.
She had married young in Kasur, but her husband was not a good man. She took a divorce to save herself, but her father taunted her endlessly for that decision. Hurt, humiliated and unwanted, she came to live with my Nani Amma, who opened her door—and her heart—to her.
Her little Chota Takht Posh was unforgettable — a small wooden bed in the corner of the kitchen where she slept without a mattress, without a blanket, as if she had chosen discomfort just to avoid burdening anyone. She ate very little, often just one roti, and sometimes she ate nothing but a few pears, quietly, with a kind of apologetic grace. Her whole existence felt like an attempt to take up less space in the world.
Even so, she wasn’t invisible. She ran the kitchen. She cooked for everyone — my uncles, my aunts, for us children — from morning until late at night. She worked under the dim kitchen bulb while the rest of the house slept. She never complained, never argued, never demanded anything. Her hands were always busy; her heart always silent.
I remember one day her youngest brother came to our house. He sat with her for a long time, speaking softly, insisting again and again that she come with him, stay at his home, live with her own family. But she kept refusing — quietly, firmly. I never understood why. Looking back now, I feel she no longer wanted to depend on anyone, not even on her siblings. Perhaps she felt she did not belong anywhere anymore. Perhaps she had accepted her sadness as her only companion.
Sometimes I think she was alone in a house full of people — surrounded by us, yet deeply isolated. And even now, whenever I remember her, a question rises inside me: Why are women like her — so gentle, so giving — treated with such cruelty by life, and sometimes by the very people they love?
I remember wanting a toy soldier from Nemat Market in Sukkano Bazaar. It cost 90 rupees — something we couldn’t afford. I kept asking my mother, but we were three siblings, and those were difficult times.
But Rani Aunty noticed. She stitched a soldier out of cloth, filled it with cotton, and gave it to me. I played with it like it was the real one. Even in her deepest sadness, she found ways to make someone else happy.
She never returned to her parents’ home. She carried her grief quietly until it became illness. Breast cancer. Railway Hospital. And then one day, she was gone — as silently as she had lived.
I remember her often — her Chota Takht Posh, her quiet footsteps, her tired eyes, her gentle smile. She was not just an aunt; she was more than an aunt.
She was a soft light in a very hard world.
Years later, I often dreamed of returning to Bukhari Building. In my dreams only my grandmother was there — sick, waiting. The building looked empty. In reality, after we moved, Hala Shani passed away, the building was sold and demolished, and a large house was built in its place. Nothing remains now — no walls, no courtyard, no graves, no rooftops. Only memories.
I also remember a little girl named Moni, around two or three years old, who called out to me when we moved. I never saw her again. Childhood doesn’t teach us how to say goodbye; it simply moves forward.
Bukhari Building no longer exists, but everything I learned there stayed with me — sharing food, respecting elders, loving animals, valuing education, sleeping under the open sky, and finding happiness in ordinary things. It wasn’t just a rented portion; it was the place where my childhood made sense.
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