The Concubine and the Slavecatcher: Stories From Around The World - Softcover

Shahraz, Qaisra

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1908446617 ISBN 13: 9781908446619

Publisher: HopeRoad, 2017

Synopsis

Ten powerful stories set on several continents and at different periods in history. A well-meaning Abolitionist learns the sordid and violent truth about slavery from her African servants in Boston USA. The sundering of India and Pakistan in the 1947 Partition is revealed when a Muslim boy is adopted by a Hindu family during the chaos of mass migration. A young university student finds her engagement broken off because her fiancé’s family disapproves of her Western attire. The horrors of the Holocaust are writ large in one pregnant woman’s experiences. With each unique story, Shahraz captures and enriches us with her wisdom and storytelling magic.

About this title

About the Author

Qaisra Shahraz is a British-Pakistani award-winning and critically acclaimed novelist and scriptwriter. She recently won the prestigious National Diversity Lifetime Achiever Award for Services to Literature, Education, Gender and Interfaith Activism. In 2012, she was recognised as being one of 100 influential Pakistani women in the 'Pakistan Power 100 List'. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and a Director of Asia Pacific Writers and Translators partnership. Her novels The Holy Woman, Typhoon, and Revolt as well as short story A Pair of Jeans are studied in universities and schools, in Germany and UK.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Concubine and The Slave-Catcher

By Qaisra Shahraz

HopeRoad Publishing

Copyright © 2017 Qaisra Shahraz
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-908446-61-9

Contents

The Escape, 
The Malay Host, 
A Pair of Jeans, 
The Slave-Catcher, 
An Evil Shadow, 
Our Angel, 
An Elopement, 
Last Train to Krakow, 
The Journey, 
The Concubine, 
Acknowledgements, 

CHAPTER 1

The Escape

Manchester, UK and Lahore, Pakistan, present day

In the packed prayer hall of Darul Uloom mosque in Longsight, the Imam concluded the Eid prayers with a passionate plea for world peace, and for terrorist activities around the world to cease. Seventy-three-year-old Samir, perched on a plastic chair because of his bad leg, kept his hands raised, quietly mouthing his own personal prayer.

"Please, Allah Pak, bless her soul ... And let me escape!" Rows of seated men had arisen from their prayer mats and reached out to energetically hug others and offer the festive greeting, "Eid Mubarak!"

Samir took his time. There was no one in particular he was seeking to greet or hug at this mosque. Most of the men around him were strangers, and of the younger generation, several sported beards – a marked shift between the two generations. His own face remained clean-shaven. Nowadays he prayed at the Cheadle mosque in Cheshire, joining the congregation of Arabs and other nationalities for the Taraweeh prayers during the fasting month of Ramadan. Nostalgia tugging at him, on a whim Samir had asked his son to drop him off in Longsight to offer his Eid prayers at his old community mosque.

Painfully rising to his feet, Samir began the hugging ritual, smiling cordially. Unlike the others leaving the hall, he loitered; he was in no hurry to get out. At the door, he dutifully dropped a five-pound note in the collection fund box.

Whilst looking for his shoes he bumped into his old friend, Manzoor. They greeted each other, smiled broadly and warmly hugged. Outside, in the chilly autumn day, his friend, who lived a street away from the mosque, invited him to his house for the Eid hospitality of vermicelli seviyan and chana chaat.

The smile slid off Samir's face. He was reluctant to visit his friend's house – afraid of the old memories, shying away from the normality, the marital bliss of his friend's home. In particular, he was loath to witness the little intimacies between husband and wife. The look. The laugh. The teasing banter.

Instead he waved goodbye to his friend and stood waiting for his son. "Thank you, but I'm being picked up," he informed a young man kindly offering him a lift home, before sauntering on his bad leg down the street.

"I have all the time in the world," he wryly muttered to himself, savouring the walk down streets he had cycled and scooted along for over three decades.

A lot had changed, the area now thriving with different migrant communities: the Pakistanis and the Bengalis living side by side with the Irish and the Somalis. Many Asian stores and shops had sprung up. The Bengali sari shops and travel agents jostled happily alongside the Pakistani ones and the Chinese takeaway. Mosques catering to the needs of the Muslim community flourished, from the small Duncan Road mosque in a semi-detached corner house to the purpose-built Darul Uloom centre on Stamford Road. The Bengali mosque for the Bengali community on one corner of Buller Road was only a few feet away from the Pakistani and Arab Makki Masjid on the other corner. Not surprisingly, on Fridays, for the Juma prayers, the street was gridlocked.

He noted that the Roman Catholic church and its primary school on Montgomery Road had disappeared, along with the quaint little National Westminster Bank branch that had been in the middle of Beresford Road with a communal vegetable plot at the back. That had been pulled down twenty-odd years ago. St Agnes' church was still there, however, at the junction of West Point and Hamilton Road and it still enjoyed healthy Sunday-morning congregations.

Samir stopped outside a shop on Beresford Road that had been called Joy Town thirty years earlier. It had been his children's favourite toyshop, especially on Eid day, when they ran to it with their Eidhi money, eager to buy toy cars, skipping ropes and doll's china crockery sets. In its place there now stood a grocery superstore with stalls of vegetables and fruits hogging the pavement area. On Fridays and Saturdays, families like Samir's, who had moved out of the area, still returned to do their shopping, visiting their favourite halal meat and grocery stores, carting boxes of fresh mangoes, bags of basmati rice and chapatti flour back to their cars. The hustle and bustle of these shops always brought out a smile in him.

His son, Maqbool, a well-to-do sportswear manager, dutifully returned to pick him up half an hour later. By that time, Samir was shivering in his shalwar kameez and sherwani, and gladly climbed into the warm car. He had wanted to go to the Sanam Sweet Centre to buy a few boxes of Asian sweets to distribute to friends but he hesitated, suddenly overcome by trepidation.

"Do you want to go somewhere else, Father?" his son asked, as if reading his mind.

Samir shook his head, not wishing to inconvenience his son further, and feeling guilty for already taking up enough of his time.

"No. Let's go home," he murmured, eyes closed.

He had a large five-bedroom detached house – but with his wife and family gone, all the joy of living in it had fled. He kept himself in the master bedroom, hating to enter the other rooms in the house, especially the one containing his wife's clothes. Only when the grandchildren visited did he unlock some of the doors. These days, he spent his time in his new favourite spot, the chair at the dining table next to the window and radiator, where he would sit, leafing through The Times, the Daily Jang and The Nation, watching the traffic go past on the busy road.

His son dropped him off at the door with the words, "I'll collect you in an hour's time." Samir nodded and watched him drive away before letting himself into the house. Another hour to kill. He shrugged. Oh well. It was better here on his own, with the TV and the newspaper keeping him company, than politely waiting around at someone else's house for dinner.

He felt hungry, but the dining table in front of him lay dismally bare. On Eid days it was normally stacked with bowls of delicious food: boiled eggs, seviyan, chana chaats and a hot tray of shami kebabs. And these were just the breakfast starters, heralding a busy festive day of eating.

Last year his entire family had been there. If he closed his eyes he could see his children helping themselves to the food, with him happily beginning the Eidhi money-giving ritual. Five-pound notes for the little ones, ten for the older teenagers, and crisp twenty-pound notes for his daughters and daughters-in-law.

In the steamy warm kitchen with the noisy fan purring away at the window, the smell from a pot of pilau rice and trays of roast chicken and kebabs in the oven would set everyone's mouths watering. Dinner was a prompt affair: always at one o'clock, served by the women of his household moving elegantly around the room, their rustling ghararas and lenghas sweeping the floor and the long dupattas hanging at their sides. The boys would be in their shalwar kameezes and sherwanis. By two, the whole family would be sitting around the table chatting, relaxed and happy, some still tucking into trifle and gajar halwa.

The thought of all that food set Samir's stomach growling. He could not wait that long. In the kitchen, he tipped some cornflakes into a bowl; it was not chana chaat or seviyan – but it would keep him going.

He twice checked his pocket for the money, mentally counting the number of notes he should have. This was the bit of Eid day that he particularly enjoyed, glimpsing the excited faces of his grandchildren taking the Eidhi from his hand. In the old days, a one-pound coin delighted his children. After dinner they would run off to Joy Town to buy gifts of their choice.

When Maqbool arrived, Samir was well into his second hard-boiled egg, smiling sheepishly at his son, who mentally chided himself for leaving his father to eat alone at home.

Samir's whole family was gathered in his eldest daughter's house and he was the last to arrive. In the living room, his second daughterin-law, Mehnaz, stood up out of respect to vacate her seat for him.

"Stay seated, my dear," he offered, perching himself instead on a chair near the door. The women were busy in the kitchen, sorting out the crockery and the sauces. All had happily adopted the British custom of bringing a dish since their mother had died. His eldest daughter was carrying a tray of roast meat through the hallway to the dining room. Catching her eye, Samir smiled politely.

His youngest grandson, Rahel, jumped into his lap, startling him and bringing a smile to his face. Samir lifted him up to offer a tight hug. Then, holding out a five-pound note, he beckoned to his older grandson, aged six, who stood scowling a few feet away. The child shyly sidled up to his grandfather's side, plucked the note from his hand and ran off.

"Would you like something to eat before dinner?" his daughter came to enquire, the blender with the mint sauce in her hand.

Samir shook his head.

Nodding, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Samir to smile, watch, listen and respond where appropriate. That was, until the seat became too uncomfortable for his bad leg, forcing him to take the one vacated by his eldest grandson near the window. He bleakly stared out through the net curtains, watching passers-by who probably had no idea that in this Muslim home they were celebrating Eid ul-Fitr.

Eyes filling up, Samir kept his face averted towards the window; there was nothing to celebrate on his first Eid without his beloved wife. Sorrow suffocated; desperation tore at him. If he could only turn the clock back. How he longed to have this Eid dinner at his own home and with her hosting it instead of sitting awkwardly here as an interloper.

An hour later, he dutifully spooned food into his mouth, making no comments apart from the polite 'everything is very nice' to the women of his family. He did not pick on the chillies or criticise the curry sauces as he had always done with his wife's cooking. His sons, of a different generation and attitude, were happily munching away at their roast meats, while he stealthily hid a raw bit of chicken leg under a napkin on his plate.

By the time the gajar halwa and tea were served, Samir's mind was made up. He waited, feeling nervous. When there was a lull in the lively conversation he ventured to inform his family, licking his dry lips carefully, "I want to tell you something."

They turned to stare. His daughter, Roxanna, hushed her little girl sitting on her lap with the words, "Abu-ji is speaking, shush."

"I want to go back home to Pakistan," Samir announced. "To visit my family – stay there for a few months ... It'll be good for me. It's the right time, with your mother gone ... I need a change of scene and I've plenty of time now," he explained, smiling. "It would be lovely to visit some places that belong to my old life. And it would be a chance to spend some time with my sister, brother and their families."

Complete silence greeted his words.

"A few months! Are you sure about this, Father? We'll miss you." His eldest daughter had found her tongue.

"You'll all be fine without me. Anyway, you can phone me every day. You've all got busy lives and families, so it won't be that bad to have me disappear for a few months. I'll hardly be missed, will I? This trip will be good for me – I need to go," he said, his voice petering out, giving them a glimpse of the abyss inside him. He had only just stopped himself from saying, "I need to escape."

Discomfited and not knowing what was the right thing to say, his children prudently ended the discussion. Their father had always made his own decisions – very rarely paying any attention to other people's opinions. Their mother had battled for years to influence him, and died having never quite succeeded.

"Where will you stay? Lahore?" his youngest daughter, Rosie, boldly asked.

"Yes! In our family ancestral home of course, with my brother – where else?" he replied sharply, annoyed at his daughter's question and semi-hostile tone.

Rosie did not bother answering. Instead she exchanged a pointed look with her sister, which their father neatly intercepted. His face tightened. "You need to understand, Rosie, that just as this is your family, I've the same back home ... They care about me and want me to spend time with them." His tone was harsher than he had intended.

The words 'back home' had just slipped out of him again. How curious. For a few seconds, Samir was lost in thought. Why did he say that? Was Manchester not his home? After all, he had spent nearly fifty years of his life in this city. The other place was just his birthplace, his country of origin and reminder of his youth. Surely these facts should make Manchester his home?

He shrugged these thoughts aside, willing his mood to lighten. He now had a goal: to occupy his mind with tasks, and he loved tasks above all. The big task facing him now was what presents to take for his family and his two college friends in Lahore. He promised himself that this time the three friends would indeed treat themselves to a walk through the elegant Victorian corridors of the Government College of Lahore where they had studied.

Three days later, Samir had flown out from Manchester airport, arriving without any warning at all and taking his 'other family' in Lahore by surprise. They gushed with greetings, hurriedly composing their shocked faces even though, inside, their thoughts were running amok. What was he doing here, all of a sudden? How long was he going to stay? Which other relatives was he visiting – and for how long? These questions battered simultaneously in all their heads.

Samir's face fell, and he quickly averted his eyes, astutely picking up the telltale signs from their faces and body language. Two days later, after visiting the local Anarkali Bazaar, taking a leisurely walk down the famous Mall Road, and spending time with his sister's family in her villa in the Defence area, he headed for the village where his parents were buried. There he was amicably greeted by his host, a second cousin, who gave hospitality to all relatives visiting the family graves.

After some refreshments, Samir headed for the cemetery on the outskirts of the village. Well maintained, it had tall tanglewood bushes growing around it, keeping the wolves out. Eyes blurring, Samir gazed down at his parents' graves. His father had adamantly made it clear that he did not want to be buried in the overcrowded city cemeteries. "I want fresh air, the shade of a tree and plenty of space around – and make sure you leave room for your mother. Don't just throw us in any hole!"

As obedient sons, they had honoured their father's wish, and duly visited the village of his ancestral home where they bought a plot of land for the graves. Thereafter, Samir's sister and brother made annual journeys to the village, to offer a feast and hatham prayers for their parents' souls.

Samir perched himself on the low wall circling the plot with his parents' graves. The tranquillity around him had him thinking about his own burial place. Of course it would be Manchester's Southern or Cheadle Cemetery. He could not imagine his children traipsing back to Pakistan to visit his grave in a land that was foreign to them. He now understood why his father was insistent on keeping a place for his wife. Remembering his own Sabiya, Samir bowed his head. The loneliness crushed him. Two years ago, they had both been here, sitting at the same spot.

He watched a herd of milk buffaloes being shepherded back to the village. Feeling a tiny stinging sensation, he looked down at a line of ants running down the brickwork. Laden with small scraps of leaves, the ants were zigzagging around his feet. He moved his foot away and glanced over his shoulders at the brick-making quarry and kiln, spotting a group of peasant men pushing trolleys stacked with bricks. Two women were carrying small baskets loaded with baked bricks on their heads. Feeling sorry for them and the hard work that the women had to do in order to feed their families, Samir was reminded of the second mission that had brought him to this village – his wife's charitable work in supporting widows and their families. He had to visit one widow with three teenage daughters.

He glanced down, taking his fill, tearfully etching the picture of the graves in his head. Was this going to be his final farewell? Standing over his mother's grave, soft sobs shook his large body. It was a strange world. To be buried continents away from one's own parents. Why was he crying? For his parents who had died decades ago or for his beloved Sabiya?

"Life is a cycle," he mused aloud. He was in his seventies but still demurred from being called 'old'. God only knew where the rest of his ancestors were buried – most probably in India, before Partition. People were born and slid through the cycle of life and then disappeared, with some leaving no trace.

"Samir," he told himself, "stop thinking like this – it's morbid!" And he raised his hands to say a final fervent prayer over his parents' mounds.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Concubine and The Slave-Catcher by Qaisra Shahraz. Copyright © 2017 Qaisra Shahraz. Excerpted by permission of HopeRoad Publishing.
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Edition details

• Publisher: HopeRoad
• Publication date: 2017
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1908446617
• ISBN 13: 9781908446619
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 254